His encouragement brought Elizabeth little relief.
Papa took her hand, tugging her down the hall toward the entrance door. “I have not checked on my hive since early this morning. The queen has sent her scouts out several days now to select their new home.”
“Have you seen them inspecting your skeps?”
“I have seen them buzzing about. If they accept one of my skeps, it will be because of the brood comb I melted and coated over the inside of the straw. I amcurious to see which of my three skeps they select for their new home … if I can coax them to accept it, that is.”
They were out of doors now and walking along the side of the house. Her window was still open, the curtain billowing above them. She followed her father, her concerns lightening with every step until he stopped short and muttered, “Bother and abomination.”
She followed his line of vision to see the coachman approaching.
Sighing deeply, Papa said, “I ought to have known he would report on the state of the carriage the moment I stop waiting to tend to my favorite daughter and my bees.” Grimacing, he added, “The damage must be extensive, or he would not have tarried.”
Elizabeth patted his hand. “Better damage to the purse than to the person.”
He looked at her hopefully. “Have you remembered anything?”
She smiled at him just as she had at Jane. “I am on the brink of it, I know it.”
Papa did not accept her dismissal as easily as Jane. Elizabeth ought not to have expected him to — not when he had dragged her unconscious from the crippled carriage.
Before he could insist she join him inside or insist anything at all, Elizabeth added, “I would be delighted to check on your bees.” Nodding at the house, she said, “That hive is much too busy, and I am in need of quiet contemplation.”
Reluctantly, he released her hand to join the coachman, pausing before he turned the corner as though he doubted she remembered the way to the grove bordering the apple orchard or feared she would get lost on the property she knew as well as the back of her hand.
Elizabeth waved, her footsteps deviating from their intended course when she saw a gentleman sitting alone on the bench under the willow tree by the pond.
Her heart fluttered. She had thought Mr. Darcy would have departed for London by now in search of another medic.
He looked up when she sat beside him. There was a melancholy in his bowed head and brown eyes that made her want to run her fingers down his cheek. She resisted the urge.
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the ducks and geese glide over the glassy water, sending ripples over the smooth surface. A burst of laughter broke the silence from the house.
“They will be happy together,” Mr. Darcy said.
Elizabeth’s fingers tingled. She would have run them through his dark, curly hair had she not shoved them under her legs. “Would we have been as happy?”
His gaze met hers, holding hers firmly. “Happier.”
They sat facing each other, Elizabeth’s heart racing while her mind chased evasive remembrances.
“Your father sent an urgent message to a friend of his from Oxford. A Mr. Sculthorpe.”
“I know him. He is a gentleman of confidence, a doctor and scholar, who has been kind to us over the years.”
“Mr. Bennet claims he is well-informed, an expert on the mind, though of a more theoretical bend than the others of whom Mr. Jones recommended.”
Elizabeth answered the question he was too polite to ask outright. “His knowledge of medicine and science is extensive, far greater than most.”
“Is he truly an expert?”
“In theory. He does not see patients, but he is a doctor and highly respected among scientists for his research and experiments.”
“Do you trust him?” There was desperation in Mr. Darcy’s voice.
“I do. He would never do anything to worsen my injury.”
Mr. Darcy’s shoulders relaxed. “That is what your father said, too.”
