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Chapter?X

The first Sunday of Advent dawned brittle and bright.

A rime of hoarfrost sparkled across every bed at Number?Nine, yet inside the greenhouse the stove kept a low, steady fire, and the air smelled faintly of warm loam and lemon balm.

On the north bench Darcy had arranged shallow trays, each filled with a sifted mixture of leaf-mould and sand.

A packet of ‘Winter Density’ lettuce seeds lay neatly folded beside a watering can.

Elizabeth joined him just after matins, breath still visible from the chill outside. She removed her gloves, flexing fingers half-numb. “You mean to start them this early?”

“They will germinate under glass,” he said, offering the packet. “By February the seedlings can move to the cold frame. Mrs?Winter hopes for salads by Lent.”

Elizabeth tipped a trickle of seed into her palm—minute, buff-coloured, unimpressive as grit.

Amazing, she thought, the futures that hid in such unremarkable casings.

As she scattered them over the soil Darcy tamped lightly with a cedar board, then reached for the fine rose on the watering can.

His mending shoulder protested; she intercepted the handle before he could lift it.

“Permit me,” she said. “Your arm is not yet at full strength.”

He acquiesced, stepping aside. Water beaded over the dark soil and disappeared. Silence stretched—comfortable, yet edged with expectation neither quite addressed. Finally Darcy spoke, gaze fixed on the dampened trays.

“We never truly spoke of Hunsford,” he said. “Nor of the letter I gave you there.”

Her pulse skipped, but she did not feign ignorance. She replaced the can, wiped moisture from her cuff. “We have stepped around it—like a stone in a path too heavy to move.”

“May we move it now?”

The greenhouse seemed to hush around them. Outside, a robin chit-chitted against the frost, then flew off. Elizabeth rested her fingertips on the tray’s rim, grounding herself in its cool solidity.

“I misjudged you,” she began. “I believed reports that flattered my resentment and ignored evidence of your character.”

“I supplied some of that evidence,” he answered, a wry twist to his mouth. “Pride can masquerade as reserve. I realised too late how little grace it leaves in another’s eyes.”

She exhaled, remembering the sting of his first proposal, the blaze of wounded vanity that had coloured every syllable of her refusal.

“Your letter forced me to confront my own prejudice. It shamed me—and freed me. Still, I burned it once I had learned what it could teach. I could not bear to keep a record of my arrogance.”

He looked up sharply. “I have never regretted writing it,” he said. “Yet I regretted the pain my words delivered. I see now that explanation offered without kindness is but another form of self-defence.”

The stove ticked as fresh coal settled. Elizabeth stepped closer. “If we sow any seed today, let it be this: that we allow each other mistakes, so long as we dare the labour of amending them.”

He turned fully to her then, winter light throwing silver threads through his dark hair. “Elizabeth, will you forgive the worst of my pride?”

She reached, almost without thinking, and brushed her fingertips against the back of his hand. “I forgave it when you steadied Mrs?Winter’s ladder,” she said, smiling. “Possibly sooner.”

Relief—soft, profound—lit his face. He enclosed her hand in his, gentle despite lingering stiffness. For a moment they simply stood, palms joined, the scent of damp soil rising like incense between them.

Presently Darcy looked down at the seeded tray. “These must be set aside on the shelf—north end, where light is cool and even.”

They lifted the tray together, sliding it onto its appointed ledge. A slate label already waited; Darcy handed her the chalk pencil.

“Shall we call them ‘Second Beginnings’?” he suggested, half-smile tugging.

Elizabeth laughed, wrote the words, and tucked the label into place. “May they flourish.”

As they straightened, her shoulder brushed his chest. Neither moved away. Outside, ice crystals on the glass began to drip as the sun climbed.

“I once wrote my failings into a letter,” he said quietly. “Permit me, someday soon, to write our hopes into something brighter—if you will accept it.” His meaning, though not bluntly spoken, resonated in the soft air.

Heart thrilling, Elizabeth answered the only way honesty allowed—she rose on her toes and pressed a light kiss to his cheek, just at the edge of the faint scar left by childhood mischief he had once recounted to Georgiana.

“I will accept,” she whispered. “When the season is right.”

He shut his eyes briefly, as though receiving benediction, then touched her gloved fingers to his lips in silent vow.

A rap of a cane on gravel startled them apart—Mrs?Winter’s unmistakable gait. She poked her head through the greenhouse door, eyes twinkling despite December gloom.

“Have you two finished courting the lettuces?” she called. “A pot of chocolate waits, and Georgiana threatens to drink both cups herself.”

Darcy cleared his throat, smile curving. “We come immediately, ma’am.”

Elizabeth tilted the watering can to drain stray drops, then slipped her hand once more into Darcy’s offered arm.

Together they walked toward the house, leaving behind the labeled tray where tiny seeds lay dormant but alive—set aside, not forgotten—preparing, beneath a thin crust of soil, to split darkness with green.