Page 11 of The Longbourn Bloodline

The wind cut across the field, sharp with the promise of frost, and Elizabeth pulled her pelisse tighter and did not look at him.

“That is a remarkably precise definition of stewardship,” he said.

“I manage as circumstances permit.” She heard the stiffness in her voice. “The ledger is not a work of art, Mr. Darcy. It is a record of compromises.”

He did not reply, and his silence, whether assent or dissent, was considered by Elizabeth a victory, however small.

Mrs. Pratt’s cottage was small, cold, and immaculately clean. She met them at the door with a wary dignity, wringing her hands as she stared at the ledger.

“Mrs. Pratt, this is Mr. Darcy. He is my father’s cousin and the new heir of Longbourn.”

“Sir.” Mrs. Pratt curtsied, her cheeks red and her lips cracked. “Miss Lizzy, I have not the full amount, but I have put aside what I could, and if I might be allowed until⁠—”

“Mrs. Pratt.” Darcy’s voice was even. “What is the amount in arrears?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to intervene. What business was it of Darcy’s? She opened the ledger and cleared her throat, prepared to bring the balance forward.

But Mrs. Pratt held out what she had saved up. “This is all I have, and I still owe another two pounds, seven shillings.”

“Keep it, Mrs. Pratt,” Darcy said, reaching into his coat. He counted out five pounds and placed it on the table. “The balance is settled with something for the new quarter. Miss Elizabeth will adjust the ledger.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Pratt said, looking from Darcy to Elizabeth with a new brightness. “Oh, Miss Lizzy, is it true, then? Mrs. Hill said—well, she said there was talk that you and the young master—” She pressed her reddened hands together. “Oh, I am so pleased. We have all hoped… you deserve a good man, miss, after everything you have done for us, and if this gentleman⁠—”

Elizabeth bit back a denial. The thought of the future master of the estate marrying one of the daughters was evidently satisfying to the tenants. She wished the widow a Happy Yuletide and fled, praying her silence passed for modesty rather than mortification.

Darcy, beside her, stayed blessedly silent. It was easy to be generous when one has ten thousand a year.

“We must move on,” she said brightly once they were out of earshot of the pleased Mrs. Pratt. “The Millers are expecting us, and Mrs. Miller will be offended if we arrive after she has put the kettle on and let it go cold.”

The path narrowed as they approached the copse, and Elizabeth felt a reckless impulse rise in her chest. Mr. Darcy wore an expression so smug it practically petitioned for correction. He had dispensed generosity to a widow and been lauded as the gallant bridegroom come to rescue Longbourn from its supposed neglect.

“Do you see that stile up ahead?” She pointed to the wooden structure where the path crossed a low stone wall.

Darcy raised an eyebrow and nodded. “Yes?”

“I’ll wager you sixpence I can scale the top rail faster than you can.”

He stared at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“The top rail, Mr. Darcy. It is perhaps six inches wide. I used to race my sisters over it when we were children. Jane always fell off. I never did.”

“What if I simply jump over the stone wall? It seems low enough.”

“Then let’s start here, and the first one to the gate out yonder wins.” Elizabeth was already moving toward the stile, her blood singing with the particular joy of scandalizing a man who believed he had seen everything. “Unless you are afraid to witness something so undignified?”

“Miss Elizabeth⁠—”

But she was already at the stile, already hoisting herself onto the top rail, already finding her balance with the ease of long practice. The rail was ice-cold through her gloves, but her boots gripped well enough, and she had done this a hundred times in worse conditions.

“Sixpence, Mr. Darcy!” she called, and then she ran.

Not quickly—the rail was slippery with frost, and she was not a fool—but steadily, arms out for balance, her petticoats swishing against her ankles as she moved along the narrow beam. The wall curved past the edge of the copse, and she followed it, feeling the cold air burn in her lungs and the exhilaration of doing something thoroughly improper in full view of the most proper man in England.

She reached the end of the rail, leaped down to the frozen ground, and turned to find Darcy staring at her with an expression of absolute bewilderment.

“You—” He seemed unable to finish the sentence.

“You owe me sixpence,” Elizabeth said. “Though I shall accept your astonishment as payment.”