Page 50 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“Would you mind, Lizzy, if I left you here by the balcony doors? Mr. Darcy has promised to show me Pemberley’s rose garden. It was laid out by his wife, Lady Anne, and, he says, has fallen a little into disrepair.” I was sitting in the morning room overlooking the park and gardens, where I had been assisted to sit by Sally and a footman. The wide balcony doors were open, which lent the aspect a rather charming intimacy, a delightful view of sweeping lawns grazed by a few black-faced sheep; beyond stood a wood in the full green of summer, and, in the distance, the purple Derbyshire peaks.

“Of course not, Mama. You must describe it to me, every rose and bud—I’m sure it is quite lovely.” She kissed me on the cheek, then stepped down to the gravelled path where Mr. Darcy was waiting. She took his arm; he made some comment to her which was beyond my hearing; she laughed, and leant a little closer.

“Your mother is a lovely woman, Lizzy.” Georgiana had come to sit beside me. “She gets on ever so well with Papa. Oh, you and she make this house feel so very much a home!”

“I have only spent a single night at Pemberley,” I replied fondly. “Surely very little has changed since we arrived?”

“Oh, no. Everything has changed. I have a sister to share with; and, when you are recovered, we shall go walking and riding together. I must show you Grandfather Darcy’s folly—inside, there is a full statue of Diana—a little vulgar, I think, for she is standing completely unclad.”

“Is she Diana or Artemis, I wonder? But of no import—for either Rome or Greece are somewhat warmer than England,” I chuckled. “Perhaps, if we were to travel there, then we too would be permitted to remove our clothes.”

“Lizzy! You are teasing!” Georgiana was wide-eyed, then giggled. “Oh, Fitzwilliam, I didn’t hear you enter the room.”

I turned my head as best as I could, for my shoulder was still very much inflamed. He was dressed in his riding clothes, not his finest, for at breakfast he had said he intended to ride out and visit some of the tenant farms.

“If you are to journey to Greece, Elizabeth, then I should accompany you, to ensure your safety.” He was smirking—oh, if I could I would have hit him with my book, but the edition was too fine to throw at him.

“Naturally,” he continued. “We would only travel there during the warmest months.”

I blushed. It was so improper. “I think, Georgiana, that I shall rename Fitzwilliam Adonis, who was said to have a most heroic figure, admirably suited to Greek climes. Fitzwilliam seems very much inclined to travel there and, perchance, such a figure would suit him. On the other hand, perhaps he is pot-bellied, a Silenus, the god of wine-making and gluttony—likely more akin to a sow.”

Georgiana was staring at us, her hand on her mouth. “Oh, I cannot bear it. You should not tease so!”

“You forget, sweetling,” I said, “that I was without a brother for so long a time; there is much teasing to catch up with. Fitzwilliam has no such excuse, for he has had ample opportunity to tease you.”

“I promise, Georgiana, that I will not tease,” intervened Darcy. “I came to ask, if Elizabeth will free you from entertaining her, that you accompany me.”

“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?”