Chapter 11 #2
Darcy straightened, grateful for the interruption of his thoughts. “Show him in, please.”
The architect was a practical man, mercifully more concerned with load-bearing capacities and drainage systems than with prying into his client’s personal interest in medicinal plants.
For the next hour, Darcy lost himself in discussions of glass thickness, heating methods, and the optimal arrangement of propagation benches.
Darcy nodded, picturing Elizabeth’s approval of such arrangements. “Make it so. And ensure adequate ventilation throughout.”
The meeting concluded satisfactorily, with construction scheduled to begin before the first frost. As Hayworth gathered his materials, he paused, a look of curiosity crossing his professional demeanor.
“If I might inquire, sir, this interest in medicinal gardening is rather… unusual for a gentleman of your position.”
Darcy stiffened slightly. “I have always believed that true understanding of one’s estate includes knowledge of all its potential resources. Medicinal plants represent an underutilized asset at Pemberley.”
The explanation was practical, unemotional and entirely false. Hayworth seemed satisfied, however, offering a respectful bow as he departed. Once alone, Darcy sank into his chair, the facade of the efficient landowner momentarily abandoned.
In truth, the greenhouse represented something far more personal than agricultural diversification.
It was a monument to what might have been, a vision of Elizabeth moving through glass-filtered sunlight, her clever hands harvesting the plants she understood so intimately, her presence bringing life and purpose to corners of Pemberley that had too long been maintained out of mere tradition.
He rose restlessly and moved to the side table, pouring himself a measure of brandy. The amber liquid caught the afternoon light as he swirled it, contemplating.
Had he been right to end their liaison? The question haunted him daily.
Honour said yes, he could not in good conscience continue a relationship that would have sullied her reputation irreparably if discovered.
His position, his name, his duty to Pemberley all demanded propriety.
The weight of centuries of Darcy honour had pressed upon him as he made his choice.
Yet honour felt a cold bedfellow nor did it challenge his intellect over breakfast. Honour did not laugh with uninhibited joy at the antics of a fox kit at the edge of the wood, as Elizabeth had done during one of their early morning walks.
He drank deeply, welcoming the burn. Living in sin - the very phrase conjured images of gradual decay, of compromises multiplying until honour itself became negotiable.
No, in this he had acted correctly. Elizabeth deserved better than to be his mistress, hidden away from society, subject to whispers and judgment.
If only she had accepted his proposal. If only…
But no. That path led nowhere. She had made her position clear: she would not bear the guilt of failing to provide him an heir. Her assumed barrenness had been the insurmountable obstacle between them. His assurances that he cared not about succession had fallen on deaf ears.
Darcy moved to his desk once more, pulling forward accounts that required his attention.
The harvest projections for the tenant farms needed review.
The plans for winter repairs to several cottages awaited his approval.
The world of Pemberley continued its measured progression through the seasons, indifferent to the disruption in its master’s heart.
Yet as he worked, Darcy found himself repeatedly glancing up at shadows that resembled a slender figure moving past his door, or starting at sounds that momentarily recalled Elizabeth’s distinctive step in the corridor.
Pemberley, once his sanctuary, had become haunted by her absence.
Every room held some memory, her fingers tracing the spines of books in the library, her voice echoing in the music room, her laughter floating across the breakfast table.
Worse still were the memories that came in the dark hours, when sleep eluded him.
The taste of her skin. The sound of his name on her lips as passion overtook her.
The vulnerable trust in her eyes as she lay beside him afterward, momentarily unguarded.
These recollections, simultaneously precious and torturous, were the hardest to banish.
The clock chimed four, startling Darcy from his reverie. The afternoon had slipped away, and he had accomplished little beyond staring unseeing at ledgers while his mind wandered the well-worn paths of memory and regret.
With a decisive movement, he rose and pulled the bell for his valet. “Have my horse saddled,” he instructed when the servant appeared. “I shall ride before dinner.”
As he strode through the grand entrance hall, Darcy caught sight of his own reflection in the ornate mirror, tall, stern-faced, impeccably dressed. The Master of Pemberley, fulfilling his duty to generations past and future. The man everyone expected him to be.
Yet beneath that polished exterior dwelled another man entirely, one who had learned, too late, that duty without love rendered even Pemberley’s splendour hollow.
One who had discovered, in Elizabeth’s arms, a passion he had never believed himself capable of experiencing.
One who now questioned whether honour was worth the price of happiness.
Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the grounds glistening in the late afternoon light.
His horse awaited, pawing impatiently at the gravel.
Darcy mounted in a fluid motion and set off at a brisk pace, seeking the temporary oblivion of speed and exertion.
For this one hour as he rode across his ancestral lands, he allowed himself to be simply a man who had loved and lost. A man who carried within his heart a garden of memories that, unlike the one he planned to build, would never come to full flower.
* * *
Elizabeth sat by the fireplace of her private chamber above the apothecary shop.
The late afternoon light cast everything in muted shades of amber and grey, matching her contemplative mood.
Three weeks had passed since Lady Wistham’s dinner party, three weeks of increasingly persistent courtship from the gentleman she had met there.
She pressed her fingertips to her temple, where a dull ache had taken residence.
These headaches had become frequent companions of late, along with a curious fatigue that settled into her bones by midday.
Elizabeth had attributed these symptoms to the demands of running her business, but a more troubling explanation had begun to assert itself in her thoughts.
”Foolish fancy,” she murmured to herself.
Yet the evidence mounted daily. Her courses, although unpredictable, were now too long absent.
The scent of certain herbs, once pleasing, now turned her stomach.
Just yesterday, she had been forced to excuse herself from serving a customer when the aroma of dried valerian root had sent her rushing to the back room, hand pressed to her mouth.
Elizabeth turned from the window and seated herself at her dressing table.
Lady Wistham’s matchmaking efforts had yielded two gentlemen of markedly different temperaments.
The younger’s progressive views on women’s rights that might have intrigued her but for soon getting weary by his youthful vigor and relentless attentions.
The other, a worldly gentleman of her own age, had engaged her in fascinating conversations about exotic botanicals and foreign remedies.
Neither man had stirred anything in her body. That remained frustratingly fixed on memories of Pemberley, despite her best efforts to exorcise Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy from her thoughts.
A light tap at her door interrupted her reverie. Jonathan stood in the doorway.
”Begging your pardon, Mrs Morley, but Mr Brook has asked to speak with you in the dispensary. He says it’s a matter of some importance.”
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. Her late husband’s business partner had become increasingly difficult to manage these past weeks. Though Mr Brook was unquestionably skilled, his manner had grown presumptuous since her return from Derbyshire.
”I shall be down directly,” she replied, giving her appearance a final assessment in the mirror.
As Elizabeth descended the narrow stairs to the shop, she reminded herself of Mr Brook’s value to the business.
He had been Thomas Morley’s closest friend and mentor before becoming his partner, for his knowledge and the established customers and suppliers had proven essential at the start of their joint venture.
Maintaining a cordial working relationship was necessary, however trying his company had become of late.
Mr Brook looked up from the ledger as she entered the dispensary.
At five-and-fifty, he possessed the confidence of a man who believed his age an asset rather than a limitation.
His greying hair was neatly trimmed, his features regular if not handsome, his manner carefully cultivated to project authority.
”Mrs Morley,” he greeted her, closing the ledger with deliberate precision. “I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me.”
”Of course, Mr Brook. Jonathan mentioned a matter of importance?”
He gestured towards two chairs in the corner of the dispensary, away from the ears of the lad who was arranging bottles on the shop shelves. “Perhaps we might sit? This is a conversation best conducted in comfort.”
Elizabeth’s wariness increased, but she complied, settling herself in one of the chairs and arranging her skirts with careful nonchalance. “Is there some issue with our suppliers? I noticed the shipment from Cornwall was delayed.”