Chapter 19

Georgiana, though not participating in the drawing contest, offered to bring them to the conservatory to see what she called the ‘exotics’; only Jane took her up on it.

Sarah and Elizabeth headed for the wild orchid which the former had found so intriguing. “Not that I have any hope of winning the contest,” Elizabeth laughed. “My skill at drawing is merely adequate, and I have already seen Miss Lushington’s sketchbook.”

“Impossible not to see it, as she finds it endlessly thrilling to display it on the slightest provocation,” Sarah said, but her tone was not unkind. “My drawing experience is limited to plants I have admired, reproducing them for my own study—more as reminders of appearance than any scientific accuracy. I have never had a master—nor wanted one. I only participate for the fun of it.”

“I will not lie—I would like to win the treasure hunt,” Elizabeth said. “But this contest belongs to Miss Lushington. Still, I will do my best not to embarrass myself. Jane is the much better artist, although she never had a master.”

“Oh! Oh, dear,” Sarah, who had been surveying the beds of orchids, suddenly exclaimed. “It is gone. I suppose it died, the poor thing, and a gardener removed it. By rights, it ought not to have bloomed here at all.”

“I am sorry,” Elizabeth said sympathetically.

Sarah sighed, her voice soft. “My mother loved flowers. My father studies them—along with many other plants. He has a true scientific interest. But Mama loved flowers, just loved them—bright blossoms, whether they were cultivated roses or wildflowers along a roadside. Sometimes, when I see an unusual flower, or like this one, something growing where it should not, I think of it as a little greeting from her. You will find that silly, of course.”

“No!” Elizabeth said, taking her friend’s hand. “That is beautiful! I would love it if I could find meaning in something like it. If I could be sure that Papa did not hate me.”

“He could never!” Sarah replied, equally fervent. “It would be impossible!”

Elizabeth smiled sadly. “I hope not. How long has it been for you?”

Sarah did not have to ask what she meant. “Eight years. She died giving birth to my young brother. I hope you know that I would not have recommended simply anyone to come to Georgiana, into her home, to expose her family, possibly, to the world. I knew you, and remembered your goodness. You simply have not had enough time—you will find your father’s messages. I am certain of it.”

Elizabeth could not share her certainty, but she appreciated the sentiment and squeezed Sarah’s fingers. “Would you mind if I wandered about this area for a bit? I am uncertain what I wish to draw. Perhaps I shall find something so utterly unique, it shall compensate for my lack of artistic talent.”

“Not at all. I mean to sit on this bench and try to draw the orchid from memory and a partial sketch I began when first I saw it. It will not merit any reward, but I do wish to remember it.”

A few minutes later, Elizabeth was by herself for what seemed the first time in years. Naturally, one could not roam London alone—but truthfully, she had avoided her own company ever since that awful day on Oakham Mount. Between Jane, her young cousins, and her uncle and aunt, it had been easily done. Whereas once she treasured such peaceful moments, she had grown to despise them. Nor did she particularly enjoy it now.

Ahead, she saw what looked like a maze formed from shrubberies—or at least very interesting paths. Purposefully she went towards it, needing the distraction.

The last thingDarcy wished was to shoot more birds; they must have enough to supply all of Lambton by now. Though he was sorry for it when his spaniel began limping, he was relieved to have an excuse to leave their party and carry the poor thing to the kennel-master. After delivering him, he knew what he ought to do—find Tilson or else attend to his correspondence. He did neither.

Instead, he spoke to his head gardener, Perkins, a gaunt, elderly man who could outwork men a quarter his age and who had known him all his life.

“Bingley’s young sister be on the gravel walk, and your de Bourgh cousin be at the marble fountain, so ye’ll be wanting to steer clear of the north side. Your sister and the pretty one be in the orangery. The one with cupid’s kettledrums be in the rose court,” he added in an aggrieved tone—plainly describing Miss Lushington. “I been having to chase the lads away from there all day. I wisht she would cover ’em so I could get more work done, but I suppose she’s proud she wert able to grow ’em so fine.”

“What of Miss Bentley and Miss Elizabeth?” Darcy asked, not caring a bit where Miss Bentley was, but trying to act as though he wished to avoid all his guests.

“Hmm,” he said, scratching his chin. “There wert the two who went out as far as the wildflower footpath.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said tersely, turning towards the southern side of the park, in the opposite direction of everyone. It would not fool Perkins, perhaps, but a man had his pride.

“O’ course, the smaller one took a different way after, but ye need not fear meeting her from that direction.”

Darcy stopped and turned back. It was extremely annoying to be so obvious to his entire household—probably he had shown his hand when he lost his mind at Elizabeth’s injury, carting her across two lawns and up two staircases, nearly to her bed. He had wanted to cart her to his own—not lasciviously, but so he could stay by her side and watch over her.

Well, there might have been a few less handsome thoughts, especially when she appeared at dinner looking absolutely determined not to be injured, and then later, learning she was the daughter of a landed gentleman—a gentleman who might even, had he lived, have become Bingley’s neighbour.

But Elizabeth would always be safe with him.

“Which way did she go, Perkins.” It was not a question.

He could almost hear the chuckle in the man’s reply, although his face remained solemn.

“Tom saw her head into the maze not thirty minutes past.”

Sighing, he ceased pretending and set out for the maze.

Elizabeth knew she was lost;she did not particularly care about that, for she was bound to find her way eventually. Instead, she planted herself upon a stone bench in a shady alcove, pulling off her gloves and removing her drawing materials from her apron pocket. Her object was to render a picture of the nearest marble, a one-winged god bent almost in half. He stared back at her disdainfully from her sketchbook.

When Mr Darcy strode around the corner, an inexplicable happiness to see him filled her; she told herself it was only relief she felt at her rescue.

“Liberation has come,” she said, smiling sunnily. “I forgot to bring breadcrumbs, and by the time I remembered, I was hopelessly lost. I know I ought to have just kept my hand upon the wall, but ’tis a coward’s way to the centre. Tell me, is this scornful fellow a clue? I tried following the direction his wing points, but only brought myself back to him while he mocks me for my error.”

“He is Zephyrus, the west wind,” Mr Darcy explained. His tone was sober, but there was something in his eyes at the sight of her. Interest? Impossible.

“There is a compass rose a little way before him.” He showed her the bronze which she had not hitherto noticed, partially hidden behind a hedge. “I see it has grown over a bit, and Perkins does enjoy his little jokes.”

“Perkins? Oh, yes, your gardener. He showed us the temple folly the day before yesterday, and promised to lead us to others as long as we do not trample his raked paths too recklessly.”

“Would you like to visit the folly at the centre?” Mr Darcy asked.

“I would not waste your afternoon.”

“But you forget—I owe you thirty minutes.” He held out his arm; she tucked her sketchbook back into her apron pocket and took it. She supposed she ought to ask him about clues for the hunt, or else pry a few personal details from him for the article she would probably not write. She did neither, however. It was oddly pleasant to simply walk beside him within the peaceful shrubberies.

“I hope you were not distressed by the absence of clues in the maze? I will have Perkins trim those hedges.”

She laughed. “Not at all. I think I was more bewildered by the noise of my thoughts than anything else.”

He looked at her with some interest. “Your thoughts?”

“It is funny to remember that I once wandered the paths and parks near my home unaccompanied nearly every day, never minding a thing about it. Such actions are impossible in town, and after so many months of city living, I believe I have forgotten how silence feels.”

“London is very noisy.”

“Yes.”

“What do they say?”

“My thoughts?” She sighed. “I dare not speak them, lest you find me pitiful.”

“I never would,” he protested.

They were silent again for some moments.

“Pemberley is a good place for thinking,” he said at last, “but I find it is also a good place for—for over-thinking. Simply because your thoughts are loud, it does not mean they are accurate.”

“Easy for you to say. You did not kill your father.”