Page 84 of The Difference of a Darcy
They were walking together.
And that, at least, was something.
∞∞∞
They left Lambton just after breakfast, the air cold enough to nip at Darcy’s ears, though the sun made a valiant effort through the clouds. Elizabeth walked beside him, her cheeks pink with wind and exertion, her pace brisk despite the many miles ahead.
Darcy had not expected to feel nervous.
But as the road curved away from the village and into the countryside he knew so well, tension crept into his limbs. The road had more holes than he remembered, and the hedgerows more wild. Yet the shape of the land had not changed.
It still knew him, even if those who lived upon it did not.
“I imagine you traversed this road often?”
Elizabeth’s question broke through the silence. He nodded. “As a child, I used to visit Lambton with my parents—my father particularly valued the weekly visits. He believed in paying accounts promptly and ensuring the Pemberley estate supported the town's merchants.”
She hummed her approval. “Wise of him.”
Darcy allowed himself a small smile. “He thought it dishonorable to do otherwise. Lambton was thriving then. One of the larger market towns in the north, though still far smaller than Meryton, to be sure.”
“Is this Pemberley land already?” Elizabeth asked, craning her neck to look at the gentle hills.
“Nearly. The home woods begin just beyond that bend. The house sits within a natural bowl, surrounded on three sides by hills and trees.”
“I cannot wait to see it,” she said. “It sounds like something out of a novel.”
He smiled at that. “You will find no ruined towers or tragic abbeys. My mother insisted upon symmetry.”
“As any woman of sense would.”
Their pace slowed as the trees thickened and the land sloped more steeply. Here was the stone wall he had scaled as a boy to pick blackberries. There, a twisted oak he had once named Wellington for its sturdy limbs. The past tugged at him with every step.
“This is the home wood,” Darcy said softly. “We are close now.”
“Is it a large estate?” she asked.
Had it been anyone but Elizabeth, he would have refused to answer. Knowing her curiosity stemmed from genuine curiosity rather than mercenary ambition, he instead softly said, “Ten miles around.”
She whistled softly. “Many trails, then. That would satisfy even my unladylike fondness for walking.”
“In time, I could show you every one.”
He had not meant it as a promise, but once said, it lingered between them.
He cleared his throat. “My father used to walk the boundaries with me. Once each spring. He said a man should know what he owns. And who depends upon him.”
“How many families live here?”
The fact that she cared more for the people of Pemberley than its grandeur warmed his heart. “In total? here are nearly two hundred tenant farms under Pemberley’s care, some upwards of a hundred acres each.”
Her eyes widened. “Two hundred? That is—far more than I imagined.”
“Most are generational. Sons inherit from fathers. The families know every stone and stream on their plots. I grew up knowing their names, their crops, their worries. My father saw to it that I understood—truly understood—that we are not masters of the land. We are its stewards. Its servants.”
He glanced away, the memories too sharp for a moment.
“He used to say that owning land is not about wealth. It is about weight. Every roof, every field, every child born to a tenant—those are ours to protect. And ours to fail.”
