Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
PRETEXT TO CALL
Darcy
A basking stone does not constitute an emergency.
Naturally, I knew this. Bertram had lorded over that stone for thirty years, basking in the Pemberley kitchen garden whenever the Derbyshire sun deigned to appear.
He had survived two days at Gracechurch Street without so much as a sulk.
He would survive twenty more, or fifty, or the rest of a life that looked set to outlast the lot of us.
I bundled the stone in a cloth, tossed it in a basket with a shallow dish and a page of care instructions wrung from my father’s old gardener, and told my coachman to take me to Cheapside.
It was Friday. Two days since I had stood in Mrs. Gardiner’s drawing room and discovered that the world contained rather more Miss Bennets than I had been prepared for.
Two days during which I had refused Caroline’s invitation to discuss Miss Audley, dined alone at my club, and thought of precisely nothing except a woman whose dark eyes that missed nothing and pardoned less.
The stone was a pretext, a way to gain entrance, although I did not need to convince myself that there were individuals I wished to visit on Gracechurch Street.
The maid let me in and showed me through to the garden without ceremony. Mrs. Gardiner stood at the back door, trimming the rosemary bush.
“Mr. Darcy! What a pleasant surprise.” She set down her secateurs and smiled. “Though I confess I was half-expecting you. My husband said you might call again before long.”
“I must apologize for calling unannounced. I realized after Wednesday that I had neglected to bring Bertram’s basking stone. He has used it for thirty years, and I thought the transition might be easier if he had something familiar.”
“How very thoughtful. Though I must tell you, Bertram appears to be adjusting with remarkable composure. The children have been spoiling him dreadfully.” She gestured toward the far end of the garden. “He is holding court, as you can see.”
The Gracechurch Street garden was small but clever: a south wall catching the sun, a square of lawn, a bare fruit tree promising summer shade for any tortoise with patience.
Bertram had been installed in a sheltered corner on earth the children had cleared, surrounded by offerings—strawberry tops, a saucer of water, a dandelion with most of its roots still clinging.
He looked more content than I had any right to expect.
And kneeling beside him, sleeves pushed past her elbows, helping Samuel arrange a ring of flat stones into what appeared to be a fortification of some ambition, was Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
She hadn’t noticed me. Samuel, self-appointed chief architect, directed her with the gravity of a man twice his age. She laughed—unguarded, almost soft. Alice sketched, and Rose draped a daisy chain over Bertram’s shell. Clearly Bertram did not require my interference.
Then Elizabeth looked up, and the smile vanished. She stood, brushing soil from her hands, and regarded me across the garden path as if I were an unexpected invoice.
“Mr. Darcy. Again.”
“Miss Elizabeth.”
“You are very attentive to your tortoise’s welfare. One might think you had parted with a child rather than a creature of sixty years.”
“Bertram’s basking stone. He has used it for thirty years. I thought he might miss it.”
“Forgive me. I did not mean to diminish the bond between a gentleman and his tortoise.” She wiped her hands on her apron, and I should not have looked, but the streak of dirt on her chin and the curls escaping their pins held my gaze.
She had a way of appearing more alive in this garden with dirt on her sleeves than any woman in any ballroom in the whole of London.
“Mr. Darcy!” Samuel abandoned his fortification and planted himself before me.
“Sir Bertram ate six strawberry tops yesterday, and Alice has been writing it down. He also dug a hole, which Rose says proves he has feelings. She says I owe her a penny, which I do not think is fair because feeling things and digging holes are not the same.”
“They may be more closely related than you suppose,” I said, kneeling beside the boy to place the basking stone.
I set it in the sunniest patch of cleared earth, tilted slightly as Bertram preferred.
The old tortoise extended his head and regarded the stone with unmistakable recognition.
He moved toward it with the unhurried certainty of a creature returning to something familiar.
“He knows it,” Alice said softly. “He remembers.”
“He has a very good memory,” I said. “Better than most men’s.”
“Better than yours?” Rose asked, squinting at me with the unblinking directness of a four-year-old who has not yet learned that some questions are impolite.
“Considerably.”
“He likes us,” Alice announced from behind her sketchbook. “I have been telling him stories. He is a very good listener. He does not interrupt.”
“Unlike certain members of the gentry,” Miss Elizabeth murmured, but she was nearly smiling, and I looked away before she could see that I had noticed.
Mrs. Gardiner had come down the garden path, wiping her hands on a cloth, and stood beside her eldest daughter, watching the tortoise settle himself onto his stone with the air of a monarch reclaiming a favorite throne.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, “I believe you have just made an old gentleman very happy.”
“I should have brought it on Wednesday. I was not thinking clearly.”
“You were thinking of a great many things on Wednesday, I suspect.” She said this with a lightness that might have been mere observation or something rather more perceptive.
“Now, you must come inside for tea. I insist. Elizabeth, will you bring the children when they are ready? Jane should be down shortly.”
“Of course, Aunt.”
I followed Mrs. Gardiner inside, which involved walking past Miss Elizabeth, who was standing beside the garden path with her arms folded and her expression composed, signaling civility because her aunt required it, not because she felt any hospitality on her own account.
“Miss Elizabeth,” I said as I passed.
“Mr. Darcy.”
“The fortification is impressive.”
“Samuel is six. He takes his defenses seriously.”
“I was referring to yours.”
She blinked. I walked on before she could respond, which was, I confess, satisfying in a way that a better man would not have enjoyed.
Jane stood at the window, arranging flowers in a vase. She appeared to be deep in thought, and not all of it pleasant. She turned, however, when she saw me. “Mr. Darcy. How kind of you to come again.”
“Miss Bennet. I hope you are well.”
“Very well, thank you. We have all been spoiling Bertram quite shamelessly, I am afraid. The children speak of nothing but Sir Bertram. Rose has declared him her particular friend, which is an honor she does not bestow lightly.”
“I am glad he is welcome here.”
“He is very welcome.” She set a stem in the vase, and her brow wrinkled before she spoke again.
“Mr. Darcy, I hope you will not think it forward of me, but I thank you for what you have done for the children. The winter has been long, and Bertram has given them something to care for. It is a greater gift than you may realize.”
“Well, I…” I faltered, unsure if this was my opening to speak about Charles. Mrs. Gardiner chose that moment to hand me a cup of tea, for which I thanked her, and the moment passed. She then turned to Elizabeth, who had positioned herself at the farthest end of the drawing room.
“Elizabeth?”
“Strong, Aunt. And hot.” She accepted her cup without looking at me and took a deliberate sip before settling back in her chair. “Mr. Darcy, I hope you will not think us ungrateful, and we appreciate your continued care for Sir Bertram. I do believe you have thought of everything.”
“I am glad he has found a good home.”
She smiled over the rim of her cup. “We are quite capable of caring for a tortoise now, Mr. Darcy. You may rest assured that your father’s companion is in excellent hands, and you need not put yourself to any further trouble on our account.”
“I do not consider it trouble, Miss Elizabeth.”
“You are too good. But I am sure a gentleman of your position has obligations far more pressing than the habits of a tortoise in Cheapside. We would not wish to monopolize your time. Please accept our appreciation for both the gift and the satisfaction of knowing that Bertram is settled and happy and that your duty toward him has been discharged admirably.”
Discharged. She was treating the basking stone as a final delivery and considered our acquaintance complete. I was to collect my coat and my dignity and return to Mayfair with the understanding that no further calls would be necessary or, by implication, welcome.
Mrs. Gardiner watched this exchange with a raised eyebrow, glanced at Jane and returned to me, no doubt wondering whether to intervene.
“Miss Elizabeth,” I said, “I hope I have not given you the impression that my interest in Bertram’s welfare is merely a matter of duty.”
“What else would it be?”
“I was raised in a house where a tortoise was a member of the family. Bertram knew my father since childhood. He knew me from infancy. Parting with him was not a transaction; it was…” I stopped, because the word I wanted was too honest for the room, and the woman opposite me was not in a disposition to receive honesty without converting it into ammunition. “It was significant.”
“Of course. Forgive me. I did not mean to suggest the attachment was not genuine.”
“But you did mean to suggest that it had reached its natural conclusion.”
“Mr. Darcy,” Jane said, dispelling the tension. “Will you be long in London? We have not had the pleasure of much society since arriving, and I confess the season’s offerings have rather passed us by.”