Page 5

It was the scent that woke Elizabeth—an earthy tang that drifted in through the cracked window before dawn.

Rain had fallen in the night, stirring the compost heaps to fresh industry, and the whole garden seemed to breathe a low, warm exhalation.

She lay a moment listening: the guttering of water in the down-pipe, the distant conversation of gulls riding thermals above the Crescent.

Then came a shorter, sharper sound— clink, scrape, thud —the unmistakable rhythm of a spade striking wet straw.

Mr?Darcy, already at work.

Elizabeth smiled into her pillow, surprised at the ease such knowledge brought.

She rose, dressed in serviceable brown serge, and hurried downstairs.

Mrs?Butterworth thrust a warm currant bun into her hand—“You’ll fall on your face if you garden on an empty stomach, miss”—before shooing her out with the promise of eggs upon her return.

Outside, clouds bruised the eastern edge of the sky, but the rain had paused.

Darcy worked by lantern-light beside the divided compost heap— their divided heap now, for yesterday’s debate had left it clearly parted: his half mounded high and smoking, hers squared off and sedately steaming.

He shoveled straw, seaweed, and shredded paper with deliberate strokes, pausing now and then to gauge temperature with a bare palm.

Tendrils of steam curled around him like incense.

“Good morning,” Elizabeth called, brushing dew from the yew arch as she entered. The lantern’s glow cast her shadow long across the lawn.

Darcy straightened, lowering his spade. “Good morning, Miss?Bennet. I feared the rain might drive you indoors.”

“A little water never daunted me—though I reserve the right to complain when it seeps through my shoes.” She set her bun on a stone bench, pulled on gloves, and reached for a fork.

“Seaweed, as ever?” he asked, half teasing.

She brandished the utensil. “The slow pile has ears and grows jealous when you neglect it.”

They set to work side by side. The rain-soaked straw offered more resistance than yesterday’s airy layers, but together they established a rhythm: Elizabeth lifted heavy shanks of matted bedding while Darcy sliced through tangles with the edge of his spade.

When they paused to catch breath, he said quietly, “There is satisfaction in work that leaves one warmer than when one started.”

“And in work that promises roses,” she replied, surveying the steaming mound. “Though I suspect your half will feed them sooner.”

“A point for speed,” he conceded. “Yet your side will yield the finer crumb come autumn.”

Elizabeth laughed, surprised by the easy banter. At Netherfield, conversation between them had felt like a fencing match; here, it more resembled the gentle turning of a soil clod—revealing earthworms, yes, but also what nourishes them.

The sky paled; rain-pearls clung to bare apple branches. When at last they shouldered tools, Elizabeth sensed the fragile hush of a truce—not yet friendship, but something warmer than cold civility.

At breakfast Mrs?Winter produced a battered catalogue of bulbs and thrust it beneath Elizabeth’s nose. “Oriental lilies arrive this morning. You will assist Darcy in the planting—he has declared his orchard lacks fragrance.”

“Has he indeed?” Elizabeth arched a brow at Darcy across the teapot. He looked faintly abashed.

“I remarked that midsummer evenings would benefit from scent,” he admitted.

“And scent,” Mrs?Winter decreed, “is the province of lilies.” She tapped the catalogue. “Plant them in clumps of three for boldness, stagger depths for succession, and, Darcy—”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Do not crush the bulbs with those bear-paws you call hands.”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh; Darcy, to his credit, accepted the reprimand with a rueful bow.

They carried crates of plump bulbs to the orchard after breakfast. Rain threatened again, but shafts of sun broke through, lighting droplets like glass beads.

Darcy knelt to gauge spacing while Elizabeth sliced turf with a half-moon edger.

As she lifted sod squares, the earthy perfume thickened; robins descended to scavenge worms.

“Mrs?Winter said clumps of three,” Darcy reminded her.

“So she did. But I thought we might tuck a single bulb here.” She pointed to a gap between two russet trees. “If it blooms later, the entire orchard gains an encore.”

His eyes flickered—consideration, then approval. “Very well. You command.”

She stopped, trowel poised. “Command?”

“You have the surer instinct.” He offered a half-smile. “I may read botanical Latin, but you listen to plants.”

Heat rose in her cheeks; she bent to settle the bulb. “One must pay attention,” she murmured.

“Indeed.” His voice had softened; when she glanced up, his gaze held hers steady, earnest, unflinching. Silence thrummed between them—broken, blessedly, by Mrs?Winter’s shout from the greenhouse.

“Miss?Bennet! Letter for you! Looks urgent—arrived by express bag.”

Elizabeth wiped soil from her palms and accepted the folded packet. Jane’s hand, but the seal slightly smudged—as though affixed in haste. She excused herself, retreating beneath the budding quince to read.

My dearest Lizzy, Forgive the hurried scrawl; Mama hovers.

Papa’s cough has worsened, and the apothecary insists he rest or risk further strain.

He remains jovial, but we are anxious. Mr?Collins has written, most officious, to inquire after estate matters “should confusion arise.” You know how such letters vex Papa.

I beg you to write him something diverting—tell him of your garden wars or the eccentric widow.

Anything to cheer his spirits. We are all well otherwise.

Do not trouble yourself unduly, only send us tales to make him laugh. —Ever your Jane

Elizabeth pressed the sheet to her lips, heart fluttering. Her father ill—Jane would not exaggerate unless worried. And Mr?Collins sniffing round the entail like a rat testing floorboards. She folded the letter, sliding it into her pocket as Darcy approached.

“Bad news?” he asked quietly.

“My father’s health.” She kept her voice steady, though nerves frayed beneath. “Nothing dire, but… I must write him.”

“Of course.” He hesitated, then offered, “If Longbourn requires anything—a physician, or—”

“Thank you,” she said, surprised by sudden moisture in her eyes. “For now, only cheerful words.”

He gave a brief nod, as if accepting a silent commission. Then he lifted the basket of bulbs. “Shall we finish? The lilies will not plant themselves, and letters travel faster when the work is done.”

She blinked, grateful, and returned to her trowel.

Planting resumed in companionable quiet until Darcy cleared his throat. “May I speak plainly, Miss?Bennet?”

“You rarely speak otherwise.”

“I wondered—whether my presence here troubles you, considering… past events.”

So it had come: the reckoning inevitable as spring thaw. Elizabeth sat back on her heels, brushing soil from gloves. “I will not pretend the past vanishes, Mr?Darcy, but gardens—or so Mrs?Winter tells me—thrive on turning what was once refuse into nourishment.”

His mouth curved, a wry acceptance. “Then we are compost.”

“A rather useful variety,” she said, surprising a laugh from him. The sound—deep, unguarded—reached places in her chest she did not know remained tender.

“I regret many things,” he murmured, gaze on the damp earth. “My arrogance foremost.”

“And I,” she replied slowly, “regret judging on too little knowledge. Perhaps we might… grow wiser together.”

A pause, soft as moss. “Gladly.”

The truce, then, was acknowledged: a promise fragile as a new root but alive.

Rain returned in earnest at noon, drumming the greenhouse roof as though applauding their morning labour.

Inside, Mrs?Winter presided over a kettle, humming tunelessly while Darcy mended a cracked terra-cotta pot with wire and Elizabeth drafted a letter to Longbourn, weaving tales of lily antics and compost rivalries with deliberate cheer.

“What your father needs is scandalous gossip,” Mrs?Winter pronounced when Elizabeth explained. “Tell him I was found dancing a reel with the butcher’s boy.”

“He will know it true,” Elizabeth teased.

The widow cackled. “Then mention Darcy here lost a duel to a slug.”

Darcy raised an eyebrow but allowed the jest. “So long as the slug’s honour remains intact.”

Elizabeth sealed the letter with wax scented faintly of rosemary—Mrs?Winter’s doing—and set it aside for the evening post. Anxiety eased a notch; words, she hoped, would travel swiftly enough to hearten her father.

Late afternoon brought a knock upon the garden gate. Mrs?Butterworth hurried down the path, umbrella aloft, returning moments later with a soaked but smiling Georgiana Darcy beside her.

Elizabeth started; Darcy nearly dropped his repaired pot. His sister, taller than Elizabeth remembered, cast shy eyes toward them.

“Fitzwilliam,” she greeted, cheeks pink from cold. “I had an errand for Aunt but escaped early. May I visit? I heard you lodged in horticultural paradise.”

Darcy’s astonishment melted into warm pleasure. “You are always welcome. Miss?Bennet, you recall my sister.”

Elizabeth curtsied; Georgiana returned it with endearing awkwardness. “Your lilies smell divine already. May I see more?”

Mrs?Winter adopted Georgiana at once, proclaiming her “ideal height for reaching top shelves” and sweeping her away for a tour of tropical specimens. Darcy and Elizabeth trailed after, watching the young woman’s reserve ease beneath the widow’s irreverent charm.

As they paused beside the lemon tree, Darcy spoke quietly. “I did not arrange this.”

“I believe you,” Elizabeth replied, amused. “But I own myself glad. Your sister’s smile suggests she, too, needed escape.”

He nodded, following Georgiana’s laugh as though it were music. Elizabeth felt something inside her settle—like loam compacting around tender roots.

By the time the carriage arrived to return Georgiana to Great Pulteney Street, lamps flickered along the Crescent.

Georgiana pressed a small parcel into Elizabeth’s hands— mother’s rose notes, copied for you —and whispered, “He is happier here than I have seen in months.” Then she was gone, carriage wheels hissing on wet stone.

Darcy lingered beneath the portico, the two of them half hidden from the street’s glow. “Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For humouring Mrs?Winter, for planting lilies, for—” He hesitated, glancing toward the east wing where candlelight danced behind Elizabeth’s curtain. “For friendship, however newly planted.”

She felt the word settle in her like a seed. “Friendship requires tending, Mr?Darcy. Daily turning, like compost.”

“Then I shall tend it.” He bowed—an elegant simplicity replacing earlier stiffness—and crossed to his own door.

Elizabeth watched him disappear into the vestibule before turning toward her rooms, Georgiana’s parcel cradled like a promise.

Later, seated at her desk with candle guttering low, Elizabeth unfolded the copybook.

Inside, Mrs?Darcy’s hand described roses in lyrical detail: Prune with forgiveness; feed with faith; trust the root even when the bloom fails.

Margins bristled with pressed petals, notes on soil pH, and the occasional personal musing— The Scarlet Nonpareil reminds me of Fitzwilliam’s laugh at age six.

Elizabeth touched the ink as one might touch a relic, feeling suddenly connected not only to Darcy but to the mother who shaped him. Closing the book, she added a line to her journal:

Compost teaches us to honour what once seemed useless. Perhaps the language of mulch and lily bulbs will prove more eloquent than any ball-room apology.

She set quill aside, extinguished the candle, and slid between cool sheets. Though rain still pattered the sill, she felt held in quiet warmth—a truce, a friendship, and lilies sleeping beneath turned earth, all waiting for dawn to coax them nearer bloom.