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Fitzwilliam rubbed the back of his neck.

“Then we must hope Forster will heed my warning.”

“I do not like depending on hope.”

“Neither do I.”

The previous Monday, I had ridden up to the Thwaites’.

The yard smelled of warm manure and laundry. Mrs Thwaite had let me in without a word, her hands still red from her washtub, and had left me standing while her three daughters watched me from the stairs.

I had not spoken of reading.

I had asked who kept the farm accounts.

She had replied that her husband kept them in his head, that he made mistakes twice a year, and that the last error had cost them eleven shillings at the grain merchant’s in Lambton.

I had said that Ann already knew how to add three-digit figures.

Mrs Thwaite had taken a long moment to set down her cloth.

The girls had returned on Wednesday. Two other families had followed. Mrs Allen had sent me a note of four lines, the last simply announcing that she was keeping her apron.

I had said nothing of it to Fitzwilliam.

He had learned of it from his steward. That very evening, he had only asked how I had convinced the Thwaites, then listened until I finished. This restraint was worth more than another apology.

My anxiety over Lydia darkened the morning, however. After luncheon, Fitzwilliam proposed a ride. The sky was overcast, but the air mild. He assured me we would return before the rain.

“That’s remarkable confidence in your power over the elements,” I observed.

“Pemberley is a well-administered estate.”

“Even the clouds?”

“I am still negotiating their cooperation.”

We set off with a groom who kept his distance. My mount, a bay mare named Juniper, had been chosen for her calm temperament. Fitzwilliam rode a large black horse that seemed to have inherited his pride and his poor opinion of the rest of the world.

I pointed this out to him.

“Orion possesses excellent judgment,” he replied.

“He tried to bite your valet yesterday.”

“My valet had fastened a girth incorrectly.”

“So you defend all the arrogant creatures of this house?”

“Only those who resemble me.”

He smiled as he said it.

I still had not learned to resist his smile.

We rode through the woods, then across a sloping meadow where the tall grass undulated in the wind. Fitzwilliam showed me the boundaries of a farm, the location of the school I had visited with Mrs Reynolds, a small bridge that had been carried away the previous winter. Each project revealed a part of him: his need for order, his sense of responsibility, the genuine attention he paid to the lives that depended on the estate.

Perhaps I already loved him.