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Chapter?I

Elizabeth Bennet had rarely experienced a journey that felt quite so long as the eighty-odd miles between Longbourn and Bath.

It was not the roads themselves—spring rains had left them rutted, certainly, but the jolts of the post chaise were familiar enough after her winter visit to Kent.

Nor was it the company; she had none, beyond a taciturn coachman and the occasional fellow passenger exchanged at coaching inns.

It was, rather, the purpose of the journey that made each milestone toll like a church bell: she was leaving home not to visit, but to earn her living, and that fact pressed against her ribcage with every turn of the wheels.

Her father had been kind—wistful, but kind—when she announced her acceptance of Mrs?Gardiner’s offer to secure a post with an acquaintance in Bath.

Jane had been unreservedly proud. Mary had offered a treatise on female independence.

Kitty and Lydia had alternated between lamentations over lost dances and extravagant promises to write.

Yet when the chaise finally crested Beechen Cliff and began its descent toward the honey-coloured sweep of the Crescent, the echo Elizabeth carried was her father’s parting salute: “Take good care of yourself—and of whomever is fool enough to employ you.” She only hoped she was equal to the charge.

The coachman drew up before Number?Nine Royal Crescent a quarter hour before four.

Mist clung to the street like a half-remembered dream; Bath stone gleamed pale as new honey in the muted light.

Elizabeth stepped down, the hem of her travelling dress brushing damp flagstones.

She recognised at once that Number?Nine differed from its neighbours: whereas the rest of the terrace soared in elegant uniformity, this house possessed two modest wings linked by an arched carriage way.

The arch yawned open behind a wrought-iron gate entwined with yew—dark, ancient, and slightly foreboding.

No footman waited. No groom hurried forward.

Only the hush of an early-March afternoon and the faint rustle of wings somewhere beyond the wall.

“Miss?Bennet?” The coachman deposited a trunk with a grunt. “Shall I wait?”

Elizabeth shook off reverie. “No, thank you. I believe I am expected.” She pressed a coin into his palm—generous, but she could neither carry the trunk herself nor wish to stand abandoned if Mrs?Winter proved unexpectedly absent.

The gate protested on its hinges as she pushed it open and stepped beneath the arch.

Instantly the air changed: cool, loamy, threaded with the green-pepper scent of box and elder.

Gravel crunched underfoot. Ahead lay the garden, though “garden” seemed an insufficient word.

It was a small world unto itself—beds edged in clipped lavender, a central lawn soft as moss, and borders already stirring with narcissus spears.

A high Bath-stone wall enclosed three sides; the fourth was formed by the two wings of the house, their mullioned windows gazing inward like watchful eyes.

A sudden clatter startled her. From the western wing emerged a woman of perhaps six-and-fifty, bundled in a rusty-black coat and felt garden hat stuck all over with twigs.

She brandished a pair of secateurs in one gloved hand and carried a trug of rose prunings in the other.

Even across the lawn Elizabeth could see a streak of compost smudged along her cheek.

“Miss?Bennet!” the woman called, her voice bright as a cricket’s chirp. “You are punctual. Very good—plants loathe tardiness.”

Elizabeth advanced, executing a curtsy that wobbled thanks to uneven gravel. “Mrs?Winter, I presume. I am delighted to meet you.”

“Delighted? Wait until November when the winds slice through these walls like a surgeon’s knife.

” The widow’s eyes—merry, dark, and keen—took Elizabeth in from bonnet to half-muddy half-boots.

“Still, you look sensible. The Gardiners said you had spirit enough for three. Do you possess lungs strong enough to scold a stubborn old woman off an orchard ladder?”

“I have practised on younger, nimbler siblings,” Elizabeth replied. “I flatter myself I might manage.”

Mrs?Winter loosed a peal of laughter that sent a robin flitting from a nearby bay tree. “Excellent. Come, drop that reticule on the bench—your trunk will be carried in later—and let me show you the kingdom you are to defend.”

Elizabeth followed her new employer along a slate walk. The widow’s stride was brisk despite the cane she used more as punctuation than prop. They passed under a pergola of leaf-bare wisteria, their footsteps echoing faintly beneath beams already studded with swelling buds.

“I sleep in the west wing,” Mrs?Winter said over her shoulder.

“You will have the east. Between us lies neutral territory—the garden. Its politics are simple: roses rule the afternoon, birds the dusk, seedlings the dawn. Interlopers”—she gestured toward a tangle of blackberry canes bursting through the boundary wall—“shall be repelled with vigor and gloves of stout leather.”

Elizabeth smiled, enchanted despite herself. “A clear constitution. And what of compost?”

“Ah!” Mrs?Winter halted beside a steaming heap crowned with straw. “Compost is Parliament: noisy, malodorous, indispensable. One must stir debate daily.” She speared the pile with her cane, releasing a puff of warm, earthy vapor. “Have you turned a heap before?”

“I have—though not on so grand a scale.”

The widow nodded, evidently satisfied. “Tomorrow at seven, then, we shall debate straw versus seaweed. Now—” She pivoted and marched toward a gate set into the rear wall, beyond which Elizabeth glimpsed the skeletal forms of apple trees.

Halfway there, Mrs?Winter paused. “Mind the ladder,” she whispered, as though imparting state secrets.

Elizabeth’s gaze followed the widow’s subtle nod—and her breath caught.

A ladder leaned against the gnarled trunk of an old russet apple.

Atop it stood a tall gentleman in a dark greatcoat, hair uncovered and stubbornly windswept.

He was pruning, secateurs flashing silver in the dim light, each decisive snip followed by a silent measure of consideration.

Even at distance she knew the proud line of those shoulders, the set of that jaw.

“Mr?Darcy,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

Her companion arched a brow. “You are acquainted?”

Elizabeth schooled her expression. “We have—met.”

Mrs?Winter’s eyes gleamed. “Then perhaps you will understand how rarely the fellow smiles. Bought the adjoining house last summer—needed quiet, he said, though he seems content enough to murder my apple trees.” She cupped a hand about her mouth and called, “Mr?Darcy! Mind you leave me a branch or two come blossom time!”

The man descended a rung, glanced their way, and doffed his hat.

Even at thirty yards Elizabeth felt the impact of his dark gaze searing across space—surprise, guarded courtesy, something like resignation.

Her cheeks warmed. She attempted to convince herself it was the chill air.

The ladder creaked as he resumed pruning.

Mrs?Winter chuckled. “A very private gentleman, but helpful enough. Claims gardening settles the mind. Well—grief settles there, too, and every mind needs weeding. Come: greenhouse first, then rooms, then tea.” She strode on.

Inside the greenhouse the air turned balmy, fogging Elizabeth’s spectacles before she remembered she wore none.

Condensation pearled on panes; citrus leaves exhaled a waxy perfume.

Rows of seed trays marched like infantry along benches: foxglove, delphinium, basil.

At the far end, a tiny stove ticked contentedly.

“My late husband called this my chapel,” Mrs?Winter said, tone softening. “I come here to pray with soil, not words.” She trailed a finger through a tray of friable compost. “You will water before breakfast—sparingly. Over-watered seedlings damp off faster than gossip in a spa pump-room.”

Elizabeth inhaled warm earth and lemon verbena. Something unknotted in her chest. “I understand.”

“Good. Breakfast is at half past seven in the solarium. If you prefer solitude, the kitchen will oblige. The rest of your day belongs to the borders unless I steal you for errands or something climbs a ladder. You will discover I have two speeds: swift and asleep.” She pressed a packet of seeds into Elizabeth’s palm.

“Winter lettuce. A thank-you for coming.”

“Thank-you for having me.”

“Pah—gratitude is for weddings and funerals. You have work; I have company. Fair trade.” She checked a pocket watch shaped like an acorn.

“Tea in an hour. Take these minutes to acquaint yourself with your quarters.” She gestured toward a side door sealed against damp with a strip of leather.

“Through there, across the loggia, up the back stair.”

Elizabeth tucked the seed packet into her reticule, curtsied, and took her leave.

The loggia smelled faintly of stone and woodsmoke.

She climbed a narrow staircase worn smooth by centuries of feet, counting steps to steady the flutter in her stomach.

Mr?Darcy next door. Mr?Darcy co-owner of half her workplace. Surely Providence jested.

Her room faced the herb parterre just as Mrs?Winter promised.

It was neither large nor fashionable—white-washed walls, a walnut chest of drawers that creaked when touched, and a writing desk placed square before a sash window.

But the linens were fresh, a small coal scuttle sat ready, and a posy of rosemary and snowdrops stood sentinel on the bedside table.

Elizabeth untied her bonnet strings and set it aside, fingers lingering upon the brim as though it might anchor her to familiarity. Then she crossed to the window.