Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOT IN THE PROGRAMME
Elizabeth
Cinnamon spent the night on my pillow.
I note this without comment, except to say that after two nights unaccounted for—and presumably spent decorating Darcy’s trousers—her return was either a gesture of loyalty or a calculation based on pillow softness, and I have learned not to inquire too closely into a cat’s motivations.
I set her out into the garden before entering the breakfast room, on the grounds that introducing a cat into Caroline Bingley’s orbit while she was in pain, confined to a chaise lounge, and in possession of a captive audience would constitute a form of cruelty I was not yet prepared to commit.
Caroline presided in the breakfast room, wearing a scowl deep enough to drain both the eastern and western fields.
A breakfast tray perched precariously across her lap, and she directed the footman to and from the sideboard as if moving a game piece.
Darcy and Bingley had ridden out early, and both Georgiana and Mrs. Hurst studied their eggs as if ascertaining the secrets of the universe.
“The pain is quite extraordinary this morning,” Caroline announced loudly as I entered. “I barely slept. Louisa, did I not say the compress had gone warm? A warm compress is worse than no compress at all.”
“You did say so,” Mrs. Hurst muttered without inflection.
“And the draught Mr. Jones prescribed has left me with a headache. I am expected to endure an injured ankle and a headache. The injustice is unspeakable.”
Over her teacup, Georgiana caught my eye. Brief and similar to Jane’s expression when she wished me to extricate her from a situation.
Caroline caught the exchange, as Caroline catches everything she is not supposed to notice, and produced a sigh of theatrical depth.
“Dear Georgie. If only Mrs. Nicholls could prevail upon the footmen to move the pianoforte. A touch of music would work wonders for my suffering.”
“Or,” Mrs. Hurst offered, “you might be moved to the music room after breakfast. You could spend the morning encouraging Miss Darcy’s musical accomplishments.”
The widening of Georgiana’s eyes spoke volumes of her distress at this prospect. Recognizing the need for intervention, I set down my teacup with deliberate calm.
“As it happens, Georgiana and I have educational plans today. Yesterday saw us observing the intricacies of water flow and field topography. Today, we embark on an expedition of botanical discovery and plant identification.”
Caroline’s scowl cut new furrows across her brow.
“Plant identification? Surely you do not imagine that constitutes an accomplishment of any merit. What gentleman ever troubled himself with the botanical knowledge of his intended? It is hardly the sort of attainment that advances a young woman’s prospects. ”
“How fortunate, then,” I said, spreading my butter with deliberate care, “that a young woman’s prospects should hinge entirely on the whims and narrow interests of gentlemen.
Perhaps we should all devote ourselves solely to giggling, fainting, and mastering the art of vapid conversation.
Surely those are far more valuable pursuits than any knowledge that might broaden one’s mind or prove useful in the real world. ”
Mrs. Hurst concealed what might have been a smile behind her coffee. Georgiana’s mouth twitched—a small thing, easily missed, but I caught it.
“I cannot fathom the workings of your mind, Miss Elizabeth.” Caroline’s voice took on a plaintive tone, tinged with exasperation.
“Some of us are suffering acute physical distress and do not have the luxury of gallivanting about the countryside. Though I suppose it is rather the thing for a companion to abandon her post whenever the notion strikes her.”
The word companion landed with the weight she intended. I met her gaze pleasantly.
“Had I not gallivanted yesterday, you might have spent the night in the sheep dung. Bingley’s gig broke a wheel, and he would not have reached you before nightfall.” I finished my toast. “In any case, Miss Darcy’s education ought not to suffer because your ankle has proved itself so delicate.”
Georgiana rose from the table, eyes bright. “I should very much like a botanical education. My brother often peruses agricultural pamphlets, and I find myself curious about the topics that so captivate gentlemen’s attention.”
She offered this with such composed innocence that I nearly applauded outright.
I held out my hand instead. She took it, and together we walked out of the breakfast room at a pace that suggested we had somewhere important to be, which we did.
Perhaps my role as companion to her improvement programme included nurturing this budding talent for verbal fencing.
We collected sun bonnets and newly cleaned boots, raided Mrs. Jolliffe for baskets and shears. She added a wedge of cheese, a bread roll, and a flask of grape juice, outfitting Georgiana with matching provisions and the approving nod of a woman who recognizes a sensible enterprise.
We departed through the kitchen door—not the front, where Caroline had no doubt been moved to set a watch for Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley’s return. Georgiana, too, seemed relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Caroline’s cologne-tinged compresses.
“We have never left through the kitchen before,” she observed.
“At Longbourn, the kitchen door is the door. The front entrance is for visitors, and we are never visitors in our own house.”
The morning opened before us. Together, we swung our wicker baskets, and then, when I commenced skipping, Georgiana skipped after me, the two of us prancing like young goats.
The kitchen garden was still heavy with late herbs—thyme gone woody, rosemary sharp enough to scent the air without being touched, and the last sage leaves broad and silvery with morning dew. I picked and clipped as we walked.
“What is this one?” Georgiana held up a sprig I had dropped.
“Thyme. Smell it.”
She brought it to her nose with the careful delicacy of a girl sampling perfume at a London shop. “It smells like the stuffing Cook prepares at Pemberley.”
“Indeed, it likely forms at least half of it, if your cook follows the same school as ours at Longbourn,” I explained, handing her a sage leaf. “And this completes the other half.”
She rubbed it between her fingers, releasing the dusty, peppery scent. The smile came without any effort on her part, which was, I thought, the only kind worth having.
We moved on. She paused at a low-growing plant with tiny purple flowers.
“That is pennyroyal,” I said, crouching beside her. “It repels fleas and has a most particular scent. Though I must caution you not to use it in cooking.”
She pinched a leaf and recoiled at the aggressive mint. “It is so potent.”
“Most useful things are.” I stood, brushing my skirt. “The pleasant-smelling ones are generally decorative.”
Farther along the path, she paused before a patch of tall grasses, their seed heads nodding in the gentle breeze.
“And these? At Pemberley, I merely thought them all ‘grass’ without distinction,” she confessed with a becoming blush.
“This one is wild barley,” I said, taking a stalk and running my fingers along its bristled head. “And beside it grows timothy. Our tenant farmers value them differently for their livestock.”
“How remarkable that I have spent seventeen years on earth and never truly observed what grows beneath my feet.” She gathered a small bouquet of grasses with the attention of someone who has only now discovered that the world is larger than it appeared from the drawing room window. Which, in fairness, it is.
I smiled at her enthusiasm. “Here,” I said, crouching down to point at a modest plant with jagged leaves, “this is yarrow. My mother keeps it for fevers. And beside it—” I gently parted the soil to reveal small white bulbs, “—wild garlic, which makes the most delicious sauce for mutton.”
“May I dig some?” she asked eagerly.
“By all means. Mrs. Jolliffe shall be impressed with your industry.”
She removed her gloves and unearthed several bulbs with the pride of a young lass showing her first embroidered handkerchief. And then she moved on to another expanse.
“Oh! And these yellow flowers? They seem to glow in the sunlight.”
“Ah, those are buttercups,” I replied, a fond smile playing on my lips. “As children, we used to hold them under our chins to see if we liked butter.” I demonstrated the old game, the flower’s golden reflection casting a warm glow on my skin.
She picked one and tickled her chin, mimicking my actions as we strolled through the orchard gate. The Bramley tree Mrs. Jolliffe had mentioned stood at the far edge, its branches heavy with apples.
I set the basket down, assessed the lowest branch, and climbed.
“What are you doing?” Georgiana’s voice rose half an octave.
“Collecting apples,” I replied, my boot finding purchase against the trunk as I reached for a higher branch. “The finest specimens always reside at the top—a principle that holds true for most things in life.”
I climbed. Not gracefully because grace was not required for climbing, only good balance and not falling.
“Are you well, Miss Elizabeth?” Georgiana called when I missed a branch, scraping my knee.
“Better than when I fell into a pig trough.” I laughed. “Lydia will never let me forget it.”
“Miss Bennet!” Georgiana’s tone held a note of alarm. “Surely you’ve ascended too high!”
As I glanced down, I was struck by how closely her posture mirrored her brother’s—as if Darcy himself had been diminished in stature and softened around the edges.
The family resemblance was unmistakable: the angle of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, and the stiffness in her carriage as she stood ready to catch me should I fall.
Perhaps Darcys were by nature protective.
“I am perfectly situated. The apple does not come to the climber, Miss Darcy.” I plucked an apple. “Will you catch?”