Page 5 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

It had become a familiar rhythm, Mr. Darcy arriving each morning, slipping quickly into his apron, and taking up whatever task Mrs. Gardiner placed in his capable hands.

Whether it was straining rose hips, bottling wormwood tincture, or stirring comfrey into honey, he worked without complaint and with a sincerity that continually surprised her.

He asked questions, not merely about plants and potions, but about life.

Questions a boy might once have asked his mother.

And she answered as best she could, sometimes with amusement, sometimes with grave thoughtfulness, always with the warmth he seemed to crave.

Elizabeth, for her part, had learned to listen.

She said little during those long hours in the stillroom, choosing instead to observe.

She had never given thought to what it might be like for a young man to grow up without brothers, to shoulder the burden of legacy and duty alone.

In Mr. Darcy, she saw strength, but also uncertainty. Curiosity. Vulnerability.

He dined with them each evening now. Played chess with Elizabeth.

Discussed investments with Mr. Gardiner, who had recently brought him into a housing development project as a silent partner.

Mr. Darcy would be abroad for two years, and before departing, he had left Mr. Gardiner his solicitor’s card with instructions to reach him if ever needed.

On his final morning, he returned to the stillroom one last time.

The scent of dried lavender and elderflower clung to the air. Mrs. Gardiner stood by the stove, steeping plantain leaves. Darcy washed his hands, then joined her, both instinctively lowering their voices.

“Mrs. Gardiner,” he began, “may I ask you something more personal?”

“Of course.”

He hesitated, then said, “I have been thinking a great deal about duty. And choice. How does one balance personal desires with the expectations placed upon him, particularly when it comes to choosing a wife?”

Mrs. Gardiner looked up at him, her expression thoughtful. “You’ve brought that matter up once before, Mr. Darcy. Why does it weigh so heavily on you? Has your father selected a bride for you?”

Darcy exhaled. “No. Not my father. In fact, he forbade me from marrying my cousin Anne. But my aunt, Lady Catherine, insists it was my mother’s dying wish that Anne and I should marry. I feel guilty. As though I am betraying my mother by refusing.”

Mrs. Gardiner raised a brow. “Do you know for certain that it was your mother’s dying wish?”

He paused. “No, she never told me.”

“Did she tell your father, perhaps? On her deathbed?”

He thought again. “No. He said her last words were that he must spend more time with Georgiana and me, since she would have none left herself.”

“Then perhaps Lady Catherine misinterpreted something,” Mrs. Gardiner said gently. “Or imagined it altogether. Have you ever asked your father why she believes it was your mother’s dying wish?”

Darcy shook his head. “No, but I will. That is an excellent point. My father arrives tomorrow and intends to spend my final week in England with me. I shall ask him. I have long wished to understand the circumstances of my mother’s passing, what took her, how it happened.”

He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. “I do not recall Aunt Catherine being at Pemberley during that time. In fact, I should like to know why she was not at her only sister’s side.”

He looked up at Mrs. Gardiner, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “If she were not at my mother’s bedside, how could she presume to know what her dying wish was?”

Later that afternoon, he brought Elizabeth a farewell gift.

It was a handsome book, leather-bound, gilded, and a rare first edition on ancient herbal remedies. He handed it to her solemnly, the weight of parting in his eyes.

Elizabeth opened it, marveling at the fine paper and meticulous illustrations. On the inside cover, in a bold, elegant hand, he had written:

August 6, 1805

To Miss Elizabeth Bennet—

In appreciation of your lively mind, your earnest friendship, and your rare and fearless courage. May this volume bring you joy in study, comfort in uncertainty, and strength in your own convictions.

With sincere regard,

F. Darcy

Elizabeth, in turn, presented him with a finely crafted wooden box, purchased with her uncle’s assistance.

Within, nestled in velvet, lay vials of herbal tinctures, powdered charcoal, and a small leather-bound journal.

He opened it to find her handwriting, neat and elegant, with each page dedicated to a remedy: its name, a hand-drawn illustration, its benefits, instructions, dosage, and preparation.

The first page bore a dedication, written in elegant feminine script:

To Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy—

Thank you for your friendship, your respect, and your time. Thank you for listening when I needed to be heard, and for helping me reason through the difficult issues, about my mother, about choice, and about what truly matters.

I made this for your travels, but also as a remembrance of the hours spent in the stillroom.

Keep safe, Will.

With deepest gratitude,

Elizabeth Bennet

He closed the journal slowly and tucked it back into its resting place.

They played one final game of chess after supper, neither of them truly attending to the board, preferring instead to speak with one another, perhaps for the last time.

And when it came time for him to leave, Mrs. Gardiner saw the look they exchanged, tender, unspoken, complicated beyond their years, and knew that, whatever the future might hold, something lasting had begun in that little stillroom of dried herbs and early mornings.