Page 36 of Her Brother's Keeper
“Believe it!”
She gaped at him. “When you saw Gallant being abused by Lord Roden, you stopped at nothing to rescue him, offering him twice what the stallion was worth! Is not a child worth a hundred horses?”
“Edward is not abused. The opposite, in fact.”
“If he were drowning, would you gallop on by, or throw him a rope?”
“What is it with you and the horse metaphors? No one is drowning.”
“Elizabeth is. Fitzwilliam, she needs help. I am here for what…another few weeks? She is my friend. Maybe nothing I do helps, but what if it does? At least she will not be completely alone for a time. I will not intervene again with Edward when he is in a temper. Please?”
Darcy scowled, but knew he had been beaten. “Very well.” His response was terse and surly, but she hugged him as if he had acceded graciously.
After she left him, he was too restless to remain indoors, and had Gallant saddled. It was not many minutes later that he was galloping across the stormy fells, determined to forget.
He urged the steed onwards despite the rain, thankful that Gallant would rather be racing in poor weather than remain warm and dry in his stall. The creature simply loved to run. Georgiana’s words had recalled him to his first sight of the stallion, his flanks bloodstained from an obvious overuse of the whip, the snarling Lord Roden—having been bucked off—swearing with a creativity Darcy had not known the man possessed.
His lordship was a big, stupid man, accustomed to instant obedience and without the slightest bit of patience for his animals. Or his wife or children, for that matter.I knew instantly that the horse would be disastrously, probably irreparably damaged within a month if I did nothing.He had not been able to leave the idea of rescue alone, not until the horse was his.
Darcy rode on, until both man and beast were fatigued, not slowing until they were in sight of the stables.
“You are simply a high-strung, strong-willed old fellow, are you not?” Darcy said, patting the stallion on the neck as he slowed and dismounted, once out of the icy wind. A boy came running up to take the reins but Darcy waved him off; he usually cared for Gallant himself.
As he brushed the horse’s flanks, his eye was caught by a thin, long-healed scar where Roden’s whip had left its permanent mark.
It had not been easy to lead Gallant away from the cusp of ruin. He and Frost had worked with him relentlessly—carefully introducing him to situations which had the capacity to provoke his worst behaviours while treading that fine line between ‘practice’ and ‘dangerously flooding him with overwhelming exposure’. Consistency and patience had worked wonders. Gallant had grown more trusting; his nerves grew stronger over time, though even still—such as when startled by an adder—he could respond badly.
The notion pierced his conscience in a sudden spike:Edward needs the same.
It wasnotthe same, of course, he immediately reminded himself. Edward had not been abused.
He might become so, however, if that churl Philips has anything to say of it.
Like Gallant, the boy was high-strung and strong-willed. His tantrums even reminded Darcy of those early days with the horse, the responses of a creature who was fighting for all he was worth in a situation he could not understand.
Some had criticised his purchase, believing the horse was savage and uncontrollable. Frost had not, however; instead, he had advised helping Gallant grow inured to all that unnerved him. The training could not be performed all at once, but a little at a time.
Edward needed the same help, and a lot of it.
Perhaps it was an odd idea; certainly some would criticise, saying the child was spoilt, that a regular whipping or two would cure what ailed him.Certainly, whippings are what Lord Roden would have recommended.
That alone felt like his answer.
Twenty-Nine
ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT
Elizabeth knew that no one would be coming today from Netherfield—or, indeed, ever again.At least I have the drawings Georgiana did, she thought, determined to count her blessings. Neddy knew so much more now—sometimes calling her ‘Sissy’, something he had not managed before those pictures. Sustaining those feelings of optimism was not easily done, however.
Jane had not come again this week. It was understandable—Mr Bingley had probably called, or might do so. She must wish to be at home if he arrived. No sibling could possibly compete with new-found love. It had already begun—the changes. Georgiana had been such a welcome light, and she would miss her young friend.
Worst of all, however, were the dreams—and of whom she dreamt. Mr Darcy tortured her with his presence in these, haunting her. In them, they drove together, except she was not sitting opposite him beside her young brother, mooing like a cow. They walked together, except that she was not holding astruggling child who was trying anything he could to break free. Why had her first romance—if one could even call these feelings of longing ‘romantic’—been with someone so utterly out of reach? It would not be so bad; dreams were harmless and all she had. Except that she wakened bereft every morning, lonelier than the day before.
When there was a knock on the door, she fully expected it to be Rosie or Millie from Longbourn, with a delivery of food.
“Georgiana!” Elizabeth cried, astonished.
The girl bounced happily on her toes. “I told you my brother would not object! I told you! I could not come until after church, which is why I am so late; I snuck out. Everyone except Fitzwilliam believes I am napping. But Elizabeth, he even has ideas for helping!”
