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Chapter?XII

March crept in beneath a veil of mist, softening the frost-bitten lawn and coaxing snowdrops from the shaded borders.

One morning Elizabeth woke to an air so mild she flung her sash and leaned out: the garden exhaled damp earth and something green and peppery—life stirring just beneath the soil.

Somewhere a blackbird tested a tentative trill. Spring had come.

The wedding licence, secured in town two days earlier, rested on Darcy’s writing desk; Georgiana had already penned an exuberant selection of hymns for a modest ceremony at Bath Abbey.

Mr?Bennet, fully recovered, sent jovial instructions for Elizabeth to “return post-haste with a husband in tow and a crate of your Bath roses, that your mother may preen.” Even Mrs?Bennet’s delighted chaos could not dim Elizabeth’s mood; she read the letter aloud over breakfast and laughed when Darcy touched her hand and whispered, “Steel yourself. I shall stand between you and every bustle ruffle.”

That afternoon Mrs?Winter rallied her household for the first great pruning.

“A marriage demands commemorative cuttings,” she declared.

“We shall start with the Scarlet Nonpareil.” Darcy, arm now strong enough for shears, led the way; the ladder—rebuilt in seasoned ash with brass bolts—stood ready.

Georgiana fetched the red ribbon that once signified treaty and now fluttered like a pennant of promise.

Elizabeth climbed to the first branch, her skirts tucked neatly, Darcy steadying the rails. She snipped a slender length tipped with swelling buds and passed it down to him. “For Pemberley,” she said.

He turned the twig in his gloved fingers, eyes warm. “And for every season after.”

They took cuttings from Summer?Blush and Maiden’s Blush, from the rambling Penelope that arched over the quince tub, and—at Mrs?Winter’s insistence—from the graft that now showed tiny pink-tipped leaves, proof that calamity could root into sweetness.

Each was labelled, dipped in rooting powder, and set into pots along the greenhouse bench.

When the last was done Mrs?Winter tapped her cane for silence.

“A garden,” she pronounced, “must never remain static. Today we plant not just roses but intentions: patience, laughter, resilience, and the ability to bloom precisely when gossip says we cannot.” She winked at Darcy and Elizabeth in turn, then stumped off muttering about seed catalogues for wedding favours.

Late light pooled gold over glass panes as Darcy and Elizabeth lingered alone. The lettuces sown in winter had pushed pale frills above the trays; freesia buds stood on the verge of bursting. Elizabeth traced a leaf, marvelling that thin paper seeds had wrought such vigor.

She felt Darcy watching her. When she turned, he held out a folded parchment. “For you—our next plan.”

Inside lay a hand-drawn design: an interlaced knot of beds shaped like a double-heart, one for roses transplanted from Number?Nine, the other for new plantings they would choose together at Pemberley.

At the centre he had inked a tiny bench.

“A place,” he said, “for morning pruning and twilight quarrels over compost.”

Tears pricked, quick and bright. “It is perfect.”

He brushed a kiss across her brows. “Perfect because you will help shape it.”

They walked the garden while dusk thickened, speaking of small things—the likely arrival date of Jane and Bingley for the ceremony, whether Mrs?Winter would smuggle elderflower cordial into the Abbey pews, how many rose canes might fit into the post chaise bound for Derbyshire.

As they reached the orchard gate a breeze stirred last year’s leaves; Elizabeth caught the faintest whiff of swelling sap.

“Listen,” she said.

Darcy cocked his head; above them a thrush delivered a full liquid phrase, no longer tentative. He smiled. “An omen, Mrs?Darcy-to-be.”

They pressed through the yew arch just as lanterns along the Crescent winked alight. In the half-glow Darcy paused, turned her gently, and set his fore-head to hers. “Whatever storms come,” he murmured, “we have ladders that hold, seeds that wait, and roots too deep for frost.”

Elizabeth thought of the cuttings, of bouquets yet to bud, of a quiet bench sketched on parchment, and felt the truth of his words settle firm and sweet as spring rain.

She rose on her toes and kissed him once—promise, gratitude, love—and together they stepped into the lamplight, carrying the scent of new leaves and endless beginnings.