Page 11 of Return to Pemberley
“Mrs. Darcy,” she pronounced, with the emphasis on the title, as if daring the room to contradict her, “I see you have made yourself quite at home among my sister's things. How... industrious of you. I am come to Pemberley to inspect the household, and to offer such advice as my experience may suggest.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, matching the formality with a bow of equal elegance. “You do us great honour, Lady Catherine. I trust your journey was not too arduous?”
Lady Catherine’s mouth—so often the bearer of news less welcome than its delivery—curled into a tight semblance of a smile.
“It was tolerable, Mrs. Darcy. I find the roads from Rosings are much improved since last season, though I cannot say as much for the state of the post-chaises in Derbyshire. I was obliged to rebuke the driver twice, and I am not sanguine about the effects of his impertinence upon the horses.”
Elizabeth permitted a smile, all the more pointed for its restraint.
“What a trial for you. Though I suspect the horses bore their burden with more grace than their driver bore your correction. I am sure we can arrange for the stables to make any repairs necessary. Will you take tea, Lady Catherine, or do you prefer a restorative after such exertion?”
Lady Catherine waved away the offer, her eyes never leaving Elizabeth’s face. “Tea may wait. I am here on business, Mrs. Darcy, and I should like to begin without delay. Where is Mr. Darcy? He is not customarily absent at such an hour.”
“He is overseeing improvements to the tenant cottages,” Elizabeth replied. “A pursuit which, I'm told, requires one to venture outdoors and speak with persons of various degrees. Quite shocking behavior for a gentleman of his station.”
This statement, though entirely accurate, seemed to momentarily discompose Lady Catherine, whose expectations had clearly run to a scene of domestic inertia, not energetic enterprise.
She recovered swiftly, however, and took the nearest chair—one of the high-backed settees that lined the library’s hearth—arranging her dress with a precision that suggested a declaration of war.
Elizabeth, seeing her guest thus enthroned, resolved to treat the impending encounter as both examination and game. She took the opposite chair, folding her hands in her lap, and waited for the first volley.
“Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Catherine began, “you are, I believe, aware that the management of a great house such as this requires a seriousness of purpose, and an attention to detail, quite above the ordinary. My sister, Lady Anne, was a woman of remarkable capacity, and I do not say so solely from family affection. She understood that Pemberley was not merely a residence, but an institution. It is therefore essential that every decision reflect the dignity of the name.”
Elizabeth nodded, her smile undiminished. “I admire your candour, Lady Catherine. I have endeavoured to learn from the best precedents, and am always grateful for your counsel.”
Lady Catherine’s gaze sharpened. “Precedent is not always sufficient. There are circumstances—special circumstances—in which judgment and, dare I say, a certain firmness are required. I recall, during my sister’s time, an episode involving a distant cousin, whose claims upon the estate were a source of perpetual anxiety.
My sister resolved the matter with an admirable mixture of charity and inflexibility.
I trust you would do the same, if called upon. ”
Elizabeth, recognizing in this speech an allusion to the very mystery that had occupied her afternoon, kept her features composed.
“How providential that Pemberley should have such a guardian of its history. I confess, I had not realized that distant cousins were quite so hazardous to great estates—I shall have to warn Mr. Darcy to be more cautious in his genealogical researches.”
Lady Catherine sat back, as if testing the weight of this answer.
The silence that followed was dense with the crackle of possibility: Elizabeth sensed that the true purpose of her aunt’s visit lay not in tea or in the rebuke of postillions, but in the subtle probing of the house’s defences—legal, moral, and otherwise.
In that silence, a beam of sunlight, slipping through the lattice of windowpanes, illuminated the edge of the locked desk drawer.
Elizabeth caught the gleam, felt the sudden heat of scrutiny, and knew that the secrets of the past, however deeply buried, were always—at Pemberley—on the verge of exposure.
A distant clock, somewhere in the house, struck the hour. Lady Catherine’s eyes never moved from Elizabeth’s face.
“Very well,” she said, at last. “I shall reserve my counsel until I determine whether it would be... comprehensible to its recipient. You are aware, Mrs. Darcy, that I always speak my mind.”
Elizabeth rose, matching her guest’s hauteur with a composure earned over a lifetime of contest. “Indeed, your candour is among your most... reliable qualities. I should be quite at a loss if you were to develop a sudden tendency toward diplomacy.”
Together, they left the library, the echo of their footsteps ringing between the shelves. Behind them, the room resumed its ancient hush—a silence filled, as ever, with the unspoken dialogues of those who had walked there before.
In the corridor, Mrs. Reynolds awaited them, her face impassive but her eyes, Elizabeth thought, alight with the knowledge of all that had passed, and all that was yet to come.
T he passage from library to drawing room was accomplished with the sort of stately inevitability that only the highest of society could muster.
Elizabeth, keenly aware of her own posture and Lady Catherine’s unyielding stride, found herself not merely in transit but on parade.
Mrs. Reynolds, who had anticipated every need, directed a pair of maids to add a final polish to the silver and to adjust the draperies so that the afternoon’s failing sun would catch the lilies in the precise moment of their bloom.
The drawing room itself, always beautiful, now resembled a theatre set for a drama of the most exacting taste.
The porcelain tea service, with its bands of cobalt and gold, stood at attention on a table at the window’s light.
The air was faintly perfumed with the scent of lilies, their white trumpets arrayed in a vase at the centre of the table—a deliberate echo, Elizabeth suspected, of Lady Anne’s remembered preference.
Even the chairs, placed at a carefully measured angle to one another, bespoke a ceremonial order that would have pleased the most rigid of chancellors.
Lady Catherine entered the room with a composure bordering upon the regnal.
She surveyed the scene with an approving glance, then fixed upon the tea service with a look of such expectation that Elizabeth was momentarily reminded of a headmistress about to preside over examinations.
Not to be outdone, Elizabeth moved to her place behind the table, her hands steady as she poured the first cup and offered it—exactly so, with neither tremor nor delay.
The silence, as Lady Catherine received her tea, was an edifice built stone by stone: the placement of the saucer, the delicate adjustment of a teaspoon, the quick survey of the room for any deviation from established order. Only when she was satisfied did Lady Catherine allow herself to speak.
“I am glad to see, Mrs. Darcy, that you have retained the Worcester. Too often, young mistresses—lacking experience—are seduced by novelty. I have always said that tradition is the foundation of taste.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, acknowledging the compliment for what it was: both praise and challenge. “It was my pleasure to keep the service intact, Lady Catherine. I find that true refinement is best revealed in its smallest details.”
Lady Catherine sipped, her eyes—over the rim of the cup—never leaving Elizabeth’s face.
“Very true. The smallest detail may undo an entire household. I recall once, at Rosings, a new girl placed the cups on the left instead of the right. Lady Anne was merciful, but I do not think the girl ever recovered.”
Elizabeth, refusing to take the bait, smiled with perfect courtesy. “How fortunate that revolution has not yet reached the tea table. I shall be vigilant for signs of rebellion among the china.”
Lady Catherine allowed a thin smile, then set her cup down with a precision that bespoke both contentment and control. “You seem very settled, Mrs. Darcy. It is a formidable task, to step into the shoes of so distinguished a line. How do you find the management of the estate?”
Elizabeth considered, weighing the candor of her reply against the appetite of her guest for drama.
“It is not so daunting as I feared, though I am daily reminded of the trust placed in me. Mr. Darcy is tireless in his improvements, and the staff are so well-trained that my role is more of guidance than command.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed the least fraction.
“Guidance is insufficient, unless grounded in a proper understanding of responsibility. A great estate such as Pemberley requires not merely affection to sustain it, but the proper understanding that comes from breeding.” The last word, suspended like a verdict, was delivered with all the force of ancestral right.
Elizabeth felt the heat rise to her cheeks, but her answer—polished by long habit and sharpened by recent trials—was ready.
“Indeed, though I have observed that understanding often flourishes where it is least expected—a phenomenon which I suspect even the finest breeding cannot entirely account for.”
The teacups clinked faintly, a note of reprieve before the next engagement.
“Mr. Darcy is a man of discernment, I will grant you that,” Lady Catherine resumed, “but he has always been too lenient with the staff. I trust you will not indulge them to the point of presumption.”