Page 13 of Return to Pemberley
Chapter six
Allies in Unexpected Places
T he eastern study, so lately claimed as Elizabeth’s own, reflected the late-winter sun in a manner at once cheerless and resolute; the landscape outside was a palimpsest of frost and slush, yet within, the pale blue of the walls and the ordered array of writing implements suggested a war against the season’s encroachment.
It was here, in the privacy of a chamber not meant for ceremony or for company, that Elizabeth arrayed the proofs and perplexities of her current preoccupation: Lady Anne’s letters, the unsettlingly ambiguous grant, and the thick ledger of Pemberley’s genealogies, each deployed upon the desk with the gravity of legal exhibits.
Elizabeth, though in the habit of rising early, had this morning forfeited her customary walk for the promise of uninterrupted study.
The hour was still but for the occasional complaint of a floorboard or the distant clatter of the kitchen, and she sat, pen in hand, her gaze alternating between the elegant curvature of Lady Anne’s script and the sharper, later interpolations in her own.
There was in her posture a degree of intensity bordering on obstinacy; her brow, always expressive, now wore a furrow of such deep concentration that even the mild morning light failed to smooth it.
She considered the evidence again: the letters, so frank and intelligent in their observation, revealed a pattern of anxiety regarding the west boundary and the fate of the Blackwood kin.
The grant, unsigned yet unmistakably deliberate in its language, seemed to hover in a legal limbo—neither dead nor alive, but haunting the present with the threat of its activation.
Elizabeth, who had long prided herself on facing difficulties with a measure of irony, now found herself almost without recourse to that comfortable shield.
She was both actor and judge in a drama whose implications grew more weighty with each page she turned.
She had begun drafting a letter to her father, a reflex born of years spent deciphering the eccentricities of Longbourn, but thought better of it.
Mr. Bennet’s genius lay in the detection of absurdity, not in the exegesis of feudal land claims. Instead, she composed a memorandum for herself, enumerating each fact as plainly as possible, hoping that in so doing she might isolate the heart of the mystery.
Her pen scratched steadily, but the satisfaction of industry was tempered by the knowledge that the matter was too complex—too entangled with the pride and memory of the house—to be solved in a single sitting.
It was thus, in the midst of this self-imposed trial, that she became aware of a presence at the door: a faint shuffle, the merest hesitation before the knock, and then the appearance of Georgiana in the threshold, her aspect at once apologetic and inquisitive.
The younger Miss Darcy wore a dress of pale lavender, chosen—Elizabeth suspected—more for its unobtrusive qualities than for any wish to flatter her complexion; her hair, though pinned with care, betrayed the tendency of youth to escape its constraints.
She looked at Elizabeth with a mixture of admiration and apprehension.
“Forgive me,” Georgiana said, her voice barely above the hush of the ticking clock. “I hope I am not intruding—only Mrs. Reynolds mentioned you had missed breakfast, and I thought—well, I wondered if you might like some tea. You seem so very occupied.”
Elizabeth set her pen aside, arranging her papers into a semblance of order before turning to her sister-in-law with a smile.
“You are never an intrusion, Georgiana. It is only that the previous generation has left me a most determined correspondence to untangle—and Lady Anne, I find, was nearly as persistent in her letters as Lady Catherine is in her opinions, though infinitely more reasonable. But come, the fire is pleasant, and I find my appetite for tea increases in direct proportion to the severity of the problem I am attempting to solve.”
Georgiana entered, her steps careful as a cat’s, and selected the smallest of the armchairs near the desk.
She tucked her feet beneath her in a manner that suggested both decorum and the remnants of girlish habit.
Her eyes—so like Darcy’s in their clarity—fixed first upon Elizabeth’s face, then upon the array of documents, and finally upon her own hands, which she folded and refolded in her lap.
“I hope you will not think me impertinent,” she ventured, “but you seem rather troubled. I know Lady Catherine's visit has left the entire household somewhat... unsettled—and I dare say even the lilies are still recovering. If there is any way I might assist you—”
Elizabeth was touched by the offer, and, in that moment, resolved to treat her sister not as a mere spectator to the drama of the house, but as a participant, however young or inexperienced. She regarded Georgiana with a frankness born of both affection and necessity.
“You are observant, Georgiana, and kinder than I deserve. I have indeed a puzzle before me—one that concerns not only the present, but the past and the future as well. I hesitate to involve you, for it is a matter of some delicacy. And yet, I begin to think it is not possible to solve it alone.”
Georgiana’s cheeks colored, but she sat up straighter. “I should like to help, if I can. I know my knowledge is limited, but sometimes a fresh eye—”
“—sees what the weary one misses,” Elizabeth finished, her smile genuine. “Very well, you shall have the case. But you must promise to treat all you hear as the most sacred confidence. I would not have Mr. Darcy troubled before I have the full measure of it myself.”
Georgiana nodded, her face a study in earnestness. Elizabeth drew the chair nearer, so that the two sat at right angles, the desk between them. She hesitated only a moment before proceeding.
“These are the letters of Lady Anne, your mother, written in the early years of her marriage. Your mother, it seems, was considerably more charitable toward distant relations than Lady Catherine would approve of. There appears to have been a promise—quite unofficial, naturally, since the most inconvenient obligations always are—regarding a cousin named Blackwood and a rather disputed piece of land.”
Georgiana listened, her fingers tracing the embroidery of her sleeve in nervous counterpoint to Elizabeth’s words. “But I do not recall the name Blackwood spoken here—not by my brother, nor by anyone. Are you certain it is the same family?”
Elizabeth reflected that this was hardly surprising—the inconvenient dead were rarely discussed at dinner parties, and Lady Anne had possessed too much delicacy to burden her children with her moral qualms.
“I believe so. There are entries in the ledger, and the letters refer to him as ‘cousin Thomas’ with a frequency that suggests real kinship. What is more, the land in question—the Shepherd’s Lot, as it is called—remains distinct on the old estate maps, though now it is subsumed into the main park.
I suspect that no one has pressed a claim in living memory, but the document exists, and if it were to come to light in the hands of a determined heir—” She let the implication hang, neither overstated nor softened.
Georgiana’s brow knitted. “Is it so very serious, then? Would the estate be endangered?”
Elizabeth weighed her answer. “Not endangered, precisely. But there is a principle at stake—a question of justice, and of the reputation of the house. If it can be shown that the claim is valid, I do not see how we could, in conscience, deny it. And yet, to do so would be to alter the very boundaries of Pemberley, and perhaps to unsettle the lives of those who depend upon it. I am at a loss as to the right course.”
They were silent for a moment, the only sound the restless hissing of the fire. Georgiana, her gaze unfocused, seemed to be searching her memory for any mention of the affair.
“May I see the letters?” she asked, at length.
Elizabeth slid the packet across the desk, and watched as Georgiana read the first page with lips barely moving, her concentration so fierce that she did not seem to notice the slight tremor in her own hands. After several minutes, she set the letter down and looked up, her eyes troubled.
“Oh! I do remember—she would sometimes walk alone in the west gardens, and return looking so melancholy. When I asked what troubled her, she would only say there were some debts that could not be paid with money. I never understood what she meant. I was very young, but it left an impression.” She stopped, her composure faltering.
“I wish I could remember more. I am sorry.”
“Do not apologize,” Elizabeth said, gently.
“You have already given me more than you know. If Lady Anne felt the matter so deeply, it is reason enough to treat it with the utmost respect. The question now is whether any Blackwood remains to press the claim, or whether it has lapsed into history. I must proceed carefully, for the sake of all concerned.”
Georgiana, who had begun the conversation in the role of confidante, now adopted the gravity of a participant. “Is there anything I can do? I can search the old records, or speak with Mrs. Reynolds, or—”
“I will tell you what you can do,” Elizabeth replied, with a sudden warmth.
“You may do something infinitely more valuable than searching dusty records—you may help me maintain my sanity.
I find that family mysteries are rather like Lady Catherine's lectures: considerably less daunting when one has sympathetic company.”
At this, Georgiana smiled, and for a moment her youth was as evident as the flush in her cheek.
She seemed about to speak again, but was interrupted by a brisk rap at the door—the distinctive knock of Mrs. Reynolds, who entered with a discreet curtsy and a tray of tea, her aspect as neutral as the gray Derbyshire sky.