Page 38 of Roses from Pemberley
“Yes, but not for several weeks. And only a few buds were out then. And I certainly did not encounter the profusion of blooms that your bouquet seems to signify.”
“Yes, you are right. For it was only during the past few days that they’ve completely opened.” He inhaled deeply and smiled. “The garden was truly lovely yesterday morning. There was row upon row of various coloured blooms. Pinks, greens, reds and oranges with that heady fragrance that reminds you it’s…springtime.”
“I can just imagine it,” murmured Elizabeth.
“The grass was still dewey, and the earth was damp…”
Elizabeth took a deep breath, listening to Darcy’s descriptions and imagining both the garden and its scent. “Tell me more.”
He smiled reminiscently. “It reminded me of my mother’s rose garden at Pemberley. She and Lady Catherine used to send seedlings back and forth. Some of the blooms at Rosings actually came from there, and vice versa. I thought of Pemberley…and my mother, as I walked around choosing the flowers.”
“You must miss her.”
“Yes…still. Though it has been sixteen years since she passed.” He stared up at the sky for a moment, apparently lost in his memory. “She took prodigious care of her garden and used to go out on even the windiest days. She would mercilessly prune the stems and often clip some blooms for the house. I carried the basket for her and we would go around choosing the colours we liked best.”
“How old were you?”
“About ten, I think.” He gave her a sad smile and she realised that she’d never seen him so vulnerable before. He continued, “My mother wore a straw hat with a wide brim. It was her favourite. Unfortunately, the edges were frayed. My father offered to buy her a new one, but she loved that hat and refused to wear anything else. I suppose I loved it too…in retrospect.”
For a while they were both silent as Elizabeth thought of a ten year old Darcy, standing at his mother’s side. In a garden at Pemberley, with the wind blowing at her frayed straw hat.
“I thought about that hat as much as I thought about her…” he murmured, “in the years after she died.”
“It must have been a sweet memory,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, it was, but…”
Elizabeth gave him an encouraging look.
“But all I could think of…really…was going riding afterwards. And I always felt regretful that I did not enjoy those moments more - with her. She promised to ride with me, you see, as soon as we were finished in the garden. I actually could not wait to leave. And I feel bad that I made her think otherwise.”
Elizabeth smiled sympathetically and touched him on the sleeve. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, forcing him to look at her, “I am fairly certain that she was aware of it.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do,” she said deliberately. “Because you were only ten. And you could not be expected to enjoy such an activity as picking flowers. You were a boy who wished to ride his horse. And your mother was probably amused by it - your impatience to go riding. It was probably endearing to her. And I believe she enjoyed your company all the more, because you were such a patient and faithful little boy.”
His brows furrowed and now he looked away. “I never thought about it that way before…”
Elizabeth nodded. “When you think about those days, you must remember how happy your mother was to be there with you. I know I would have been, to have had such a kind - and dutiful - son.”
He looked back at her and blinked. Then finally smiled. “Yes, you are right, Miss Elizabeth. And I thank you for turning my bittersweet memory into a happy one.”
Elizabeth looked into his brown eyes and wondered how she could ever have thought him arrogant.
Minutes later she asked, “And was the rose garden at Pemberley as impressive as the one here?”
“Oh yes, even more so. But do not tell that to Lady Catherine. My mother, you see, created some of her own hybrids. She had several with more than one shade. Pink with yellow. Orange with red. Lavender with white. She named them, too. Some of them in Latin and some after her friends and family.”
“Did she name one after you?” asked Elizabeth.
“Yes, of course.”
“What was it called?”
Darcy looked a little abashed.
“Come, Mr. Darcy, you must tell me.”
