Page 13 of The Winter of Our Discontent
I wished he would call me anything other than that. ‘My dear pariah’had much more of a personal note to it. I sighed and took my letter to the window of my little office to warm myself in the weak sunlight.
My gamekeeper has notified me that your regular invasion of the south wood has disrupted Pemberley’s brood of pheasants. I heard his complaint today, yesterday, and last week as well but brushed his concerns aside, never believing you would or couldwalk such a distance once, much less on a daily basis. Today, however, I myself observed your departure at first light into that wood and at a speed more natural to a hastening man than a gently bred woman. By my clock, I calculate that it is indeed likely you walked far enough to send our pheasants scattering for safer havens. If we are ever to lure a single game bird back to the estate, you will do us the honour of confining your walks to the established paths which were designed to protect our resources from such senseless disruptions.
I looked up and out of the window in dismay only to see a gardener narrow his eyes at me in contempt as he passed. Word had spread. I was on the verge of amassing my nerve to reply to my husband when Mrs Reynolds brought to my study the steward of Pemberley.
Mr Raymond Johnson wore a woollen coat and breeches, a serviceable waistcoat of woven jacquard, and well-used riding boots. He had a significant moustache, side-whiskers, and the leathery skin of a man much used to being out of doors. He looked to be older than my husband and younger than my father by a decade both ways. There was an air about him that hinted at his dislike. His address was not inappropriate in any way, but his eyes glinted with something bordering on amusement, and I felt strongly that he meant to make a game of harassing me.
Ordinarily, I would have risen to this provocation with my wits on the prick but having just read such a scalding letter from my husband for a trouble I had unknowingly caused, I was rattled as I faced the second challenge of the day.
“Thank you for coming to me so quickly. I would like tomeet the tenants and wondered if you might have an hour or two to accommodate me,” I said, correcting the tendency of my shoulders to droop in his presence.
“Mr Darcy instructed me to see to your request, ma’am, though an hour or two will hardly scratch the surface. Are you at leisure to begin today?”
I felt around wildly in my skull for some plausible excuse, but finding none, I braced myself. “Today would be acceptable.”
“I will see to having your horse saddled then and meet you at the west portico in a quarter of an hour.”
“My horse? I would rather we went in a gig. No doubt you are aware I am a novice rider?”
“Indeed, indeed, ma’am,” he said, striving to appear commiserating. “I would, however, recommend you ride.”
“And why is that?” I thought I knew the answer. He wished to make me feel incompetent from top to bottom as he introduced me to Pemberley’s people.
“Our estate history is long associated with horses. You perhaps do not know that at least half of our income from the annexations of neighbouring pasturelands in 1750 derives from blood stock. As mistress, your standing would be much lowered were you to be observed beingdrivenin a cart.”
I crossed my arms and marvelled at the man’s condescension. He had made an error with that smirk because upon seeing it, my courage rose up like a tidal flood.
“You are good to think of my reputation, Mr Johnson. However, I do not ride well at all. Will that not be seen as worse than beingdriven in a cartas you say?”
“I think not. Besides, you cannot ride so poorly, now can you? We will have one of the boys ride alongside you if you would like.”
“I see you mean to have your way. Very well. You will, however, give me twenty minutes to change for riding.”
Upon retiring to my room, I realised that it was I who had made the error in allowing the steward his way.
“Oh Wilson, I do not know what I was thinking to agree to this,” I said in a muffle as my new blue velvet riding costume came down over my head.
“But they will send a groom with you, will they not, ma’am? Someone to catch the bridle if your horse shies and capers.”
“At least I will have that. I hope they send Carl. He has been very patient in helping me to learn.”
“I am certain they will send him,” Wilson said as she helped me on with my boots. “You look quite the picture, ma’am.”
“I do hope you mean the picture of elegance, Wilson, and not that I look like my insides have been tossed in a bucket.”
Carl, the head groom, was a small man of between thirty and forty with a pronounced limp from a skirmish in the Irish rebellion. He approached me just like any shy, skittish horse. He spoke in a fatherly ‘now, now’ kind of way, and I trusted him greatly after only a handful of instructional rides. I fully expected him to lead my horse to the mounting block. But no. Instead, they had given me a child of perhaps twelve with a sprinkling of freckles and a jaunty, gap-toothed grin, which he flashed as he pulled his forelock.
“Mr Johnson, was Carl not available to assist me?”
“I am afraid not, ma’am.”
“Pray why not, if I may be so bold as to ask?” My irritation could be plainly heard by this time.
“Mr Darcy has ridden to an estate near Crossly with acouple of yearlings that Mr Anderson bought for Fairhaven’s stables. He took the head groom along to help him, ma’am.”
“Very well. I suppose it will fall to you to help me up,” I said, trying not to speak through gritted teeth.
The man pleasantly accommodated me and made a great show of good spirits, whistling and speaking jovially to anyone we passed as we went out of the grounds surrounding the main house and headed for the long road through the estate. He seemed to delight in my grim silence as I focused on keeping my seat and holding myself erect just as Carl had shown me. And, as if to underscore his comfort against mydiscomfort, he spoke expansively about the families I would meet.
