Page 17 of The Gilded Masquerade

“Forgive me, Darcy.”

He stopped, turned, then walked back.

“Yes, of course, I shall assist you, escort the lady to the conservatory, and thereafter render myself invisible—or not—if that is what your scrupulous propriety demands.”

“I wish you to stay at a respectful distance. I do not wish for an unfortunate scandal.”

Richard laid a hand upon his wrist. “I do not dissuade you, but rather to counsel you. What delights you this evening may linger as a torment should her eyes and her heart leave their mark. On this matter, I speak considerably.”

He knew Richard’s sad story. The one when he once gave his heart away only to have it broken into pieces.

“The winter Christmas garden is especially lovely this evening,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, coming to stand beside Lizzy admiring the Christmas tree.

“I cannot imagine anything lovelier than this evergreen’s embodiment of the spirit of Christmas.”

“Ah, the quest for eternal life,” he said taking her aback.

“For believers, we have assurance of what has been lovingly bestowed upon us. The evergreen symbolizes our Christian faith in eternal life.”

“Indeed, it does. Faith, for others, lies at the bottom of a bottle in belief that sins will be forgiven in the morning after.”

For all his smiles, she sensed a sadness behind his blue eyes.

“And so the repentant heart shall receive.” She smiled tenderly. “Did you enjoy your supper, Colonel?” she asked changing the topic.

“Immensely.” Offering her his arm, he said. “Allow me to share with you the conservatory, my aunt’s masterpiece. She would be quite pleased if her garden were admired.”

“That would please me greatly.”

Making small talk, he escorted her through the crowd, down softly lit corridors, passing several brightly lit rooms filled with guests and entertainment, until they reached glass and candlelit greenery beyond the gilt, music, and the ever-present scrutiny. Pushing open the door, the conservatory bid her silent entrée, like a secret invitation to shelter her among the ferns and cover her with fronds tickled by streaming moonlight and the golden glow of candlelight. The warmth within belied the winterscape beyond, creating a soft mist upon the glass and an immediate comfort away from the merrymaking. Lanterns glowed along the trailing ivy.

Trellises adorned with climbing white and deep crimson roses filled the arched glass and stone oasis.

As though time suspended again, only this time with another gentleman and for a different reason, she took in the colorful splendor and inhaled, filling her lungs with the intoxicating aroma of beeswax and flora. She felt giddy for surely all she needed was a book and she would never leave the winter garden!

She wondered if the military man spoke or had interest in the blossoms’ language visually chatting around them: Roses for beauty, ivy for friendship, laurel for glory. “We are in another fairytale, Colonel,” she breathed, gaze fixed on hanging orchids. “But here, the enchanting flowers and their perfume tell the story.”

“I quite concur. Now, I shall leave you in exceedingly more agreeable company than myself.” He bowed deeply. “But I shan’t be far,” he added before turning.

In the serene hush, she stood alone on the tiled, narrow path bordered by pink camellias, delighting in every perfect planting made to gladden hearts. Yes, they were indeed agreeable company. Pemberley was truly magical. Every pleasing parlor and room were filled with life and warmth, but here, the stately home breathed. The conservatory with its soaring palms and stunning blossoms was its heartbeat.

Footsteps from around the bend in the path startled her, then from the corner of her eye she saw Mr. Darcy’s approach, suddenly realizing this meeting had been arranged. He drew to her with the same measured carriage she had admired throughout the evening. But now lit by only the moon and lanterns, he evoked a thrilling excitement in her. The curve of his lips and tilt of his head made her catch her breath. Below the mask, he was an extremely handsome man.

Stopping at a respectful distance from her, he softly said, “I am obliged to you for coming. Although, I fear it may appear improper.”

“It does not. The garden invites reflection. It would have been regrettable had I not accepted your second offer made through Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

“I … I regret my inability to escort you myself.”

Understanding the predicament he was in, she simply nodded.

They stood beside one another facing a China rose shrub and she reached out, almost unconsciously, to touch the papery pink petal. “They bloom continuously in the proper temperature,” she awkwardly remarked. “How ever do you maintain it in the bitter cold of winter?”

“There is a clever underfloor heating system fed by steam boilers.”

“Fascinating. The roses are very happy here.” As am I.

“Pray, what is their meaning?”