Page 17

Darcy grasped the handles of the Bath chair, testing the weight. Mr Gardiner sat strapped within, holding a walking stick over his knees like a regal sceptre.

“Forward, my good man!” Mr Gardiner pointed his stick to the lawns. “To the gardens!”

Darcy pushed. The wheels ground, screeching before gaining pace. Mrs Gardiner and Georgiana walked ahead, their parasols twirling in the sunshine, in conversation about the varying shades of hydrangeas.

Miss Elizabeth fell into step beside Darcy. She twirled a slender parasol over her shoulder, her profile illuminated by the bright morning light.

“You manage that contraption with remarkable skill, Mr Darcy,” Miss Elizabeth noted, her tone light and teasing. “One might assume you hire yourself out as a chair-man in Bath when the waters are in fashion.”

Darcy steered the chair smoothly around a decorative stone urn. “It is a matter of balance, Miss Elizabeth. Weight, patience, and ensuring one avoids the larger ruts.”

“I am at your mercy, sir!” Mr Gardiner called back, waving at a passing gardener. “I feel like a Roman emperor surveying his conquered lands.”

They strolled in silence for several minutes. Darcy’s awareness narrowed to the woman walking beside him. He noted the way her gown brushed the grass, the subtle scent of lavender and soap clinging to her skin, the observant sweep of her eyes as she took in the beauty of his estate.

“It is truly beautiful here,” Miss Elizabeth said, her gaze fixed on the shimmering expanse of the lake in the distance. “I confess, I did not expect it to be so... wild. The woods are allowed to breathe. They are not overly manicured like Rosings.”

The mention of Rosings brought the spectre of Lady Catherine—and his own failed proposal—crashing into the idyllic morning.

“I prefer the landscape to dictate the design, rather than forcing the design on the landscape,” Darcy replied. He chanced a glance at her face. She did not seem angry or defensive; she seemed thoughtful.

“It suits you.” Miss Elizabeth turned her head, meeting his gaze squarely. “It is a reflection of a mind that values substance over mere ornamentation.”

The compliment was so unexpected that Darcy’s brain ceased to function. He stared at her, captivated by the admiring light in her eyes, so much that he forgot to watch the path.

To their left, a narrow side path sloped towards Mrs Reynolds’ meticulously cultivated kitchen gardens, beyond the wide, flat route Darcy had chosen.

Darcy’s boots slipped on a patch of loose stones and he lost his grip on the left handle. The chair, unbalanced and propelled by its own weight, jerked out of his grasp and swung onto the side path.

“I say!” Mr Gardiner shouted.

The chair surged forward, picking up speed down the sharp incline.

Darcy lunged, his fingers grabbing for the wood, but he grasped only empty air.

“Uncle!” Miss Elizabeth screamed, dropping her parasol.

The chair careened off the path, the wheels biting into the soft, loamy soil of the kitchen garden. It bounced over a row of carrots, flattened a patch of emerging turnips, and aimed for the hedges of mature lavender.

Mr Gardiner squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact.

The chair slammed into the aromatic bushes with a resounding crunch. The wheels became entangled in the dense woody stems. The contraption pitched forward, tipping dangerously before settling at an awkward angle, burying Mr Gardiner waist-deep in purple blooms.

A horrified silence descended on the garden.

Darcy’s arms were still outstretched in his failed rescue attempt. He had killed the man. He had launched Miss Elizabeth’s beloved uncle into the shrubbery and snapped his neck.

Miss Elizabeth ran past him, her skirts flying, diving into the dirt beside the ruined lavender. “Uncle Edward! Uncle, speak to me!”

Mrs Gardiner and Georgiana arrived moments later, hovering in terror.

Darcy forced his legs to move, cursing himself vehemently. He was a fool. He was worse than Bates. He was the master of Pemberley, and he could not even push a chair without causing an accident.

He waded into the crushed herbs, his boots sinking into the mud. “Mr Gardiner. Sir, are you injured?”

A loud sneeze erupted from the depths of the purple bushes.

Mr Gardiner opened his eyes, wiping a crushed lavender blossom from his cheek. He looked at the faces hovering above him, then down at the ruined shrubbery encasing his legs.