Chapter 21 #2
“Naturally you must go, Georgiana,” I said. “I am perfectly content with my book, and the exceedingly pleasant view.” Of course, I would much prefer to ride with them, having discovered in the Lakes that riding did suit me, particularly in the company of Georgiana and Darcy.
Georgiana left to change into her riding clothes, while Darcy exited through the balcony doors, making his way towards the stable.
He cut a fine figure—beneath his close-fitting jacket and breeches, he would be an Adonis, not a Silenus.
I watched him stride away, my eyes lingering a little longer until he turned the corner of the building.
‘Oh, Lizzy,’ tittered Lydia. ‘Darcy is so beautiful.’
‘Nonsense,’ replied Mary. ‘Brothers cannot be beautiful. Perhaps comely, though his teasing Lizzy about her being undressed in Greece was certainly not proper.’
I am sure, that brothers often see their sisters, if not undressed, at least scantily clad, perhaps in their night attire. Kitty giggled.
Was that true? Having never had a brother…
My heart fluttered, just for a moment, and I returned to my book.
It failed to hold my attention. Retrieving my sketchbook, I selected a medium pencil from the set Darcy had bought for me in Keswick, and began drawing the scene: the shadows of the trees, sheep grazing, horses standing beyond the ha-ha wall.
I was not aware when I fell asleep, the pencil falling from my hand.
I dozed, the sun streaming through the doorway warming my aching shoulder; my foot propped on a small cushion that Sally had so thoughtfully provided.
* * *
The faint scent of roses and the murmuring of voices awoke me. But I was too contented, and lay half-awake, my eyes closed.
“You seem thoughtful, Mrs. Bennet. Is it the garden, or something else upon your mind?” Mr. Darcy—how long had I slept?
“Oh, forgive me, sir. I do tend to wander—in my thoughts, I mean. But how could one not, after seeing such a profusion of blooms? I dare say, Lady Anne must have been a woman who loved her garden.” Mama—at Hathaway House there was nothing she liked better than to don her outdoor clothes and take up her pruning shears.
“She was.” Mr. Darcy was speaking of his late wife, Lady Anne. “The rose garden was her pride, though I confess I let it become a little wild these last years. Fitzwilliam urged me to keep it up, but my efforts are feeble compared to hers.”
“It is not wild, sir, but exuberant! Roses ought to be a little unruly, I think. Their nature is not to be too tamed—like children, or perhaps certain daughters.” Can one blush while feigning sleep? Certainly Mama was speaking of me.
“You speak as one who knows both roses and daughters well, Fanny.” Oh, I almost giggled, just like Lydia. Mr. Darcy—Mr. George Darcy—had called Mrs. Bennet Fanny.
“Perhaps not as well as I hoped to.” Mama fell silent—I knew she was thinking of her three daughters who never had the chance to smell roses and gardens in the fullness of summer…
“Only two daughters, and both as different as any two blooms can be. Yet, precious—as rare as Lady Anne’s damask rose.
Did she tend the roses herself? Or was it the head gardener? ”
“Herself, most days.” Mr. Darcy’s voice was soft; I strained to hear. “She believed roses responded best to a gentle hand. I must admit, I have not had the heart to uproot even the most gnarled bush since she passed. I fear I am sentimental.”
“Sentimental? Oh, George, that is no fault. I have always said, a man who loves his garden and remembers his wife is worth far more than one who fusses over ledgers. Mr. Bennet never cared for roses. He found them frivolous, can you believe it?”
Now that I thought of it, Papa had never talked of Longbourn’s gardens. He admired them—perhaps because they were Mama’s joy, and he was always wont to please her. My eyes moistened. I am sure Mama’s were as moist as mine.
“Surely not. He must have had other virtues.” I sat very still—they were both veering into territory which certainly was not appropriate for a daughter to hear. But I feared to disrupt their intimacy.
“Oh, he was a lovely man. He respected my love of flowers, even if he did not himself. I once told him that a house without roses is a house without laughter. He took my hand—then you, Fanny, he said, and our lovely daughters are the most beautiful blooms in the country. For, with you, this house is always filled with laughter.”
Oh, Papa!
The room became very still, and I thought that I should rouse myself, to allow Mama and Mr. Darcy the privacy that was surely theirs—that I should never have intruded on their conversation.
Before I had opened my eyes, Mr. Darcy spoke. “May I confess something to you, Mrs. Bennet?”
“Why, of course, Mr. Darcy.”
“I find, since you arrived with Elizabeth, the house is—how shall I say it—less empty. I have not heard so much laughter at breakfast for many years. I regret I let our acquaintance at Longbourn lapse; that I had not invited you to Pemberley sooner.”
“Elizabeth and I were in mourning; it would have been improper,” said Mama. “But, now that I am here, would you let me help with the roses? I have a few tricks that Lady Anne would approve. If you do not mind my interference.”
I felt a hand squeeze mine. The grip was firm, but somehow delicate, a hint of rosemary and lavender.
“I would consider it an honour, Fanny—the garden needs a woman’s touch.”
“Then we shall attack it with vigour! Though I warn you, George, I am ruthless with dead wood. Sentiment must give way to new growth, sometimes.”
“Then let us promote new growth.” Mr. Darcy’s voice had grown stronger, more confident. “I trust I am not too old as to be past hope.”
Mama laughed. “Roses do not grow old.”
“Well, ma’am, once you are done with the roses, perhaps you could accompany me further into the garden, and beyond, perchance.”
“Mr. Darcy! You are bold!” I could almost feel Mama blushing.
“I am, perhaps, emboldened by roses, and the morning, and your presence, Fanny.”
“Oh, tish, George. Let us see what comes of it, shall we? One cannot rush a rose to bloom, nor a heart to heal. But I will walk your gardens with you, if you ask.”
“I do ask, Fanny. Most sincerely.”
“Then it is settled. Tomorrow, we shall begin with the climbing roses by the east wall.”
There was a pause, followed by the clink of china as a maid carried in tea, setting it on the small mahogany table.
“I shall pour,” said Mrs. Bennet, and I heard a sigh, not from Mama nor from Mr. Darcy.
‘Oh, George, dearest—that you should find happiness again! I love you so much—you must move on, ever my heart.’
I opened my eyes. Papa was standing by the door, the sun streaming through his grey hair.
But it was not he who had spoken. He stood upright, his fingers straight.
He gave me a look of such compassion and love that I could scarcely bear it.
Movement caught my eye—in the distance, Georgiana and Fitzwilliam returning from their ride. When I turned back, Papa was gone.
For just a moment, I saw a tall, elegant lady, with golden hair so similar to Georgiana’s, gaze affectionately at Mr. Darcy sitting with Mama.
He was smiling, sipping tea. He leant towards her, unconsciously brushing a stray strand of hair from her face; she blushed, taking a small biscuit from the tray to hide her discomfiture.
But I could see a smile touch her lips, delight creasing the corners of her eyes.
* * *