Chapter 44

After leaving Jane Bennet’s bedside, Sarah strolled through the garden paths, calculating the damage done by the recent storm. Many of the roses had not fared well, the wind having done more damage, she presumed, than the rain. She paused by a sad-looking bush, scattered petals and bent limbs a testament to the devastation.

She could sympathise, although her sorrow was the result of human nature rather than a summer tempest. She had known Mr Fitzwilliam was not yet ready to face the world, and her feelings for him were premature. Her life was in London; it was a busy, active life, not that of a hermit. She very much enjoyed the country, but the best part of visiting Percy at Hampton Court, her uncle’s estate, was seeing her many cousins—the earl having three daughters, all happily married and busily reproducing—and taking part in a robust family life at the manor which would someday, it was presumed, be her brother’s.

There was no reason to wander these paths any longer, hoping Mr Fitzwilliam might pop up unexpectedly, as he had so often in the past. It ought to be a relief, knowing the full truth of the shallowness of their connexion, but of course it was not. She would love to go home to the Pillows to nurse her wounded heart, but she had vowed to Elizabeth that she would stay until Jane was recovered.

Ifshe recovered. Even now, Elizabeth was penning a letter to her uncle trying to explain the situation, and Sarah did not envy her the task. A feeling of helpless sorrow gripped her.

“Sarah.”

She whirled at the unexpected sound of her name from a voice she had thought to never hear again. Richard Fitzwilliam stood before her, his chin sporting a few days’ stubble, his eyes tired.

“You returned!”

He looked stern, unyielding, and very…soldierly. “Yes.”

A part of her mind warned caution, and she gave voice to it. “I expect it is much easier to maintain your privacy here, at Pemberley, than out in the country at large.”

“One might expect such a motive from me. Will you sit?”

A bit bewildered by his request, she noticed the bench he gestured towards, and sat. He did not sit beside her but paced back and forth in a small radius on the path nearby.

“Mr Darcy was very concerned after your departure,” Sarah said, after several moments of silence.

“Mother hen,” he grumbled, finally sitting beside her.

Her bewilderment turned to irritation. “He has seen to your care, it seems, since you returned from battle—more dead than alive, it is said. The least you ought to have done was leave a note, or some assurance that you would soon give him a means of contact. That is what trustworthy people do for those to whom they owe some debt of responsibility.”

She knew she sounded exactly like Mrs Figg upon her high ropes, and she expected a dismissive response—after all, what business was it of hers? But he surprised her.

“I ought to have,” he agreed. “It was very poorly done of me.”

It gave her the courage to ask a burning question. “Why did you return?”

To her surprise, he took her hand and pulled it onto his lap; although still wary, she did not reclaim it.

“I had barely reached Chesterfield when the storm began in earnest, forcing me to seek shelter. Unfortunately, everyone else in the vicinity had the same idea, and there were no rooms to be had. There is a kind of anonymity in a crowded inn, and by keeping my collar up and my hat pulled down, I found it easy to remain relatively unnoticed and nurse my ale.”

“No one mortified you by offering a salute, then?”

He glanced over at her. “You read Pennywithers. I suppose you found it nonsensical—a man who has abandoned you to his own cowardice, being touted for bravery.”

Cowardice? Abandoning her? Could he have possibly feared courting the spinster, Sarah Bentley? It seemed impossible. “I did not think Pennywithers nonsensical. I thought it a fitting tribute. If you do not wish to be respected and honoured, you must do a much better job of behaving disrespectfully and dishonourably.”

“I can think of a time rather recently when I could have been accused of misbehaving…of dishonour, even.”

Sarah flushed as she recalled their kisses, but managed to regard him steadily. “So, you were nursing an ale in Chesterfield and now you are back to Pemberley. What changed?”

He grinned at her and squeezed her hand. His single dimple, lips and clefted chin were perfectly formed still, unaffected by scarring, she noticed.

“I suppose it was obvious to the other patrons that I wished to be left to myself,” he continued with his explanation, thankfully choosing not to comment further upon ‘misbehaviours’. “When a man rejects company and kindness, only one in a thousand will not simply leave him to it.” He looked at her again, just looked, and she felt he was seeing her as so few did.

“My curiosity often gets the better of me,” she admitted, and he squeezed her hand again before turning back to his view of the garden.

“As I sat there, nursing my ale, a fellow perhaps my own age walked in, shaking off the rain. I noticed his limp first, but when he turned so that I could see his face, I knew a bayonet wound when I saw it. Everyone else could see it too. A few men saluted him. The innkeeper said, ‘First one is on the house, soldier,’ and slid him an ale.”

“Oh! Did they think he was you?

“No. It was exactly what had happened when I walked in. A few salutes and a free ale. I had been thinking I was some sort of household word, but it was not for me. It was for them—the men who suffered, just as that absurd Pennywithers wrote. Another fellow came in perhaps an hour later—no visible scars, but he had an empty sleeve where his arm ought to have been. He received the same treatment.”

“I wonder how they could tell whether it was a military injury or not? Unless he wore a uniform?”

He shrugged. “I do not think they cared.” He turned his whole body towards her. “For most it will not last, of course. In a few short weeks, all will go back to—what did Pennywithers call it? A ‘fragile oblivion’, I think. Most of the time, we can disregard others in favour of our own suffering, because as a rule, life is difficult and takes all our attention. But for this little moment in time, all of England seems to be acknowledging that for some, the suffering is…harder. People are trying, at least briefly, to do a little better. It is not about me. It never was.”

She nodded a little. “I would buy an ale for a soldier who came home without his comrades, whether he wears scars or no. Not that I frequent inns, you understand, or have any such opportunity. Do you suffer, then?”

His jaw tightened. “More than some. Far less than many others. War is a devil of a thing, Sarah. This ugly mug of mine is the least of it.”

Her mouth tipped up at his informal use of her name, despite his serious demeanour, but she stilled as he let go of her hand to gently touch her cheek.

“I have been fortunate. I know it. I lived, when so easily I might not have. Life is precious, and I should not have wished it shortened. Had Darcy not forced a promise from me to stay alive…well, perhaps I never would have seen it.”

It was quite an admission. “You owe your cousin Darcy much. So, then, do I.”

He sighed, and retook her hand. “There is no question but that you could do much better than me. I would be foolish to expect it of any good woman, but you, Sarah…you are especially rare, a diamond amongst pearls.”

Sarah smiled, more widely this time, even as she felt the tension in his grip. “You will find Alchemilla vulgaris growing in my flower beds,” she said. “Whilst they are members of the rose family, their blossoms are green, dull even, especially compared to their flashier cousins. Yet, their leaves are uniquely shaped in a semi-circular pattern which collects water droplets. It makes the entire garden sparkle in the sunlight.”

The pressure on her fingers eased as he slid off the bench to kneel before her, her eyes widening as he withdrew something from an inner coat pocket.

“I have no idea what you mean by Alchemilla-whatever-it-is,” he said, “but I can tell by your expression that it is probably safe to ask my question. Will you marry me, darling Sarah? I realised within hours of leaving that I had run in the wrong direction—I ought to have come to you, not away. I vow to stay now. I will remain planted, the ugliest flower in your garden.”

“That is just it—there are no ugly flowers in my garden. Sometimes, one might just have to look at a bloom a little differently in order to recognise its full beauty.”

“Is that so?” he asked, smiling, a bit indulgently.

But she was serious, wanting to be understood. “Yes. To be victorious in the many skirmishes of life, one cannot afford to be one’s own worst enemy. I-I did not fall in love with a rose, nor your scars. Just you.”

He swallowed, this proud, honourable, courageous man who knelt in the dirt at her feet. He handed her a small leather pouch, too stiff and flat to contain jewellery. Gently she pried it open, removing several small, blank sheets of card-paper. She looked at him, puzzled.

Taking them from her, he pried open two in the middle of the stack and lifted a piece of delicate tissue. And there, mounted, was a dried Ophrys apifera—a wild bee orchid. “I did not wish it to bloom here, only to live a short summer’s day and never be seen again,” he said. “I hope you will forgive me for plucking it while it still had life.”

Sarah looked from the dried specimen to him, this man who somehow knew and understood that she would treasure this beyond rubies—a blossom first seen the day they met in a place it ought never to have been. Carefully, she set it down upon the bench. Then she launched herself into his arms.