Page 85 of The Difference of a Darcy
Elizabeth was quiet, absorbing his words.
“Even though we were not close—I was too serious for him—he taught me about duty. I struggled to understand how he could spend so much time with me, but not really see me.”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “Much like my own mother.”
He nodded. “By the time I was fifteen, I understood a little better. He was teaching me to see the land not as property, but as people. Their harvests, their debts, their weddings and baptisms and burials. All of it flowed back to Pemberley. Hewantedme to be serious about those under my care.”
“That is a great deal to carry,” she murmured.
He met her gaze. “It is. But it is also a privilege. Or it should be.”
Her expression grew serious. “You miss it.”
“I miss it every day,” he admitted. “I do not know what we will find when we arrive.”
They walked in silence for a few minutes more, the trees thickening as they approached the woods.
“I had thought Longbourn large,” Elizabeth said after a time. “But it is barely twelve tenants. Most under twenty acres. My father… he manages well enough, but he rarely visits them. He says it is their land to work, and if they need something, they will come to him.”
Darcy said nothing for a moment. “I know many others who believe similarly, but I realized that if you closely at their estates, you begin to see the cracks.”
“Cracks?”
He nodded. “When one stops walking the fields, one forgets the names of the children. When one forgets the names, one forgets the needs. And when one forgets the needs, the land suffers. Or worse—the people do.”
Elizabeth looked at him, her brow furrowed slightly. “You take your duty seriously.”
“Duty is what remains when all else fades,” he said quietly. “My father may not have shown me much affection, but heshowed me that. If my name is forgotten, if my fortune disappears—what I owe to Pemberley and her people remains.”
She reached over and touched his hand, briefly. “They are fortunate to have you.”
He looked down at her fingers, warm against his. “I do not exist in this place. I do not know if they are cared for with the same diligence here, but I cannot imagine they are.”
Conversation paused as they continued their journey, the trees thickening and the air growing cooler beneath the canopy. The road curved gently uphill, lined with mossy stone walls and the scent of damp leaves. Somewhere above them, birdsong echoed faintly in the bare branches.
Darcy’s hand clenched at his side.
Each step felt heavier now. He could not tell whether it was dread or longing—perhaps both—but the familiar path wound like a memory beneath his feet.
“We are nearly there,” he said softly as they approached a large hill. As they crested the rise, the trees thinned—and suddenly the world opened.
There, nestled in the distant hollow, lay Pemberley. He smiled slightly upon hearing Elizabeth gasp at his side.
Its stone façade stood proud against the backdrop of hills and bare trees, the great house reflecting the winter light with a pale, solemn dignity. The lake stretched before it, glassy and still, the reflection marred only by reeds left uncut at the edges. Behind the house, the slope rose gently into familiar forests,hisforests.
“It is beautiful,” Elizabeth whispered. “Not proud or grand in an artificial way. It looks like it belongs.”
He swallowed, pride and pain mingling. “My mother insisted it remain so. She loved the hills.”
As they descended the slope, however, the illusion began to shatter. The closer they came, the more clearly the signs of neglect showed themselves.
Weeds grew between cobblestones where gardeners should have passed. Hedges bulged untended, and the outer fences sagged. Where there should have been activity—stableboys, undergardeners, footmen preparing for the day’s visitors—there was silence.
Darcy’s step slowed. His breath caught.
Elizabeth touched his arm. “Whatever we find, we face it together.”
He nodded, but his chest ached. The house loomed larger now, but it no longer seemed like a place of comfort.
