“You have been delivering the gifts?”
The girl nodded. “They were brought to me from the village, and it were my task to place them in your chamber when I tended the fire.”
“Then you do not know who the sender is?”
The maid shook her head.
Elizabeth sighed.So much for that.
The maid stepped forward and held out a folded paper. Elizabeth’s breath caught the moment her eyes fell upon the hand—hishand. The same bold, orderly script that had graced the card with the locket. The ache that had held her so motionless gave way to relief, and her fingers trembled as she broke the seal. Two words.
Oakham Mount.
She was filled with a sudden exhilaration that set her whole frame in motion. Elizabeth clutched the note tightly and moved without hesitation, calling for her morning things. She dressed swiftly, choosing a dark green wool gown that flattered her figure and held warmth. Over it she slipped a shawl—one ofhis—and wrapped her red pelisse close, fastening the buttons with careful fingers. She tied her bonnet, then donned the fine gloves he had given her. Last of all, she took up her fur muff.
The sun had not yet risen above the horizon when she stepped outside, her boots crunching through the crust of snow that covered the path. The world before her lay hushed, small branches and hedge rows weighted by their wintry burden. It must have fallen in the night. Longbourn’s garden was transformed into a winter kingdom, and she, a solitary pilgrim, went forth in search of her fate.
Her pace was brisk, urgent. The cold stung her cheeks, but her blood ran warm with possibilities. Her breath formed clouds before her, and behind her, the eastern sky kindled with a faint golden wash.
At the base of Oakham Mount, she slowed. The snow lay deeper here, and the climb was steeper; she paused, not from weariness, but wonder.
The landscape stretched in frozen stillness around her, painted in pearl and silver. On either side of the path, the bare trees rose like sentinels, their branches laden with snow. The air was crisp and pure, the whole scene a harmony of repose. She marveled that she could behold nature’s beauty.
Just before gaining the summit, Elizabeth set a gloved hand on the rough trunk of a tree and stilled herself once more to master her feelings. At length, when she stepped forward to continue, she halted for an entirely new reason.
There on the rise above her, silhouetted against the paling sky, stood a man.
Waiting.
In that instant she knew him, and a thrill of certainty swept through her; no distance could disguise him from her. Not waiting another moment, she hastened forward. The crunch of her steps in the snow betrayed her presence, and he turned.
What he had long kept hidden from her was revealed to her at last. Love—deep and unguarded—was laid bare. Longing too, and reverence. He regarded her as if she were the answer to a question he had carried for a very long time.
“Elizabeth,” he greeted, his voice warm despite the cold air. Then, almost shyly, he advanced a pace, holding a long, ribbon-wrapped package in his gloved hands.
“For the mosttolerablelady of my acquaintance.” A familiar wry smile played about his lips.
A warmth spread through her at his first use of her given name; it was at once disarming and exhilarating, yet she reached for the parcel, unable to resist a playful retort. “Am I then tolerable enough to tempt you?”
His smile deepened, amusement giving way to something more tender. “More than enough. Entirely, wholly, and irrevocably. It has been many weeks now since I considered you the handsomest woman of my acquaintance.”
“High praise, considering my sister is Jane Bennet.” She cradled the gift, the weight light, yet laden with meaning. The corners of her mouth lifted as she studied him.
“I believe, sir, since those first moments at the assembly, you have improved upon further acquaintance.”
“I have had an excellent teacher in humility,” he replied, stepping closer, “and in hope.”
A gust swept past them, scattering snowflakes through the air like falling diamonds in the rising sun. Elizabeth’s eyes flicked to the package in her arms, then back at him.
“Shall I open it now?”
“If you please. Though the words I mean to speak matter more than anything within.”
She lowered her eyes and untied the ribbon slowly, her fingers deft despite the cold. Inside lay twelve silk roses, each a perfect imitation of nature, yet unfading. Their colors ranged from the palest blush to the richest crimson, the petals curled with exquisite workmanship. Their stems, she thought, were wood, wrapped with green ribbon, and even the leaves were of silk, embroidered and stitched with care. Beside them lay a small card, handwritten in his now-familiar hand:
On the twelfth day of Christmas, twelve silk roses lie,
Unfading, eternal—as steadfast as I.
