Page 29 of The Briar Bargain (The Rom Com Collection #3)

D arcy typically enjoyed riding. It was often a solace to him, an opportunity to escape the confines of drawing rooms and the complexities of polite conversation for the simple pleasure of movement and fresh air.

But as he stood in the stable yard, adjusting his gloves and surveying the muddy ground, he found himself tempted to wish for more rain, if only as an excuse to postpone this expedition.

The irony was not lost on him. A fortnight ago, he would have volunteered to inspect every bridge, culvert, and sheep-gate in Hertfordshire if doing so would hasten the exodus of a certain very pretty, very uninvited guest. He could see that Miss Elizabeth was recovering—she no longer grimaced when she turned or sat down.

But just now he did not like to leave the house.

At Bingley’s urging and Hurst’s unexpected agreement, the gentlemen had resolved to inspect the bridge that connected Netherfield Park to the main road leading to Meryton and, by extension, Longbourn.

The previous week's deluge had rendered it impassable, though whether the river had weakened its foundations or merely overwhelmed the approaches with debris remained to be determined .

He ought not to be grateful for something that had caused such havoc and even now continued to be an inconvenience to the Miss Bennets.

It was selfish, ungentlemanly, and entirely contrary to his professed desire to see his friend's household returned to some sense of normality.

And yet, as he watched a groom lead his bay gelding from the stable, he found himself hoping quite fervently that Mr. Linton's assessment would provide him more time.

"Blast this wind," Hurst said from behind him, cutting through Darcy's reflections. The older man emerged from the tack room wearing what could only be described as a ponderous frown, his riding coat already spotted with mud despite having been outside for less than half an hour.

"I have never known you to be deterred by a little wind, Hurst," Bingley said cheerfully, accepting the reins of his favourite mare from a waiting groom. "Or by much of anything else, come to think of it. You once rode to hounds in a snowstorm."

Hurst gave him a long, doleful look that suggested he found the comparison insulting. "My inducement to ride on that occasion was the promise of sport and an excellent brandy at the end. Today's expedition offers neither entertainment nor refreshment."

Darcy mounted easily, settling himself with ease. "Bingley, you will have to have the chimneys inspected for debris after this wind dies down.” He turned to address Hurst. “You may consider yourself a gentleman, Hurst, assisting your brother in seeing to his duties."

Hurst grumbled. "They are not his duties, they are the duties of the owner.”

“Who may not hear about our being cut off until Christmas if we do not restore the usefulness of the bridge,” Bingley said cheerfully. “Consider yourself fortunate that the rain has stopped. ”

“I shall consider myself cold, damp, and thoroughly put-upon," Hurst replied, hauling himself onto his mount with great effort.

The air carried the rich scent of moss and churned earth. Darcy inhaled it with an odd sort of reverence, thinking of Pemberley.

Thinking of the woman he would like to join him there.

The ride itself offered little novelty, following paths that Darcy had travelled numerous times since taking up residence at Netherfield.

But he had never made this journey with such an invested interest in its outcome.

Miss Elizabeth would certainly be awaiting the results of this inspection as keenly as he did.

She would be hoping for news of safe passage home, while he found himself churlishly hoping for the opposite.

It was a lowering reflection on his character, and one that he tried unsuccessfully to dismiss as they approached their destination.

Bingley had arranged to meet Mr. Linton, an elderly man who had lived on the edge of the estate for nearly forty years and who possessed, by all accounts, an instinctive understanding of stone, timber, and the capricious behaviour of floodwater.

When they arrived at the bridge, they found Mr. Linton already waiting, seated atop an indeterminate but sturdy mare.

The old man's coat collar was pulled up and his cap pulled low against the persistent wind.

He nodded at their approach without dismounting.

"Morning, sirs," he said, his voice carrying the measured cadence of a man who had learned to waste neither words nor effort. "You have come to see the damage for yourselves, then?"

"Indeed we have," Bingley replied with his usual affability, though he kept a wary eye on the shifting current that still ran higher and faster than normal. "What is your assessment, Mr. Linton? We are hoping for encouraging news."

Mr. Linton removed his cap and scratched his grey head with deliberate thoughtfulness.

"Bridge is still standing, sir, which is promising. But the water rose high enough to catch the lintels and drag down near half the west rail. Debris has jammed this side solid as mortar.” He motioned to the debris that was functioning as an unwanted dam.

“River cannot flow clean through as she ought, so she is pushing up and over instead, which makes the whole business unstable. "

Darcy dismounted, handing his reins to the young stableboy who had accompanied them from the manor. He moved towards the stone arch and studied the damage closely.

The reality was worse than he had dared to hope.

What had once been a modest but serviceable bridge now resembled the aftermath of a siege.

Mud and straw and entire branches, some still bearing their complement of bedraggled leaves, had wedged themselves against the ancient stonework with such violence that even the considerable weight of the rushing water had not been sufficient to dislodge them.

The bank on the far side was almost entirely obscured by a tangle of wreckage that would require systematic removal before any assessment of the underlying damage could be attempted.

"I can clear the worst of the mess in a day or two," Linton continued, following Darcy's gaze with professional understanding.

"We can begin today. But I would not think to test the bridge with so much as a pony cart until she has been properly measured and walked by someone who knows what to look for. "

"How long until a proper carriage might pass safely?" Darcy asked, his tone carefully neutral despite the way his pulse had quickened at the man's words.

Linton considered this with the deliberation of a judge weighing evidence. "End of the week, if fortune favours us and the weather holds fair."

Darcy said nothing immediately, though his heart made what he could only describe as a thoroughly disreputable leap at the prospect. Four more days. The sensation was so unexpected and so inappropriate that he felt compelled to offer some conventional expression of regret.

"The Miss Bennets are no doubt eager to return to their family," he said at last, the words feeling strangely formal on his tongue. "But they will hardly wish to travel if the route presents any danger."

"No," Bingley agreed. Darcy detected the poorly concealed relief in his friend's voice. "They would not be reckless."

“Who builds an estate with only one way out?” Hurst asked indignantly. “It is madness.”

“There are other ways around, sir,” Mr. Linton said. “Such as the northern bridge. But they are considerably farther away and less convenient. Besides, the estate’s never been isolated like this before. Even the flood of ’96 did not cut Netherfield off from Meryton.”

Hurst huffed and attempted to turn his horse away. As he brought the stallion around, he exclaimed in surprise and shouted a remarkably colourful oath. The stallion reared and there was a tremendous thud, followed by a moment of profound silence.

Hurst sat up a moment later, half-submerged in what had previously appeared to be solid ground, but which was in fact a deceptively shallow canal.

His hat had fallen from his head, his carefully arranged hair hung in sodden strings about his face, and his clothing was coated in mud.

His expression was one of such exquisite offence that Darcy had to bite the inside of his cheek to maintain his composure.

"Are you injured, Hurst?" Bingley inquired with admirable restraint, though his voice carried a suspicious tremor.

"I am humiliated," Hurst replied with wounded dignity, struggling to stand upright with the aid of a conveniently placed willow branch. "Which, at my age and station, is considerably worse than any mere physical injury."

"Your horse’s footing failed you, sir," Mr. Linton commented drily .

"Yes, thank you," Hurst responded with some heat. “Damned rabbits ran right under Poseidon’s hooves.”

“Rabbits?” Bingley cried. He stood in his stirrups. “What did they look like?”

“One black, one black-and-white spotted,” Hurst barked. “What difference does it make?”

But Darcy knew from Bingley’s smile that these were Peter Farrow’s rabbits. He shook his head. The rabbits had removed themselves from harm when threatened. They had been wiser than the humans.

Ah, well. Bingley would enjoy telling Peter they were safe.

“Your hat, sir,” Linton said, nodding at the riverbank, where Hurst’s fine beaver topper had tumbled down to the river and was floating on its crown, spinning gently in the eddy.

Bingley made a strangled sound that might have been either sympathy or poorly suppressed laughter. Darcy did not bother to disguise his amusement, though he did attempt to moderate it to a level that might be considered charitable.

Hurst picked his way down to the bank and made a valiant lunge. Missed. Muttering, he stepped deeper, made another snatch, and this time, caught the hat. He placed it on his head at once, whereupon a stream of river water trickled down the back of his neck.

He shuddered. “Well. That is invigorating. I daresay I am now qualified to join the Navy.”

This produced a snort from Mr. Linton and laughs from Darcy and Bingley.

Darcy accepted Hurst’s sodden glove as he hauled the man back up to truly solid ground, muddying himself thoroughly in the process. Fortunately, he did not think Harrison would disapprove if he was awarded a vail in addition to his usual pay .

“Louisa shall find this tale highly diverting,” Bingley said.

“I shall be treated to no less than an hour of pointed lecture on the perils of inattention, followed by a full inventory of my husbandly failings,” Hurst replied, though a reluctant smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.

“And”—he glanced down at the state of his boots—"she will take particular delight in this shade of mud, as it clashes so violently with my waistcoat.”

"You ought to have allowed me to assign you a proper mount," Bingley said, "instead of insisting on your own horse. You know he has not been tested in such sloppy conditions."

"A mistake I shall certainly not repeat,” Hurst assured Bingley, "assuming I survive the inevitable scolding from my beloved wife." He brushed at his lapel with scant success. "Let us finish what we came to do."

They remained just long enough for Bingley to resolve the practical details of repair with Mr. Linton, who agreed to gather men from the estate and begin the work of clearing the debris that very afternoon.

The old man promised to send daily reports to the house, and Bingley produced paper and pencil from his coat pocket, recording the list of additional tools and labourers that would be required for the task.

As they turned their horses towards home, Darcy allowed his mount to fall naturally into step beside Bingley's mare. Hurst, meanwhile, squelched along behind them leading his horse, determined not to meet any additional disasters.

"The Miss Bennets will not be pleased about the further delay," Bingley said quietly, his voice pitched for Darcy's ears alone.

"No. But I do not believe they will voice any complaint."

"No, neither of them ever complains," Bingley agreed with evident admiration.

That was not entirely true, but Miss Elizabeth had done so only when grievously provoked .

They rode without speaking for several minutes, the familiar quiet of friendship easy between them. Somewhere in the trees to their left, a flock of starlings lifted into the air with a sudden flurry of wings, their cries bright against the pale sky.

It was Bingley who finally broke the silence, his voice careful but direct. "You care for her."

The statement hung in the air between them, not quite a question, not quite a statement.

Darcy considered his options: denial, deflection, or some witty rejoinder that might redirect the conversation to safer ground.

But the words would not come, and he found himself oddly reluctant to attempt deception with Bingley.

"Yes," he said simply. "I do."

Bingley looked over at him with something that might have been relief mixed with concern. "Then you must tell her so. Surely you cannot mean to allow her to leave without declaring yourself?"

Darcy shook his head once, decisively. "We are friends, Bingley. That is all."

Bingley shook his head. “Miss Elizabeth is perfect for you. She is clever, charming, and already knows you are occasionally unbearable.”

“I do not believe anyone is perfect,” Darcy said with good humour. What would he do with such a paragon, if she even existed?

Bingley snorted. “No indeed, including yourself. Does the phrase ‘failure of perfect symmetry’ ring a bell for you?”

It did, and not a good one. He had much to atone for. But he could not say as much to Bingley. "I have expectations I must meet, and while Miss Elizabeth is everything admirable, as is her sister, the rest of the family . . .”

Bingley shook his head but said no more.

They reached the stables when the sun was directly overhead.

The stable master glanced up from his work and promptly did a double take at the sight of Darcy’s mud-streaked coat and windblown cravat.

But it was the slumped and thoroughly dishevelled figure of Mr. Hurst that truly rendered him speechless.

The stableboy who had accompanied them simply shrugged with the weary acceptance of one who had witnessed the whole misadventure and decided it was not his place to say anything.

As Darcy handed his reins to a waiting groom and brushed ineffectually at his muddy sleeves, he reflected that he had learned something useful during the morning's expedition.

Elizabeth Bennet might not need him, precisely; indeed, she had given every indication of being thoroughly capable of managing her own affairs without his interference.

But that realisation did not diminish his desire to earn her good opinion.

It was, he thought, a most inconvenient discovery.