Page 64 of Affectations of Candour

“The lavender, I am afraid, is also a little tired,” said Miss Althea, “but I insisted it be included, for it means devotion.”

“I added the greenery, Lizzy,” said Jane. “Ivy represents fidelity.”

“What is that feathery stuff?” Miss Hughes leant in and smelt the nosegay. “’Tis an aromatic herb of some sort. Dill weed?”

Cheeks pink, Jane whispered, “Yes.”

“Well, what does dill weed stand for?”

Jane stammered, “I…I forget.” Again, she whispered in her sister’s ear. “I do not know whether it is true, but according to Mama, dill weed is for lust. She insisted that I add some.”

“There now, Miss Bennet,” said Miss Taylor, grinning as she gave a few final touches to Elizabeth’s attire. “You are not only as pretty as a picture but a blushing bride now, too.”

The marriage ceremony in the tiny church at Wyman’s Cove was conducted with dignity by the vicar, as most such rites tended to be performed. If the bride was a little too radiant, the bridegroom far too pleased with himself, and both of their smiles a bit too wide, there was no philosopher cat there to remind them to strike a balance between solemnity and jubilation. No one was offended, for there were only friends and family members there to witness and share their happiness.

Mr and Mrs Darcy stepped out into sunshine and the sound of celebratory bells pealing from the belfry. As they climbed onto the curricle, a dozen or so villagers tossed handfuls of seeds and cereal at them for fertility and agricultural prosperity. A gentleman farmer at heart, the bridegroom expressed his appreciation while Elizabeth surreptitiously tried to keep grains of barley and rye from going inside her bodice. Then, holding his bride’s hand in his and the reins with his other, Mr Darcy urged the pair of bays into a brisk trot.

While waiting for the rest of their party to arrive in carriages slower than a jaunty curricle, Elizabeth’s husband took her for a tour of the whole villa, ending in the dining room, where an elaborate breakfast was set out. In the place of honour as the centrepiece sat a Baumkuchen and a bride cake with white sugar icing, both baked by Mrs Poole of Cliff House.

More interested in what was on the walls than the fare upon the table, Elizabeth walked about the room admiring the framed watercolours until she came to the last one.

“I cannot believe you included ours amongst the younger ladies’ more refined works.” Elizabeth spoke of the painting with a rainbow, a setting sun, and two ‘m’-shaped birds soaring above the arc.

Mr Darcy stood behind her. “Yes, but this place will soon be shut, and I cannot decide whether our masterpiece should be permanently displayed at Pemberley or in London. What is your opinion?”

Finger tapping her chin, she contemplated the painting’s simplicity. “I recommend Pemberley’s nursery. Children might appreciate the bright colours.”

“Excellent reasoning, my love. What of the others?” He placed his hands upon her shoulders.

“Your sister’s depiction of swans on Willow Bourn and her trawler boat on the Channel should remain here until you decide what is to be done with your villa, as should Miss Althea’s seaweed gatherers on the beach.”

“Elizabeth, this is our villa.” Still standing behind, he slid his fingers from her shoulders to her waist.

“And you, sir, are my husband, and I may have to pinch myself to believe it.” She broke away and moved to Miss Hughes’s depiction of Heiress Tottle keeping Hector at bay. “This one will have to be fought over between you and my new sister. You may share it with her for a while, but one day she will flee the nest.”

“Do not remind me.”

She moved on; he followed and again stood behind her. “What of Miss Althea’s watercolour of you, Georgiana, Hector, and me on the punt? Where does that one belong?”

“I must admit it is my favourite.” Elizabeth leant back against him. “I fell irrevocably in love with you while you so manfully steered the boat while speaking softly of Somerset.”

“Then that one,” he whispered in her ear, “is going in our bedchamber.”

“Our bedchamber?” Elizabeth had learnt that Judge Darcy had been a life-long bachelor, and there had never been separate rooms at Strandsmere intended for a wife. Turning to her husband, she asked whether Pemberley did not have an apartment for its mistress either.

“It does.” He seemed disappointed. “And you are, of course, to have it renovated and refreshed in any manner you choose. However, my wish is that we might share a…”

“Then that is our wish, Mr Darcy.”

Weak light sneaked through a crack between their bedchamber’s curtains as Elizabeth awoke to a morning full of promises. Her tussie-mussie had been placed in a vase on the bedside cabinet the night before, and the scent of lavender and roses tickled her nose. There was also the delicious spicy-woody fragrance of the handsome gentleman sleeping soundly beside her.

The next time she awoke, it was to the sound of rain hitting the windowpane, leaves rustling in a stiff breeze, and a husky voice saying, “Good morning, Mrs Darcy. Did you sleep well, my love?” Her husband, propped up on an elbow, head in hand, apparently had been watching her for some time.

“Off and on. Between disturbances.”

He smiled a lazy smile. “Mice, was it?”

“No. I believe it was the dill weed.”