Chapter 9 #3
The rest of the household was still abed or elsewhere, leaving only the clink of teacups and the rustle of paper as Mrs Gardiner turned a page of the Chronicle. The morning sun filtered softly through the high windows of the breakfast room.
Elizabeth had barely touched her food. She reached for the marmalade for the second time, only to find her aunt watching her over the rim of her cup.
“I do hope you are not becoming too fond of wandering the halls by moonlight,” Mrs Gardiner said, her voice light, but not careless.
Elizabeth stilled. “It is a large house,” she replied, spreading jam with forced care. “It is easy to lose one’s way.”
“And yet you always seem to find your way to the same end of it.”
Elizabeth gave a huff of amusement. “I am merely slaking a thirst, Aunt.”
“No need to be crude, Lizzy!” her aunt snapped, though there was more surprise than actual offence in her tone.
Elizabeth smirked into her tea.
Mrs Gardiner set down her paper. “You know I am not your mother. I will not wag my finger. But I would be remiss if I did not remind you that people talk. Especially under roofs like this.”
Elizabeth’s smile faded. She looked out of the window, and watched a squirrel dart up a chestnut tree.
“Do you care for him?” her aunt asked, more gently now.
“It does not matter.”
“It does. Because I have seen how he looks at you. And I am not altogether sure he knows how to stop.”
Elizabeth let her eyes close for a moment. “That is his burden.”
Mrs Gardiner sighed. “Perhaps. But you may be carrying more of it than you realise.” She sighed again and reached for the butter.
“You think yourself unbothered. But these people…” she glanced toward the ceiling, where steps from upstairs echoed faintly, “they have connections enough to ruin you if they wished for it. You may not care for your reputation, but your business depends on it.”
Elizabeth didn’t flinch. She added sugar to her tea with a steady hand.
“I shall soon be gone to France, Aunt,” she said, her voice calm, almost clinical. “All I want is some fond memories.”
Mrs Gardiner stared at her. “Memories,” she echoed, as if testing the word for bitterness. “What if they turn against you?”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Then I suppose I shall make new ones.”
There was no heat in her tone. No bravado. Only a quiet resolve that made Mrs Gardiner’s throat tighten.
“You are too clever for martyrdom,” she said.
“And too tired for tragedy,” Elizabeth replied. She sipped her tea. “Let me have this.” Mrs Gardiner pressed her lips together, visibly torn between exasperation and concern. She set down her knife with a soft clink and leaned in across the breakfast table.
“All I ask, Lizzy, is that you keep some semblance of decorum.”
Elizabeth didn’t blink. She took a bite of toast, chewed, and swallowed with deliberate grace.
* * *
Pemberley’s still room glowed with the quiet luxury of order: rows of fruits preserved in glass, copper pans shining above a marble counter, the faint perfume of citrus peel and sugar. It was no forgotten corner of the house but a kingdom of its own—one that smelled of comfort, not grandeur.
“Put it there, Jacob,” she said, nodding to the bundle of roots. The boy obeyed, trying not to stare at the perfection around him. “Mind the marble. Mrs Evans might have your head if we leave a stain.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned shyly. “It’s finer than the whole Lambton shop.”
Elizabeth stood at the long table, sleeves rolled and hair pinned hastily, her basket half-emptied onto the surface. “I only hope nobody wants tea at this hour,” she said over her shoulder, smiling. “We’ve quite taken over the place.”
The comfrey leaves had steeped overnight in warm oil; its green scent rose as she strained it through a muslin cloth, the liquid turning the colour of late-summer hay. She moved to the stove and added beeswax, then set the pan to melt above the spirit lamp.
Jacob watched, fascinated. “It looks like magic.”
“It is only practice,” she said. “Though a little patience makes a fair imitation.” She stirred until the mixture thickened, the motion slow, hypnotic. “Fetch the small jars, please.”
He brought them, fine porcelain, stamped with Darcy’s crest. She almost laughed. “We’ll make do. One cannot be particular in a palace.”
She was bent over the pan when the door opened.
Darcy stood in the threshold, sunlight catching on his shirt-sleeves. The moment seemed to contract steam, scent and stillness.
Jacob startled, nearly dropping a jar. “Mr Darcy, sir!”
Darcy’s smile was mild but his eyes betrayed amusement. “You’ve commandeered my still room.”
Elizabeth did not look up. “Hand me the muslin, Jacob.”
The boy passed it, hands trembling, and took the first chance to flee with some muttered excuse about fresh cloths.
When the door closed, Darcy came further in, examining the neat disorder of her work. “You have that boy half in love with you,” he said lightly.
Elizabeth didn’t turn. “Then I shall count him among a long list of the hopelessly disappointed.” She tilted the pan, testing the texture. “Your housekeeper tells me this room serves chiefly for making tea trays. I thought it might bear a more practical purpose.”
He leaned against the counter. “We have an arrangement with a London apothecary for such things. It seemed simpler.”
“Ah. London.” Her tone was light but edged. “And yet you have half the remedies of Christendom growing along your walks. You might employ women from the village to gather herbs — sell them dried to the apothecaries… You might even have room enough for a medicinal garden.”
He watched her work, his expression softening. “You find commerce in everything.”
“I find use,” she corrected. “It is not the same thing.”
“And what mischief are you plotting now?” he looked around.
“Nothing that threatens your fortune,” She crossed to her basket and drew out a small porcelain jar—her own. “This is what it becomes,” she said, removed the lid, then held it out. “For your inspection. I thought it would be helpful to some of the elders of Pemberley staff.”
He took it and inhaled “Comfrey?”
She nodded. “For bruises, sprains… and pride, when wounded.”
That drew a laugh — low, surprised. “And how is it applied?”
“Like this.”
Before she could reconsider, she took his right hand by the wrist and began to peel the glove off. The leather clung for a moment before sliding free; she laid it aside and turned his hand palm-up. A scarlet line caught the light.
“How did this happen?”
“Fencing,” he said.
“Ah. Your pride met its foil.” She dipped her fingers into the salve. “Hold still.”
The first touch was cool—then warm as she began to work it in, slow circles across his palm, the pad of her thumb tracing the line of his life as though reading it.
He stood very still. A sound escaped him, somewhere between breath and confession.
The scent rose warm and unexpected: not medicinal but inviting, a mingling of comfrey and bergamot, a faint trace of something floral.
“I add orange blossom. It pleases the senses while it heals.”
He tried to make light of it, “You are a dangerous woman, Elizabeth. A man might feign a dozen injuries for such attention,” but the words fell rough.
She did not answer. Her head was bowed, concentration exquisite; the scent of orange blossom drifted upward as her hand moved to his wrist, kneading gently where the glove had left a crease. His pulse fluttered under her touch.
“Enough,” he said softly, though he made no move to stop her.
She lifted her eyes at last, meeting his.
For a moment neither spoke. His hand relaxed completely, heavy in hers. Then she let go, wiping her fingers on a cloth. His hand looked somehow altered, polished, tended. He studied it as though it might reveal what had just passed between them.
“Keep it,” she said. “Apply twice a day — and consider your park as more than ornament.”
He lingered in the doorway, the small jar cradled in his fingers. “It smells of you,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
She turned back to her bench, the faintest colour in her cheeks. “That would be the orange blossom, sir.”
When he was gone, the air held the faintest trace of him, and of something unnamed that simmered just beneath the calm.
* * *
The lawn was full of noise, children chasing hoops, lemonade glasses clinking, and ladies in pale muslins fluttering like petals in the breeze.
They had drifted to the shade of the sycamore trees, where the ladies lounged with their refreshments and parasols while the children shrieked in pursuit of a hoop.
Darcy and Brigadier Fitzwilliam were refereeing a mock battle involving sticks and furious negotiation.
“It really is a waste,” Rita said, sipping her lemonade as a child screamed joyfully nearby. “That he remains unmarried. He is so good with children.”
Elizabeth didn’t respond. She watched Darcy on the lawn, crouched to tie a bonnet ribbon that had come loose on one of the girls. His fingers were deft, his voice low, his smile unguarded.
“A handsome man. Generous. Dutiful. Landed. What more could a woman want?”
Elizabeth glanced sideways, her tone bone-dry. “Less hauteur?”
Rita sipped her drink and glanced sidelong at Elizabeth. “You watch him.”
Elizabeth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr Darcy. You have been watching him all afternoon.”
Elizabeth followed her gaze across the lawn, where Darcy was crouching to accept a clumsily woven daisy crown from little Emma. His smile was charming. He ruffled her hair. “He raised his sister, did he not?”
“Yes, quite. And admirably. But do not be fooled, dear, he is not an easy target.”
Elizabeth arched her brow. “A target?”