Page 2 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

Madeline Gardiner had just finished decanting a fresh tincture of willow bark when the front door creaked open. She wiped her hands on a clean cloth and stepped into the passageway, prepared to scold her niece for lingering too long at the bookshop.

“Lizzy, you’ve been so long I was beginning to worry.” Her words faltered as she took in the sight before her.

There stood Elizabeth, cheeks flushed, bonnet askew; her elbow cradled awkwardly in one hand.

Beside her, a very fine-looking gentleman, scarcely older than twenty, held a stack of neatly wrapped books.

He was tall, immaculately dressed, with dark, wavy hair, of which one rebellious lock fell attractively across his brow.

His bearing spoke of wealth and breeding, but he had the courtesy to look slightly self-conscious in the modest entry of their tradesman’s home.

“Aunt Madeline, may I present Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy?” Elizabeth said brightly, as though she had not a speck of mud on her hem nor a smear of blood at her elbow. “He rescued me after a rather dramatic encounter with a street urchin.”

“My pleasure, Mr. Darcy.” Then Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the raw scrape, still weeping and red. “Lizzy, that looks like it could scar.”

“It is nothing,” her niece said, though her voice lacked conviction.

“Come with me to the stillroom and I’ll tend it. Perhaps we may avoid the worst of it.” She turned to the young man. “Mr. Darcy, you may set the books on that table there.”

He obeyed with a respectful inclination of the head. “Thank you. Might I, that is, may I come to the stillroom as well?”

Mrs. Gardiner blinked. “You wish to?”

“My father considers it strictly women’s work,” Darcy admitted with a wry smile, “and forbade me from entering ours. But I have always had an interest. My mother spent many hours in the stillroom and said it gave her the greatest pleasure. She had a favorite tincture, with ginger and a few other ingredients, which worked wonders for disorders of the digestive tract. Our housekeeper still prepares it. I brought a vial with me for my travels.”

“Well then,” she said, warming to him, “you are most welcome.”

The stillroom smelled of beeswax and lavender, with dried herbs hanging in bunches from the ceiling. Mrs. Gardiner seated Elizabeth on a low stool, cleansed the wound with rose water, applied tincture of calendula, and then spread a thin layer of honey over the angry scrape.

“Perhaps the honey will reduce the risk of scarring,” she murmured, “but Lizzy, the scratch is deep. It will give your mother a heart seizure.”

“Not if she never sees it,” Elizabeth replied, amused.

Mr. Darcy examined the shelves. Bottles of all shapes and sizes lined the dark wooden cupboard, each labeled in a neat, feminine hand. He paused at one marked Cinchona .

“I have never heard of this,” he said, turning to Mrs. Gardiner. “Is it medicinal?”

She nodded. “It’s powdered bark from a tree native to Bolivia. We use it to treat malaria.”

His brows rose. “Imported bark, here in your stillroom. Remarkable.”

Elizabeth picked up the bottle and studied the contents. “I have often thought I might like to study botany. Not simply gardening, but the true science of it, plant structures, classification, and medicinal properties. There’s much to learn.”

Darcy’s brow lifted. “Gardening is a most graceful occupation for ladies. But a scientific study? Botany, as a discipline, is hardly suited to the fairer sex. A woman’s place is in the home, raising children, managing her household, not filling her head with such academic clutter.”

Elizabeth blinked at him. “You astonish me.”

He offered a faint shrug. “It is the natural order of things.”

“And it is men like you who ensure women remain ornamental rather than educated,” she retorted, eyes flashing. “Would you enjoy being told that your destiny lay solely in playing the pianoforte, sewing lace, or sketching bowls of fruit for admiration at dinner parties?”

Mrs. Gardiner gave a quiet cough, but Elizabeth pressed on.

“I am a woman, Mr. Darcy, but I hate embroidery. I cannot think of a pastime more numbing to the mind. What is the purpose of mastering French if not to speak it in Paris? Why must I learn to paint a landscape but never study the land itself?”

Darcy’s mouth opened, but she did not allow him the chance to reply.

“You are so very proper, so thoroughly fixed in your ways. I cannot imagine any modern woman wishing to tie herself in matrimony to such a stuffed shirt.”

Mrs. Gardiner had taken a sip of water and promptly choked.

“Lizzy!” she said, eyes wide. “You will comport yourself like the gentlewoman you are, or I shall ask you to leave this room at once.”

Elizabeth flushed but held Darcy’s gaze, her chin lifting.

“I apologize, Mr. Darcy. It may be true, but I should not have said so,” she added with a sudden smile. “Would you care to look through my herbal remedy book? We could have tea, and you might study the malaria treatment for yourself.”

Mrs. Gardiner glanced at him, gauging whether he might find an excuse to withdraw.

His eyes glinted with amusement, and after a brief struggle to suppress it, he chuckled.

“Do not hold back, to spare my feelings, Miss Elizabeth. Your candor is most instructive.” He turned to his hostess with a slight bow.

“It would be a pleasure to take tea with you.”

She ushered them into the drawing room and rang for the maid. While Elizabeth fetched her new book, Mr. Darcy observed, “Your stillroom is most impressively stocked, ma’am.”

“I help supply remedies for the Asylum for Female Orphans,” she replied as she poured hot water over the tea leaves. “My husband and I patronize the institution. I send them extracts for common ailments, sew garments for the infants, and teach at the school on Wednesdays.”

“And Miss Bennet?” he asked, glancing at Elizabeth as she returned with her book.

“She volunteers as well.”

Darcy raised a brow. “Aren’t you a bit young to be volunteering?” She was exceedingly slender, verging on scrawny, and appeared no older than thirteen.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and lightly swatted his arm. “I’m hardly an infant. I’m fifteen and can read, write, and do my sums. I teach reading and writing on Tuesdays and sums on Thursdays.”

Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “They’ve given her a classroom of her own. Children between eight and twelve. She keeps them engaged.”

Darcy leaned back in his chair, his smile playful. “Don’t let it go to your head, Miss Bennet. You know what they say about pride.”

Elizabeth met his gaze. “Yes, I do. But what do you say about it?”

He quoted solemnly, “Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. Proverbs sixteen, eighteen.”

She nodded. “That’s exactly what I thought you would answer. But there is such a thing as good pride. A quiet, self-assured affirmation of one’s capabilities. I know I have a gift for teaching young children, and I do not think it wrong to admit it or to take satisfaction from it.”

He studied her a moment longer, then turned to Mrs. Gardiner. “Miss Bennet is rather formidable, is she not?”

Mrs. Gardiner smiled fondly. “She is indeed, and quite precocious for her age.”

They discussed pride and vanity a little while longer, sipping their tea, the late afternoon sun slanting warmly through the windows. At length, Mr. Darcy rose and bowed.

“I thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Gardiner. And for your wisdom, Miss Bennet.”

“You are welcome anytime,” Mrs. Gardiner said sincerely.

But as the door closed behind him and she returned to the drawing room, she murmured, half to herself, Though I rather doubt a gentleman of his rank will ever cross this threshold again.

Elizabeth, seated on the carpet and thumbing through her new book, said without looking up, “He will.”