Page 12 of Return to Pemberley

Elizabeth caught the arch of Lady Catherine’s brow, the minute adjustment of her lace cuff, and understood that she herself was the true subject of this lesson.

“I am learning every day, Lady Catherine. But I have observed that loyalty is best secured by respect—provided, of course, that discipline is never in doubt.”

A beat of silence; then: “Cleverness is a dangerous quality in a woman, Mrs. Darcy. It must be carefully managed, lest it overwhelm more essential virtues.”

“Indeed, though I confess I have always struggled to determine which is more dangerous - a woman's cleverness, or the assumption that she possesses none.”

There followed a brief interval, during which Elizabeth attended to the cups, refilling Lady Catherine’s with an exactitude designed to admit no fault.

The sound of the silver spoon stirring in the fine bone china was almost musical, and for a moment, Elizabeth allowed herself to believe the conversation might turn to safer ground.

But Lady Catherine was not to be diverted. “I trust you are not neglecting the tenantry. Pemberley has always prided itself on the welfare of its people.”

Elizabeth replied, “We have visited the cottages every week. Mr. Darcy has set aside funds for repairs, and I have proposed a new reading room in the village. The vicar is to oversee it.”

“A reading room!” Lady Catherine’s tone suggested she suspected some radical plot. “Let us hope it does not encourage the cottagers to ideas above their station.”

Elizabeth, determined to remain on the high ground, smiled. “I believe knowledge is far less dangerous than ignorance, Lady Catherine. Though naturally, we shall exclude any volumes that might encourage the tenants to aspire to owning great estates themselves.”

At this, Lady Catherine’s mouth twitched, as though she warred between approval and consternation. “Your mother, Mrs. Darcy, was—if I recall—a woman of lively spirits. I trust you do not permit that to interfere with the gravity required of your station.”

Elizabeth’s grip on her teacup tightened minutely, a detail noted but unacknowledged.

“I am gratified that my mother's influence is still so... memorable. Though I confess I have always found that dignity and good spirits need not be mutually exclusive. I assure you, Lady Catherine, that every action I take is with the dignity of Pemberley in mind.”

“Very good. I see you are determined. But determination is not always an advantage in a lady. It must be tempered by judgment. My late sister possessed both in equal measure.” The compliment—if such it was—was delivered with a ceremonial finality, as if Lady Catherine had at last completed her audit and found the accounts in order.

Elizabeth accepted the judgment with a bow of her head. “I can only hope, over time, to deserve such comparison.”

The remainder of the tea passed in a haze of inconsequentialities: the state of the roads, the lateness of the season, the whisper that Mr. and Mrs. Collins were soon to be blessed with an addition to their family.

Elizabeth played her part to perfection, laughing where it was expected, expressing sympathy for the hardships of travel, and listening with the attention due one of Lady Catherine’s experience.

Yet all the while, beneath the calm of her features, a storm of thought was at work—replaying each phrase, each calculated remark, searching for the trap or the clue buried in the flow of conversation.

It was as they rose from tea that Lady Catherine delivered her final, loaded pronouncement.

“I shall remain at Pemberley a fortnight, Mrs. Darcy. There is much I wish to see, and several matters on which I desire your opinion. We must ensure that the house continues as my sister intended. I have always considered myself a steward of the family’s legacy.”

Elizabeth, her face a mask of tranquil assent, replied, “It will be an honour to have the benefit of your guidance, Lady Catherine.”

As Lady Catherine moved toward the door, her skirts swirling with practiced authority, she cast a parting glance over her shoulder.

“One last thing, Mrs. Darcy. You are not to trouble yourself over matters which do not directly concern you. The affairs of Pemberley are often best left in the hands of those accustomed to them. Remember that.”

Elizabeth stood very still, her hand resting upon the back of a chair, until the echo of Lady Catherine’s steps had faded. Only then did she allow the tension to show—a small sigh, a deliberate flexing of her hand, a shake of the head as if to clear away the residue of battle.

The lilies on the table had begun to droop, their petals heavy with fragrance.

Elizabeth poured herself a final cup, set it untasted on the saucer, and gazed out at the afternoon, now grown cloudy with the promise of rain.

In her mind, she replayed the entire encounter: every phrase, every raised brow, every calculated pause.

She was, she realized, still being tested—by the house, by its servants, by the past and by the living agents of its expectations.

But she was not defeated. She straightened her shoulders, gathered the teacups for the maids, and resolved that if the affairs of Pemberley were best left in the hands of its mistress, then she would see to them as she saw fit—no matter who stood guard at the threshold.

Thus fortified, she left the drawing room, her step as calm as ever, but her will sharpened for whatever trials the next day might bring.

L ady Catherine’s reign at Pemberley, though brief, was not one to be overlooked by either family or staff.

She ruled the guest wing with the punctuality of a general, reviewing each aspect of the household with an unblinking eye and reporting her “findings” to Elizabeth with a candour that verged upon the proprietary.

Elizabeth, well-versed in the subtle sport of evasion, maintained a posture of attentive humility, offering just enough concession to satisfy but never enough to betray her own counsel.

Through weeks of dinners, walks, and informal tribunals in the blue drawing room, Lady Catherine pressed her case for the primacy of tradition and the perils of “modern misjudgment.” Each morning brought a new lesson, each evening a postscript on the legacy of the Darcy name.

When at last the day of Lady Catherine’s departure dawned, the household entered upon its customary state of nervous anticipation.

Elizabeth attended her guest with all due formality, presiding over the closing breakfast and escorting her to the carriage with the solicitude expected of a niece, a Darcy, and—above all—the mistress of Pemberley.

At the door, Lady Catherine paused, her hands encased in gloves so immaculate they might have been made solely for the purpose of conveying last words.

She surveyed the portico, the sweep of the drive, the ancient trees standing sentinel along the avenue, and then regarded Elizabeth with an expression both fond and formidable.

“Remember, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her tone pitched to reach the ears of any servant within thirty yards, “that some changes serve the estate, while others merely serve the vanity of those who make them. The distinction is not always apparent to newer… members of the family.”

Elizabeth bowed, the very model of gravity and gratitude. “You may rely upon me, Lady Catherine, to honour the charge you have given. Pemberley shall not fall prey to fashion while I am its guardian.”

Lady Catherine nodded, eyes narrowed in a rare gesture of approval.

“Very well. I shall expect a full account of your improvements in my next visit. See that the glasshouses are properly heated, and do not neglect to review the kitchen’s stock of preserves—Mrs. Reynolds is apt to economize in winter.

” She then entered the carriage with the dignity of a retiring monarch, the door closed, and within moments the livery-clad coachman had the team in motion, wheels crunching along the frozen drive.

Elizabeth watched until the carriage was swallowed by the avenue, then lingered a moment longer, letting the cold morning air erase the tension from her shoulders.

When she reentered the house, she moved not to the public rooms, but directly to the sanctuary of the library, where the familiar hush and the golden warmth of the fire awaited her.

She closed the door and, after a final check for lurking housemaids, approached the writing desk.

Her hands, steady now, drew the key from its hiding place among the geodes of the mineral cabinet—Darcy’s latest passion, which had proved unexpectedly useful for the concealment of small and important objects.

The desk yielded with a faint click, and in an instant, the secret trove was hers again: Lady Anne’s letters, the estate ledgers, and, most crucially, the unsigned document whose power of disturbance had grown with every reading.

Elizabeth did not immediately open the papers.

Instead, she seated herself in the very chair Lady Catherine had once occupied, resting her hands upon the polished wood as if to claim the lineage that came with it.

She took a long breath, then spread the letters and documents in a careful arc before her, organizing them with the discipline of one determined not to be outmaneuvered by either past or present.

The light in the library had softened, the midwinter sun diffused by a halo of cloud that made every object seem outlined in charcoal.

The only sound was the faint tick of the clock above the mantel, and the occasional sigh of the fire as it settled in the grate.

Elizabeth bent over the documents, her eyes tracing each sentence, each annotation, with the deliberation of a barrister preparing for argument.

Her mind, sharpened by the recent contest with Lady Catherine, now moved with unaccustomed clarity.

She made notes in the margins—questions, cross-references, calculations—each line more purposeful than the last. When she encountered the crucial phrase in the land grant, “to the direct issue of Thomas Blackwood, cousin once removed…should he or his issue return within twenty years,” she underlined it with a firm, decisive hand.

Her next step was to turn to the genealogical register, where she traced the Blackwood line as far as the records allowed, then mapped each entry against the dates in Lady Anne’s correspondence.

What had begun as a tangle of rumour and uncertainty now took on a structure, a logic that appealed to Elizabeth’s sense of fairness and order.

If the grant were genuine, and if a descendant could be found, there would be a reckoning—not only for the land, but for the very principles of justice and stewardship to which the Darcys laid claim.

It was, Elizabeth realized, not simply a question of legal right, but of character: how would Pemberley meet its obligations, even at the cost of pride or convenience?

The question weighed upon her, but did not dismay.

Indeed, she found herself almost anticipating the challenge—for what was the point of being mistress of Pemberley if one shirked from the complexities that came with the privilege?

She closed the ledgers, folded the letters with a deliberate neatness, and placed the disputed document atop the stack.

Then, rising from the desk, she moved to the window that overlooked the western boundary—the Shepherd’s Lot—where the woods stood dark and silent beyond the park’s open slope.

The land was empty, save for a dusting of snow, but Elizabeth’s gaze lingered as if she might summon from the distant trees the answer she sought.

She returned to the desk, drew from its lower drawer a small iron box—an old cash caddy, now repurposed—and placed the collected papers inside.

She locked the box, slipped the key into the pocket of her dress, and replaced the box in the secret compartment Darcy had shown her “in case of important matters.” There it would remain until she had gathered sufficient evidence to bring the affair to him with a clear conscience and an unimpeachable case.

Only when the last trace of her investigation was hidden did Elizabeth allow herself to relax, her posture unbending, her breath evening out.

She stood for a time, watching the fire and listening to the quiet, then, as if in answer to a private summons, gathered her shawl about her shoulders and made her way to the study at the eastern side of the house—her own sanctum, where she might contemplate the curious notion that justice and convenience were so rarely introduced in polite society.

As she entered the room, she found herself under the steady gaze of Lady Anne's portrait above the mantle, whose painted eyes regarding her with what Elizabeth fancied was a look of shrewd approval.

It was a comfort to discover that even in oils, the late Mrs. Darcy appeared to possess more sympathy for awkward truths than her sister had ever shown for convenient ones.

"I hope you will forgive the liberty," Elizabeth said softly to the portrait, settling into the chair beneath it, "but I find myself in the curious position of defending your family's honor by questioning their methods.

I trust you will not think it impertinent of me to prefer justice to tranquility—though I suspect you faced the same choice in your time. "

The painted features, of course, offered no reply, but Elizabeth felt a certain kinship with the woman who had once wrestled with the same ledgers, the same obligations, the same delicate balance between what was expected and what was right.

If Lady Catherine imagined that warnings about tradition would deter her from pursuing justice, she had sadly misjudged her audience.

Elizabeth had never been one to mistake convenience for virtue—and she was certainly not prepared to begin now, merely because the inconvenience wore the respectable cloak of family precedent.

If the truth of the Blackwood claim lay dormant, she would not be the one to let it slumber another year. The prospect was daunting, but in the quiet, in the glow of evening, it was also exhilarating.