Page 21 of Mistress of Pemberley
During her days in Kent, Elizabeth had become somewhat familiar with the public rooms of the great house of Rosings. However, with each step she took and every room she entered in Darcy’s house in London, she found herself in a home, a place that filled her with a pleasure she had never experienced in Lady Catherine’s imposing manor. There, she had admired the opulence and quality of every object—from the furniture to the tableware. Yet, all those things had seemed to bear the air of a bygone era, a splendour that inspired veneration rather than the delight of living with a family in such a place.
By contrast, Darcy’s house was alive, sumptuously decorated yet imbued with a warmth that bespoke a home created for a family who lived together. The furniture bore an air of understated elegance, with flat surfaces replacing the intricate carvings or sinuous contours of the last centuries, yet the craftsmanship was further elevated by subtle inlays of precious metals or mother-of-pearl. The rooms displayed a refined simplicity, papered in soft, harmonious hues, adorned with fine paintings, sculptures, and vases brimming with flowers—blooms Elizabeth had never seen before during the early spring. The mystery of those incredible flowers was soon revealed when Parker opened an unassuming door, which offered no hint of the wonder concealed behind it.
Lady Anne’s greenhouse was, indeed, a paradise. Roses of every conceivable shade and form, dazzling marigolds in bright yellow, begonias, and, most striking of all, an astonishing array of orchids nearly overwhelmed Elizabeth with their variety and brilliance.
She wandered for some time among the plants, her gaze caressing the exquisite beauty surrounding her.
“Who tends to the greenhouse?” she asked Anna, turning to her with a delighted smile as if she were the author of all the beauty around her.
“We have a gardener, but during the summer, more are employed, as the greenhouse opens up to a small garden when the weather is warm.”
“Small?” Elizabeth smiled, looking through the windows to see a garden she had not before glimpsed and which seemed anything but small to her.
“Oh yes, tiny compared to the gardens at Pemberley. Even the greenhouse there is larger than this entire garden.”
Unexpectedly, Elizabeth’s joy began to shift into apprehension as she considered the weight of the responsibilities that would soon be on her shoulders. The thought of managing not only the grandeur that surrounded her in London but also the vastness of Pemberley seemed daunting, almost beyond her power.
“We all hope that the master will get well again,” murmured Anna, imagining her mistress’s sadness was because of the master. Indeed, she was not wrong because any worries Elizabeth had about her future duties were deeply entangled with the regret of losing him, even though she had only accepted his offer and not his love. But in that ocean of pain and worry, it was hard to discern such regret, which she could not even have imagined a few days before.
“John is our gardener,” Anna said, gesturing towards a man who approached and greeted Elizabeth with marked respect. Everyone in the house already knew who she was, and Elizabeth sensed that the smiles they offered her and the reverence they showed were also signs of their relief. Their new mistress seemed to be the kind of lady they had hoped for, and it appeared that Mr Talbot, Parker, or Anna had spoken favourably of her, even though they had known her for only a day.
“Mr Darcy desires a Lady Darcy ,” Anna murmured almost inaudibly to the gardener, who returned moments later holding the most exquisite rose Elizabeth had ever seen. Its delicate petals, blushing pink at the edges and deepening into a soft grey at the centre, sang a symphony she perceived not only with her eyes but also with her soul.
“My God!” she exclaimed in wonder, receiving the flower. “It is unique.”
“Lady Anne cultivated it at Pemberley,” John explained with the same pride Anna had shown for the garden. “We call the variety a Lady Darcy .”
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“It is wonderful… Everything… The greenhouse, this incredible rose,” Elizabeth said as she returned, the rose in her hand. Anna followed her, for everyone in the house was eager to see their master, but no one was permitted entry apart from the physician and valet. Darcy smiled and beckoned Anna closer, then, quite impolitely, whispered something in her ear. Anna nearly ran into the other chamber, and moments later, a joyful exclamation was heard through the open door. Darcy smiled; evidently, Anna had found what he had requested. She reappeared, with great care carrying a gown wrapped in a material as translucent as the morning mist.
Elizabeth had seen a few gowns wrapped similarly in a corner of the wardrobe but had not dared to examine them. It still felt as though she might be overstepping boundaries.
With the same care she had used to bring it, Anna revealed the gown, presenting it to Elizabeth, who sank into the armchair next to Darcy’s bed. She stared wide-eyed from the rose to the gown, for it seemed incredible that the stunning colours of the petals could be so perfectly replicated in the dress. The gown was a soft pink at the hem, fading and changing into delicate grey petals framing the neck—it was clearly meant to look like the unique rose.
Sensing her emotion, Darcy dismissed Anna, instructing her to return in half an hour with the seamstress. His gaze had barely left Elizabeth when he noticed tears glistening on her cheeks.
“Miss Bennet can cry?” he asked, hoping his voice masked the depth of his own emotion.
Elizabeth wiped her tears silently.
“I trust you are crying with joy,” he continued, attempting a light-hearted tone.
“I no longer know why I am crying,” she replied, and he silently thanked her for her honesty. He allowed himself to hope that, among her emotions, there was a sliver of regret for him. Yet he said nothing—not for her, but for himself—unsure he could maintain composure in such a conversation. It was better for certain things to remain unspoken and the atmosphere between them to stay calm.
“How was it possible to find such a fabric?” she asked, accepting his decision to steer the conversation towards safer ground.
“You do not want to know. I believe I was about fifteen years old, and our house was flooded with silks in these colours for several days, brought from every corner of England—or the world, to be more precise. My father threatened to move to Pemberley to escape the deluge, but in the end, my mother found what she sought, and the Lady Darcy gown was created.”
“It is perfect.”
He nodded, for the gown, paradoxically, seemed to mirror Elizabeth herself—a fusion of joy and vitality tempered by sobriety rooted in her reflective, slightly sarcastic nature. From beyond the grave, it seemed as though Lady Anne had bequeathed this dress to her, crafted as if for her alone.
“If my mother were here, I am certain she would insist you wear this gown the day after tomorrow,” he said.
“The day after tomorrow?”
“Yes, the duke has sent word that the vicar of our church will marry us the day after tomorrow—” He paused, gazing at her. “I am asking you for the last time. Are you certain this is what you want?”
His voice still wavered with uncertainty, but Elizabeth, disregarding the turmoil in his heart, looked at him and replied, “Do not be foolish. Who would not marry in such a gown?”