Darcy took her hand and bowed over it. “Good day, madam.”
****
“I heard your screams all the way at the front of the house.”
Darcy poured another cup of the willow bark tea. Miss Elizabeth had brought him half a teapot full and told him to drink it all. “You must have the hearing of a dog, cousin, for I did not scream at all.”
“I could hear it still,” Fitzwilliam tapped the side of his head. “In here.”
“Ah. I see I was correct. You are a dog.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled. “The servants have taken to calling your Miss Elizabeth ‘the little general’ after last night. She is a martinet.”
“She is not a tyrant, Fitzwilliam. Nor is she mine.” Darcy leaned back with his teacup. The first thing he would do when he reached Pemberley would be to order teacups made to suit his size. “I prefer the temporary pain of cleaning the wound to that of an infection, and I am not a child to fault her for the sting of a necessary treatment. Miss Elizabeth was also correct about Mrs. Keller. A deft hand at the stitching.”
“I suppose it is not all that different from all the sewing ladies do,” Fitzwilliam said, almost begrudgingly.
Darcy snorted. “It takes a great deal more stomach to sew flesh than a flower on a skirt, and well you know it.”
“I prefer a woman who leaves that sort of thing to the surgeon.”
Surgeons who often left their patients worse off than before they were injured. “Fitzwilliam,” Darcy said drolly, taking another sip of the tea, “beware. Your neck may snap in half with a head that large.”
It was a long-standing tease. Every so often, Fitzwilliam said something that betrayed his upbringing. He sometimes lamented his status as the second-born son who needed to make his own way in the world. Usually this was to earn the sighs and approbation of a pretty woman and was not to be taken seriously, but he also had a bad habit of making judgments about women who did not fit the same standards that his brother the viscount might expect in a wife. He might not have the allowance his older brother enjoyed, but it was still a great deal more than Darcy’s income. His cousin, generous and loyal though he was, was also a little spoilt.
That being the case, Darcy felt it a duty to remind Fitzwilliam when his head was growing swelled.
“Fine,” Fitzwilliam said, tossing up his hands. “I admire them. But you must admit, they were brought up to be the daughters of a military man. They would be out of place in London.”
“As would I if you mean a London ballroom. I have rather despised the few events we have attended together there. The women shrink from me, and the men ignore me, which, you must admit, is dashedly difficult to accomplish.”
“Ah, but now everyone will wish to speak with you.”
“Is that meant to please me?” Darcy asked, incredulous. “Why should I anticipate being courted by those who disdained me before I inherited?” He shook his head. “Were I ready to select a wife, it would not be one of those ladies with more fashion than wit. As it is, I am barely prepared to take over the estate.”
His cousin nodded. “Everything in its own time.” He stood. “I am glad you are well, cousin,” he said.
Darcy watched as Fitzwilliam left his chamber.
He had not yet decided whether he ought to hold fast to his original plans or alter them, and he did not need Fitzwilliam trying to persuade him—but what he had said was not true, not entirely. Darcy did not feel ready to take a wife, but neither did he wish to leave Miss Elizabeth behind. Her beauty he had noted immediately, but she was far more than her looks. She had an unusual intelligence he appreciated, and she was strong and brave and practical. That she had at least lived on an estate for the past three years was also in her favour. Miss Elizabeth, should he decide to make an offer, would be a help to him, not yet another responsibility.
They had been at Longbourn since the middle of August, riding out with Bennet nearly every day. Miss Elizabeth was often outside, too, walking to the estate’s cottages with a maid or one of her sisters. If she was not tending to her father’s tenants, she was busy assisting some family in the parish with food from Longbourn’s stores, medicines from the still room, clothing for the children. He knew she also walked out alone nearly every morning before the business of the day began. She typically followed her father’s edicts and remained within a mile of the house, but as long as Bennet did not catch her when she did not, he pretended not to notice.
Miss Elizabeth was an active, useful sort of woman, and having come to know her, Darcy understood he could never be happy with a more fashionable one who was perfectly mannered and beautifully attired but rarely ventured out of doors or for whom the London season was an opportunity to preen.
If only she rode a horse as well as she did everything else, she would be the perfect woman.
He grinned to himself. Miss Elizabeth would plant one hand on her hip and give him an impertinent glare if he ever gave voice to that thought. She would be sure he was mocking her, and she would not restrain her displeasure. Yet he also knew that displeasure would be phrased in such a way that it delighted rather than distressed. Her true indignation was used to protect others.
The willow bark tea eventually lessened the throbbing in his hand, and Darcy felt suddenly weary. His decision could wait. He wanted to pull off his boots, but with only one working hand he would have to call for Mr. Hill and he did not want to call the man away from his other duties. Instead, he stretched his long legs out before the fire and fell asleep in his chair.
“Lizzy,” her father called. “Would you come into the book room, please?”
“Of course, Papa,” she said. She closed the book she was reading and stood. “I did not hear you return to the house.”
His gaze fell on the tome. “Is that a novel?” he inquired.
“Yes,” she replied. “Why?”