Page 30 of The Power of Refusal
D arcy shook his head at the impulse that had seen him saddle his horse to ride to Cambridgeshire. The rhythmic pounding of hooves against the earth filled his ears as he rode. The scent of damp soil and fresh grass filled his nostrils. Bingley would be shocked to see him arrive at long last, not in the gleaming carriage and procession of retainers that fit his station, but dusty, exhausted, and smelling of horse, like a vagabond. The thought brought a wry smile to Darcy’s lips. The impertinent Miss Elizabeth would not look askance at his informality. What mattered was seeing her again as soon as might be. The anticipation thrummed through his veins. He urged his horse forward with renewed determination.
He had stopped twice in small villages along the way to ascertain his route. The thatched cottages and winding lanes were a welcome respite from the endless miles of open countryside. The dearth of road markings meant several stops to make inquiries. Locals had a familiar accent, close to that of his native Derbyshire. Their lilting cadence and rolling vowels reminded him of home.
“Ay up, Surry!” the farmer had said, tugging at his forelock. His eyes squinted against the glare of the sun. Darcy explained his destination, smiling as he heard himself slide from his city speech to the accent of home. The words flowed from his tongue with a familiar ease.
“It looks a bit black owa Bill’s mothers,” the farmer warned, pointing to the overcast skies. The clouds hung low and heavy, thick with the promise of rain. Ah, precisely what Darcy least wished for. A deluge to soak him on his ride. The thought of arriving at Lockwood drenched and bedraggled sent a shiver down his spine. The already damp fabric of his clothing clung uncomfortably to his skin.
“You go along the bonk, then pass the cut,” the farmer directed, his gnarled finger tracing the path Darcy was to follow. Darcy had to listen with care to the turnings and landmarks, the thick dialect requiring his full attention. He had quite a long ride ahead. The miles stretched out before him in an endless ribbon of cold, wet, green.
“You best get yer skets on—this mizzle wants to ’ollin it dahn!” the farmer warned, gesturing for Darcy to ride on. The urgency in his voice was unmistakable.
With thanks to the man, Darcy urged his horse forward into the damp. The mist soaked his skin and beaded on his hair. After a while, the mist intensified into a sprinkle, then a torrent. He was wet through every layer of his clothing. The wind whipped into a frenzy, blowing rain into his face. Cold fingers of wet crept up his back. Even the prospect of a sodden arrival could not dampen his spirits. The promise of seeing Elizabeth was a fire that burnt.
The approach to Lockwood finally appeared. The grand estate rose from the horizon like a beacon of hope to his exhausted eyes. Darcy shivered as he rode up the drive, each stretch of his horse’s legs bringing him closer to Elizabeth. His usual graceful descent was marred by a shakiness in his over-tired knees. A groomsman appeared and took charge of Darcy’s horse whilst Darcy looked down over his trousers with dismay. If Miss Elizabeth had her petticoats six inches deep in mud that long-ago day at Netherfield, Darcy was at least two feet deep in splatter and muck over his boots and clothing. He made a most disreputable appearance.
Yet, he had overlooked Miss Elizabeth’s disorder that day, and hopefully she would overlook his. The memory of her glowing cheeks and those eyes, those fine eyes, brightened by the exercise brought a smile as he walked to the corner of the stables to turn towards the manse, his eyes on his muddy boots as he attempted to scrape them on the gravel.