Chapter 5

Five

Saturday, April 11

Having been informed she was ‘obtuse'—not to mention ‘mad'—Anne vigorously exerted herself to repel her cousin's ill-natured aspersions. Although Darcy was less than ten years her senior, he had become an insufferably dull, pompous, overbearing brute. Albeit a brute I cannot help but hold in high regard .

Lady Catherine always claimed she and Lady Anne Darcy had planned a union between the two cousins while they were in their cradles. Anne laughed to herself, picturing Pemberley's heir, tall even at that young age, squeezed into an infant's cradle. Such balderdash! Why, Darcy was a lad of nearly seven when I was born. The sisters might have agreed that it would be advantageously pleasing if Darcy and I decided to wed, but that will not happen.

The cousins' latest difference of opinion had begun half an hour earlier when Darcy exited the library and espied Anne in the hall where she donned her gloves—the soft tan ones embroidered with her monogram. Darcy had given her those gloves, and she always and only wore them while driving.

"Where are you going," he asked.

Though Anne thought it should be obvious and none of his business, she said, "Out." Tucking her book and riding whip under one arm, she waggled eight kid-clad fingers in front of his face. "In my phaeton."

" You are venturing out in this cold? There was sleet earlier, Anne. And you are not going alone, are you? Take either Mrs Jenkinson or your lady's maid with you."

"The former is asleep in her chair, snoring and drooling, and the latter cannot be spared. At present, Dubois is putting finishing enhancements on my full-dress gown."

Anne flattered herself in thinking she possessed a degree of captivating deceit, particularly when adding her own little embellishments, such as the snoring and drooling detail.

Dear old Mrs Jenkinson! I should not ridicule the fine lady who superintended my education and is supposed to be available at all hours to satisfy my needs and maintain propriety. Still, Anne appreciated how doting her companion was and how protective she was of her charge's comfort.

Darcy beckoned a footman and requested his own coat, scarf, hat, and gloves be fetched. " I shall accompany you."

You would have to kill me first. "I thank you, but no. As they say, ‘One's too few, three too many'."

Crossing his arms, Darcy said, "You are being either evasive, deliberately obtuse, or both. Pray tell who will attend you?"

Lifting heels off the floor and stretching her neck, Anne tried to gain an inch or two. Although her mother was a tall woman, her father had been rather squat, and Darcy towered above her.

"I shall be with Mr Brinton." Her cousin's face grew livid at that. See what happens when one tells the truth?

"Brinton? Brinton! Are you completely mad?"

"Of course not. I simply said his name to see how you would react." It was no lie. "If you must know, Gilchrist promised to show me where the wild cherry trees may be found." Again, no lie. "I want to press some of their frothy, delicate blossoms in my Flora." Anne held up the book, glad she had thought to bring it along, though she had no real interest in using it. As for what she planned to do afterwards, she did not feel it necessary to disclose such information. It was none of Darcy's business.

Besides, why would it be ‘mad' to go for a drive with Laurence Brinton but quite acceptable to do so with Iain Gilchrist?

Obviously, Anne knew why. One was an eligible gentleman bachelor and an infamous flirt. The other was a loyal servant, and she, a wealthy, innocent damsel, was his employer.

It was with gentle persuasion and much acuity that Anne eventually softened her cousin into complaisance. She first, however, had to agree Darcy could accompany her as far as Gilchrist's cottage—just beyond the glass-roofed structures where tender plants were raised and exotic ones protected.

And that was where, a quarter of an hour later, they encountered her master gardener. Anne already considered Iain Gilchrist to be in her employ because Lady Catherine would control Rosings for only another nine days.

The Scotsman, in Anne's opinion, was a dark-haired Adonis upon whom nature had bestowed more than his fair share of attractiveness. Tall and well-formed like the plants in one of the hothouses, he was exotically handsome. His face, while bronzed, was unlined for he still was a relatively young man. Customarily, he wore a myrtle-green coat, pristine shirt and cravat, nankeen inexpressibles, and boots that looked like Hessians—far too fashionable for a mere gardener. Because he wore gloves while working, his fingernails were spotless, and he smelt of earth, dried herbs, and greenery. Anne's only complaint was that, at certain times, he spoke with a perplexing Highland Scottish burr.

When the cousins greeted Gilchrist outside the orangery, the gardener doffed his cap and bid them good morning.

Anne had not realised she was staring at the well-favoured fellow until Darcy's throat was cleared with exaggeration. Once upon a time, she had been infatuated with Gilchrist. But a gentlewoman and a gardener! Can you imagine the scandal? Admittedly, she still felt great affection for the man, and the regard was mutual. However, never would she unscrupulously control or influence someone in her employ. He is a willing partner in my—our—scheme.

After exchanging a few civilities, Darcy said to Gilchrist, "Please ensure Miss de Bourgh is not kept overlong in this frigid air." With that, he took his leave of Anne and her gardener.

Later, near the woodland, Anne sat in her phaeton while her ponies stamped and snorted. Her toes and fingertips were freezing, her entire body shivered, and she held a handkerchief to her nose while Gilchrist plucked unwanted wild cherry blossoms for her.

Soon though, she knew they both would be warm and cosy enough, albeit not in either her grand manor or the gardener's sweet little cottage. Instead, they would cut across the woods and onto the road, all the way to Rara Avis for a brief call.

Teasingly referring to her as milady, Gilchrist passed Anne the delicate white flowers, and she laughed with him while carelessly placing the blossoms between pages in the middle of her Flora. They were the only plants therein, but she supposed she would have to collect more specimens to satisfy her mother and cynical cousin.

Nearly giddy with ebullience and anticipation, she urged her ponies to move along at a lively trot while Gilchrist held onto his cap.

Rara Avis and its young master are like nothing else and no one I have ever known. Which is not saying much. Rarely do I make or receive calls.

Brinton's home, though seldom was he in residence there, was a trove of treasures from faraway lands. It was alive with music and with plants and birds and knick-knacks not native to England's shores.

In that marvellous manor and on those beautiful grounds, Anne felt as though she was exploring and experiencing the world. On that estate, she felt alive , never sullen or in ill health.

And she would trade Rosings Park for Rara Avis in a heartbeat.