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Lizzy, Your mother laments your departure daily, which improves household tranquility immensely. The pig broke into the orchard again; I have lectured it on propriety. How fare the roses? —F. Bennet

Elizabeth pressed both sheets to her heart, grateful for love delivered by post. She selected fresh stationery and dipped her pen, but paused.

She longed to describe dawn laughter with Mr?Darcy, yet hesitated to invite speculation.

Instead she wrote of frost-pearled narcissus, seaweed debates, and Mrs?Winter’s irrepressible candour.

When the ink dried she sealed the letters, addressed them, and tucked them into her reticule to post after supper.

At half past six Elizabeth donned a cloak and ventured to the cherry tree feeders.

The sky spread lilac and rose over Bath’s limestone rooftops; a fingernail moon glimmered.

She hummed softly—an old Derbyshire lullaby Mrs?Gardiner once taught her—as she replenished seed. Sparrows chattered approval.

A gentle chord drifted over the wall: the subdued swell of a piano.

She froze, listening. The melody, delicate yet uncertain, flowed from Darcy’s house—an andante, faltering, resuming with more determination.

Elizabeth recognised it by echo rather than name; something tender composed for small drawing-rooms.

She fed the last feeder and lingered, back pressed to the trunk, entranced by the unexpected intimacy of hearing a private man permit music to leak through shutters.

The piece ended abruptly, followed by a pause so long she wondered if he regretted playing at all.

Then the same theme returned, stronger, surer, stitched with resolve.

When silence finally fell, the moon had climbed higher, and cold nipped her nose. She retreated to the greenhouse, heart curiously light.

Inside, the air still retained noon warmth; the scent of lemon verbena doubled under darkness. She checked the propagator lids, misted seed trays, and whispered encouragement to the lettuce seedlings gifted by Mrs?Winter.

As she closed the greenhouse door, footsteps approached along the main path. Darcy emerged, carrying a lantern and a shallow wooden box lined with moss.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “Mrs?Winter told me you might have space to shelter these.”

He raised the lid. Inside, half a dozen fragile fern cuttings nestled—green fronds no larger than feathers.

“They are exquisite,” Elizabeth breathed.

“Spotted them in a stall on Cheap Street.” He glanced at the darkened panes. “But my greenhouse remains rather—chaotic. Yours is superior.”

She accepted the box, gesturing him inside. He hung the lantern on a hook; a soft pool of gold unfolded, casting stripes over glass and shadow.

They set the ferns on a bench. Elizabeth prepared a tray of fine compost while Darcy fetched miniature pots. Their shoulders brushed occasionally; each accidental touch set her pulse leaping like a startled wren. They worked mostly in silence, yet it felt companionable rather than strained.

When the last cutting was potted, Darcy produced a small wooden label. “A favour,” he murmured, pressing it toward her.

She read the carved words: Filix Bennetii .

Her breath hitched. “You name the species after me?”

“I carve names for unidentified strains,” he said, eyes intent but shy. “Until they prove themselves—and you discovered my error with the roses this morning, so…” He shrugged, unable—or unwilling—to finish.

Elizabeth traced the letters, overwhelmed by the gentle audacity of the gesture. “Then I must ensure it flourishes.”

“I expect nothing less.”

They arranged the pots beneath a glass bell cloche. Condensation already pearl-edged the rim, twinkling like distant stars.

Darcy lifted the lantern. “May I escort you back?”

“Thank you, but I have one more duty—Mrs?Winter insists the thrushes receive a midnight crumb.”

“Then allow me to carry the crumbs.” He smiled—tentative, genuine. It lit his features in a way no ballroom candle ever had.

Elizabeth fetched the seedbasket, and together they walked into the frost-sweet night.

The cherry tree glowed silver under moonlight; the feeders swung gently in a breeze, creaking like miniature ships.

They scattered crumbs along the path, then paused, eyes drawn upward to a sudden flurry of wings.

A barn owl swept overhead, ghost-pale, silent as unfinished dreams.

Elizabeth’s breath formed clouds that rose, merged, vanished. Without thinking, she whispered, “I have never seen one so near.”

“Bath keeps secrets,” Darcy replied just as softly.

They stood side by side, listening to the owl’s retreating rustle. Somewhere a distant clock struck eight. Elizabeth exhaled, realising how close they stood; she felt the warmth of his lantern arm inches from her sleeve.

“Thank you for the escort,” she said, gathering composure like a shawl.

“My pleasure.” He tilted the lantern. “Good night, Miss?Bennet.”

“Good night, Mr?Darcy.”

He turned toward his house; she toward the east wing.

Halfway across the lawn she glanced back.

The lantern still glowed, suspended at shoulder height as he lingered at the orchard gate.

When he saw her look, he lifted it in brief salute—then extinguished the flame, leaving only moonlight to mark his silhouette.

Elizabeth undressed by lamplight, hung her wool gown to air, and brushed stray flecks of compost from her hair. Fatigue settled pleasantly into her limbs, the ache of honest labour layered with a buzzing undercurrent—anticipation or unease, she could not decide.

Seated at her desk, she added a postscript to Jane’s letter:

…and you will laugh, dearest, to know that Mr?Darcy tends orchards and ferns as seriously as ever he studied pedigree—perhaps more so. I find him altered, yet familiar in unexpected ways. The season promises surprises; pray I keep my wits.

She sealed the note, set it aside, then opened her journal.

Two pages filled themselves in quiet cursive: descriptions of dawn light, of laughter over steaming compost, of a wooden label bearing her name.

She wrote until the ink threatened to blot, then closed the book, rose, and tiptoed to the window.

The garden lay pale under moonshine: paths silvered, greenhouse roof shimmering like a frozen pond, March buds glinting with ice crystals.

Somewhere unseen, the owl hooted—low, resonant, reassuring.

In another wing, perhaps behind another window, Darcy might be writing, or pruning a thought from some tangle of old misjudgements, shaping it to healthier growth.

Elizabeth touched the glass, smiling at her breath-fog halo. Gardens demanded patience; roots deepened long before buds unfurled. So too, perhaps, did human hearts. She extinguished the lamp, slid between cool sheets, and let the cadence of thrush-song and distant city bells lull her toward sleep.

Tomorrow held compost temperature checks, seedling vigilance, and, very likely, another dawn encounter beneath budding roses. She welcomed it all—the labour, the learning, the slow, deliberate turning of seasons that promised, if properly tended, a rich and unexpected bloom.