Page 51 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

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.

* * *

Chapter 22

Pemberley

It was on the third full day at Pemberley that I felt recovered enough to take dinner with the family. While I found breakfast easy—for it required only one hand to nibble toast and marmalade—dinner was a chore: my arm in its sling was practically useless, and my bandaged foot, stretched out under the table, was as likely as not to be trodden on by some heavy-footed oaf.

Sally, bless her, helped me change into a suitable gown—what a relief to feel elegant again, though I was careful to hide my unslippered foot, the one cloaked in less-than-stylish linen wrappings. I was almost prepared to assault a society ball, but secretly hoped that Mr. Darcy’s kitchen produced better fare than the weak lemonade and thinly sliced bread served in Almack’s assembly rooms.