Page 4 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)
The following morning, precisely at seven o’clock, the butler knocked softly at the stillroom door before stepping aside to admit Mr. Darcy. He entered with the crisp punctuality of a man accustomed to discipline, his dark coat speckled with early dew and a modest air of anticipation about him.
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth were both aproned and elbow-deep in their respective tasks. Elizabeth stood at the worktable, pestle in hand, working steadily at a mass of macerated leaves, while Mrs. Gardiner stirred a steaming decoction of willow bark on the small wood-burning stove.
At the sight of him, both women looked up. Mrs. Gardiner smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Darcy. You are just in time. We’ve saved the very best duty for you.”
He bowed slightly, his expression alight with interest. “I am all attention, ma’am.”
“But before we begin,” Mrs. Gardiner said with a smile, “I have an apron for you. I should advise you to remove that fine jacket and your waistcoat as well, lest they be splattered and irrevocably ruined in the course of your duties.”
Darcy glanced at both ladies. They wore modest gowns, older in style and clearly chosen for work, not display.
Without protest, he complied with her instruction.
Once he had shed his outer garments and tied the apron neatly about his waist, he crossed the room and took his place beside Mrs. Gardiner.
“The orphanage is in need of tincture of echinacea,” she explained. “It supports recovery from colds and influenza, and with the winter months approaching, they are eager to replenish their stores.”
“I have never worked in a stillroom before,” he said with a note of boyish excitement. “Everything is quite new to me. I would be very glad to learn how to prepare a tincture.”
“Then we shall begin properly,” Mrs. Gardiner said, gesturing toward the pitcher and basin. “You must first wash your hands.”
Once he had completed the task, Elizabeth stepped aside to tend the willow bark, freeing Mrs. Gardiner to instruct Mr. Darcy in the art of making tincture. For the next two hours, the three worked in quiet harmony, exchanging occasional remarks over ingredients, temperatures, and timing.
At nine o’clock, Mrs. Gardiner rang for tea.
“We’ve done well today,” she said, removing her apron. “It is both a blessing and a boon to have an extra pair of hands. Mrs. Douglas will be most pleased with what we’re able to deliver this week.”
They retired to the drawing room while they waited for the tray. Darcy’s gaze fell upon the chessboard on a small side table.
“You play, Mr. Darcy?” Mrs. Gardiner asked, noting his interest.
He nodded. “Occasionally.”
“Elizabeth and my husband play each evening,” she said, with some amusement. “Edward believes he is instructing her, but I assure you, her father trained her well. She wins just as often as he does.”
Darcy’s brow lifted in challenge as he turned to Elizabeth. “Would you honor me with a game?”
“Gladly,” she said. “Uncle has been coming home late these past weeks, and I have had no opponent. I’ve had to entertain myself practicing the piano.” She grimaced.
Darcy picked up a sketchbook and asked, “Is this your work, Miss Elizabeth?”
She looked up from her seat. “Yes. I agreed to art lessons on the condition that I could choose my own subjects. The drawing master is not altogether pleased, but he admits I’m proficient. I should love to be a botanist, and sketching plants and trees allows me to feel like one, at least a little.”
Darcy turned the pages slowly, studying each drawing with growing interest. “Miss Elizabeth, I am genuinely impressed. You have a real talent.”
She smiled, a touch of color rising in her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. Coming from you, that means a great deal. I daresay you are accustomed to seeing only the finest in your circles, so you are well placed to judge.”
They set the board afresh, Elizabeth taking the white pieces. Mrs. Gardiner observed from her embroidery chair, smiling behind her needlework, as Darcy soon realized he had not chosen an easy opponent. An hour passed, and he had yet to gain the advantage.
At last, he sighed and stood. “Once again, Mrs. Gardiner, I fear I have outstayed my welcome. I must excuse myself before you ask the butler to toss me out.”
Mrs. Gardiner laughed softly. As she studied the young man’s features, so refined, so composed, yet open, she wondered not for the first time whether he was in London quite alone and longing for the company of a home.
“Mr. Darcy, would you care to return for dinner this evening?” she asked. “I suspect Lizzy would be delighted to finish your game, and may, in fact, win it.”
He smiled. “I should be very happy to return. Perhaps this time I shall meet Mr. Gardiner as well.”
“I shall send a note to his office and urge him not to delay,” she replied warmly.
In truth, she wanted Edward to form his own opinion of the young man.
Mr. Darcy was evidently wealthy, well-bred, and intelligent, but why he should wish to spend his time in a modest tradesman’s home remained a mystery.
Where were his friends? Was he related to the Darcys of Pemberley?
Perhaps her husband would uncover the answers.
That evening, the young gentleman arrived promptly. During the course of dinner, he asked her candidly, “Mrs. Gardiner, forgive the impertinence, but how is it you are so well-informed in medical matters?”
She smiled. “My father was a physician in Lambton. I studied his medical books, made visits with him, and assisted in treating patients from a young age. I now spend four hours a week at the orphanage clinic, attending to children who have seen the physician and require follow-up treatment.”
Darcy’s face brightened. “Lambton? Are you Dr. Wynn’s daughter?”
She smiled. “I am. My father retired some years ago and now resides with my brother John in Bakewell.”
They continued to speak of Lambton and the beauties of Derbyshire until Mr. Gardiner invited their guest to his study for a glass of cognac.
Mrs. Gardiner lingered by the parlor door a moment, listening with quiet interest as Edward said, “I understand you are soon to embark on a Grand Tour?”
Darcy’s voice, low and measured, carried to her ears.
“That is the plan, sir. My tutor is concluding his term at Cambridge and will accompany me and my cousin, Richard Fitzwilliam, come August. Until then, I am here in town, my father forbids me to socialize with my school friends while I wait, so I am, as they say, kicking my heels.”
She smiled faintly and returned to the drawing room. Not long after, the two men rejoined the women.
That evening, after the lamps were lit and the tea things cleared away, Mr. Gardiner persuaded his niece to sing. Elizabeth took her seat at the piano.
Her soprano was rich and full, carrying the sorrow and mystery of each melody with a quiet power that silenced the room.
She began with "Brown Adam," a haunting tale of love and betrayal, followed by "The Daemon Lover," her voice deepening into its darker tones as the verses unfolded. The Flowers of the Forest brought tears to Mrs. Gardiner’s eyes, and when she sang The Elfin King , the final notes hung in the air like mist upon the moor.
Afterward, conversation resumed in hushed tones. Darcy turned to her and said, “Miss Elizabeth, you have an extraordinary voice for one so young.”
Her brow arched. “Is that meant to be a compliment, Mr. Darcy?”
Frowning slightly, she gave his arm a light swat. He laughed.
“That did come out wrong,” he admitted. “What I meant to say is that you have a truly lovely voice. But you are so young, I wondered whether you have studied with a master since childhood?”
Elizabeth’s expression softened. “Ah, I see. No, Mr. Darcy. My voice is simply a gift for which I am very grateful. I have not studied with a master, my mother would not have permitted it, so I never asked. Singing helps me sort through feelings that are sometimes too large to keep inside.”
She brightened and suggested a game of chess, and he accepted. “Though I must warn you,” she said with a sly smile, “I am exceedingly competitive and do not take kindly to losing.
They sat across from one another, the fire crackling nearby, and played in companionable silence, punctuated by quiet laughter and the soft clink of moving pieces.
“Why do you like the stillroom work?” Elizabeth asked as she moved a pawn.
Darcy’s gaze fell to the board. “I suppose, I wish to understand my mother better. She died when I was eleven. But I remember she loved the stillroom. Mother allowed me to sit with her while she worked. I would read, sometimes aloud, sometimes to myself. I only wish I’d been old enough to help her. To learn from her and to talk to her.”
A long silence followed. Then Elizabeth said softly, “I’m sorry for your loss. You were very young.”
After a pause, she added, almost to herself, “I miss my father.”
Darcy looked up. “What’s wrong, Elizabeth? Why are you sad?”
“I miss reading with my father. We were reading The Iliad together.”
His brow arched. “ The Iliad? What could a girl possibly find interesting in that?”
She narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Que homem de mente pequena!” Then, looking directly at him, she said, “Do you believe only men are rational creatures, capable of enjoying books and learning from them?”
His eyes narrowed. “Small?” he said. “Miss Elizabeth, did you just insult me in Spanish?”
She frowned. “No, sir. I insulted you in Portuguese.”
“And what was the insult? I insist you tell me.”
“I said you were a small-minded man.”
He chuckled. “Very well, Missy. If you’re so clever, tell me, what have you learned from all your reading?”
Elizabeth rested her chin in her hand. “Helen of Troy. I have been thinking about her. I don’t believe she ever had a choice. I don’t think women today have any, either. Why do men get to choose, and women don’t?”
Darcy considered. “No, I do not believe in fate. I believe we make choices and live with the consequences. Every choice sets a path.”
She nodded slowly. “Perhaps that’s true for a man. But take my sister Jane. She’s as beautiful as Helen of Troy, and Mamma says she was born to save the family.”
“Save them from what?”
“From poverty. From the entail. When Papa dies, Longbourn will go to our cousin. Mamma says he’ll toss us to the hedgerows unless Jane marries well.”
“Jane is your elder sister?” Darcy asked softly. “How old is she?”
“Sixteen and a half. Mamma brought her out as soon as she turned fifteen. Four months ago, she was forced to attend an assembly where Mr. Ashworth, an old man with grey hair, stared at her all night. He wrote a verse about her eyes. He smelled like an old man. Jane was frightened, but Mamma scolded her for not encouraging him. She’s terrified he’ll return and be forced on her. ”
“No one can force your sister to marry,” Darcy said firmly. “If she stands before the rector and refuses, no man can make her.”
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up. “Then she can choose? Oh, Will, I shall write to her at once! Perhaps fate is a myth, after all.”
Darcy smiled. “And you, Elizabeth? Can your mother force you ?”
Her eyes glittered. “I should like to see her try.”
He laughed. “And how do you mean to resist her?”
“I have already warned her that if she attempts to parade me, I shall tear my gown to shreds the night before the assembly. I told her I’d cut off my eyelashes and my hair.
If that failed, I’d run away to Uncle Gardiner’s.
She grew so furious, she sent me away for putting rebellious ideas into Jane’s head. ”
“But your father, surely he would protect you both?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Papa and Jane are alike. Neither confronts. Jane says her stomach aches and her mind goes blank. Papa avoids unpleasantness. But you may be right; I need to think more on it.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair, studying her across the chessboard.
“You’re a remarkable girl, Elizabeth.”
She moved her bishop. “And you are not very clever at chess.” She grinned. “Checkmate.”
Darcy rose from the table, laughing. “I wasn’t paying attention. You won’t beat me again,” he said with a playful glance over his shoulder.
He crossed the room to join Mr. Gardiner, and the two soon fell into conversation. At one point, while he was deep in discussion with Uncle Edward about an investment in real estate development, Elizabeth sat quietly to one side and began to sketch.
Her pencil moved swiftly and with ease, capturing the line of his profile as he spoke, his eyes intent, brow slightly furrowed, one hand half-raised in emphasis. She said nothing, nor did he notice her attention, but when she glanced down at the drawing, she smiled to herself.
It was very nearly him.