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Chapter?V

If June had scorched Number?Nine, July brought green resurgence.

Storm-waters soaked deep, lilies thrust spears skyward, and the lawn sprang back so lush that Mrs?Winter swore it squelched in protest whenever she set down her cane.

Elizabeth awoke each morning to mist rising off the compost like incense and the citrusy bite of crushed herbs underfoot.

Yet with the garden’s new vigour came fresh mischief from its doyenne.

Mrs?Winter, sensing renewed strength in both roses and joints, developed an irresistible craving for the ripest fruit at the very crown of her oldest apple tree—fruit visible only from the attic window, tantalising as a forbidden tart in a glass case.

Elizabeth discovered the impulse on a still-sleepy Tuesday at half-past six, when the slap of bare twig against windowpanes pried her from reverie.

She hurried outside … to behold Mrs?Winter perched perilously on the orchard ladder, bonnet ribbons flapping like distress pennants while she reached for one last blush-striped orb far beyond her balance.

“Madam!” Elizabeth seized the ladder’s rungs. “Your cane lies idle; might you prefer it in your hand rather than your ankle?”

Mrs?Winter glanced down, eyes gleaming with merriment. “Nonsense. Ankles crave challenge—it reminds them they exist.” But the branch eluded her grasp by a hair’s breadth; she rocked, wobbled, teetered.

Elizabeth’s heart rammed her ribs. “Pray descend, or Mr?Darcy will find himself short a co-owner.” She cast a frantic glance toward the neighbouring townhouse—only to spy Darcy himself striding across damp grass, coat unbuttoned, hair mussed from evident haste.

“Stand still,” he called, voice calm but firm as a winch-rope. Reaching Elizabeth’s side, he braced the ladder while she guided Mrs?Winter’s tentative descent. At last both feet touched sod, and the widow erupted in giggles unbecoming any matron of sixty-three.

“Victory delayed, not denied,” she insisted, wiping sap from her gloves. “That apple will be mine by sundown.”

“Not without assistance,” Darcy replied, expression half-stern, half-amused. “Henceforth the ladder climbs only under supervision.”

“And the supervisors”—Elizabeth folded arms—“must themselves remain grounded.”

Mrs?Winter narrowed her eyes. “You propose a treaty?”

“A pact,” Darcy corrected, glancing at Elizabeth for confirmation. “The Orchard Ladder Pact of Royal Crescent: Mrs?Winter ascends only with one of us holding the rails.”

Elizabeth nodded. “And only when the weather, her temper, and our nerves prove fair.”

“Signed,” Mrs?Winter declared, planting a theatrical kiss on each of their cheeks. “Now fetch breakfast. I have narrowly escaped hunger’s grasp.”

The pact entered force that very afternoon when Mrs?Winter—having duly rested, imbibed elderflower cordial, and swapped muddy boots for sturdier ones—summoned her guardians to the orchard.

“I see the treaty requires ratification,” she announced, producing a red-silk ribbon. On it she had written, in bold india-ink letters:

By This Knot Let Fruit Be Won And Neck Unbroken.

Darcy accepted the ribbon with solemnity; Elizabeth tied it round the ladder’s central rung. Mrs?Winter clapped. “Splendid. Hoist me.”

Hoisting proved gentler than it sounded. Darcy steadied the base; Elizabeth ascended two rungs behind the widow, ready to catch any errant boot. The coveted apple—rosy, dew-jeweled—yielded with a soft snap. Mrs?Winter’s triumphant whoop startled pigeons from the roof.

Returning earthward, she sliced the apple with her pocket knife, presenting Darcy and Elizabeth each a quarter. The flesh tasted of honey and early morning: well worth the treaty’s trouble.

“Your turn,” the widow decreed, wiping juice from her chin. “Miss?Bennet—show him how to prune that water-sprout without mangling my espalier shape.”

Laughing, Elizabeth swapped ribbon for secateurs, discovering that instructing Darcy from a ladder rung above him felt strangely exhilarating—like dancing a reel in reversed roles.

He watched each cut attentively, asking questions that proved he listened not out of courtesy but curiosity.

When she pointed out a spur that might bear fruit next season, he met her eyes with bright, unguarded interest so infectious she felt warmth bloom deep in her stomach.

By supper the ladder pact stood not merely as a safety measure but a shared jest. Mrs?Winter toasted to “temporary sanity,” Darcy to “collaborative agriculture,” and Elizabeth—flush-cheeked from sun and secret delight—to “friendship balanced on sturdy rails.”

Two mornings later Georgiana arrived bearing a hamper of Bath buns and a polite enquiry after “the celebrated treaty.” Mrs?Winter insisted on a demonstration; while the young lady clapped from a garden bench, Darcy and Elizabeth enacted a mock-solemn drill of ladder stabilization—complete with exaggerated salutes and legal citations of Clause the Fourth: Neither Party Shall Permit the Widow’s Petticoat to Snag on Thorn or Twig.

Georgiana’s laughter—high, bright, liberated—echoed off stone walls.

Darcy, hearing it, glanced at his sister with such tenderness that Elizabeth’s heart caught.

When their eyes met, she realized the laugh had softened him beyond any apology could; it joined their little daily miracles of regained companionship.

After luncheon Georgiana helped Elizabeth repot geranium seedlings in the greenhouse while Darcy hammered a new brace for the ladder.

Talk turned to letters—Bingley had sent news from Scarborough, Lydia had dispatched a note consisting mostly of exclamation points, Mr?Bennet now walked half an hour each evening, physician satisfied.

Elizabeth’s relief glowed through every sentence.

“There,” Georgiana said, patting soil. “Your father improves; our orchard flourishes; perhaps lilies will open for your next post.” She hesitated, then added with quiet forthrightness, “My brother smiles because you are here.”

Elizabeth felt colour flood her cheeks. She pressed down compost, hands suddenly unsure. “Mrs?Winter’s garden could brighten any spirit.”

“I think,” Georgiana said, voice gentle but clear, “you underestimate yourself. And him.”

Before Elizabeth could answer, Darcy tapped on the glass, presenting a new-hewn brace like a trophy. Georgiana excused herself, leaving Elizabeth to accept Darcy’s handiwork and the silent compliment threaded within: faith that she trusted his craft.

July ripened; evenings draped themselves in velvet dusk. One twilight Elizabeth gathered fallen petals beneath the cherry tree when Darcy approached carrying a lantern and two glasses of pear cordial.

“For the orchard ladder’s engineers,” he offered.

She accepted, gulping cool sweetness. Fireflies blinked in the gloom; the ladder, folded against trunk and bearing its red-ribbon charter, cast striped shadows.

They spoke of small things—steam-trains rumoured to reach Bristol by Christmas, a new herbal published in London—but the soft hush between sentences felt substantive, like loam holding seeds.

A breeze rustled leaves overhead. Elizabeth tipped her face to catch its coolness; when she looked back, Darcy studied her with an expression so open she felt suddenly shy.

“What is it?” she asked, keeping tone light.

He considered his glass. “Only—this peace. I thought myself incapable of it half a year ago.”

“Peace rootles where we let it.” She gestured toward the ladder. “Even treaties begin with unstable footing.”

He chuckled, low and genuine. “You make philosophy of horticulture.”

“Better than making tragedy of it.”

“True.” He swirled cordial, then met her gaze. “Our pact succeeded. But I find I desire additional terms.”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Such as?”

“That we—continue as allies even when ladders are not present. That frankness remains our habit.” His voice dropped. “And that your counsel—your laughter—remains near.”

Words failed her momentarily; cicadas provided a choir of buzzing anticipation. She managed, “I accept these terms … provisionally.”

“Provisional upon?”

“Continued good conduct, daily.” A smile lighting her eyes. “Perfection unnecessary; honesty imperative.”

He extended his hand as though to seal a contract. She placed hers within it—a warm, steady clasp that lingered beyond courtesy. The orchard watched in rustling silence; somewhere a night-jar churred agreement.

When they released palms Elizabeth felt the echo of his touch trail her pulse back to the east wing and into dreams scented by lilies not yet bloomed.

Peace rarely remains undisturbed where eccentric widows reign. A fortnight after the pact’s signing, Mrs?Winter announced she had read of an experimental grafting technique combining quince with pear and wished to attempt it on the highest branch of the very tree that had prompted the treaty.

Darcy, spotting impending peril, proposed constructing a modest platform rather than another ladder jaunt.

Mrs?Winter scoffed at such “operatic set-builds.” Elizabeth suggested a compromise: they would raise the ladder, secure a rope around the trunk for harness-like support, and perform the graft with Mrs?Winter’s feet planted firmly on the third rung—Darcy and herself anchoring the rope belay-style from the ground.

The plan, astonishingly, worked. The graft took; the widow remained unbroken; and the village children, spying from the road, declared the trio “rope-dancers of the apple circus.” Darcy laughed so hard he nearly relinquished the rope; Elizabeth, wiping tears, decided happy absurdity was the strongest mortar for friendship yet devised.

Late July delivered a thick envelope bearing Mr?Bingley’s seal. Darcy opened it at the breakfast table; his face lit with boyish delight.

“He returns to Netherfield in August,” he told Elizabeth once Mrs?Winter bustled out to fetch more toast. “He invites you, Mrs?Winter, and—should I ask politely—myself, to a harvest fête. Georgiana will be there, as will your sister Jane, staying with the Gardiners in Gracechurch Street before journeying north. Bingley begs we all converge for bonfires and apples.”

Elizabeth’s heart twined pleasure with trepidation—Longbourn lay but a few miles from Netherfield.

Yet the thought of Jane’s calm smile, of reuniting families under mellow autumn sky, filled her with homesick anticipation.

She glanced at Darcy; hope flickered beneath his practiced composure, as if he dared not presume her acceptance.

“I should like that very much,” she said.

His shoulders lowered subtly—relief disguised as politeness. “Then we shall coordinate with Mrs?Winter.”

The widow entered at that moment, toast triumphant, and accepted the invitation as though she had orchestrated it already. “I have a new walking stick perfect for rustic rambles,” she declared. “Besides, our treaty must travel—mobility keeps alliances fresh.”

Elizabeth laughed; Darcy’s answering grin felt like sunrise inside sturdy walls.

Before August’s first dawn, Darcy brought a plain wooden plaque to the orchard ladder. He and Elizabeth carved into it:

The Orchard Ladder Pact 15 July 18— Safety, Honesty, & Shared Laughter Witnessed by Roses, Apples, and One Eccentric Widow.

They nailed it just above the red ribbon, sap tapping the inscription like a benediction. Mrs?Winter, upon discovering it, dabbed her eyes with her gardening glove and pronounced it “monstrously sentimental—keep it.” Yet the next day she polished the brass tacks with vinegar and a rag.

On the last evening of July, fireflies drifted among the runner beans while the lilies Elizabeth planted weeks before finally cracked their sheaths.

One by one white petals unfurled, releasing fragrance rich as clover honey.

Elizabeth and Darcy stood beneath them in silvery dusk, breathing the perfume that seemed both familiar and thrillingly new.

“She kept her promise,” Darcy murmured, nodding to a blossom nearly luminous.

“So did we,” Elizabeth replied.

He looked at her, and into that silence—the kind that nourished roots rather than starved them—fell a shared certainty.

Whatever storms or heat awaited beyond these walls, they owned between them a sturdy ladder, a spoken pact, and the easy resurrection of genuine laughter.

In a garden where even eccentric schemes bore sweet fruit, hope felt not a fragile bloom but a seed already sown, hidden in soil, gathering strength for the inevitable reach toward open air.