Chapter Eleven

M onday the Eighth of March, 1813

I have done something quite shocking today. Something Caroline of old would never have dreamed of doing.

Mr Harrison called to discuss the garden borders—he has most decided opinions about informal planting schemes—and found me already at work. The fact that I was in the garden at all would once have been remarkable enough. But there I was, actually handling plants and soil!

“Miss Bingley,” he said, sounding quite astonished, “whatever are you doing?”

“Planting sweet peas and larkspur,” I replied, trying to sound as if I regularly knelt in garden beds. “You convinced me that formal borders need not be stern and regimented. So I am experimenting with a more natural arrangement.”

“In your walking dress?”

I looked down at my skirts, now quite thoroughly besmirched with earth, and felt a moment of my old horror at appearing less than perfectly turned out. But then I caught his expression—that wonderful look of delighted surprise—and found I did not care a whit about the dress.

“Well,” I said, pressing another sweet pea seed into the warm soil, “one cannot garden properly in evening dress.”

He laughed that real laugh of his—the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners—and without another word, knelt down beside me in his good coat to help.

We worked in companionable silence for a time, our hands occasionally brushing as we planted. I found myself thinking how strange it was that I had once thought a lady’s hands should never show signs of real work. My gloves are quite ruined, my dress beyond redemption. Who would have thought true contentment would be found in ruined gloves and honest work?

“You never cease to astonish me, Miss Bingley,” he said softly as we finished the last section.

I looked up to find him watching me with an expression I dared not interpret. “I find I never cease to astonish myself,” I replied.

The moment stretched between us, full of a sentiment I scarce dare name. Then he helped me to my feet, his touch lingering perhaps a fraction longer than strictly proper.

I shall have to burn this dress. And yet, I cannot find it in myself to regret a single moment of this afternoon. The sweet peas will bloom just as summer arrives—how fitting that something so lovely should come from such delightful impropriety.

How vastly different from my former self. How much more true to what I am becoming.

—?—

Sunday the Fourteenth of March, 1813

Through the window, a weak March sun contended with scattered clouds, matching my customary winter temperament. Charles entered my sitting room as though he were approaching a tiger's cage. Never a promising sign from my usually ebullient brother. The pale light illuminated the dust motes drifting around him, reminding me absurdly of the way he used to fidget during our childhood dancing lessons.

“Dearest Caroline,” he began, fiddling with his cravat, “I have the most wonderful news...”

“You are to marry Miss Bennet.” His expression of shock was really quite gratifying. “Charles, you forget I have known you since birth. You only wear that particular expression of sheepish delight when discussing Miss Bennet or particularly good port.”

“But you... that is to say... are you not going to...”

“Tell you she is beneath you? Bemoan our family’s degradation?” How strange that the words no longer taste bitter on my tongue. “My dear brother, I find I have quite exhausted my supply of sisterly disapproval.”

“Caroline, are you ill?”

“Merely reformed. Though perhaps ‘ill’ is not far off - I do feel rather feverish about the whole business. When shall I call on my new sister?”

—?—

Later That Day - The Dreaded Cheapside Residence

I confess, upon arriving at the Gardiner residence, I was forced to revise several long-held opinions. How vexing to discover one has been wrong about yet another matter. The house, while not palatial, possessed an elegance I had willfully denied in my previous visits. The drawing room particularly showed evidence of refined taste - the pianoforte was of excellent quality, and the furnishings, while not ostentatious, spoke of quiet wealth. The afternoon light streamed through immaculate windows, casting warm patterns across a Aubusson carpet that I grudgingly admitted was finer than my own. A subtle fragrance of hothouse flowers - lilies, perhaps - drifted from an elegant arrangement that would not have been out of place in any fashionable home.

“Your aunt has excellent taste, Miss Bennet.” There, that was not so difficult to admit.

“Indeed?” Her tone suggested polite disbelief. “I had thought Cheapside too unfashionable for any display of taste.”

I winced. “Miss Bennet, I believe I owe you an apology.”

“Do you?” Her tone was perfectly polite. And about as warm as a January morning.

“Indeed. I have been insufferable, superior, and unkind. I can only say that I have lately learned the value of authenticity over artifice. And if I am being authentic, this room puts several Bond Street drawing rooms to shame.”

She studied me with those clear eyes. “That is... a most unexpected admission.”

“Yes, well, one cannot spend all one’s time being entirely disagreeable. It leaves so little room for other pursuits.” Like gardening. And certain conversations about gardening .

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I understand you have developed quite an interest in horticulture.”

“Oh, do not you start. I can well imagine what your sister thinks of Mr Harrison's influence on my horticultural education.”

“Lizzy can be rather...”

“Direct? Like a calvary charge? Yes, I have noticed. Though I find I prefer it to the simpering ways of the ton.” I paused, then added, “I prefer your candour as well, Jane. Even when it is... uncomfortable for me to hear.”

She poured the tea with perfect grace. “Caroline, I hardly know what to make of this new candour of yours.”

“Nor do I, most days. Though Mr Harrison seems to approve, which is... not unwelcome. But I find it rather refreshing, like taking off one’s stays at the end of a long evening.”

She actually laughed then. “Caroline!”

“Was that too direct?”

“Perhaps. But as you say... refreshing.”

—?—

Thursday, the Twenty-Fifth of March 1813, Lady Day

“You actually prefer natural flower borders now?” Jane’s voice held genuine amazement as we walked among the early crocuses and snowdrops.

“Mr Harrison has been most... persuasive on the subject.” Among others.

“Caroline,” Jane’s eyes twinkled, “are you blushing?”

“Certainly not. It is merely the fresh March air.” Though how one becomes flushed while merely looking at flowers, I cannot quite explain.

The wind carried the sharp, clean scent of newly-turned earth and the sweet promise of spring blooms. Above us, the bare branches showed the faintest hints of green, while beneath our feet, the gravel paths still held winter’s dampness.

“Of course,” she said gravely. “Just as Charles merely admires my skill at arranging the spring blooms.”

We shared a look of perfect understanding.

“Who would have believed you would come along so splendidly in your gardening endeavours?” Jane mused, bending to admire a cluster of early daffodils.

“Jane,” I said suddenly, “I am so very glad you are to be my sister.”

“As am I,” she replied. Then added with uncharacteristic mischief, “Though I do hope Mr Harrison has discussed the proper placement of spring bulbs.”

The breeze caught my shawl, and I noticed how the early spring light softened Jane’s features, making her look even more like the angel Charles always claimed her to be.

I scattered a handful of dampened leaves in her direction. Most unladylike.

Improvement indeed.

—?—

The Twenty-Sixth of March, 1813 A Most Peculiar Afternoon

A gentle spring breeze stirred the early daffodils as Mr Harrison arrived in a state of evident agitation. His cravat was actually somewhat askew—a sure sign of approaching calamity.

“Miss Bingley,” he began, pacing before my favourite garden bench, “I find myself in a most uncomfortable position.”

“Have the roses offended you, sir?” Though really, he had planted half of them himself.

“The roses are perfect. You are perfect. That is precisely the difficulty.”

I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You see, I had a speech prepared. Several, in fact. I have been rehearsing them for weeks.” He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing its usual precise arrangement. “But now I find I cannot recall a single word.”

“Mr Harrison,” I said carefully, “are you quite well?”

“No. Yes. That is...” He dropped onto the bench beside me. “Caroline, I fear I have fallen quite desperately in love with you.”

“Oh. How... inconvenient.”

He actually laughed. “Inconvenient?”

“Well, yes. I had only just learned to be genuine, you see. And now you tell me this, and I find I cannot remember how to breathe properly.” When did my heart learn to beat so quickly?

“I do apologise for the timing,” he said gravely, though his eyes danced. “Shall I come back next week?”

“Do not you dare.” The words escaped before I could arrange them into something more elegant. How mortifying . Though his smile suggests he does not mind .

“Caroline,” he took my hands in his, “I love quick tongue and quicker wit. I love that you no longer pretend to be less than you are. I love watching you flourish into your true nature, like one of your beloved roses. And I would very much like to spend the rest of my life arguing with you about garden design.”

I found my eyes were wet. “That was much better than any rehearsed speech could have been.”

“Was it? Thank heavens. Though you have not actually answered me.”

“Have you actually asked me anything?”

He laughed again. “Always so precise. Very well.” He slid from the bench to one knee. “Sweet Caroline, would you do me the very great honour of becoming my wife? I promise a lifetime of spirited debate, unconventional gardening, and absolute authenticity.”

I discovered I was crying and laughing at once. “Yes. Though I warn you, I still maintain that formal gardens have their place.”

“My love,” he said, drawing me to my feet, “I would not have you any other way.”

How strange. I seem to have fallen in love quite unawares. Like a garden growing wild—unexpected, unplanned, and utterly perfect .

“Though really,” I added, as he drew me close, “you might have proposed before I ruined my new walking dress kneeling in the dirt to plant those silly borders.”

“My dear,” he murmured against my hair, “that was precisely when I knew I must make you my wife.”