Sharon Lathan - In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

She watched him walk to the door, back straight with figure flawlessly masculine and controlled. He turned and, after a blown kiss and airy wave, was gone. 

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!”