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Elizabeth

Pemberley, Derbyshire

A fortnight had passed since Elizabeth’s arrival at Pemberley, and with each day she grew more accustomed to the rhythms of her new life. The initial strangeness of waking in the elegant bedchamber had gradually diminished. She had even established a routine for her writing.

Elizabeth had been forced to leave her manuscripts and notes behind in her hasty flight from London.

The loss of months of work had initially disheartened her, but the grandeur of Pemberley with its secrets and histories had stirred new tales in her mind.

She had begun afresh, filling page after page with ideas for her Gothic novels.

The spacious library desk proved a luxury after years of writing at a small table in the corner of Longbourn’s drawing room, where she was constantly interrupted by her family’s demands.

This morning, Elizabeth set out earlier than usual for a walk, a small leather-bound notebook tucked into her pocket.

These solitary rambles provided not only exercise but inspiration—the shifting landscapes of Pemberley had awakened her imagination in ways Longbourn never could.

She jotted notes about the ancient oaks, the hidden dells, and the sparkling lake, all potential settings for her heroines’ adventures.

Both she and Darcy had written to their families upon arriving at Pemberley.

She had composed a careful letter to her father explaining her marriage and new situation, and a longer, more detailed one to Jane.

Darcy had dispatched his own missives to his sister Georgiana, who had removed to Rosings Park along with Darcy’s aunt and uncle, Lord and Lady Matlock.

Each day, Elizabeth expected—and dreaded—the replies.

After returning from her walk and changing from her walking dress, Elizabeth made her way into the long gallery, the one space she had not yet explored in detail. Today seemed the perfect opportunity to satisfy her curiosity.

Following the housekeeper’s directions, Elizabeth climbed the grand staircase and turned down a passage she had not yet traversed.

At its end stood a pair of ornately carved double doors which opened to reveal a magnificent long gallery.

Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dozens of portraits lining the walls.

Elizabeth moved slowly along the gallery, studying each portrait with interest. The earliest paintings, dating from Tudor times, depicted stern-faced gentlemen in ruffs and ladies with elaborate headdresses.

As she progressed, fashions changed, but the same proud bearing and intelligent eyes appeared in generation after generation.

“Ah, Mrs Darcy! I see you’ve discovered the portrait gallery.”

Elizabeth turned to find Mrs Reynolds approaching, her face bright with pleasure at finding the new mistress taking an interest in family history.

“It is most impressive,” Elizabeth replied. “I had no idea the collection was so extensive.”

“Ten generations of Darcys, ma’am. This is the Lady Anne Darcy,” the housekeeper explained, indicating a portrait of a dark-haired woman with intelligent eyes.

“She brought the Fitzwilliam connection to the family. Lord Matlock was her brother, Lady Catherine her sister. A great lady, by all accounts, and a fine musician. The pianoforte in the music room was hers.”

“The one with mother-of-pearl inlay?” Elizabeth asked. “It has a beautiful tone.”

“Indeed, ma’am. The late Mrs Darcy—the master’s mother—played daily upon it, and Miss Georgiana has inherited her talent.”

Elizabeth continued along the gallery, pausing before each portrait as Mrs Reynolds provided commentary on the subject’s accomplishments and character.

She found herself particularly drawn to Darcy’s father—a handsome man whose face combined authority with warmth, not unlike his son’s in rare unguarded moments.

Near the end of the row hung a smaller painting that seemed oddly out of place among the formal Darcy likenesses. It depicted a fair-haired young man with laughing eyes and a charming smile. Unlike the others, he wore no fine coat or cravat, but rather the plain garb of a scholar.

Elizabeth felt a sudden jolt of recognition. The face was very familiar—surely it could not be—but no, that would be too extraordinary a coincidence.

“Who is this?” she enquired, keeping her tone casual despite her racing heart.

Mrs Reynolds’ expression darkened. “That is George Wickham, ma’am. The son of old Mr Darcy’s steward. He was raised alongside the master, though he proved unworthy of the family’s generosity.”

Elizabeth started visibly at the name. “Wickham?” she repeated, hardly able to believe the confirmation of her suspicion.

“Yes, ma’am. A most ungrateful young man.

Old Mr Darcy funded his education and intended him for the church, but after the master’s father died, Wickham showed his true colours.

” She lowered her voice. “If you’ll permit my saying so, ma’am, the portrait should be removed.

It pains the master to see it, though he has never ordered it taken down out of respect for his father’s wishes. ”

Elizabeth studied the portrait with new intensity, her mind whirling.

This was indeed the same George Wickham who had been stationed at Meryton with the militia the previous autumn.

He had paid particular attention to her at a local assembly, his easy manners and ready conversation making him an immediate favourite among the local populace.

His sudden transfer of affections to Miss Mary King—or rather, to her recently acquired fortune of ten thousand pounds—had occasioned much gossip in the neighbourhood.

Now she recalled with uncomfortable clarity how bitterly Wickham had spoken of a nameless gentleman who had denied him his rightful inheritance.

He had described being raised almost as a son by his godfather, then cruelly cast aside by the heir after the old gentleman’s death.

The son who, she now realised, must have been Fitzwilliam Darcy.

“How did he prove ungrateful?” she asked, careful to keep her tone measured.

“I should not speak ill of anyone,” Mrs Reynolds demurred, “but Mr Wickham caused the family nothing but grief. He was given a generous settlement in lieu of the living old Mr Darcy had promised him yet returned years later demanding more. The master refused, quite rightly.” She sighed.

“There was more trouble after that, involving poor Miss Darcy, though I do not know the particulars.”

Elizabeth wondered whether she ought to mention her own brief acquaintance with Wickham.

The coincidence was remarkable—that she should have encountered her husband’s childhood companion in Hertfordshire, of all places.

Yet something held her back. Wickham had spoken so bitterly of Darcy, painting him as proud, unjust, and jealous.

Mrs Reynolds’ account suggested a very different history, one where Wickham, not Darcy, was the villain.

Before she could decide how to proceed, a footman appeared at the gallery entrance.

“Pardon me, ma’am. A packet of letters has arrived, several addressed to you.”

She took them with a smile. “Thank you. I shall read them in the morning room.”

Once alone, Elizabeth stared at the letters for a long moment, unwilling to break the seals that would release whatever sentiments her family had chosen to convey. At last, unable to bear the suspense, she opened her mother’s letter first.

Oh! My dear, foolish Lizzy! What have you done to us all? To run from the church on your wedding day like a common thief in the night! And with a strange gentleman none of us have ever met!

The Blackfriars have been most severe in their condemnation—Mr Blackfriars has sworn never to speak to any Bennet again, and his son tells anyone who will listen that you led him on most shamefully before abandoning him for a wealthier prospect.

I cannot show my face in Meryton without whispers following me, and your poor sisters’ prospects are damaged beyond repair!

Mrs Long had the audacity to express pity for us at church on Sunday—pity! And Lady Lucas makes a great show of sympathising with me while clearly gloating over her Charlotte’s steady disposition compared to my wayward daughters.

I have had such spasms and fluttering since hearing of your elopement that Mr Jones has had to attend me thrice with new draughts. Such a trial for my poor nerves!

And yet—Pemberley! Your father says it is a grand estate indeed, and your Mr Darcy possessed of at least ten thousand a year!

Well, that is some consolation, I suppose.

If you must disgrace us, at least you have done it by marrying wealth.

Now you must use your position to help your sisters secure equally advantageous matches.

It is the least you can do after the distress you have caused.

Lydia especially requires a good match, as she grows prettier each day and will need a husband to match her beauty. And do ask your Mr Darcy if he might speak to his man of business about breaking the entail on Longbourn. Surely, with his connections and fortune, such a thing might be arranged?

Mama

Elizabeth set the letter down, her cheeks burning with mortification.

How like her mother to alternate between lamentations of ruin and calculations of advantage.

The accusations stung, though she had expected as much, but the naked mercenary considerations appalled her.

Did her mother truly believe she had married Darcy for his fortune?

And the suggestion that she should use her position to secure matches for her sisters, to say nothing of asking him to break the entail—it was unconscionable.

She took a deep breath before opening her father’s letter, bracing herself for disappointment. His opinion mattered far more to her than her mother’s dramatics.

My Lizzy,