Page 1 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter one

A Grand Arrival

I t is a truth universally acknowledged that any lady, upon assuming the role of mistress at Pemberley, must find herself considerably in need of steady nerves during her initial approach to such an establishment.

However little known her particular sentiments or disposition may be to those who serve within, this circumstance is so firmly established in the understanding of the household, that she is regarded as the natural object of the front hall's most attentive scrutiny from the very instant her equipage appears upon the hill.

The morning was so uncommonly fine and temperate that even one quite indifferent to natural beauty must have been struck, if only for a moment, by the pleasing prospect which presented itself beyond the carriage window: the smooth expanse of parkland, its lawns mantled in snow and descending gracefully toward the water, while the venerable oaks stood adorned with winter's delicate tracery of frost. Above all, commanding the distant view with quiet majesty, rose the handsome stone front of Pemberley—each window catching the light with brilliant effect, each classical feature speaking of generations of refined taste and established consequence.

It was, Elizabeth could not but acknowledge, a scene calculated to inspire awe; and she, who had so recently assumed the name of Darcy with something less than perfect ease, found herself sensible that such magnificence was designed to produce exactly the impression it now created upon her mind.

She allowed herself a single, honest gasp—quickly stifled, of course—but another escaped as the carriage rolled through the final iron gates.

Her hands, resting decorously in her lap, betrayed her by fussing with the glove fingers as if in silent protest against her composure.

Even the gentle rolling of the wheels seemed a conscious prelude, a deliberate parade in which she was both principal and captive.

Mr. Darcy, seated beside her, appeared to study the passing landscape with that expression of judicious approval which she had lately come to read as his particular form of conjugal encouragement.

At the sound of the carriage drawing to its stop, the doors of Pemberley swung inward with a timeliness that suggested both orchestration and habit.

No less than a dozen liveried servants had assembled upon the steps, arrayed in a line so faultless that Elizabeth briefly wondered if their breath, too, had been synchronized.

At the fore, her cap and gown more splendid than custom strictly required, stood Mrs. Reynolds, housekeeper and the household’s chief minister of tradition.

The hush of expectation was so pronounced that the very birds appeared to moderate their song.

Mr. Darcy alighted first, every inch the master of the house, his arm extended not only as a husband’s courtesy but as a prelude to transfer of dominion.

Elizabeth placed her gloved hand upon his, affecting a composure she suspected was not entirely convincing, and allowed herself to be conducted down the steps.

As she descended, she became aware that the stillness among the staff was not merely that of respect, but of keen, nearly audible scrutiny: every pair of eyes seemed determined to catalogue her appearance, each lip pursed as if practicing either judgment or reluctant approval—or perhaps both at once.

Mrs. Reynolds advanced and, with a curtsy that managed to be both sweeping and perfectly upright, intoned, “Welcome to Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy.” The words, though spoken in the measured accent of a woman who had presided over innumerable arrivals, carried a warmth that Elizabeth had not expected, as if the house itself were trying on her new mistress and finding her almost to its taste.

Elizabeth’s reply—so carefully rehearsed in the sleepless portion of the preceding night—came forth with only minor alterations.

“You are most kind, Mrs. Reynolds. I can only hope to be as worthy of this house as you and all here have made it.” She offered a smile which, if it wobbled at its outset, finished strong and assured.

There was a detectable shiver along the line of assembled staff, not unlike the ripple through a standing crop when a wind first bends it.

A footman, likely new to such ceremonies, dropped his eyes and stifled a grin.

At this moment, Mr. Darcy—whose attentions had never been less than exacting—turned to his wife, his gaze a mixture of pride and something softer. “Shall we?” he murmured, gesturing toward the yawning entrance, within which the architecture of generations awaited them both.

Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice for the moment, and found her chin rising to a degree she knew was likely inherited from some stubborn Bennet ancestor rather than her current title.

The entrance hall, cool and faintly resonant with the memory of footsteps past, opened before her in all its symmetrical glory.

Marble, mahogany, and the echoing hush that only such spaces could foster—she was mistress here, yet felt herself as much a visitor as the day she had first stood, blushing and unsummoned, upon these very stones.

Mrs. Reynolds trailed them at the prescribed distance, issuing discreet nods to underlings whose duties were already perfectly rehearsed.

The luggage, the flowers, the welcome gifts—each choreographed to within a hair of decorum.

Elizabeth saw and was seen: she noticed the immaculate sweep of the staircase, the gentle polish on the banisters, the arrangement of hothouse lilies that echoed the bygone season, and wondered if her own entrance was similarly being appraised, point by point, by those who knew so intimately the rituals of Pemberley.

As they entered the gallery, Darcy slowed, letting the moment stretch, as if inviting her to breathe the estate’s air at her own pace. “Is it as you remembered?” he asked, the softness in his voice cloaked, as always, in a formal turn of phrase.

Elizabeth met his eyes, and in so doing felt her nervousness subsume itself in the old pleasure of their banter.

“It is considerably larger than I recalled,” she said, “and, if possible, more intimidating in the knowledge that it may now call me its mistress. Should I expect to be haunted by the great ladies of the past, or merely judged in silence?”

Darcy’s lips twisted, almost—but not quite—into a smile.

“The portraits may frown, but I believe the current staff has already determined to approve.” He nodded, imperceptibly, toward the servants, who by now had dissolved into their various duties, leaving only Mrs. Reynolds to oversee the completion of their arrival.

Elizabeth’s heart, though emboldened by this exchange, nonetheless fluttered with the sense of theatre: her posture became the least degree more upright, her step more deliberate, and her eyes drank in every detail of the passage before her.

The walls, hung with the collected faces of Darcy forebears, regarded her with silent expectation.

She recognized Lady Anne—her husband’s mother—in the gentle oval of one painting, the melancholy cast of the mouth echoed in her son’s own moments of reflection.

It was, she supposed, a sort of lineage of judgment, each matron assessing the latest addition to the catalogue.

Mrs. Reynolds, taking the moment for her own, spoke in the even tones of a woman who had introduced more than one generation to their place.

“If you should wish, ma’am, I have taken the liberty of refreshing the blue drawing room.

The light this time of day is most becoming, and the view of the west lawn is particularly fine just now. ”

Elizabeth detected a note of pride in the suggestion, and accepted with gratitude. “I should be delighted. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds.”

As she moved toward the appointed chamber, Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder at the threshold—where but a few months since, she had been merely a guest, and before that, hardly even that.

Now she felt the twin pressures of history and expectation settle about her like an inherited shawl: at once confining and unexpectedly warming.

She would, she resolved, meet the challenge in her own manner.

A slight upward tilt of her chin, a deft adjustment of her glove, and she crossed into the next room, leaving the scent of new lilies—and the faint, unyielding curiosity of a household—trailing in her wake.

T he blue drawing room did indeed present a scene to recommend itself: morning sunlight streamed in through tall windows, splintered into warmth by the crystal prisms of two cut-glass chandeliers.

The room was at once stately and inviting, the colours chosen to flatter the complexion and the furnishings arranged so as to foster conversation without ever permitting an awkward lull.

Elizabeth, in her first act as mistress, directed herself to the window and stood surveying the terrace below—a courtly pantomime for the benefit of Mrs. Reynolds, who followed at a respectful interval.

“I hope, Mrs. Darcy, that you find the arrangements to your liking,” Mrs. Reynolds began, her tone weighted with the significance of the moment. “The blue is said to suit the afternoon best, though Lady Anne favoured the gold for winter mornings such as this.”

Elizabeth glanced at the damask, noticing its richness for the first time.

“I believe I shall reserve judgment until I have seen the house in every weather and company,” she replied, turning with a smile.

“But your mention of the gold seems well-suited to December's temperament, though I find the blue has its own winter charm.”