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Chapter?VIII

The carriages returned to Bath in late November, their wheels crunching over roads already glazed by early frost. The Netherfield fête had passed like a bright flare—bonfires, cider, Jane’s radiant contentment beside Mr?Bingley, and Elizabeth’s own heart a quick-beating thing whenever Darcy, one-armed but determined, guided her through a country reel.

Yet as they crossed Wiltshire’s bare downs, gaiety ebbed and a reflective hush settled on them all, as if the season now insisted on stillness.

When at last Number?Nine’s familiar yew arch loomed out of a pearl-grey dusk, Elizabeth felt both homecoming and unease.

The garden—so recently lush—lay trimmed back and sleeping.

The quince scion they had brought thrived in its tub, but most boughs stood skeletal, their ghosts etched against a colour-drained sky.

Only the greenhouse offered warmth, panes fogged with breath each morning before sunrise.

Darcy’s shoulder mended slowly; the surgeon’s weekly visits decreed yet another fortnight in the sling.

He bore restriction outwardly well, yet Elizabeth sensed a restlessness in him, sharpened by winter’s confinement.

Mrs?Winter, who saw more than politeness revealed, murmured once to Elizabeth while steeping willow-bark tea, “Idle hands breed unsettled heads—you must give him roots to mind, even in frost.”

Elizabeth tried. Together they set bulbs in forcing pots—hyacinth, narcissus, freesia—labelled and arranged along the greenhouse’s north bench.

Darcy dictated the placements; she pressed bulbs into soil with thumb and forefinger, aware of his watchful gaze following each movement.

Conversation remained gentle, practical, but Elizabeth felt an undercurrent—words held back, as though they walked along a glassy pond wary of disturbing thin ice.

On the first truly cold night, when windowpanes blossomed in fern-shaped crystals, Elizabeth rose before dawn to stoke the greenhouse stove.

She found Darcy there already, lake-grey coat thrown hastily over night clothes, breath a white ribbon in lantern light.

He had managed to lift a coal scuttle clumsily against the surgeon’s advice; the effort left him sweating, brow creased.

“You should have called me,” she chided, taking the scuttle.

He started at her voice, then forced a smile. “I could not bear the seedlings to chill.”

They worked in near silence—the scrape of iron door, puff of sparks, soft slam as grates closed. Frost outside creaked like distant footsteps; inside, glass and metal pinged as they warmed. When flames settled, Darcy leaned against the workbench, face drawn.

“It is ridiculous,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the firebox, “that lifting a scuttle now defeats me when, two months past, I pruned half this orchard.”

“The orchard witnessed the cost,” Elizabeth replied softly. “Healing is not cowardice, Fitzwilliam.”

He met her gaze—first time she had used his name unprompted—and something vulnerable flickered. “But idleness is, in my own estimation.”

She stepped closer. “Then let your mind labour where your arm cannot. Plan Pemberley’s winter beds, draft orders for spring seed. I will copy every note.”

His breath eased. Frostlight refracted through lantern glass, throwing shifting patterns over the panes. At length he nodded. “Very well. We begin after breakfast.” A pause. “But only if you call me Fitzwilliam again.”

“Then you must call me Elizabeth.”

Their eyes held; the greenhouse seemed to hush further, as if the tiny plants listened. A pulse of warmth, sharper than stove heat, spread between them. Before either spoke, boot crunch on gravel signalled Mrs?Winter’s approach. She poked her head in, moustache of frost upon her scarf.

“Ha! I thought to find runaway coals.” Her gaze skipped from one to the other. “Stove is fed, hearts are warmed—back to porridge, you two.” She retreated with a grin half-hidden by steam.

Darcy chuckled low. “We have been discovered.”

“Mrs?Winter always discovers.” Elizabeth brushed a smear of soot from her cuff. “Come. If we linger she will concoct errands involving snow shovels.”

They left lantern light for dawn’s dim silver.

Frost rimed lawn and lavender alike; Elizabeth’s breath plumed before her, mingling with Darcy’s in small spirals until she found herself acutely conscious of the inches that separated them—and of how easy it would be to shorten that span by half.

She forced her gaze ahead, but awareness stayed—a quiet thrum in her pulse.

Snow arrived a week later, a heavy fall that silenced the city and buried sleeping beds in a lacy pall.

Mrs?Winter declared official hibernation; all outdoor tasks ceased save sweeping pathways.

Within Number?Nine, evenings unfurled near the parlor hearth: Georgiana rereading Evelina, Mrs?Winter knitting a scarf of improbable scarlet, Darcy sketching glasshouse renovations with his left hand while Elizabeth sorted through Pemberley’s planting ledgers.

One night, as wind raked snow across shutters, Mrs?Winter closed her knitting with a snap.

“Enough of figures and freezes. Play for us, Miss?Darcy.” Georgiana obligingly turned to the pianoforte, but as she began a gentle adagio, Mrs?Winter fixed Elizabeth with a glance that pierced. “And you, my dear, will sing.”

Blood flooded Elizabeth’s cheeks. “I am no performer—”

“Nonsense. All gardeners sing—how else coax seedlings through dark months?”

Darcy looked up, curiosity and quiet encouragement in his face.

Caught, Elizabeth moved to the piano. Georgiana modulated into a familiar folk air, “The Nightingale’s Lament,” soft enough for untrained voice.

Elizabeth’s first notes trembled, but Georgiana steadied tempo and Elizabeth found breath.

The song, plaintive and sweet, floated over crackling logs.

Darcy’s eyes remained on her—solemn, intent.

The final chord faded; silence lingered thick as wool until Mrs?Winter sighed, dabbing eyes.

Elizabeth felt suddenly bare. She murmured thanks, returned to her ledger, but hands shook ever so slightly. Darcy rose—slowly, mindful of arm—crossed to the sideboard, and poured a cordial, which he set beside her page without a word. Their fingers brushed; heat leapt like ember to tinder.

After Georgiana retired, Mrs?Winter claimed early bed, leaving them alone but for ticking clock. Flames cast long shadows; outside, snowflakes pulsed in lamplight. Darcy spoke first, voice low.

“When you sing, silence changes shape.”

Elizabeth stared into her glass. “I have not sung for strangers since childhood.”

“Do you still think me a stranger?”

The question, soft though it was, cut through her composure. She lifted her gaze; his was steady, open. The room felt suddenly small, the distance between armchairs an expanse they both clearly measured.

“No,” she admitted. “Not for some time.”

Relief warmed his features, tempered by something cautious—hope withheld lest it stray too far. He set down his own glass, fingertips brushing his injured shoulder. “This house, this garden—they seem poised on the edge of rest, yet my thoughts are anything but restful.”

Snow hissed against windows. Elizabeth’s heartbeat quickened. “Say what you will.”

He inhaled—yet before speech formed, the clock chimed twelve, loud in the hush.

He exhaled instead, a rueful curve to his mouth.

“Forgive me. Midnight counsellors often speak unwisely—and I would not cheapen words that matter.” He rose.

“Tomorrow, when frost lifts, will you walk with me to the greenhouse? I wish to show you the first freesia shoots.”

She stood as well, skirts whispering. “Gladly.” He bowed—slow, careful—then left her with the fading echo of his steps and a heart thrumming like a trapped moth.

Morning brought a thin sun glinting off snow crust. Elizabeth waited by the greenhouse, muffler pulled high; Darcy arrived, sling traded for a lighter support band.

Inside, glass sparkled with intricate frost feathers where overnight chill had outpaced the stove’s heat.

Yet on the north bench, green tips speared upward—freesia waking.

“They trusted your care,” she said, brushing frost from a pane to let light fall over shoots.

“They trusted ours.” He adjusted one pot gently, then turned. “Elizabeth—” Her name fallen in that quiet space sounded like invocation. He drew breath, eyes clear. “I have waited for a moment when gratitude, admiration, and something deeper might all be spoken plainly. The snow gave me courage.”

She felt the frost-cold glass through her gloves, grounding herself. “Say it.”

He stepped closer, but not so near as to frighten.

“Since the day you arrived through the yew arch, you have changed every silence in my life—taught me that roots grow strongest beneath calm conversation, that laughter can graft across old wounds. I—” He faltered, then continued.

“I love you. There is no other word that holds the fullness.”

Her lungs forgot air for a beat. Outside, a blackbird began an unseasonal chirrup.

Elizabeth swallowed, aware of joyful panic fluttering like the bird’s wings.

“Fitzwilliam, you know my heart was wary—pride and resentment tangled my judgment once. But seasons change soil; compost makes new ground.” She offered a trembling smile.

“And love is the only word that feels wide enough for what I have come to feel.”

Colour flared high on his cheeks; his good hand lifted, asking rather than claiming. She placed hers into it; warmth spread where their palms met. Frost sketched lace on the glass behind them, but inside, shoots pushed upward and two hearts shone hotter than the little iron stove.

He bent, very carefully—mindful of arm and propriety—and pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles. She felt it like sun through winter glass.

Outside, sleet rattled briefly, then turned to soft snow, veiling Number?Nine in white.

Mrs?Winter, peering from her bedroom window, saw two figures framed by the greenhouse door—close but not yet entwined—beneath frost-etched panes.

She smiled, unsurprised; roses, she often said, slept in winter only to dream of bloom.

That evening she presented a bottle of last year’s damson gin and three tiny glasses.

“For partnerships long-sown,” she declared, pouring ruby liquor.

Georgiana, summoned, accepted her glass with delighted suspicion, but Mrs?Winter tipped hers toward Elizabeth and Darcy.

“May frost fortify rather than hinder,” she toasted.

“And may spring find courage matched by blossom.”

They drank, laughter mingling with the hiss of logs. Outside, ice thickened on pond edges; inside, the future lay warm as germinating seed. Elizabeth thought of freesia bulbs beneath thin layers of soil—waiting, gathering unseen strength until the right moment came to split darkness with colour.

She met Darcy’s eyes over the rim of her glass, feeling certainty unfurl like petals over snow-lit ground. Winter, she realised, was not the quiet end of growth but its patient crucible—and in the frost on the greenhouse glass, she could almost read the promise of everything yet to open.