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Chapter?II

Elizabeth woke before the bells of St?Mary’s tolled six, roused by the faintest glow seeping through uncurtained panes.

Her new bed—narrow, serviceable—creaked as she rose, but the hush of the house remained unbroken.

A thin line of dove-grey light teased the horizon beyond the herb parterre, promising little warmth yet ample clarity for morning tasks.

She dressed quickly in a stout wool gown and wrapped a faded shawl about her shoulders.

No lady’s maid waited to lace stays; she was, for the first time in her life, entirely her own servant.

The realisation proved both liberating and faintly alarming—rather like discovering one has wings whilst already mid-air.

She pinned up her hair, snatched gloves and gardening apron from the chair back, and tiptoed downstairs.

The kitchen sat silent save for embers glowing in the range.

She left a note for Mrs?Butterworth—the cook-housekeeper who materialised at half past seven with scones and cheery scolding—then slipped through the scullery to the back door.

Cold struck her cheeks, clean and invigorating. She breathed it like tonic.

Outside, the garden shimmered with dew. Rose canes glistened silver; narcissi nodded on tender stalks.

Blackbirds hopped along the path, tilting inquisitive heads.

Elizabeth fetched a wicker trug, secateurs, and a ball of jute twine from the potting shed, then set to deadheading what Mrs?Winter dubbed the intermediate shrubs : varieties too anarchic for the formal beds, yet too beloved to banish.

Elizabeth discovered them to be like temperamental relatives—capable of splendid displays when humoured.

She worked methodically, fingers warming with movement. The sun cleared the rooftops; lamplighters extinguished the street globes one by one, retreating into the city’s warren of mews. A breeze stirred yew boughs overhead, carrying the faint clop of distant milk carts.

Mid-way along the central border, she sensed rather than saw another presence.

The rasp of boots on gravel, the hiss of shears slicing cane.

She refused to look, determined to finish her branch before acknowledging him.

One must not yield the field too quickly—even when the interloper owned half of it.

“Good morning, Miss?Bennet.”

Mr?Darcy’s voice arrived low and even, like the first stroke of a cello.

Elizabeth straightened, brushed a stray hair from her brow, and turned.

He stood two yards away, gloved and coated, a sharp trowel hanging loosely at his side.

His hat was absent; early light struck sparks from dark waves of hair.

“Good morning, sir.”

“You keep earlier hours than I remember.”

“I have found dawn to be a democratic supervisor—it watches all labours impartially.”

A corner of his mouth tucked upward. “And passes just verdicts?”

“Not always kind, but usually fair.” She pruned an errant twig, letting it drop with practised precision into the trug. “You are abroad early yourself, Mr?Darcy.”

“I wished to set root cuttings before breakfast. Some things take if started in cool weather.” His gaze flicked to the secateurs in her hand. “You angle your cuts well.”

“So I was taught. Roses object to sloppy surgery.” She lifted another cane, assessing nodes. “I mean no offence, sir, but yesterday I noted a few of yours trimmed rather close. Climbers forgive little.”

His eyes widened a fraction—surprise, not offence—and then he inspected the shears in his gloved fingers. “An error borne of impatience. Mrs?Winter already chided me, but I value corroboration. Would you demonstrate?”

Elizabeth hesitated, aware they stood alone save for watchful birds. Yet what gardener refuses a patient in need? She stepped forward, accepted his shears, and snipped the nearest cane at an outward-facing bud, leaving a neat bevel.

“See?” She returned the tool. “Enough stem remains for sap to rise and seal. Too short, and disease creeps in.”

He tilted the branch, studying. “Clear and precise. Thank you.”

Their eyes met—an accident of proximity that lasted scarcely a heartbeat but conducted a surprising current. The blue-grey of dawn lingered in his gaze; she wondered whether hers betrayed the same unguarded light.

A clatter saved them both. Mrs?Winter barged through the orchard gate, a basket of seedball treats dangling from her arm.

“Early worms catch early birds, and early birds catch my berries if I do not bribe them first.” She halted, taking in the tableau.

“Ah! A congress of cut stems and correction. Excellent. Darcy, stop making calf-eyes at Miss?Bennet’s technique and fetch me the step stool.

Someone,” she added meaningfully, “must reach the top feeders.”

Darcy fetched the stool without protest. Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed, though not at his expense; the widow’s knack for plain speaking felled timidity like a gust topples poppies.

They assembled at the cherry tree, whose branches bore several small wooden feeders shaped like miniature cottages. Darcy steadied the stool; Elizabeth climbed to refill each with seedcake and millet while Mrs?Winter distributed stale crumbs along the path for ground-foragers.

“At seven each dusk,” the widow instructed, “you repeat this, Miss?Bennet. Thrushes sing better on full stomachs.”

“I shall remember.” Elizabeth tipped the last scoop, tapped the roof shut, and descended. Darcy offered a hand to steady her final step; she grasped it—sparks again—and released it quickly, scolding herself for noticing the warmth through two layers of glove.

Breakfast followed—piping scones, Bath buns, rashers, and crisp apples laid like jewels upon a platter.

Mrs?Winter spoke of compost while Elizabeth listened, making notes on a scrap of butcher paper.

Darcy contributed few words but watched Elizabeth more than the stove, a fact she pretended not to recognise.

When the mantel clock struck nine, Mrs?Winter declared court adjourned and shooed them both to “earn their keep by mucking about.” Darcy retreated to his half of the orchard, and Elizabeth collected tools for turning the compost heap—Parliament’s morning session.

Steam rose as Elizabeth drove a broad fork into the mound, levered upward, and folded steaming straw inward. The scent—earthy, sweet, laced with faint ammonia—enveloped her. She found it oddly consoling, like proof that all decay could be coaxed toward new life.

A shadow lengthened beside her. Darcy stood just beyond the fence marking the invisible border between properties, a pail of shredded paper in hand.

“May I trespass?” he asked.

Her fork paused mid-turn. “It seems only decent, given your compost’s influence drifts my way.”

He took the jest as intended, opened the gate, and approached. “I bring an offering: last quarter’s correspondence and ledgers. Reduced to strips.” He tipped the contents onto the heap where they mingled with cabbage leaves and eggshells.

“Account books,” she mused. “A dignified retirement—nourishing roses rather than creditors.”

“Paper remembers everything,” he said quietly. “Best to let worms digest it now and then.”

Elizabeth turned another spadeful, unsure whether he referred to estate accounts or the infamous letter he once wrote—a letter she burned only after memorising, down to the slant of ink. She chose safer ground. “You favour the cold-rot method?”

“It suits my patience—or lack thereof. Quick heat, quick use.”

“I prefer slow, layered stacks. Time works finer alchemy than fire.”

Their eyes met over the steaming heap, amusement rising like vapor. “A philosophical divide,” he said, “yet perhaps complementary. Shall we experiment?”

Elizabeth hefted the fork. “We might divide the pile—half quick, half slow. Compare humus come June.”

“Agreed.” He seized a second fork from the shed, shedding coat to reveal shirtsleeves rolled above sturdy forearms. They set to work opposite each other, rhythm syncing: stab, lift, flop, repeat.

Breath puffed white; laughter escaped when a particularly hideous cabbage stalk slapped Elizabeth’s boot.

Conversation meandered—from preferred tomato cultivars to the best method for discouraging slugs (Elizabeth swore by crushed eggshells; Darcy by night patrol with a lantern).

She found him unexpectedly knowledgeable on horticultural Latin, reeling off Rosa mundi , Malus pumila , Digitalis purpurea with unstudied ease.

He claimed the names offered precision; she countered that poetry sufficed.

By the time they tamped the final layer of straw, a pleasant ache filled her shoulders and the distance between them felt far narrower than the four feet of turned compost.

Mrs?Winter hailed them for elevenses—lemon biscuits and chocolate in tiny squares. She applauded the “bi-partisan heap,” prophesying rival roses might duel for supremacy come midsummer.

After luncheon, Elizabeth climbed the east-wing stairs to restock her ribbon box and discovered a small stack of correspondence awaiting on her desk.

The forward address printed in Uncle Gardiner’s tidy hand; two letters, one from Jane and one from her father.

She cracked Jane’s first, eager for news of Longbourn.

My dearest Lizzy, All is well at home; Mama grows entirely convinced you have exchanged sensible stockings for feathers and will soon be lost to society’s ruin. I assure her daily that Bath possesses neither rakes nor fortune hunters who dig in compost heaps…

Elizabeth chuckled, imagining Mrs?Bennet swooning at the notion of roses trumping routs.

Jane described spring planting, Kitty’s new fondness for sketching robins, Lydia’s latest flirtation with a militia captain whose name changed thrice in a fortnight.

The letter closed with tender encouragement: Write whenever you wish to feel yourself at home.

Her father’s missive followed—short, wry: