She placed her hand in his, her fingers lingering—light, gloved, but unmistakably lingering—as she replied, “I accept.”
The brief pressure stole his breath. Victory was hers, but the touch was his undoing.
Chapter Fourteen
December 30, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
On the sixth day of Christmas,
In crystal so clear,
Six vials of scent
From London procured.
Elizabethsataloneinher bedchamber, the pale light of morning slanting in through the frosted panes. A fire burned in the grate, casting a mellow glow upon the worn carpet and the rosewood dressing table, where a velvet-lined box had been set with reverent care. The sapphire-blue case gleamed, its brassclasps polished bright. She reached for it, unable to resist the temptation to see within.
Lifting the lid, she drew in her breath.
Six elegant glass vials nestled against midnight velvet. Each was a small work of art: the glass delicately etched, the contents luminous—some pale as morning dew, others tinged with gold or blush-pink as a winter sunrise. Around each neck was tied a tiny scroll of fine paper, upon which words had been written in a precise, unmistakable hand.
She read them, her heart fluttering at the meaning behind each one:
Rose Water — for the first evening we danced.
Who?She had danced with many men since her come out. Rose water was a favorite, and surely she had shared more than one first dance whilst wearing it.
Lavender Water — for my devotion to you.
Her heart skipped a beat. This was a vow, tender and unsought, yet offered freely. Lavender, the flower of constancy, long grown in the hedgerows of Longbourn, had never seemed more dear.What a romantic sentiment!
Eau de Cologne — fidelity in love.
Whoever he was, he offered not mere affection, but loyalty. One need not betray another’s body to show unfaithfulness. Her parents were the proof enough of that.
Violet Water — you have taught me humility.
This puzzled her. To whom had she taught humility? Could it be John Lucas? Elizabeth had certainly humbled him often enough in childhood. And as heir to Lucas Lodge, he might, on occasion, afford to spend so lavishly.
Orange Blossom Water — for purity and eternal love.
This was her favorite. The floral scent most often linked with brides and with promise. Elizabeth’s breath caught.Surely, this means my admirer wishes to marry me.Yet if so, Charlotte’s suppositions of a married gentleman must be false.Not necessarily.The man might long to marry you yet be hindered.How vexing!
Bergamot Essence — happiness and, it is hoped, success.
That final note made her smile. Ever practical, ever guarded—this was hope wrapped in citrus, bright and sharp. She drew out the stopper and held it beneath her nose. The fresh scent lifted her spirits.This may become my new favorite scent.
Each vial proved a revelation, each fragrance more luxurious than the last. The nameFloris of Londonadorned the interior of the box in gilded script—a name she recognized even in the country. That her admirer had gone to such effort…such expense…
The perfumery on Jermyn Street had stood for nearly a century, its patrons the discerning few—the royal family, foreign dignitaries, duchesses and marchionesses. And now…her. She was but a gentleman’s daughter, with little fortune or consequence. Yet this gift bespoke that he saw her as worthy of every indulgence.
She lifted the rose water, drew out the stopper, and dabbed a few drops upon her wrists. The fragrance bloomed at once—lush, heady, far more refined than the distillations made in Longbourn’s still room. She raised her hands, eyes half-closed. This was a scent to linger long after the moment had fled.
A sigh, slow and sweet, escaped her. It was too much. It was everything.
