Page 29 of Mistress of Pemberley

Mary’s presence proved to be a benefit for the Pemberley estate and a blessing for Elizabeth. It was as though she had her family by her side, without the sometimes-exasperating presence of her mother, Lydia, or even Jane, whose suffering seemed trivial in the face of Darcy’s tragedy. Instead, she had the sister she barely knew, one whom she had never entirely known how to place—whom she might once have described as quiet at home and at times tiresome in society—but who now revealed herself to be precisely what she needed. She was a companion who knew when to leave her alone yet who accompanied her on all her wanderings through the estate alongside Mr Balfour. In a remarkably short time, Mary became an invaluable support, for after Elizabeth had once asked her to write down a conversation with a tenant, she soon began composing complete accounts of their visits. Elizabeth decided to send these reports directly to Darcy, written in Mary’s precise hand.

She remembers everything we discuss, understands everything she sees, and asks questions that never occurred to me.

Elizabeth wrote this to Darcy, not to explain why her sister was now providing the reports he had initially requested from her but to share her genuine admiration. As dull as she might be in conversation, Mary was clear and faithful to reality in her writing. Darcy, who sent replies to her letters more than once a day, confirmed his appreciation for the precision of her accounts. It was yet another small victory for Elizabeth in her efforts to prove that, beyond the faults he had so quickly perceived, her family possessed virtues he had once refused to acknowledge. Mary was the best evidence of this.

The first courtesy visit they made at Darcy’s request was to the rector of Lambton a few days after their arrival. The Parsonage was on their estate, separated from Lambton by the river, and the bridge that crossed it was but a few steps from the house.

Elizabeth had heard that the vicar had lost his wife some years before, and thus, she expected to find a rather austere dwelling. To their surprise, however, they discovered a charming home nestled within a well-tended garden, blooming with roses. They were received warmly by the reverend, yet also with the sorrowful sincerity displayed by all who, in one way or another, were connected to Pemberley and Darcy and knew his tragic story.

He invited them inside, and once again, Elizabeth admired the beauty of the Parsonage. It brought to mind Hunsford and Charlotte, yet Mr Buxton’s house was a reflection of a cultured and spiritual man with an appreciation for beauty. His parlour was filled with books, lying open in every corner, as the room appeared to also serve as his place of work.

“Forgive the disarray,” he said. “My study is undergoing repairs, and I have been preparing my Sunday sermon here.”

“On the contrary, Mr Buxton, we are pleased that you have received us in the very place where you work,” said Mary. He looked at her with curiosity before turning back to Elizabeth.

“I recently wrote to Mr Darcy, hoping for his healing,” the vicar said, taking Elizabeth’s hand in his with such a profound gesture of friendship that it brought tears to her eyes.

She was about to tell him the truth—that the chances were exceedingly slim—but Mr Buxton did not allow her to speak.

“Madam, I served for three years on the frontlines in Europe. I stood beside the wounded every day. Some died from the smallest injury, while others, despite being shot straight through, walked home on their own two feet. And believe me, in those extreme circumstances, even the physicians often could not explain why something happened one way or another. Has he been seen by good doctors?”

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment. Several physicians had come and gone, yet none had offered any prognosis different from that of the first man who had attended to him on the night of the incident and had continued his care ever since.

“It is difficult to say how skilled the physician who looks after him is. Such tragedies are not common in London,” she admitted at last.

“Only physicians who have served on the battlefield have experience with wounds of this nature,” Mr Buxton remarked before turning his attention to Mary. She quickly captivated him, for books were her domain, and before long, she began noting down titles he mentioned.

“If you do not find them at Pemberley, I shall gladly lend them to you,” said the vicar. Mary, ever earnest, accepted the offer with a solemn nod.

That evident understanding between the two gave Elizabeth space to reflect, for some of the vicar’s words had stirred her thoughts in earnest. Yet, she could not yet plainly see where they might lead her.

∞∞∞

“What an interesting visit to the Parsonage,” Elizabeth said, though, in truth, she wished to tell Mary how beautifully and naturally she had conducted herself—how changed she found her, in fact.

“The world respects me because I am with you and wearing an elegant gown,” said Mary, walking towards the house. They had come by carriage, yet both had felt the need to walk back, for there had been little time for movement since their arrival at Pemberley.

“You are mistaken,” Elizabeth replied firmly. “This gown indeed lends you an air of elegance that pleases the eyes of those around you, but people respect you for who you are. Those at Pemberley respect you because you treat everyone with kindness. In contrast, men like Mr Buxton respect you because you have finally begun to listen to those around you. And when you open your mouth, you now say what you think, rather than merely reciting a passage from some book you have just finished reading.”

“Could Mr Buxton come to dinner?” Mary asked, her voice laced with timidity.

“At any time. I shall write him a note as soon as we arrive home. He can also tell us whom else to invite to dine with us.”

“How wonderful! He told me that since Mr Darcy fell ill, he has not dared to visit your library.”

“What nonsense! The library is open to such a man,” Elizabeth replied, smiling to herself, for her sister had said ‘your library’ , a sign that, to Mary, it had been effortless to see her as mistress of Pemberley. The library—and indeed Pemberley itself—now belonged now to both Darcy and her. And, in truth, she had begun to feel as though she was the mistress of these lands.

∞∞∞

To her surprise and delight, she received a letter from Darcy entirely on the subject of Jane, who, in Elizabeth’s absence, had frequently called upon Georgiana. Her presence had brought some lightness to the young girl’s days, drawing her into the lively conversations of young ladies rather than the burdensome matters of the household.

When she received word from Jane that Mr Bingley had visited her at the Gardiners’, it became evident that Darcy was attempting to make amends for the disastrous advice he had once given his friend at Netherfield. She refrained from asking Darcy for details on how matters were progressing, for what truly mattered was Jane’s decision. She had accepted Mr Bingley’s apologies with a certain reserve—a response that greatly pleased Elizabeth, who saw in it a welcome change. Only in the third letter concerning Mr Bingley did Jane mention a reconciliation, which, it seemed, had taken place at Darcy’s home—though he had written nothing of it.

And then, something utterly astonishing occurred. Without any word from either Darcy or her father regarding their plans, one evening she received a bundle of letters—more or less from every member of her family—all conveying the same news yet from so many different perspectives: her mother, having arrived in London, had visited Darcy.

“It cannot be!” exclaimed Mary, breaking into laughter, for in the two weeks they had been at Pemberley, Elizabeth had recounted to her the entire story between Darcy and herself, from the first day at the Meryton assembly to the last day in Kent, even those details she would never share with another but had felt the need to confide in her sister. “Mother— At Mr Darcy’s—”

“Summoned by Mr Darcy ,” Elizabeth added.

They snatched the letters from one another’s hands.

“Father writes that Mother was both emotional and elegant,” Mary nearly shouted, tossing the letter into the air in sheer delight before seizing another. “Aunt Gardiner says Mother ate nothing at breakfast before the visit,” she continued. Both burst into laughter once more, for the image of that composed, elegant lady—who was not even able to eat—did not resemble the mother they knew.

I made my mea culpa, Darcy had written. ”Listen to this— mea culpa ,” Elizabeth murmured, astonished yet deeply moved and overjoyed, for, in such moments, her love for Darcy felt boundless.

And Mary nodded, for it was truly remarkable for Mr Darcy to admit he had been mistaken.

“But Mother is not staying with Father at your house,” Mary noted, glancing again at their father’s letter.

“I do not believe my husband’s mea culpa will extend so far as to invite Mother to stay with us,” Elizabeth replied, not in the least upset but rather amused and covertly accepting of her husband’s decision by saying ‘with us ’.

They spent an enjoyable hour reading and rereading the letters, imagining with humour and sometimes even a little sarcasm every scene of that play that had taken place in Darcy’s parlour in London.

Mary had the gift of making Elizabeth forget, if only for a few moments, that her husband in London was close to death. Even if she tried not to keep that distressing thought in her mind all the time, it was forever nested like a pain in her heart that never left her. She blamed herself for leaving him, and she trembled before opening every letter from London, fearing it would bring terrible news.

And when, one evening, no letter from Darcy arrived, she spent the entire night sleepless, only to learn the following day that it had merely been a storm that had delayed the messenger.

∞∞∞

“I have resolved the matters for which I came,” said Elizabeth one evening at dinner, glancing at Mary. To her surprise, she saw her sister flush deeply. She must have known what was to come—Elizabeth longed to be in London, and each day spent at Pemberley had become a torment.

Then, Elizabeth caught the fleeting glance Mary unconsciously exchanged with Reverend Buxton. During the past two weeks, they had not entertained many guests at dinner, yet they had never dined alone. At times, Mr Balfour had joined them in the afternoon, engaging them in conversation before being persuaded to remain for the meal. On a few occasions, they had invited a family—close friends of Darcy’s—who reminded Elizabeth greatly of the Lucases. But nearly every evening, Reverend Buxton had dined with them. A scholar with relatively liberal views for a clergyman, he was a pleasure to converse with, often enlivening their evenings when they would have been too weary to entertain other guests.

Yet it was now evident that, beyond the delight of stimulating discourse, something had transpired between Mary and the reverend, and Elizabeth, preoccupied as she had been, had failed to notice.

Her decision to leave, however, was made.

“We shall depart in a few days,” she told Mary when they were left alone that evening. She then resumed reading, as was their habit, before retiring for the night. But keeping her attention on her book proved impossible, for Mary wanted water, then tea, then changed her book several times until it became apparent that something troubled her.

“Speak! What is it?” Elizabeth commanded in an amused tone. She looked at Mary, noting how much she had changed. Her neatly arranged hair framed a face that Elizabeth had never before noticed, illuminated by a light that rendered it beautiful. She resembled her. Only a few days ago, standing side by side before the mirror in the entrance hall, they had both observed it. Mary of Longbourn no longer existed; within the beauty of Pemberley, a young woman had blossomed whom no one had ever suspected lay hidden beneath her furrowed brows and past frustrations.

“Do you think I might remain here after you leave?” Mary asked at last, her voice frail. Elizabeth nearly dropped the teacup she held.

“Remain at Pemberley?” she repeated as though she had not understood, and Mary nodded, her face once more turning scarlet.

“I could continue what I have done daily with you—you have seen that I am capable…”

Elizabeth nodded, realisation only now occurring to her, although throughout the days spent on the estate, it had been clear. Mary had a natural aptitude for such responsibilities, much like Lady Catherine. At the same time, Elizabeth harboured but one desire—to return to London. Perhaps, in other circumstances, she too might have devoted herself to the management of the estate, but not when every moment she spent away from Darcy was a moment lost. Mary had been a blessing, taking on all the responsibilities that would naturally have fallen to Elizabeth. She would return to Pemberley and assume all those burdens in the future—a future she already dreaded. But she longed for London at present, and nothing could persuade her to stay.

“Write to Darcy and ask whether he approves of you continuing what you have done thus far. If he agrees, as I suspect he will, we shall ask Mr Buxton to find us a respectable lady from the parish who would be willing to serve as your companion.”

“My companion?” Mary asked in surprise, yet Elizabeth could see that she was pleased by the idea of having a lady’s companion.

“As an unmarried woman, you cannot stay here alone, and besides, I would feel much more at ease as well.”

Not only had Mary been writing to Darcy daily, but he had responded just as regularly. Although each letter began with ‘Dear ladies’, they were evidently addressed solely to Mary. On several occasions, he had even dictated orders for Mr Balfour or a tenant and sent them to Mary for execution. It was easy to surmise that Darcy understood Elizabeth’s eagerness to depart and likely felt the same—wishing for her to return to London as soon as possible.

Scarcely had Elizabeth spoken when the letter was penned, and Mary, reassured, clung to the hope that Darcy would grant his consent.

“Is there another reason you wish to remain?” Elizabeth asked, watching as the colour rose again in her sister’s cheeks. “Reverend Buxton?” she asked, and though Mary offered no explicit reply, the answer was clear.

Pemberley might become something far more than a mere visit for her sister.

And the more Elizabeth pondered the matter, the more unexpected yet excellent a solution it appeared—for the daughter Mrs Bennet had never hoped to see married.

That last evening at Pemberley, however, the reverend occupied her thoughts not only because of Mary but also for another reason. They had spoken at length of his experiences on the frontlines—of the suffering young men, of the extraordinary military and civilian surgeons who had tended to them in battle.

He had told her of Charles Bell, a civilian surgeon who, beyond performing amputations, had been particularly interested in musket-ball injuries.

“Military surgeons possess great experience in such wounds, treating dozens of injured men daily,” Reverend Buxton remarked again that evening after painting another harrowing picture of life and medical care at the front. And with that, Elizabeth abandoned her book and hastily penned a letter to Colonel Fitzwilliam.

∞∞∞

Darcy’s response to Mary’s enquiry arrived the following morning, on the day Elizabeth’s departure was set. He was pleased with her decision to remain. He sent a brief yet formal letter appointing her as his direct representative in numerous estate matters.

As Elizabeth gazed out of the carriage window, watching Pemberley recede into the distance, she smiled and waved at her sister, who was standing on the front steps accompanied by Mrs Annesley, a lady of middle years from Lambton, who had willingly accepted the position of Mary’s companion.

Mary had not once thought to pack her belongings and leave with her. In truth, Elizabeth had tacitly accepted that she would remain, regardless of Darcy’s response. His letter, however, had resolved the matter perfectly for everyone.

It was possible that by the time she returned to Pemberley, Mary would already be living at the Parsonage. But at the mere thought of the future, a wave of sorrow engulfed Elizabeth, for she longed for her husband so intensely, so strongly, that she could not imagine how she would endure when he was no more.