Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Elizabeth’s hands were occupied with weighing herbs into small parcels.
Her work dress and apron on, her hair in a tight serviceable chignon - the room filled with the first morning light and heady smell of thyme.
She let out a frustrated sigh and poured the mismeasured herbs back into the burlap sack.
It had been two weeks since she left Pemberley, two weeks since Darcy handed her into her uncle’s carriage and bowed his final good-bye.
Two weeks since he made love to her. His hands, his lips and his…
yes, his length was on her mind constantly.
She missed his body and everything he awoke in her.
Why did he have to put an end to it? “Insufferable man!” she muttered and gripped the scoop back in her hand.
She thought of his pain filled face as he watched the carriage moving further away along the drive.
He stood there for a long time, even when the rest of the party returned inside the house.
“There is no point looking all wistful, Lizzy. You have made your choice.” Aunt Gardiner chided her as they left the gates of Mr Darcy’s estate.
Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow and went back to watching the scenery behind the window.
This definitely was not her choice or what she would choose if there was a choice.
The man she had despised for years for being heartless decided to have feelings for her and to act honourably.
By the time they passed Lambton, she was resolute in her decision to find a far less honorable man to fulfill her needs.
Elizabeth wiped the last traces of herb dust from her fingers and reached for the small stack of correspondence that had arrived with the morning post. She settled herself in the surgery and sat on the chair behind the large writing desk, grateful for the momentary respite from standing.
A curious fatigue had plagued her these past days, settling in her bones like winter dew, persistent despite her most determined efforts to ignore it.
She sorted through the letters, setting aside those from suppliers to be addressed later. Two envelopes demanded more immediate consideration, one bearing the elegant script of Lady Wistham, the other the practical hand of Monsieur Bevier, her agent in Lyon.
Elizabeth reached first for Monsieur Bevier’s letter, breaking the seal with practiced efficiency.
She had engaged him shortly after her husband’s death, seeking to sell her creations and preparations not readily accepted in England.
Their correspondence had quickly evolved into a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Instead of his usual brisk notes, this one was full of good tidings: sales had doubled in the past quarter.
Her eyes moved rapidly across the page, a small smile forming.
He wrote with encouraging news, two Parisian physicians wanted regular shipments of her rheumatic tincture, and a women’s sanatorium directress sought exclusive rights to her feminine preparations.
Initial orders would exceed 200 livres quarterly, with potential for expansion.
Elizabeth set down the letter, her pulse quickening with something other than thoughts of Darcy for the first time in weeks. Two hundred livres quarterly would represent a substantial addition to her income, enough to truly start considering the move and setting up a shop in France.
Independence. True independence, beyond merely subsisting. The thought warmed her in ways that London’s summer sunshine had thus far failed to do.
She rose and moved to the window, absently pressing a hand to the small of her back where an ache had settled.
How strange that the formulations she had created during those lonely weeks in Hertfordshire, seeking distraction from some confusing feelings more than grief after Tommy passed, might now secure her future in ways she had scarcely dared imagine.
She returned to her correspondence, reaching now for Lady Wistham’s letter. The heavy cream paper bore the faint scent of lavender, The wax seal broke with a satisfying crack beneath her fingers.
My dear Mrs Morley,
I write to extend a most sincere invitation to dine at Wistham House this Thursday evening at seven o’clock. We shall be an intimate party of twelve, including several gentlemen I believe would find your conversation most stimulating.
I do hope you will not disappoint us with refusal. Your presence would add greatly to the evening’s pleasure, and I flatter myself that the connections you might form would prove advantageous to your health and happiness.
With warmest regards,
Angela Wistham
Elizabeth folded the letter carefully, her feelings in tumult.
Lady Wistham’s intentions were clear. She moved to the small mirror hanging near her workbench, studying her reflection with critical eyes.
The woman who gazed back appeared little changed from the one who had left Pemberley two weeks prior, yet she felt altered in ways no mirror could reflect, as though Darcy’s touch had rewritten something fundamental in her very being.
The prospect of an evening spent in the company of gentlemen who might seek her favour produced anticipation and a curious scepticism. She had resolved to find a man to fulfill her baser needs, yet now that such men might present themselves, she found herself strangely apprehensive.
“How very inconvenient,” she murmured to her reflection, “to discover principles precisely when one wishes to abandon them.”
Elizabeth reached for her pen and a sheet of paper, composing her acceptance in clear, firm strokes. She would attend. She would be charming and engaging and would not, under any circumstances, allow her thoughts to stray to Pemberley’s master.
The letter was completed, she sealed it with a drop of wax and set it aside for delivery.
Rising once more, she moved to the shelf where her remedies awaited bottling, her hands seeking the familiar comfort of work.
As she measured lavender oil into small glass vials, her mind drifted unbidden to Darcy’s hands, so different from her own, larger and more powerful, yet capable of such delicacy when they…
Elizabeth’s grip faltered, and a drop of oil spilled onto her apron.
She stared at the spreading stain, watching it bloom like regret across the fabric.
How long would it take, she wondered, how many gentlemen must she meet, how many new connections forged, for memories of him to fade?
A sudden wave of nausea swept over her, forcing her to grip the edge of the workbench until it passed.
The bell above the door jingled, announcing a customer.
Elizabeth straightened, composing her features with the discipline of long practice.
For now, she could focus on serving her customers.
She would bottle her remedies and prepare her shipments to France.
She would attend Lady Wistham’s dinner and converse with eligible gentlemen as if her body remained her own to give.
* * *
Darcy stood at the large windows of his study, hands clasped firmly behind his back, watching as the late summer rain traced rivulets down the glass.
One month. One month since he had watched Elizabeth’s carriage disappear down the long drive of Pemberley, taking with it the only woman who had ever truly claimed his heart.
The arch of her brow when she challenged his opinions. The surprising strength in her slender fingers as she demonstrated how to properly harvest herbs. The way her eyes had darkened with passion when he…
He turned sharply from the window, reaching instead for the sheaf of papers on his desk.
Work. Work had been his salvation these past weeks.
While his house guests had still occupied Pemberley, he had maintained the facade of the gracious host, but their departure had been a relief.
Brigadier Fitzwilliam had been the last to leave, three days prior, mercifully taking with him his well-meaning but insufferable attempts to draw Darcy out of his reserve.
Now, alone but for his staff, Darcy could immerse himself fully in estate business.
The tenant ledgers had never been so meticulously reviewed.
The breeding records for his prize sheep had never been so carefully analyzed.
Every aspect of Pemberley’s operations had received his exacting attention, any task, any distraction to keep his mind from returning to those precious, stolen moments with Elizabeth.
The papers before him now were of a different nature, however.
Architectural plans for a new addition to Pemberley’s gardens, a project conceived during those long afternoon walks with Elizabeth, when she had spoken so passionately about the medicinal properties of plants most gardeners considered mere weeds.
“Your gardeners are too concerned with beauty, Mr Darcy,” she had told him, kneeling without regard for her skirts to examine a stand of yarrow growing wild along the path. “They overlook the healing potential of what grows naturally here.”
His finger traced the precise lines of the proposed greenhouse.
It would be built in the south-facing corner of the kitchen garden, constructed of iron and glass in the modern style, with specialized beds for the cultivation of plants most sensitive to Derbyshire’s climate.
Adjacent would be expanded garden plots dedicated entirely to medicinal herbs, organised not by decorative appeal but by their therapeutic properties, just as Elizabeth had suggested.
A project she would never see completed. A garden she would never walk through. Yet he could not abandon the plans, could not relinquish this last connection to her presence at Pemberley.
“Mr Darcy?” Mrs Evans appeared at the door, her expression carefully neutral. She, more than anyone, had observed the change in him since Elizabeth’s departure. “Mr Hayworth has arrived to discuss the greenhouse specifications.”