Page 19 of Through the Eyes of Love

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After makinghis way over to Pemberley, Darcy stared at the remains of what was once his home. His eyes closed tightly as if he could remove the image of the burnt-out shell that way. Of course it would not work—nothing went his way anymore. Heartbroken and unable to see himself moving forward with any plans to rebuild, he walked back towards the cottage. Halfway there, he stopped to catch his breath and leaned on one of the brick columns that stood on either side of the entrance to the garden. A person was moving among the roses, once his mother’s pride and joy. How dare they ruin his memories! “You there! What do you think you are doing? This is private property. I can have the constable here within the hour.”

A young woman hesitated before she stepped from behind the burnt bushes. “Sir, there is still life left in these plants. When I cut away the burnt stems, I can see the green growth within. My mother showed me how to prune our garden after a heavy frost or snow.”

“Are you planning to prune the entire garden yourself?” Darcy sneered. Gardeners no longer worked on the estate. Why bother to restore the grounds when there was no house left?

“No sir, only a few bushes a day when I have time. By next spring, it may not be back to its former beauty, but in any case, your rose garden will certainly look much better than today.”

Darcy was tired. He had not been sleeping well and had no desire to speak to anyone. The burden of guilt hung over him like a dark cloud. He sat heavily on one of the soot-covered marble benches that dotted the formal gardens and stared atthe ground. With tears in his eyes, he muttered, “My mother designed this rose garden and helped nurture it until it was the most beautiful place you could imagine. From the buds opening in May until the autumn, nothing was comparable to the scent of these flowers. I am thankful my dear parents never saw what happened to their beloved home.”

“Perhaps you can honour your mother by restoring the rose garden to its former beauty. I can only imagine how lovely it once was.”

Darcy looked closer at this presumptuous young woman. “Who are you and why are you here?” Her sparkling eyes were a deep chocolate brown accented with flecks of green and gold. Dark chestnut curls were peeking from her bonnet.

“I am Elizabeth Bennet, a housemaid at the cottage.”

“For how long? I have never seen you before.”

“I have been here almost a month, sir. We have been in the same room on occasion, but you have not noticed me.”

“You must have burnt your face a long time ago. My burns are new.”

As if by instinct her hand touched her right cheek. She smiled to herself recalling the same question from one of the men who called on her at the Gardiners’ home. “I was born with this birthmark. In Latin it is called anevus flammeus,but most people refer to it as a firemark or port wine stain. The midwife assured my mother it would soon disappear, but after six months, there was no change. My parents brought me to several specialists in London; they all agreed there was no treatment and the birthmark could not be removed. My sisters say it looks like a plum but others have said it resembles a map or spilt wine.”

Why was this maid telling him her life story? Should he be interested in his servant’s past? “Where are you from? Your accent is certainly not from around here.”

“I hail from Hertfordshire, sir.”

“My friend was planning to let an estate near a village called Meryton. I was planning to join him but cancelled my trip after the fire. I have no idea if he settled there or not. Are you familiar with the area?”

“I know the property very well. My father’s estate was at Longbourn Village. Your friend must have let Netherfield Park, which is but three miles from my home. . .whatwasmy home.”

“I was surprized hearing a maid speaking Latin. I should have realized you are a gentleman’s daughter. Why are you in service?”

“I have no brothers, and when my father suddenly died in May, his estate was entailed away to a distant cousin. The new heir wasted no time evicting my family from our home.”

“Did your father not put aside money for your care after his death?”

“He was a scholar and cared only for his books. He would go to any lengths necessary to avoid hearing my mother’s complaints. Mama was given all the money she asked for to spend on fripperies rather than have her disturb his reading. The business of the estate meant little to him, and due to his neglect of financial matters, it became necessary for me to go into service. It saddens me to say that he ignored his responsibilities as a master, a husband, and a father. I realize he did not plan to leave us so suddenly and at such a young age, but I doubt more time would have changed his behaviour.”

This young woman was certainly forthcoming with her family’s history. Another master might dismiss her without a character for speaking thus. Darcy shook his head. Three or four fire-damaged books were stacked nearby on the ground. “When you finish pruning, are you planning on stealing those books? They have no worth, but they belong to me.” Without thinking, he had spit out the comment.

She walked towards him, and he detected her lavender scent. Her eyes were warm and lively. “Sir, I am an avid reader and have no intention of stealing anything. Mrs. Reynolds found these in the manor house and loaned them to me as she knows of my love of reading. The book covers are charred, but after I clean them, they will be almost as good as new.”

“Pemberley once housed one of the finest private libraries in England, but now. . .now it is in ruins.” Darcy’s voice faded at the end.

“Do you remember how many books were in your collection?”

“The library was started by one of my ancestors with only a few tomes in the master’s closet. Through the generations, a library was built and enlarged until my family amassed thousands of volumes. . .but they are gone now.”

“I should have liked to see what the library once looked like. Perhaps more books can be salvaged.”

Darcy stared at her. The kindness in her voice was loud and clear. “Miss Bennet.”

“Yes, sir?”

To thank her for her compassion was his heartfelt desire, but he was still so full of rage in regard to the condition of Pemberley, he could not find the words. “I have said enough.” He rose and slowly limped back to the cottage.