Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Lady Acaster was out all morning, regarding the sale of her land.
Elizabeth was in the drawing room with Georgiana, at a table covered with scatterings of sage and thyme clippings, interspersed with bundles of lavender and honeysuckle picked that morning.
The two women were sitting side by side, arranging the sweetly scented foliage into nosegays.
Under her breath, Georgiana was singing, her low, sweet tones enchanting the air with a country ballad, and time drifted by with pleasant tranquillity.
So occupied was Elizabeth in her task, she did not hear the door open until Mr Darcy’s voice called out, startling her.
She looked up in alarm and caught a ghost of a grin on his face. It soon disappeared upon the discovery of purple whorls dotted about the floor.
“What is all this?” he enquired, his eyebrows raised.
Taken by surprise at her brother’s unexpected arrival, Georgiana faltered. “Elizabeth and I picked so many flowers that we decided to put them to good use. Our intention is to make bouquets for our rooms.”
“And why would you want to do such a thing?”
Vexed with this interrogation at their innocuous task, Elizabeth replied evenly, “To evoke the scent of a garden in one’s bedchambers is generally thought to be a pleasurable experience.”
At her words, Mr Darcy’s eyes widened a fraction. Too late, she realised the impropriety of speaking of pleasure in one’s bedroom and averted her gaze, overcome with sudden modesty. “But we can stop if you prefer.”
By the flush of red on the broad column of his neck, Mr Darcy’s thoughts had obviously travelled in a similar direction. He cleared his throat. “I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.”
There was an awkward pause, which was mercifully filled by Georgiana. “Was there a reason for seeking us out? I was not expecting to see you until later.”
“I come bearing news. Our party is expanding. Colonel Fitzwilliam is to arrive tomorrow.”
Georgiana touched Elizabeth’s arm lightly. “It will be just as it was before! Heavens, what fun we used to have! Do you recall his ridiculous performance as Peg the Leg, the old washerwoman, and how he limped about the library? My ribs were sore from laughing for days afterwards.”
Mr Darcy’s brows contracted at this disclosure. “I did not realise that you and my cousin were such friends, Miss Bennet.”
“I cannot claim a close acquaintance—the last time I saw him was here at Pemberley, five years ago,” Elizabeth replied.
Though I have never forgotten the service he rendered me.
With trembling fingers, she secured a ribbon around the final bundle of stems, forcing herself to remain composed.
What will it be like to see him again? In her tender fifteen-year-old mind, Elizabeth had considered Richard Fitzwilliam as the very best of men.
What if he had lost his natural affability and was cold and aloof, just like Mr Darcy?
She stood abruptly, posies in hand. “Please excuse me. Surely you will want to discuss the arrangements for the colonel’s arrival.” She curtseyed, quitting the room before either member of the Darcy family had a chance to respond.
Miss Bennet’s face is very pale, Darcy noted.
It had been so all evening. Even now, as she sat by the fire, her head bent over a book, shadows curled under her eyes, her natural ebullience seemed greatly dimmed.
Has she taken ill? Lady Acaster appeared to have observed Miss Bennet’s malaise, too, for she did not tease her niece in her customary fashion, choosing instead to draw Georgiana into a half-hearted game of vingt-un that interested neither party.
By the constant darting of her eyes in Miss Bennet’s direction, his sister was perturbed by her friend’s silence.
Darcy regarded her anxiously. Georgiana would think herself to be the source of some insult, and her worries would undoubtedly intensify.
And when Georgiana’s mind begins to torment her, so too does her body.
Darcy clenched and unclenched his fingers.
All the progress she had made since Miss Bennet’s arrival would be swept away, and he could not permit that to happen.
Determined to uncover the reason for this change in her demeanour, he rose to join Miss Bennet.
She looked up in surprise as he drew near.
A ring of red touched the edges of her dark eyes.
Suddenly ashamed of his intrusion into her privacy, he awkwardly took a place next to her on the sofa, his tongue tied under the weight of her expectant gaze.
He longed to ask her what troubled her, but she had such a power as to cause the words to stumble in his throat.
The fire crackled heavily between them. Desirous to break the silence, his sight drifted to the book in her hands. Tilting his head, he attempted to make out the author’s name. “Pardon my interruption. What are you reading?”
“You do not recognise it? It is from your library.” Miss Bennet closed the book quickly, concealing the title with a sleight of her hand. Her expression was closed, at odds with the teasing lilt in her voice.
“Would you have me guess?” Darcy heard himself reply.
In truth, he hardly knew what he was saying.
This was the closest he had ever allowed himself to Miss Bennet, and the warm glow of the firelight illuminated every detail of her lovely visage.
He was staring, but he could not help it; her beauty overpowered his senses.
Mercifully, Miss Bennet did not seem to notice his descent into bumbling buffoon.
“I am merely curious to learn what you think I might have chosen.” Her eyebrow arched, and those round, soft lips curved into a gentle smile.
Valiantly, Darcy fought the temptation to reach out and trace his fingers over the sensual fullness of her mouth.
What madness is this, that pulls me to her?
With a lightness that surprised himself, he replied, “I sense a trap. Whatever I choose will surely be wrong. Regrettably, I cannot claim to be well enough acquainted with you to have confidence in my conjecture.”
“You surrender too easily, sir.” Her voice was playful, but challenge hinted in her eyes.
Under the spell of her gaze, Darcy felt more alive than he had done in years. “Permit me a clue.”
Her curls bobbed as she tipped her head to one side. “It speaks of the beauty of nature.”
Darcy’s laugh filled the space between them. “Trickery! There must be over fifty tomes in my library answering to that description.”
“And you do not recognise them all instantly by sight? To think that Pemberley’s master does not know his own book collection!”
“I beg for another chance. I must redeem myself.”
His words provoked an unsettling effect. The delicate lines of her face hardened, and she gazed past him, into the fire, lost in some troubling remembrance. At last, she answered, “Redemption is always worth seeking, Mr Darcy, but I shall relieve you of your curiosity.”
She held the book aloft, and he read the title aloud. “Abercrombie’s Garden Vade Mecum? You may claim your victory, Miss Bennet. I would never have divined a gardener’s compendium as your selection.”
“I have surprised you?”
“You have impressed me. Precious few circumstances truly pique my curiosity, and yet with you—” He caught himself. “With you, I never know what to expect. May I ask what drew you to this particular text?”
“The last time I held this book was when your father pressed it into my hands.” Her lips parted, a hesitation hovering there. “When I read it, I remember his kindness.”
This remark was a bayonet to Darcy’s heart.
So awed had everyone been by his serious father’s wealth and gravity that no one ever spoke of his thoughtfulness.
Quite unprepared for this observation, he stiffened, but she did not notice.
“Do you know it was your father who encouraged my love of flowers? They are my favourite subjects to draw.”
“The generosity of spirit shown by my father to those little connected to him was a testament to his noble character.” Darcy thought of Wickham, obsequious and charming, but only in his father’s presence. “Regardless of whether or not they deserved it.”
Miss Bennet started; the delicate pink on her cheeks transformed to mortified scarlet. Too late, Darcy realised that the vitriol of his remark could be misinterpreted to include her. He opened his mouth to utter a hasty apology but was halted by her reply.
Her shoulders thrown back, a defiant spark kindling in her gaze, she replied, with suppressed emotion, “And now I must demand a question of you. Speak plainly, Mr Darcy. You did not cross the room to discover my literary preferences. Was there something you particularly wished to speak of?”
He permitted himself to look into her eyes; there was sorrow in them, but anger too, eddies of emotion swirling within her.
He noted the tremble of her hands as she clenched them around the book’s leather.
Unintentionally, he had insulted her, and he was sorry for it.
On the other side of the room, he perceived Lady Acaster looking at them with curious intensity.
The older woman met his gaze, and then, with a slight incline of an eyebrow, allowed him some privacy.
Softly and humbly, he said, “My true motive was to come and ask whether you were well. You seem in poor spirits. I was worried for you and wondered whether there was anything I could find to secure your comfort.”
Eyes wide, Miss Bennet’s shoulders sagged, her irritation seemingly abated by his consideration.
She traced her fingers along the binding.
“I am well enough. You have found me in a wistful mood, reflecting upon days long gone. That is the reason for my silence. Sometimes I feel much older than twenty. Strange as it is to admit, I feel as though I have lived many lives already, and none of them truly my own. As a man, you are surely accustomed to having the world at your disposal. I must content myself with the plans that are laid for me and hope they turn out well. Happily, I am surrounded by people who have my well-being at heart. Not all women have this luxury.”
An image of Miss Bennet as a young girl appeared in Darcy’s mind’s eye.
Her face was swollen and blotchy, and she walked alongside his father and Georgiana by the river on the estate.
They were in search of a Jacob’s Ladder flower, with Father explaining the importance of the sapphire bloom.
Short of breath, Father leant heavily on his cane.
Occasionally Miss Bennet would give a thoughtful nod, her step slowing in time with his father’s faltering pace.
The sun was bright, and the sky was a vast expanse of unbroken blue.
Emperor dragonflies skimmed across the rippling water.
It had been one of the last long walks Father had taken.
Behind them, Darcy had walked in stony silence, greatly preoccupied by the perilous state of his beloved father’s health—so fearful, in fact, that he had not considered the reason behind Miss Bennet’s tears.
In truth, he had hardly noticed her, viewing the excursion as an inconvenience, a caprice in the face of his father’s worsening condition.
The memory had escaped him until that very moment.
Overcome with pride that his father had taken the time to show kindness, even though his body was weak and failing, Darcy felt the acute inadequacy of his own conduct, both then and now.
He looked down at the book. “Keep it,” he said roughly.
Miss Bennet’s eyes widened, and she made a quiet noise of protest.
He shook his head. “I wish for it to belong to someone who appreciates its value.” He grinned sheepishly. “I cannot pretend that I have read it with any regularity.”
Miss Bennet’s fingers curled around the red, gilded spine. “I-I am most grateful. It will be treasured.”
“And I am sorry for my remark regarding those who did not deserve my father’s generosity. I do not include you in their number. My mind was fixed upon another.”
Miss Bennet’s eyes met his. Glancing over her shoulder at her aunt and Georgiana, she leant closer and, to his horror, whispered a name that was forbidden in his presence. “Did you mean Mr Wickham?”