Eliza began to finally grow content as time soothed her wounds. She passed her time by taking care of Mrs. Higgins, reading all the books in the library (she grew very fond of Jane Austen, though later she would find out that Henry referred to her writings as 'bon-bons for the brain), and she continued to keep the garden looking lovely when Mrs. Higgins's hands wouldn't allow her to do so.
Her 22nd birthday came and went without much notice or spectacle. The colonel sent her flowers and Mrs. Higgins bought her a new gown. That day the professor came to tea, but as it turned out, he hadn't realized that it was Eliza's birthday. He grumbled and left the house, eventually returning with a small package. He tossed it upon the table and grumbled an inaudible 'Happy Birthday' in her general direction. He threw himself upon the small chair in the corner and twiddled his thumbs.
Mrs. Higgins sniggered, "Really, my dear son, for one who has a vast knowledge of the English language, you certainly do muddle your way through the blandest of colloquialisms."
Higgins crossed his arms and remained silent.
Eliza smiled as she eagerly unwrapped the brown paper, carefully loosening the twine to reveal a small handkerchief stitched with violets. They were her flowers, the very ones she sold in Covent. She doubted Higgins had realized this when making the purchase, but all the same, she was touched.
"Thank you Professor. That was very kind of you." She said with the exact intonation he had taught her months before.
He looked over his shoulder, meeting eyes with her. She looked genuinely happy and content with his present. Eliza's eyes glistened. He must have touched something in her, but what? He couldn't remember why exactly violets reminded him of her, nor did he care to hypothesize. He waved his hand.
"Oh you silly girl, it's just a small birthday gift."
He abruptly turned around and stared at the wall.
Later that evening, back at 27A Wimpole Street, Mrs. Pearce decided to investigate loud crashing noises that came from the study. She tapped lightly on the door before opening it to reveal the professor, standing amongst piles of unturned drawers, his hair ruffled and his tie undone. He was clearly searching for something in the rubble.
"Oh! Thank Heavens, Mrs. Pearce. I simply cannot find any notes from last month's lecture on rhetoric that I gave at Oxford."
Mrs. Pearce shrugged. "I'm sorry, sir. I have been engaged with the household staff. Perhaps you should contact Eliza…."
"Damn it all! I don't need her," He shouted unusually loudly, "I've gotten on fine without her these past 46 years."
Realizing his tone, he paused and shook his head. "Oh no matter, I'll find them tomorrow."
Mrs. Pearce quietly exited out of the room, contemplating giving her notice of intent to leave. Higgins rubbed his temples vigorously and decided to leave his mess until the morning. He went to the piano and poured himself a glass of port. He pulled a cigar out of a box upon his desk and quickly began searching for a match to light it with, but to no avail. He walked out into the hall and spotted a pack upon the top of the fireplace. He began to walk over towards it when he noticed something nearby that sparkled. He walked closer and what he found astonished him.
Her ring.
It must have been there since the night after the ball, which under normal circumstances would have given him cause to complain about the cleaning staff's performance. Instead he felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. Much the same as he had felt that night when she had handed the ring back to him in her fury.
He picked it up and looked at it, almost dropping it as if it the touch of it had burned his skin. He turned it over in his palm, allowing it to collect the light. He started to put it back upon the mantle, but unwilling to part with it, dropped it into the pocket of his coat. He looked around to make sure no one had seen him, took another sip of his port and walked up the stairs to go to bed.
