Chapter Text
Morning light stole across the curtains of Longbourn's drawing room, and the house yet lay in tranquil silence. Elizabeth, a book cradled in her hand, moved with a light step towards the kitchen. Beyond the open wooden door, Mrs. Crouch, the cook, was already bustling before her great kitchen range, while Elizabeth—ever an early riser—was wont to seek, amidst the mingled morning scents, some small surprise with which to begin the day. This morning, it was the warm fragrance of baking bread that greeted Elizabeth, laced with a sweetness so fresh that her spirits lifted at once, her eyes bright with anticipation.
"Good morning, Mrs. Crouch," said Elizabeth, tapping her knuckles lightly upon the doorframe with a smiling nod, though her gaze had already been drawn to the substantial wicker basket in the corner. Within lay a heap of newly-gathered apples, their skins still beaded with crystal dew, each one plump and ruddy—unmistakable tokens of the orchard's proudest yield this year. Longbourn apples were renowned in the neighbourhood, but each year at this season, Mrs. Crouch's pies—fashioned from those very fruits—were the true pièce de résistance. Fresh from the oven, its crust shone a tempting golden-brown, crumbling to the touch; and to bite through its flaky layers was to discover the warm, tender apples within, where the richness of butter intertwined with the sweetness of sugar, all perfumed by the mellow spice of cinnamon. To Elizabeth, it was an unrivalled feast of memory as well as of taste, and to Mrs. Bennet, a point of boastful pride upon her table.
"Good morning, Miss Lizzy. Off for your walk again?" Mrs. Crouch turned, and seeing Elizabeth's fixed and smiling attention upon the apples, added with good-humoured understanding, "You come most opportunely. Tom has just brought these in. Will you not taste some? You need not fear there will be too few; these are but a portion, and more than enough for several pies."
Elizabeth thanked her warmly, declaring her partiality for those crisp and juicy fruits when fresh from the tree. Bending over the basket, she selected two of the largest and reddest, running her fingers over their smooth, cool surfaces as she brushed away the lingering drops. A sudden impulse tempted her to bite at once, but a second thought prevailed and she stayed her hand. Such freshness deserved to be savoured with a fairer prospect. So, she slipped the apples securely into the pockets of her petticoat, reclaimed her book, and turned away, stepping into the radiance of the autumn morning.
Longbourn in autumn resembled a canvas washed in warm hues. The plane leaves, tinted every shade from gold to crimson by the sun, lay strewn upon the grass still flecked with summer green; the air was touched with the fragrance of late-blooming chrysanthemums, while robins chirped and hopped along the white paling. The beauty of the scene struck her with a pang of regret—how Elizabeth wished she had the gift of painting, that she might carry such peace and splendour from Longbourn to Pemberley.
Pemberley… The thought, unbidden, called forth another: Mr. Darcy, her betrothed.
He had gone to London upon certain matters relating to their approaching nuptials, and was not expected to return till the morrow. Though their separation had lasted but two days, his image had a way of continually stealing into her mind: his handsome countenance, his voice that ever brought her ease, their first kiss—shy, trembling, full of hesitation. At the remembrance, heat rose swiftly to her cheeks, her pulse quickened. She recalled too the restrained yet ardent smile when he had bidden her farewell, and the lingering warmth of his lips as they pressed upon her hand.
The absence of one so beloved left her with a constant sense of want. It was a novel and peculiar sensation for Elizabeth—no hunger, yet her stomach seemed ever hollow; no thirst, yet she longed perpetually for some refreshment. Was Darcy enduring the same at this moment? She sighed softly, yet the faintest curve of her lips betrayed a quiet, wistful pleasure within. Enough. The glorious autumn scene before her deserved a spirit restored to cheerfulness.
Upon a sudden whim this morning, she turned aside from her accustomed path towards Oakham Mount and took instead the long-forgotten track that led to the orchard of her youth. After about half an hour's walk, a cluster of venerable trees came into view. One in particular stood out: its trunk gnarled and sturdy, its branches thick with leaves, and here and there still glittering with a few late-season apples. This was the very tree she had christened her "climbing-tree" in childhood.
Long-buried memories sprang to life. From the age of eight to twelve, Elizabeth and John Lucas had been veritable "outlaws" beneath its shade, flinging off the restraints of civilised society with glee. Like a pair of untamed little monkeys, they would jubilantly throw themselves into the wild embrace of nature, scrambling up the rough-barked trunk with practised ease. High amidst the branches they had shared pilfered hoards of sweets in summer, tasted the first ripened fruit in autumn, and perched shoulder-to-shoulder till the sunset flamed the heavens orange.
Charlotte, seven years her senior, was at that time too committed to the dignity of young womanhood to join such frolics, and stood below, hands planted firmly on her hips, calling up with all the sternness of elder-sisterly authority, "Do come down at once! You will break your necks!" (warnings that were, nine times out of ten, treated as no more than a passing breeze). Perfect Jane, ever the model of propriety, would never soil her gowns with such barbarous exercise, but would sometimes add a gentle "Pray be careful," which, from the tree-top, was occasionally received with gracious indulgence. Mary, preferring books to bark, disdained to venture near. As for little Kitty, Lydia, and Maria—mere tots at the time—they could only gape in admiration, necks craned, at the reigning deities of the treetop.
It had been fully eight years since she last attempted an ascent. That final adventure had been anything but pleasant. Determined to impress John with a display of agility, Elizabeth had attempted a grand, sweeping dismount. Alas, though she had navigated the tree for four years without a single mishap, her grasp failed her at the critical moment. She plummeted earthwards, landing in an undignified heap and acquiring a distinct taste of soil. The old tree bore silent witness to her anguished scream, the children's horrified cry, and the bedlam that ensued.
Mr. Jones was summoned in haste to her rescue, and, with a professional gravity, delivered his verdict—"both arms broken (but, mercifully, not her neck)." The return to Longbourn precipitated a fresh crisis: the sight of her daughter in such a pitiable state proved too great a shock for Mrs. Bennet's delicate nerves, which collapsed outright, and the household was plunged into an uproar. While fetching smelling salts was a duty spared to Elizabeth, she was compelled to endure her mother's incessant exclamations of despair. Reduced in an instant to the helplessness of infancy (with both arms rendered utterly useless), the twelve-year-old Lizzy thought her disgrace complete. The painful lesson, however, was learnt.
Thereafter, childhood companions grew up; John went away to school, Elizabeth herself was trained to the comportment of a lady. The grove was gradually abandoned to solitude, and the old tree was quietly consigned to a forgotten corner of memory.
Yet now, revisiting the spot, a sudden, powerful impulse to climb it seized her. Perhaps the pain of that ancient fall had long since been smoothed away; perhaps the quickening joy of childhood stirred again in her veins; perhaps it was the thought that, once Mrs. Darcy, she might never again enjoy such liberty; or perhaps, more simply, the spirit of defiance whispered that since she had once come down in mud and disgrace, she must climb up again, if only to reclaim part of her former arboreal grace.
Elizabeth cast her eyes about her; the hour was yet early, and not a soul was to be seen upon the lane—an opportunity most inviting for a little mischief. With her book securely tucked under her left arm and a quick check confirming the apples' safe lodging in her pockets, she approached the tree to survey the course of its boughs. Rising on tiptoe, she readily caught hold of a low bough. Yet, the book under her arm hampered her grip, and years of neglect had left her limbs untrained. After but two attempts to gain a footing, she slipped down again, her gown not escaping the inevitable brush of bark and dust.
She was well aware that her former agility had deserted her, and that she could not hope to mount the tree with the ease of earlier days; yet she was not disheartened—indeed, she found the absurdity of the attempt amusing. Brushing the bark dust from her gown, Elizabeth prepared herself for another effort. This time she altered her tactics: clenching her book between her teeth, she gripped the sturdy-looking bough firmly with both hands, and gave a determined spring with her feet. As she climbed, a sudden notion darted into her mind—what if Mr. Darcy were to appear at this very moment, and behold his betrothed dangling in so unladylike a fashion from an apple tree? Would the sight shock him into repenting his engagement on the spot? This apprehension, however, was fleeting, for Elizabeth immediately rallied her confidence in that gentleman. After all, had he not chosen her himself? Whatever shape she might assume, he must learn to bear it with composure.
Besides, after so much exertion—her palms already smarting, reddened by the rough bark—there could be no thought of abandoning the enterprise halfway. Such moments of liberty were too precious to squander; and when Darcy returned, she might perhaps recount this little escapade as a merry anecdote (though not without some judicious embellishment). She was curious to see how that grave countenance of his would soften into exasperated amusement. The very anticipation so tickled her spirits that she almost smiled outright, then hastily pressed her lips together, lest the book fall from between them.
Thus fortified, Elizabeth pressed on with fresh vigour. Employing both hands and feet, she at length succeeded in hauling herself onto the familiar horizontal bough of her memory. She smoothed her gown and carefully settled herself. The limb was broad and steady beneath her, the leaves rustling a soft welcome beside her. With perfect satisfaction, she stretched out her legs, leaned her back against the sturdy trunk, and marvelled at how unchanged the spot appeared, as though the old tree had preserved this nook expressly for her return.
She laid the book across her knees with a soft sigh, then drew from her pocket an apple and took a hearty bite. The crisp flesh yielded between her teeth, its refreshing, sweet juice instantly flooding her mouth, and a smile bloomed upon her face. Raising her fists in a silent gesture of triumph, she rocked herself playfully from side to side—a small, private celebration dedicated to her conquest of the old apple tree.
Sunlight streamed through the interlacing leaves above, scattering dappled patterns upon her face and the open page. It warmed her, yet without the fierce glare of summer. The autumn air curled about her cheek in a cool, lively breath—refreshing, and far from the bitter sting of winter. Tilting her head slightly, she allowed the breeze to stir the loose strands at her temples. About her lingered the mingled fragrance of apple-sweetness and the bitter tang of bark, and within her there rose a deep, unhurried contentment. Autumn had always been her favourite season. She cherished its measured warmth, its softness poised between fervour and repose.
The tranquillity of nature, an unfinished story, and the sweet fruit in her palm—three common things, yet together, they swelled her sense of happiness to an almost ridiculous degree. If anything were wanting to complete the scene, it was only the warmth of a certain love. But the one she longed for was still more than twenty miles away in London, perhaps frowning over a pile of correspondence, perhaps instructing his solicitor to draft their marriage settlement. At the thought her heart leapt again—for it was but three weeks. In three short weeks, she would be Fitzwilliam Darcy's wife, granted the privilege of seeing him every day and hearing his voice at every hour. What was such a little interval of waiting, compared to that?
Could life offer greater felicity? Elizabeth, smiling to herself, closed her eyes. The wind idly turned the pages of her book, sunlight wrapped her shoulders, and drowsiness, born of the encompassing warmth, gradually stole over her like a gentle tide, carrying her thoughts away—to the grandeur of Pemberley, to that summer day of their unexpected reunion.
Once more she walked beneath Pemberley's avenues, where lofty trees intertwined their branches into a canopy of green, and Darcy was at her side. A sudden gust caught the ribbons of her bonnet and wound them about his arm, while she, hands clasped tightly behind her, kept the proper distance with becoming reserve. She had believed, after their parting at Rosings, that all connection between them was severed forever; yet fate contrived to bring them together at Pemberley. She had imagined that he must bear resentment for her vehement rejection; yet he had set aside every trace of pride, and offered her a tenderness she could scarcely credit. A thousand times she had thanked Providence that her prejudice had not cost her the man she loved. She would forever treasure the clarity he had taught her, but even more would she cherish the sincerity and generosity of his heart. In the years to come, she would walk every acre of Pemberley by his side, and pore over the thousands of volumes in his library together with him.
Elizabeth loved the autumn, yet because of Pemberley she had begun to anticipate the summer. That day, the gardens had been in the height of bloom—roses of deepest crimson and palest blush crowding thick, their fragrance intoxicating the air. She lingered among the blossoms, letting her fingers lightly brush the soft petals. Raising her eyes, she found that Darcy was not admiring the roses at all, but regarding her with an intensity that made her colour rise. She offered him a shy smile, then turned away to toy with a nearby flower, feigning interest.
Behind her came a slight stir, and she glanced back to see a pale-yellow flower in his hand. Before she could inquire, he forestalled her: "I plucked it from the wall as I passed, and thought its colour becomes you better than any rose." He secured it amidst her hair.
"I must own your taste is rather good," she could not help but tease him, "superior, at least, to that of gentlemen in general."
"Only superior to the general run of gentlemen?" he rejoined, a mock wounded tone in his voice. "That is a severe blow to my confidence."
So they jested, until the sky darkened abruptly, heavy clouds gathering and rain descending in swift sheets. Before she could collect herself, Darcy had shrugged out of his coat, holding it above her head, and with his arm about her shoulders hurried her toward the colonnade. The cool drops kissed her cheek, the garden blurred into a watery haze, while his gentle outline remained achingly distinct.
They rushed into the library together, breathless from their hurried pace. Elizabeth stood by the fireplace, bending to smooth her rain-spotted gown. As she dabbed at the dampness of her hair with a towel, her eyes were caught by the glimmer of tiny raindrops trembling on Darcy's long lashes. Almost without reflection her hand lifted; with the lightest touch she brushed the corner of the cloth against his face. He did not move, but bent his head a fraction, to ease her task, his eyes soft and intent upon her, as though content to yield himself wholly to her tender care. Encouraged, she traced away the drops upon his damp curls, while he inclined nearer still—so near that she could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with her own.
"I am reminded of a book most fitting for a rainy day," he said when she finished, moving towards the shelves. "You will like it, I am sure." He drew forth a volume, handsomely bound. Elizabeth's gaze fixed upon it—the dark-blue cover, the gilded patterning, even the slight fray at its corners—all struck her as uncannily familiar.
"Why, is this not the very book I brought up into the tree?"
Darcy tilted his head, seemed puzzled. Thinking she might be mistaken, she gestured to inspect it more closely. He obediently placed it in her hands. She was unprepared for its unexpected weight, and her brow furrowed.
"Fitzwilliam, are Pemberley's books made of bricks?" she cried, for the volume slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor.
The shock of the fall startled Elizabeth into sudden wakefulness. She blinked; the gardens of Pemberley, the library, the blaze upon the hearth, all dissolved at once, leaving only the volume upon her lap, the old tree's verdant canopy, and the sunlight filtering through the leaves. For a long moment, she gazed in bewilderment at her empty palm, where the phantom weight of a slipping book still haunted her fingertips, before the truth dawned upon her: no ponderous tome of brick had dropped from her grasp, merely the gnawed core of an apple.
As she bent her head to search for the lost core, a deep, masculine voice rose from below: "Are you, perhaps, in search of this, madam?"
Elizabeth startled so violently she nearly toppled from her perch, her hands shooting out to seize the trunk and save herself from falling. Peering through the layers of foliage, her eyes were caught—and held—by a pair of dark ones twinkling with amusement. He stood beneath the bough, a faint smile playing at his lips, holding her tiny, gnawed apple core between his fingers.
"Mr. Darcy!"