In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

Chapter Four The Master of Pemberley

Darcy was four miles south of Pemberley, clopping along at a swift gallop when the echoing thud of horse’s hooves not belonging to his mount penetrated his awareness. Glancing over his shoulder, he grunted once and lightly pulled on the reins, Parsifal slowing to a sedate walk. He had given no details as to why he was departing so early in the morning, had not asked for company, and assuredly did not need a bodyguard, yet found he was not the slightest bit surprised. Annoyed, yes, but not surprised.

The other horse pulled alongside, Darcy slowing to a halt and gracing its sunnily smiling rider with a decidedly unfriendly scowl. He leaned forward and growled, “Why are you here? I did not ask for company.”

“Can a fellow not take a morning ride in the bracing air? Are you the boss of the road, Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I am. This is my land and I did not give you permission to be here.”

The intruder looked around at the endless plains of frosted pasture and smoke-emitting chimneys rising from the numerous brick cottages nestled in between the empty fields. All was silent in the misty dawn gloom, only the faint scattered barks of dogs and lowing of cows needing to be milked a subtle reminder of life beyond the two horsemen. He shrugged unperturbed. “Very well, I will give you that, but as a sworn defender of the Crown, I think I outrank you even here and can, therefore, travel wherever I see fit.”

“Hogwash. And you are not even in uniform. Seriously, Richard, did Elizabeth send you to watch over me?”

“Unruffle your proud tail feathers, Cousin. I came of my own volition. Your wife is under the impression you can tread water and calm raging seas; therefore, she is unlikely to request me to play protector.”

“I can assure you that my wife is fully aware of every flaw I possess and reminds me of them frequently, but that’s beside the point. I have no humor today, am quite foul as a matter of fact, and in no mood for your acerbic wit and lame jokes.”

Richard nodded, face suddenly devoid of any trace of jocularity. “I gathered as much. Ride on then and enlighten me as to the problem. I am at your disposal in any way you see fit.”

Darcy stared at his serious cousin for a moment more, grunted again, but argued no further. Instead, he tightened his leather-clad grip on the reins, and with a short command to Parsifal, they set off at a brisk canter while Darcy imparted the facts as he knew them.

The ride was uneventful and thankfully free of rain or snow, although the wind was biting. The roads were frozen solid, with scattered slick patches of ice and a fair amount of slushy mud ofttimes covering their mounts to the fetlocks. Few words were spoken after the brief discourse on the mill fire, the fast pace and stiff breeze not conducive to conversation even if Darcy had been in the mood. Despite the pleasant evening spent with his wife, the idyllic hours spent loving each other so deliriously, her ceaseless empathy which calmed his turbulent soul, and the brief interlude of family felicity that morning, Darcy was still deeply disturbed.

His years as Master of an enormous estate had been relatively disaster free. Only nine deaths had occurred as a result of accidents and three men who were maimed to the point of requiring retirement from their duties. It was not a bad record compared to most men in his position. He knew this, was proud of the fact, and strove to find ways to ensure safety among his tenants and employees, but the simple reality was that many of the jobs necessary to keep the Pemberley estate functioning were of a dangerous nature. The number of injuries and near misses was substantially higher, and Darcy looked upon each incidence as a personal affront and failing.

Darcy was a rational man by nature. Rationally, he knew the blaze at the mill, however it had occurred, was completely beyond his control. Rationally, he knew that it was in no way his blunder. Rationally, he knew that these events were called accidents for a reason. Rationally, he knew that no one would place blame on him. Rationally, he knew that he and his partners would financially survive the disaster and deal with the trauma, as they were each wise businessmen and astute managers.

However, Darcy was also a man who cared deeply. Logic would triumph over emotion, but the emotion would not merely disappear. He would fight it every step of the way, with every breath, and not a single person he encountered would have the vaguest clue as to his struggle. Such was the disposition of the man who, after roughly two hours of hard riding with Richard keeping pace, drew into the wide gravelly area before the main entrance of the mill in Derby.

It was not yet eight-thirty in the morning, the sun well risen in the eastern sky and casting a strong light if little warmth. The cotton mill co-owned by Darcy was located on the western bank of the River Derwent, near the northern borders of the town proper. Several mills of various types had, for centuries, utilized the power of the briskly flowing river to process the wool and flax that was abundantly grown on the fertile fields of Derbyshire, as well as imported silk and cotton. Derby, like many other towns situated fortuitously on rapid rivers throughout England, had evolved in the past fifty years from a sleepy fishing and farming village to a center of industry. As inventions designed to speed up the laborious and costly processes of rendering textiles useful had emerged, an industrial revolution had waved across the county. Derby had benefited significantly and prospered as a result, as had forward-thinking men such as Darcy. Uncounted persons of modest means had grown rich through wise investments while men of wealth had grown even wealthier. Darcy invested financially in Derby’s Silk Mill, the oldest such factory in all of England, as well as one of the three wool mills located nearby. However, the cotton mill was the only one he was an actual owner of; therefore, he was actively involved in the management policies.

From a distance, the four-storied red brick building’s jutting towers and visible eaves appeared undamaged. This did not particularly surprise Darcy, as he figured the bulk of the damage would be internal. The note had been written hastily by the surviving foreman, giving no specific details other than the loss of life and that the blaze was quenched. Nonetheless, it takes a massive amount of heat to mar brick.

Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam were greeted by a group of several men knotted by the front entrance to the mill. Two of the gentlemen were his partners, Mr. Kinnison and Mr. Shultz, while the others were a mixture of workers, foremen, and, undoubtedly, city officials sent to investigate the incident.

“Ah! Darcy!” Mr. Kinnison boomed. “We figured you would be here soon. I wish I could say it was good to see you but…” He spread his hands and shrugged.

Darcy dismounted, Richard doing the same but hanging back while his cousin shook hands brusquely with his partners.

“Kinnison. Shultz.” He nodded to the stocky German who had stepped forward. “I came as quickly as I could manage. It was quite late when I received the message. How did you make it here so speedily, Kinnison?”

Mr. Kinnison shrugged again. “I was in Spondon for Christmas. My wife’s family dwells there. Shultz and I had lunch three days ago, so he knew I was in the area; otherwise, the messenger would probably still be riding from Claycross. We just arrived here, having spent the past hour with the injured men.”

Kinnison was the youngest of the three men, only four and twenty. It was actually his father who had partnered with Darcy and Mr. Shultz eight years ago to buy the decrepit old mill. Always a man fascinated by technology and gadgets, Darcy was also an evolving, wise businessman. He immediately saw the advantage to embracing the wave of manufacturing sweeping through England and was especially proud of the acquisition, as it was the first independent venture he had entered into after assuming the mantle of Master of Pemberley. Twice he had discussed the prospect with his father, the first when he was twenty-one and home for the summer.

Not in his wildest dreams did he imagine at the time that in just over a year he would be Master of Pemberley. His father was in excellent health by all appearances, the ravages of his unrelenting grief visible in the haggard lines around his eyes and hollowed cheeks, but otherwise, James Darcy was robust. Father and son had developed an easy relationship, one that was of mutual respect and affection if a trifle distant due to James’s tendency toward moroseness and Darcy’s reticence. Their times together were invariably centered on discussing Pemberley affairs rather than personal issues, although as Darcy matured, he found it was as if the gap in their ages dwindled. In later years, on those rare occasions when he allowed himself to reminisce and muse on could-have-beens, he firmly believed that in time, he and his father would have become great friends. But at twenty-one those tragic events were future and unthinkable. Rather, both Darcy men imagined and openly planned for a future similar to what James had developed with his father: co-management of Pemberley. Only in this instance, James desired to relinquish the horse breeding and training aspects to his vastly competent son while he continued to manage the farming and livestock ventures. It was an arrangement that appealed to both of them. Darcy’s obsession for all matters horse related was legendary, the only other niggle in his brain that of modern inventions. Hence, he approached his father about milling cotton.

James sat at the desk that Darcy would inherit, smiling in true pleasure and pride as he watched his tall son pace before him with caged energy, talking vociferously and gesturing wildly.

“It is truly a marvel, Father. Just think! We could double, probably triple, our income by entering into the cotton trade and milling it. Of course, depending on the initial layout, it may take a few years to recoup, but eventually. And what is to stop us from delving further and milling our own wool as well? The process is a bit more expensive, but you see the figures?” He stopped abruptly, tapping one long index finger on the parchment page lying on the desktop.

James opened his mouth to speak, but Darcy resumed pacing and speaking, “I confess I need to do a bit more research to be absolutely sure, but I am fairly confident we could handle it. In fact, I spoke with Mr. Castledon of London Textile just last month. His company owns several mills of all varieties and he gave me excellent advice. My thought had been to build our own mill here, starting from scratch. He suggested looking into buying an existing mill, preferably one a bit rundown or mismanaged that could be attained at a lowered price. I took the liberty of asking Mr. Daniels to nose around a bit, drop a few hints discreetly. He says there are a couple of possibilities near Stavely on the Rother or Buxton on the Wye and in Derby. Any location would do nicely. Perhaps I could have him send you the specifications, Father, and you could look into it?”

“Perhaps—”

“Of course with steam engines,” Darcy interrupted, hardly aware his father had spoken, “we do not have to look along rivers. They make the need for a water source unnecessary! Although it is still wise, I am convinced, for shipping and safety reasons. We could, possibly, build one from the ground up near Pemberley, or expand the existing facilities where we sheer and scour our wool. Although I do believe that might still be more expensive than obtaining an already existing structure designed for the task. I need to obtain further figures on that, but you can see that we have numerous options.”

“I do not think I would want a loud manufacturing monstrosity so near the manor, Son.”

“Yes, yes, you are correct, Father! That would not be wise, I agree.” He paused momentarily, fingers fidgeting by his sides as he stared into space sightlessly. James observed him silently, the turning wheels of his son’s brain practically visible to the naked eye. “With a steam engine we could fully prepare the cotton. Clean it, card it, comb it, everything. Then spin it and weave it as well. Maybe in time expand further and develop rooms for dyeing and finishing the cloth. Yes, Derby would be best, as the population is higher and it is on the main thoroughfare to London and beyond. Think of all the people we could employ! Profits and community benefit!”

James was laughing and shaking his head slowly. “Hold on a minute, my boy! You know I appreciate your enthusiasm, but are you not supposed to be carousing with your friends, engaging in endless fox hunts and billiard tournaments and other frivolous pursuits of youth? You are on vacation and have one more year of leisurely studies at University, not that you ever study leisurely, but you get the idea. Enjoy yourself for a change and we can deal with this in a year.”

“I do not carouse, Father, but trust me, I partake in plenty of extracurricular activities. Did I tell you I won the fencing tournament for my House? Plaque on the wall next to Grandfather’s!”

James laughed at Darcy’s sudden youthful boasting. “Yes, you told me, lad. I am quite proud of you and delighted to know your nose is not always pressed between the pages of a book. So do me a favor: Relax, gather information if you wish, but complete your education and enjoy life for a while before you immerse yourself in work.”

“But…”

“No buts, William! You know I personally have no interest in the endeavor. That is not to say I disagree with your research and concept, so do not frown at me! I merely insist it wait for now. Take your time, enjoy the summer, and finish your education. Next summer, we can discuss it at length and I will trust you to pursue to your heart’s content.”

So Darcy had grudgingly agreed, not really having much choice in the matter. A year later, he was home and barely unpacked ere broaching the topic with his father yet again. He had not relented in his desire, had only increased his enthusiasm with further study and discussion with professors, businessmen, and even the average working man during his haunts at the mills near Cambridge. James was agreeable if not newly inspired, permitting his son to look seriously into the matter at the mills to be found locally and promising to allow him to proceed once the particulars were known. It was a short conversation, Darcy wasting no time in riding to Alfreton where a potential mill had been unearthed by Mr. Wickham. It ended up not being the best candidate, but before Darcy could pursue other options, his father suffered a massive heart attack and, a week later, died.

It was over six months before Darcy could begin even to think about starting an entirely new project, yet despite the overwhelming chaos, tremendous grief, and burdens suddenly thrust upon his shoulders, the tiny flame of desire had kept burning deep inside. Nonetheless, it was a coincidence that brought the cotton mill in Derby to his attention. Mr. Kinnison the elder was good friends with Mr. Henry Vernor and rather casually mentioned to him that the old mill was for sale and he was contemplating buying. Mr. Vernor knew of Darcy’s interest via his son, Gerald. One thing led to another, as the old saying goes, and within a month, Darcy, Kinnison, and Mr. Shultz, an associate of Kinnison’s, formed a partnership and bought the dilapidated mill. DKS Midlands, Inc., was born.

Mr. Shultz was a German immigrant of some fifty years, a self-made man who had begun his employment history as a youth working at every job in a cotton mill in Yorkshire before rising to the rank of foreman. Thrifty by nature, he saved and eventually invested in the very mill he had worked in since the tender age of nine. A few more years went by, a total of ten mills invested in at the pinnacle of his career, and Mr. Shultz was counted among the comfortably rich. He liquefied it all, moved to Derby, and started over where no one would know he had once been a lowly mill drudge. Darcy would know none of this history until five years into their partnership, trusting to the man’s obvious knowledge of the business and to Mr. Kinnison’s recommendation and personal reputation.

The project was a success from the beginning. The partnership allowed for the financial resources to purchase a number of machines that Darcy had not imagined in his early figuring. In the end, revenue was made in two years time. It was a small profit for the first three years and the money was reinvested, which substantially benefited the company. For two years now, the proceeds were significant. The elder Mr. Kinnison had died not quite two years prior, his son proving to be as excellent a businessman, and trustworthy partner, as had his father. All three men were abundantly content with the project.

The milling process utilized by DKS Midlands was typical of all cotton mills of that day. Raw cotton fibers were imported in vast quantities, primarily via British East India Trading vessels that acquired the product from India and other Far East nations, as well as the former American colonies. Certain areas of England, Yorkshire, and Manchester, for instance, became synonymous with the cotton trade. Other towns followed suit to varying degrees, cashing in on the wealth to be found. English inventors by the dozens devoted their lives to improving the machinery necessary to enhance the process. American inventor Eli Whitney’s cotton gin was one of the prime revolutionary devices ever invented. Every worker of cotton in England owned a cotton gin by the early 1800s, speeding the initial process unbelievably. Raw, baled cotton was transported to the large and complete mill in Derby, just one of hundreds throughout the country.

The massive four-story building was laid out with each floor devoted to the sequential procedures necessary to take the raw product and render it into useable cloth, from opening the five-hundred-pound bales of crude cotton to begin the ginning and cleaning process, to the finer tasks of separating the fibers, spinning the slivered threads into yarns, weaving the yarns into cloth, and finishing the fabric with various chemicals, from bleaching to dyeing. All of this was accomplished through complicated and innovative machinery operated by human hands. It was a lengthy practice requiring hundreds of employees even in such a relatively modest mill.

Mr. Shultz lived in Derby and personally handled difficulties as they arose, Darcy and Kinnison rarely needing to get involved with the day-to-day functioning. Rather, they dealt with the business side of affairs. Mr. Kinnison managed the storage warehouses, distribution, and transport to local markets and London. Darcy arranged the exchange with markets beyond London and abroad as well as the political issues, dealing extensively with the East India Company and, to a lesser degree, his own ships. These contacts contributed to their rapid success.

Thus far, the mishaps had been nominal; a few minor injuries and broken down machines all that had upset the flow. This positive record was highly irregular in the danger fraught machinations of a mill and all the persons involved recognized their good fortune. “Darcy.” Mr. Shultz shook his hand, jerking his head toward the smoldering mill. “We were just discussing the details of what occurred. Kinnison and I were here until late last night, but it was not safe to inspect and far too disordered. And we were busily dealing with the injuries and fatalities, and assuring the fire was out.” He shrugged, pausing briefly before continuing. “We lost the foreman Hendle and two workers, Spreckle and Trillis. Good workers.”

Darcy nodded solemnly. His personal knowledge of most of the personnel was nonexistent. However, this did not mean he did not care. “Any family? Widows?”

“The men chosen for the Christmas holiday were unmarried per protocol. Hendle was the foreman who drew lots this year and he has… had a family. It will be dealt with according to our policy, Darcy.” Shultz answered wearily but matter-of-factly. “She works in the weaving room and knows her position will be held for two weeks with compensation for Hendle until she decides what to do. They have four children, two who work as spinners, so I do not know what to expect.”

Kinnison spoke up then, “The two men injured are Haggar and Merran. They suffered minor burns and breathing difficulties from the smoke. The surgeon says they will be fine.”

They began walking toward the large front doors, Richard joining the other men to follow behind while Shultz resumed his narrative. “We were not able to speak with either man until an hour ago, so it was unclear what had occurred. The other watchmen were not at the scene until after the fire was well ablaze, making their rounds and checking equipment as expected, so they were little help. One fellow, Stevenson, let it slip that alcohol was present.” He paused for an angry glower. Shultz was a staunch Methodist and abstainer from all alcoholic beverages, even to the point of actively participating in a thus far unpopular temperance society in Derby.

Kinnison shared a sideways grin with Darcy, who nodded and smiled faintly. Darcy was not a heavy drinker by any means, a few youthful overindulgences having taught him severe lessons in moderation; but he did not fully ascribe to the near satanic, sinful qualities attributed to alcohol by some. Nonetheless, having been witness to the tragic results of drunkenness in terms of domestic violence and financial ruin—especially amongst the lower classes, although on occasion in his own peer group—he did sympathize with the temperance movement. Frankly, as a man of superior self-control, Darcy had little patience for men who chronically over imbibed and considered it a hideous character flaw.

As a company policy, alcohol of any kind was prohibited on the mill grounds. Its possession was grounds for immediate dismissal. The idea that employees would jeopardize their livelihood and lives for a drink filled him with a simmering rage. “Do we know the finer details?”

Kinnison spoke up, Shultz still glowering and muttering under his breath. “It took a bit of time. A few threats, intimidation, and cajoling, but they finally gave us enough.”

They were inside now, the aroma of smoke and burnt cotton heavy in the air in spite of the widely open windows. Unconsciously, each man retrieved a handkerchief to place over his nose. They walked down the seemingly endless rows of liquid-filled vats and gigantic tables where the bleaching, scouring, dyeing, and other finishing procedures were carried out. Darcy was relieved to note that they were heading away from the separated rooms where the two steam engines were located, those machines being by far the most expensive, not to mention necessary for all other operations to take place. They walked up a curved stairway to the second floor where they traversed long aisles between the weaving looms. Now standing idle with the threads in various stages of completion, the powerful machines were undamaged. They mounted the sooty stairs leading to the third floor spinning room while Kinnison continued, voice muffled behind cloth.

“Not too original, Darcy. A bit of holiday cheer, as it were, to accompany a lively faro game. They holed up by the stacks of rovings where it is warmer. It was early afternoon, but yesterday was cloudy, so apparently they brought in extra oil lamps; the better to see the cards, you understand?” He finished with heavy sarcasm and a shake of his head. “Plain stupidity!”

“The lamps are to be kept mounted and well away from the cotton; they all know that.” Shultz mumbled, faint German accent notable as it always was when distressed or angry.

“Apparently, Hendle happened upon their entertainment, demanded they clear out, but the four were well into their cups and a fight ensued. Somehow a lamp was overturned.” He paused to rub his eyes, continuing in a thick voice, “Hendle ran to the water pumps they tell me, but it gets confused from there on out. The others joined the scene and quenched the fire eventually, but not before Hendle and the others had died. What a waste!”

They halted before a bank of spinning mules, blackened with ash and soot but otherwise intact. Beyond was a scorched, smoking, wet mess of destroyed machinery and piles of burned fiber bundles extending thirty feet to the southern brick wall. Jagged, blackened gaps were visible in the floor and the ceiling, the fire having obviously risen to encompass the fourth level. The ceiling was essentially gone, with thick crossbeams in varying degrees of charred thickness the only support for the ruined carding machines above. The massive contraptions were scorched and twisted with melted metal pieces jutting, the entire row of mangled devices perched precariously.

Shultz gestured above. “The spinners and rovings acted as wicks, funneling the flames to the fourth floor. It looks like the damage is worst up there. Thanks to you, Darcy, we had those water pumps installed, otherwise the fire would have raged unchecked.”

“Our first order of business is to remove those carders before they break the beams and plummet through to the bottom floors and cause more damage.” Darcy said with a curt signal to several of the loitering men, who nodded and hastened to organize a group of workers for the task. “Any idea how much cleaned cotton was sitting here?”

Shultz scratched at his chin and sighed. “Well, the stacks line the walls here, piled to just below the windows. Freshly prepared bundles are replenished via the far lifts as quickly as they are set to the spinners. I have detailed invoices in my office. Looks like those on the extreme edges may be salvageable.”

While he spoke he indicated the area of destruction before them, Darcy’s mind performing rapid calculations as he considered the quantities. The walls between floors rose roughly fifteen feet with wide windows all around. The southern wall spanned at least fifty feet, the middle bulk of which was a black, faintly smoldering, and soggy mess.

Shultz was continuing, “Some of these spinners may be repairable. I have three new mules in the warehouse and dozens of spare parts from others that have worn out. Guess we should head upstairs. At least this end of the top floor is just machinery. The raw bales are at the northern end where they are hoisted up.”

The group made their way to the stairs, Shultz relating the warehouse inventory as they walked. The inspection was thorough, Darcy calling for parchment and quill to take detailed notes. Eventually, Richard left per Darcy’s request to secure rooms for them at the Georgian and to dispatch a note to Pemberley assuring of their safe arrival. It was a long day with Darcy and Kinnison spending the bulk of it in Shultz’s office on the ground level, bent over the desk and long table with jackets removed and shirt sleeves rolled up as they pored over invoices and inventory lists. Pages of parchment were written in Darcy’s firm hand, itemizing the damage.

Most of the men were put to work on the cleaning and removing. Others returned to the unscathed portions of the factory where the women waited; the steam engines powered up as the sequence of milling cotton from its raw, ginned state to completed weave resumed. Cotton needed processing and orders needed filling, no one wanting to waste any more time or revenue than necessary.

It was well after sundown when Darcy finally eased his aching, exhausted body into a hot tub. With a groan of relief, he sank into the water, eyes closing. For the first time since leaving home, he allowed his thoughts to stray toward wife and son. With clarity, he conjured the image of his family lounging in the parlor, son complacently being passed from devoted relative to relative with serious countenance breaking into sunny smiles at each face encountered. Darcy could hear the adult laughter and infant giggles as he was tickled and nuzzled, always the beloved center of attention.

As an abrupt epiphany, it dawned on him that he would miss his baby’s one-month birthday! His eyes flew open and chest constricted in true sorrow. The ironic part was that he and Elizabeth had not talked about celebrating the date, nor had it consciously occurred to Darcy to mark it in any significant way, yet he knew without any doubt that they would have done so. In disgust, he sat up in the bathtub, irritatingly grabbing the soap and attacking his grimy skin with force.

In London, upon the incident of their first lengthy separation, Darcy had foolishly believed that separating from his wife would grow easier with time. He now accepted that the distress merely multiplied. Now he had to add to the agony of missing Elizabeth the pain of missing Alexander. It came as a bit of a surprise to recognize how thoroughly Alexander had wrapped around his father’s heart as an individual.

He joined Richard for a delicious and much needed full course dinner feeling depressed and subdued. Richard seemed uncommonly downcast as well, conversation was minimal, and both men retired to their rooms immediately after dinner. Darcy spent what remaining energy he possessed writing to Lizzy, telling about the day’s events and assuring her that he would be home well before the christening.

The second day broke with Darcy renewed in his vigor to deal with all the complex issues as rapidly as possible so he could return to his family. He was surly and he knew it, but under the circumstances, no one questioned the cause. Mr. Shultz handled the manual labor aspects, Darcy and Kinnison thrilled to note that every remaining machine was up and running with six of the damaged ones revamped before the day was done. All of the debris was cleaned away and fresh timber was ordered to begin the structural repairs. Areas were rearranged to compensate for the lost space, every employee responding to the orders of Shultz and his foremen with competence. Richard donned casual attire and assisted Mr. Shultz, the military man being quite adept at both receiving and giving orders.

Kinnison concentrated on the reordering of supplies and notification of both buyers and sellers as to the delays incurred due to the fire. Darcy focused on the finances. That there would be a substantial impact fiscally was a given, but the reality was that the combination of careful planning, diligent saving, and significant personal wealth well diversified by all three meant that the impact would readily be absorbed and overcome.

When it came to managing the business aspects, Darcy was in his element and supremely proficient. The years of governing a vast estate had taught him how to deal with the varied array of complications that inevitably arose. Therefore, despite never facing the aftermath of a fire, praise God, Darcy instinctively and through experience dealing with other traumas knew precisely what to do.

It was the human element that was distressing to him. As distasteful as it was in one respect, there was no option but to dismiss Haggar and Merran for imbibing alcohol while on duty. There were a number of other mills in the area where they could seek employment, but Derby was a small community and word would spread. Few employers were as strict regarding the no alcohol rule as Mr. Shultz, but a fire was universally looked upon with horror. Whether the men would be able to attain adequately paying work locally was questionable. Shultz was far more pragmatic than his partners, and he simply shrugged his shoulders, completely unmoved. Kinnison and Darcy wavered a bit, but in the end the decision was clear.

On the third day, Darcy rode with Richard and a foreman named Rhodes to the tiny house in the middle of town where the widow Hendle resided. Mrs. Hendle greeted them with subdued politeness, eyes swollen and red. The Hendle children clustered around her, the youngest of four and five years clutching her skirts and staring with wide-eyed fright at the tall, well-dressed, formal man. The eldest, a skinny boy of thirteen, halted his chore of chopping wood and stood with sharpened axe in hand as he glowered at the men.

Darcy bowed. “Mrs. Hendle, I am Mr. Darcy. Please accept my deepest sympathies for your loss.” She nodded, wiping at teary eyes and murmuring her thanks. Darcy continued, “I confess I did not personally know your husband, but Mr. Shultz assures me he was an excellent foreman.” He handed her a parchment wrapped bundle. “Per DKS Midlands policy, Mrs. Hendle, you will find the equivalent of one month’s salary. Your position will be held for two weeks, as you have been informed, to allow for grieving. Please let us know as soon as you possibly can what your plans are.”

Mrs. Hendle sniffled. “This is our home, sir. We got no place to go. The mill’s been good to us so we’ll be back, me and the young ’uns.” Her hand swept the yard to encompass her son as well as the twelve-year-old girl standing behind her. “DKS has the best pay and all, we won’t go nowheres else, milord.”

Darcy nodded, opening his mouth to speak, but the eldest son had stepped closer and interrupted with a grumble, “If it’s so great how come my da is dead?”

“Jerome!” His mother gasped. “I am so sorry, sir! You watch your tongue young man and apologize to Mr. Darcy this instant!”

“I will not! His stupid mill killed my da!”

Mrs. Hendle was crying in earnest, attempting to choke out something, anything, to placate the tall, stern man with the reputation for kindness and fairness, but also stringency and nobility. Darcy cut her spluttering short with nothing more than one raised finger her direction, piercing gaze riveted on the teenager.

Jerome flushed under Darcy’s forceful but sympathetic stare, but he bravely stared back, lifting his chin slightly as if to challenge. When Darcy spoke it was softly, but with an unmistakable edge of authority and faint contempt. “Mr. Hendle, is it your opinion that your father was a fool?”

“No! How could you—”

“A man makes his own decisions in life, Mr. Hendle. Your father made his. He was a miller, a foreman in my company, and trusted with tremendous responsibility. He worked hard for his place and knew precisely what it entailed. Do you mean to slander his name by insinuating he was ignorant of the risks?” He paused, allowing the grieving boy to assimilate his words. “He took great pride in his work, was brave and strong. His sacrifice will not be forgotten. Do not allow your sorrow to cloud your judgment, Mr. Hendle. I do not claim to be an expert on theological matters, but I believe that our loved ones watch us from the Heavens. Do you wish for your father to witness your disrespect?”

Jerome shook his head shortly, eyes now downcast and axe fallen to rest on the ground, but he held his back straight and shoulders firm. Darcy smiled faintly, glancing to Mrs. Hendle and nodding slightly. The poor woman was speechless, tears falling in huge glistening drops down her cheeks.

“You are the man of the house now, Mr. Hendle. Make your father proud. Mrs. Hendle, you have my sympathies. If there is anything you require, Mr. Shultz will assist you.”

She curtseyed shakily, Darcy bowing again before he turned and mounted Parsifal. Rhodes leaned close and said, “I will keep a close eye on that boy, Mr. Darcy. He may give us trouble.”

“There is no need. Take him out of the spinning room, away from his mother. Give him more responsibility. The carding machine, I think. Work him hard for a while, exhaust him, and he will give you no trouble.” Rhodes looked dubious, Darcy smiling grimly and finishing with confidence as they rode away, “Trust me, I know how best to deal with grief.”

“Today is Alexander’s birthday and I am missing it.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam, out of uniform and comfortable in a black suit of wool, peered over the rim of his wine glass at the morose cousin sitting across their secluded table in the Georgian’s opulent dining hall. Darcy was staring at his plate, mien serious as he played with the remains of dinner, fork absently scoring trenches through a small pile of mashed yams. Richard frowned, completely at a loss as to what Darcy meant.

“Ah, Cousin, unless I have slept through all of 1818, a year has not passed.”

Darcy chuckled, putting down his fork and picking up his own wine glass. “No, I meant his one-month birthday.”

Richard raised his brows. “Do people actually celebrate such a thing? I certainly pray you did not expect me to provide a present. This could become costly after a time.”

“No gifts or parties. I just wanted to be there is all.” He sighed, sitting back in the chair. “I miss my family, Richard.” He took a sip, glancing to his cousin’s humorous face. “Go ahead, laugh. Make a joke. I need to be cheered.”

Richard shrugged. “I was just thinking that there was a time when all you needed in life was my sparkling personality and delightful company. How things change!”

Darcy laughed in earnest. “Never have I thought you were all I needed, my friend, but you do in a pinch.”

Richard lifted his glass in salute. “We shall be back at Pemberley in a day or two. You seem to have things well in hand, and there really are no reasons to stay around for the reconstruction, are there?”

“I do not want to desert my partners, but I suppose I can complete the rest from home. It is primarily paperwork from here on. Mr. Keith and I will work on it, and I will likely send him to London next month. I refuse to leave again, barring another catastrophe. It is too difficult.”

Richard was smiling at his once again morose cousin now fiddling with his wedding ring, a gleam of something indiscernible in his eyes. “I know I have said it before, but it still shocks me how profoundly matrimony has affected you.”

“And I have said it before, wait until it is your turn. It is marvelous, beautiful, the very best feeling in the world. Love and now fatherhood. Ach! I need to go home! Tomorrow afternoon, Richard. We will be home by dinner. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you remember Lord Fotherby?”

Darcy blinked in surprise. “Naturally. One of our greatest members of Parliament. How could I not? Terrible loss to our country when he passed. Why do you ask?”

Richard looked embarrassed, ruddy face flushing further. “Well, he has been a friend to our family for decades, as you know, he and our grandfather contemporaries. Considering his age, I guess none of us were too surprised at his death, but then again there are some people who seem immortal. He was so spry.”

“He assuredly was spry. We saw him in London and I never would have imagined him dying a few months later. He was dancing with his wife at Lord Ivers’s ball more often than Elizabeth and me. Yes, a shock and loss to be sure.” He noted Richard’s grimace, chuckling and leaning forward. “So are you going to tell me the thought behind this line of questioning?”

“It is entirely your fault you know. Walking about with that ridiculous grin all the time, peace and tranquility oozing from every pore, and pardon my crudeness, but the obvious sexual satisfaction radiating continually is enough to make the most confirmed bachelor vacillate!”

Darcy grinned, flushing slightly and ducking his head in embarrassment, but not in the least offended. “Whom are we talking about? The lucky lady to turn my wayward cousin’s heart and bring me such utter joy as I now can tease him mercilessly in return? Pray tell!”

“Go easy on me, Darcy. I think I am in love, yes, but I am caught up in my own Shakespearean tragedy.”

“Does this have to do with Miss Ulster? I would have imagined the Admiral presenting her on a silver platter if you asked. No, wait!” Suddenly the pieces fell into place and he gazed at his cousin with amazement. “You are speaking of Lady Fotherby.”

“Now you see my dilemma?”

“When did this take place? How could you…? I mean, she has only been widowed for a few months and sequestered at the estate in Buckinghamshire I understand.”

“Very well, you want the sordid details? I have known Lady Fotherby nearly all my life if you recollect. Her mother and mine have been friends since their society days, although I paid her scant attention, I confess, until University. I would encounter the then Lady Simone Halifax at various soirees and balls. You were there upon occasion, Darcy. She had matured into a true beauty and so utterly perfect.”

He paused, shaking his head and taking a drink of wine. “Timing is everything, I have come to believe,” his voice low as he swirled the red liquid and lost himself in musings. “Certainly this is true in military matters, but also in life and love. I knew I loved her and that she returned the affection. What could I do about the feelings I had? I was young and naïve with dreams of glory in battle and killing Napoleon personally, far too foolish to recognize true love. Not that I could have done a thing about it as a second son with a small inheritance.” He shrugged. “By the time I could possibly give matrimony any serious consideration, she was long since married to Lord Fotherby.”

“I remember you fancied her a bit but had no idea the emotions were deep. Forgive me, my friend, I never knew.”

“Oh, be still, William. I cannot proclaim to any great passion. Again, I was young and not sparing undue contemplation on a hopeless situation. It is more the wisdom of age that enables me to relive the feelings and see them for what they were. That and you all dreamy and radiating disgusting happiness every waking hour of the day.”

Darcy smiled and Richard laughed, both men silent for a while. “I had not seen her in years. The rumors would reach my ears from time to time. Her marriage to the far older Lord Fotherby, the birth of their two children, the elaborate galas at their homes in Town and High Wycombe. I wondered, as I am sure so many others did, whether the marriage was based on affection or merely an old man wanting a young wife.” He shook his head and grimaced. “Whatever the case, I pushed it all aside until two seasons ago when I saw her at the symphony. It was all back in a rush. Quite took my breath away, actually.”

“That is how it was to see Elizabeth at Rosings and later at Pemberley, and every day when I wake next to her, matter of fact. Must have been horrible for you. I am so sorry and wish you had shared with me.”

“Shared that I am in love with another man’s wife? Yes, I can only imagine how you would have accepted that news! Your sense of morality would have been highly offended and the prudish expressions and lecturing would not have been welcome, I can assure you.”

“You did not act on your inclinations, and when it comes to losing the woman you love, I can fully comprehend the agony. No, I would not have lectured, Cousin. In fact, I am not now offended and actually a bit confused. Why do you see it as a tragedy, Richard? As sad as the passing of Lord Fotherby, it does free her, given appropriate mourning period of course. And now you are in a better position to offer yourself as suitor.”

“I suppose, although it seems rather distasteful to consider it at this juncture. The man is barely cold in his grave. Besides…” He stopped, lips pressed together and face filled with a rare bitterness.

“What? Do you judge there no chance she may return your interest?”

“Difficult to ascertain, under the circumstances. We spoke a few times at various functions in Town. Lord and Lady Fotherby were everywhere, to my dismay. She was polite and proper, our conversations always restrained and in the presence of others. It was probably just my romantic fancy overwhelming me, but I sensed a current between us. Fills me with guilt even to contemplate the subject! Lord, Darcy, I am not capable of judging! I am a soldier. How can I compare to a man of Lord Fotherby’s caliber?”

“Oh, nonsense! You are a nobleman’s son, an officer of His Majesty’s army, young and dashingly handsome, rich, charming. Need I go on? You have far more to offer than even the famous Lord Fotherby, no matter how virile he may have been in his seniority.” He sat back and picked up his glass. “I really cannot tell you precisely how to proceed. I believe in fate, but also think one needs to encourage it along.”

Silence descended yet again, plates cleared by servants, and the dessert course served before either man spoke. Darcy was shaken by the atypical expression of sadness on Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face, having come to rely on his irrepressible affability. When he broke the quiet, his voice was husky with emotion.

“I saw her a couple of weeks ago. Mother insisted on diverting northwest to pay her respects as friend to her mother. We only stayed the afternoon, had teas and cakes. Father related fond memories of Lord Fotherby in action during sessions of the House of Lords. Lady Fotherby smiled kindly, but did not seem comfortable with the topic. Even in the black of mourning she was beautiful.” He sighed deeply. “How can you judge a woman’s face, William? Especially when so controlled?”

Darcy shrugged and shook his head. “I am not the one to ask, I am afraid. I can read Elizabeth perfectly now, but assuredly misconstrued horribly early in our acquaintance. Even when love was apparent on her face, I refused to embrace it out of fear. Did you sense anything from Lady Fotherby? Any hope?”

“Perhaps. She looked at me quite a bit, but maybe that is because I kept staring at her! When we said our good-byes and I kissed her fingers, I swear she pressed against my lips and she definitely squeezed my hand. I was shocked at the boldness—too flummoxed to make sense of it and do more than stammer something stupid.” He laughed faintly and shook his head. “Go ahead and laugh, Cousin, I deserve it!”

Darcy was grinning, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I have not seen you so flustered since Miss Susanne Carmichael kissed you under the mistletoe when you were fifteen! What a joy! The particularly amusing part of it all is that you are far more worldly than I, yet here you sit, as affected by a woman as all the rest of us mortals. Refreshing, actually.”

“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely!”

“No further sympathy for the man of constant sorrows? The broken-hearted romantic fool doomed to traverse the earth in pitiful loneliness? The woeful puppy with hanging tail and ears?”

“Pah!” Darcy interrupted. “I am as pathetically inept as they come when pertaining to divining romantic clues. However, even I can determine there is hope. Give it time, Richard. I am convinced I shall be raising a glass at your wedding ere the year is out. Worse come to worst, you can enlist Aunt Madeline’s aid. She would do anything to see you married and bringing more grandchildren her way.”

Richard cringed, and Darcy laughed as he bit into his apple pie.

The conversation turned to unrelated business and political topics as they finished their brandies. Finally, Darcy said, “Well, I think I shall retire, my friend. Sooner I am asleep, the sooner tomorrow will arrive.”

“You sound like a child awaiting Christmas.”

“Ah, but this is far superior. My wife’s arms and son’s grasping hands transcend any gift delivered. Remember this, Cousin. It will keep you motivated in your pursuit.”