Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Longbourn
Elizabeth
On the sixth day of Christmas,
In crystal so clear,
Six vials of scent
From London procured.
Elizabeth sat alone in her bedchamber, the pale light of morning slanting in through the frosted panes.
A fire burned in the grate, casting a mellow glow upon the worn carpet and the rosewood dressing table, where a velvet-lined box had been set with reverent care.
The sapphire-blue case gleamed, its brass clasps polished bright.
She reached for it, unable to resist the temptation to see within.
Lifting the lid, she drew in her breath.
Six elegant glass vials nestled against midnight velvet.
Each was a small work of art: the glass delicately etched, the contents luminous—some pale as morning dew, others tinged with gold or blush-pink as a winter sunrise.
Around each neck was tied a tiny scroll of fine paper, upon which words had been written in a precise, unmistakable hand.
She read them, her heart fluttering at the meaning behind each one:
Rose Water — for the first evening we danced.
Who? She had danced with many men since her come out. Rose water was a favorite, and surely she had shared more than one first dance whilst wearing it.
Lavender Water — for my devotion to you.
Her heart skipped a beat. This was a vow, tender and unsought, yet offered freely. Lavender, the flower of constancy, long grown in the hedgerows of Longbourn, had never seemed more dear. What a romantic sentiment!
Eau de Cologne — fidelity in love.
Whoever he was, he offered not mere affection, but loyalty. One need not betray another’s body to show unfaithfulness. Her parents were the proof enough of that.
Violet Water — you have taught me humility.
This puzzled her. To whom had she taught humility? Could it be John Lucas? Elizabeth had certainly humbled him often enough in childhood. And as heir to Lucas Lodge, he might, on occasion, afford to spend so lavishly.
Orange Blossom Water — for purity and eternal love.
This was her favorite. The floral scent most often linked with brides and with promise.
Elizabeth’s breath caught. Surely, this means my admirer wishes to marry me.
Yet if so, Charlotte’s suppositions of a married gentleman must be false.
Not necessarily. The man might long to marry you yet be hindered. How vexing!
Bergamot Essence — happiness and, it is hoped, success.
That final note made her smile. Ever practical, ever guarded—this was hope wrapped in citrus, bright and sharp. She drew out the stopper and held it beneath her nose. The fresh scent lifted her spirits. This may become my new favorite scent.
Each vial proved a revelation, each fragrance more luxurious than the last. The name Floris of London adorned the interior of the box in gilded script—a name she recognized even in the country. That her admirer had gone to such effort…such expense…
The perfumery on Jermyn Street had stood for nearly a century, its patrons the discerning few—the royal family, foreign dignitaries, duchesses and marchionesses.
And now…her. She was but a gentleman’s daughter, with little fortune or consequence.
Yet this gift bespoke that he saw her as worthy of every indulgence.
She lifted the rose water, drew out the stopper, and dabbed a few drops upon her wrists.
The fragrance bloomed at once—lush, heady, far more refined than the distillations made in Longbourn’s still room.
She raised her hands, eyes half-closed. This was a scent to linger long after the moment had fled.
A sigh, slow and sweet, escaped her. It was too much. It was everything.
She replaced the stopper with care and pressed her fingers to the ribboned note one last time.
Then, closing the lid and securing the clasps, she rose and carried the case to her wardrobe.
The box of scents were too large to fit within the box she purchased.
So she placed it behind the folded shawls and lace-edged handkerchiefs, near where she kept the box containing her other gifts.
There they rested at the back of the wardrobe, in the same secret place where she kept the locket, the pearl combs, and the letters she read by candlelight when the household slept.
Her hand lingered upon it, a tender caress sealing her unspoken gratitude and the fragile hope that blossomed in her breast.
Her admirer had gifted her more than scent. He had given her memory, meaning, and promise—and she treasured them all.
The breakfast table at Longbourn was already well laden when Elizabeth descended the stairs.
A warming tray of boiled eggs and ham sat near the hearth, while a silver rack held neatly stacked slices of toast, browned before the kitchen fire.
Mrs. Hill had set out blackberry preserves, cold meats, and a fresh loaf of bread, its crust still crackling from the bakehouse.
Jane, as usual, had risen early and poured the tea.
“Good morning, dearest,” Jane said, her smile serene and knowing as she offered Elizabeth a cup.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth slid into her seat and reached for the toast. “How cheerful everything appears this morning!”
“Mama has not yet come downstairs. Neither Kitty nor Lydia. Mary left but a moment ago—she claimed some matter of business she must attend.” Jane buttered a scone and took a bite.
Elizabeth laughed, slicing a boiled egg. “Could it concern Mr. Sanderson? He paid her a great deal of attention last evening. I trust he is not trifling with our sister’s heart, for I shall be forced to defend Mary if he has.”
Jane’s eyes kindled with amusement. “Yes, I saw the looks they exchanged. Do you know his situation? Most officers are not in a position to take a wife unless they have some additional income.”
“No, I know little of him. Lydia may be able to tell me, but I hesitate to ask. She would wonder at my curiosity, and I would not have Mary feel uneasy. She so rarely receives such attention.”
“Yes, that is prudent.” Jane paused, then continued, keeping her tone light but not unaffected. “I wonder whether Charles might call. He mentioned the possibility last evening.”
Elizabeth glanced sidelong at her sister. “He will. You are betrothed, after all. If he can stay away, I shall be astonished. Nothing short of urgent business could keep him from your side. And if not to-day, then on the morrow.”
Jane’s eyes brightened. “Yes, you are correct. Oh, Lizzy, I am so happy! But what of Mr. Darcy? Do you suppose he will accompany him? Would that please you?”
Elizabeth stared at her sister, aghast, as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into her tea.
“Why, Jane, what are you implying? He may or he may not—what can it signify to me? He often attends his friend.” She lifted the locket chain and turned it between her fingers.
The locket remained hidden in her bodice.
Jane observed the motion, her features touched with gentle curiosity.
“Have you considered he might be your mysterious admirer?” she asked, feigning innocence.
“I have scarcely taken the time to entertain any name.” The admission came in a whisper, though she felt no shame in it.
“I confess, I have speculated and possibly eliminated gentlemen, yet I have not dared give my admirer a name. But Mr. Darcy? He could not be the one, could he? The gifts began before we made amends and began afresh.”
“I always said he liked you more than you believed. Do not dismiss him.”
Jane’s words echoed in Elizabeth’s mind. The notion seemed impossible. Mr. Darcy had not been in her reckoning at all. Could it be? The thought sent a flutter through her stomach. She felt no distaste, as once she might have done.
They finished the meal in companionable ease, the clink of cutlery the only sound. Afterward, the sisters withdrew to the front parlor, each to her chosen pursuit—Jane with a bit of fine needlework, Elizabeth with a book she had long wished to finish but had too often laid aside of late.
An hour passed, and Elizabeth was absorbed in the pages of Evelina when a familiar knock drew her attention. Mrs. Hill entered with a curtsy. “Miss Lucas to see you.”
Charlotte came in briskly, her cheeks pink from the cold and countenance troubled despite her composed manner.
“Charlotte!” Jane rose with a welcoming smile. “Come warm yourself.”
“I will not stay long,” Charlotte said, drawing off her gloves, “but I thought I ought to tell you what has come to light.”
Elizabeth set aside her book. “You look as though you bring troubling news.”
“I do. It concerns Mr. Wickham.”
Jane laid her needlework down, frowning.
Charlotte continued, lowering her voice.
“After our conversation the other day, I went to my father. He listened with gratitude and began making inquiries. Since then, he has heard a number of disturbing accounts. It seems Wickham has run up debts throughout Meryton—and at every shop imaginable. Nothing has been paid. Worse, there are whispers of impropriety with several shopkeepers’ daughters. ”
Elizabeth’s stomach turned, though she could not claim surprise. After what Mr. Darcy had revealed, it was only to be expected that the reprobate would persist in his dissolute ways.
“Poor Miss King,” Jane whispered. “Do you think she knows?”
“I doubt it. My father has written to Mr. King, her uncle and guardian; he is in Liverpool at present. They have been acquainted these twenty years. He believes the man ought to know.” Charlotte straightened.
“It is only right to protect young ladies from Wickham’s dreadful conduct.
And Miss King does not deserve to have her life bound to such a man. ”
“That was wisely done, Charlotte.” To think Miss Darcy had almost been resigned to that fate. But Charlotte had not finished her account.