These Three Remain

home. There was even a pleasant anticipation, he found, in setting into motion his solutions to those alarms forwarded by his steward and in meeting the routine seasonal obligations of his lands. On the other hand lay a profound sense that these hours by himself without duty or obligation to distract him, this time to reflect and consider, was essential to his well-being and future. Here, on this road through Derbyshire, before God and any man who might pass him by, he was nothing more than a man alone with his horse and his hound and his conscience.

After the terrible days following the assassination of the Prime Minister, caution had urged Darcy that he ought personally to escort Georgiana out of the city and to the safety of Pemberley. Rumor at first ran amuck, suggesting that the entire country was on the verge of rebellion. The unknown temper of the countryside militated against chancing their safety on the road; therefore, they had stayed in Grosvenor Square behind closed doors until some reliable report was to be had. When it had become apparent that the Government still stood, London had settled down to going about its business in the usual fashion in shockingly short order. With the certainty that the plot had been centered in the person of John Bellingham, the entire population seemed to throw the incident over its shoulder and pick up the Season where it had left off, and a removal no longer appeared necessary. Lady Monmouth had disappeared, her abandoned lord knowing not where; and although it had been almost three months, they had still no word from Lord Brougham. Darcy suspected that his friend had pursued the Somewhat- Less-Honorable Beverly Trenholme to America. If so, it would be some time before Dy reappeared in London.

In a few weeks Darcy’s life was returned to its normal rhythms but not, he had discovered, to his habitual courses. Something had changed in that terrible time since Hunsford, had changed profoundly. He was not the same man he had been. Looking back at that arrogant suitor of last spring, he wondered at himself as he would a stranger. It all seemed so very long ago. What a figure he had cut, striding with such exalted confidence down the steps of Rosings Hall and along the path to the village! From a three-month perspective, he considered that impeccably dressed man as he made his way to Hunsford parsonage, so self-assured, so certain of his reception and answer. For a moment, he felt again the pangs of the humiliation that lay before him. In a very short space, that stranger’s world would be turned on its head, changed forever.

He had been the recipient, he now gratefully acknowledged, of a rare and precious gift. In demanding the hand of a woman he neither understood nor was capable of knowing, he had instead received from her the chance to see himself and the opportunity to become a better man. And he had changed. He knew he had. He knew that he was not that man stalking angrily back to his chambers in Rosings Hall. What had happened to him in those intervening months? He was not sure; he could offer no complete explanation, but the man who had opened Rosings’s doors, already prepared to write an angry letter, was a stranger, a man who had been walking through his entire life asleep. But now, he had awoken.

Some things, such as his more equitable relationship with Bingley, had changed quickly. Others, Darcy had to admit, had come more slowly. Some had been painful — the honest inventorying of his offenses tallied an alarming list — while others had furnished his life with new purposes and pleasures. The result had been that the world had become a much more interesting place, filled with fellow travelers whose joys and sorrows he no longer disdained to know and whose shortcomings he was far more inclined to overlook. He knew that he would never be one of that hearty sort who immediately attracted the interest and goodwill of all he met, but no longer would he allow himself to stand aloof, even among strangers. He would accommodate; he would seek to set at ease rather than silently demand to be pleased. It was difficult at times, but a newborn compassion joined with determined practice made surmounting his reserve easier. One day, he hoped, it would be part of his nature.

Nature? He looked about for Trafalgar, who possessed with those reserves of energy that encouraged him to follow his nose, had been largely absent from his company. Loping back at Darcy’s whistle, the hound presented a tired mass of burrs and stickers. “It appears that a rest is in order,” Darcy remarked to the panting wretch below him. Truly, the animal did look terrible, but it was a result more of his own adventures in the brush than the arduous nature of their pace. Reining in, he drew his leg over and dropped to the ground, then reached for his saddlebag and pulled out the flask of water inside. “Here, Monster.” He waved the flask before the hound but then realized that he had nothing into which to pour it. Pulling off his glove, he cupped his hand under the lip and then bent down, slowly pouring the water into his hand while the hound frantically lapped it up. “There, that is enough.” He straightened, shaking droplets from his hand. “I am thirsty as well!” he protested to the pathetic whine and took a long draw of what remained. “Ingrate!” he accused Trafalgar, wiping his lips. “You do not hear Seneca complain, and he has had to carry me all these miles!” Hearing his name, the horse nickered and tossed his head, to the supreme disinterest of Trafalgar, whose eyes remained trained upon the flask.

Darcy stretched and then took a deep breath of Derbyshire air, happy to be out of the soot-laden grime of Town, happy to be within an hour of home. He returned the empty flask to his saddlebag, pausing to stroke Seneca’s thick mane. The animal stopped in his pull at a clump of grass just long enough to nudge him roughly, whether in affection or to move him away from the clump he now attacked, Darcy was not certain. He laughed, scratching the horse vigorously along his withers as he considered the intense anger, the indignation he had nurtured that first dark week back in London. It seemed the experience of another man. How different Elizabeth’s refusal appeared to him now.

A sharp bark recalled him to his errant hound. Trafalgar’s luminous brown eyes and twitching tail communicated his impatient anticipation of home. “It will not be long.” Darcy bent and ruffled the animal’s ears. “We are almost home.” The hound was a bit battered from his forays into the brush, but likely better for the experience. Not at all unlike himself, Darcy mused. Yes, he indeed owed Miss Elizabeth Bennet a debt. In her principled refusal of him, she had done him no harm; rather, she had done him incalculable good. What an incredible young woman! The wretched letter had been, in part, a bid for some little of her respect.

He gave Monster a final pat before hoisting himself back atop Seneca. “Only a few more miles and we shall cross into the home wood,” he informed the hound. “The lake is just beyond, and I strongly advise that you avail yourself ! You do not look or smell like a gentleman in the least, and if you do not take care of it, a stable lad will!”

Refreshed, he gathered the reins and pressed on, the nearness of his own lands increasing the longing in his heart to be home. With new energy, his horse pounded through the home wood. The path, hard and dusty from a dry summer, wound its way up and down the rugged Derbyshire hills before it emptied into the broad valley through which the Ere wound until it reached the dam that formed it into a perfect reflection of Pemberley House. In his anticipation, Darcy had left Trafalgar scrambling far behind and so pulled Seneca to a halt just as they broke through the trees above the valley. The both of them breathing hard, he let the reins go slack and leaned over Seneca’s neck to stretch out the muscles in his back while they waited for the third of their party. As he returned upright, his eyes were drawn immediately down the expanse of valley.

How many times had he seen his home from afar, whether from this vantage point or some other? Yet he could no more stop his eyes from traveling over every aspect of the majestic structure than he could prevent himself from rejoicing in the beauty of the gardens or the natural loveliness of the river and wood. Pemberley. Home. This time, however, there resided something new in that part of him which swelled at the sight. He looked down on Pemberley House, questioning every exquisite line until that something found a name. Gratitude. Gratitude for what he had been given filled his breast. And for the first time in his life, Darcy felt that he might possibly be worthy to hold the great gift that had been entrusted to him.

A scrabbling sound in the brush behind him alerted Darcy to his companion’s arrival, and looking down from Seneca’s height, he noted it with a sympathetic laugh. Trafalgar was, if it were possible, in an even more disreputable state, his sides heaving and tongue lolling as he threw himself at the horse’s feet. “Do not blame me!” Darcy addressed the weary animal. “Perhaps next time you will not indulge your curiosity quite so often and attend to business.” The flash of a canine grin at his tone put the possibility of such a lesson learned firmly outside the realm. “Very well, then, Monster.” He laughed. “Shall we see who reaches home first?” At the word home, a miracle of sorts occurred, followed by a blur of movement, and the next he knew, Trafalgar was no more than a streak moving down the valley. “Ho!” Darcy yelled to Seneca and, putting heels to his sides, gave the horse his head in pursuit. That they both clattered into the stable yard within feet of each other he charged to the loss of his hat. Forced to stop and retrieve it, he could do no more than recover the ground between them, which was not enough to decently call it a tie. When he dismounted, he almost landed upon his preening competitor, who danced about Seneca’s legs. “Yes, you win!” he conceded and, suffering Trafalgar’s triumphant bark with good grace, was rewarded with a consoling but wet tribute to his sportsmanship.