Page 14 of Return to Pemberley
“Tea, as requested, Mrs. Darcy. And a note from Mr. Harrow, who asks if you might grant him a moment before luncheon. He says it is a matter of estate business, but I do not think it urgent.”
Elizabeth received the note with a nod, and as Mrs. Reynolds withdrew, she glanced at Georgiana with a wry, conspiratorial smile.
“And there you have it—Pemberley's genius for ensuring that one crisis is always interrupted by another. I begin to suspect that managing a great estate requires less wisdom than skill in managing interruptions—though I confess the interruptions are considerably more civil than those I once endured at Longbourn.”
Georgiana poured the tea, her hands steadier now, and for several minutes the two drank in companionable silence, the room filled with a sense of purpose—fragile, but unmistakable.
Outside, the sun had climbed a fraction higher, and the light that entered the study was less blue than before.
Elizabeth felt, for the first time since the discovery of the letters, a cautious hopefulness.
She closed the journal, stacked the letters with care, and regarded her sister-in-law with gratitude. “Well then, we shall face whatever emerges from these dusty papers together—though I confess I had hoped marriage would involve fewer genealogical mysteries and more domestic tranquility.”
The younger Miss Darcy blushed, but her eyes did not waver. She set down her teacup with a determination that belied her gentle manner, and when Elizabeth rose to fetch the ledger from the shelf, Georgiana followed suit, prepared—at last—to enter the lists.
Elizabeth felt, for the first time since discovering Lady Anne's letters, that she was not entirely alone in her predicament—though she could not help but reflect that sharing one's troubles was rather like sharing one's cold: it provided comfort, but doubled the number of people likely to suffer from it.
I t was in the leafing through of the older, more fragile letters that the decisive moment arrived.
Elizabeth, her eye practiced by now in the decipherment of Lady Anne's hand, traced the line: "Should ever the Blackwood family resume its rightful place in Derbyshire, let them remember the kindness owed them by the house of Darcy; and if the question of boundaries remains unresolved, it must be met with all charity. "
She read the sentence aloud, more to herself than to Georgiana, but at the utterance of the name, she noticed her companion's slight frown of concentration.
"Blackwood," Georgiana murmured, as if testing again the sound of it. "There is something familiar about that name, though I cannot quite—" She paused, her brow furrowed in thought. "It seems I should know it, but the memory is like something glimpsed through fog."
Elizabeth set down the letter with deliberate care. "Take your time. Even the smallest recollection might prove significant."
Georgiana was quiet for a long moment, her gaze unfocused as she searched her memory.
"I believe—that is, I think I may have heard Father speak of them.
There was something about... boundaries?
Or perhaps it was only that the name appeared in his correspondence.
" She shook her head, frustrated. "I am sorry to be so vague.
It is only that when one is young, adult conversations tend to blur together unless they concern something immediately interesting—like puppies or new gowns. "
Elizabeth smiled at this candid admission.
"Do not apologize—vague recollections are infinitely preferable to vivid certainties that prove to be entirely mistaken.
I have learned this through years of intimate acquaintance with my father's pronouncements on the neighbors' characters, which are delivered with great confidence and are wrong precisely half the time.
But you think your father knew the family? "
"I cannot be certain. But there was something in his manner when the name arose—not anxiety, precisely, but a kind of.
.. gravity. As if it were a matter that required careful handling.
" Georgiana's expression brightened slightly.
"I do remember now—once Father returned from Lambton quite preoccupied, and when he spoke with the steward later that evening, I heard mention of boundaries and.
.. yes, I believe it was 'Blackwood.' Though I was quite young and paid little attention to such serious matters. "
"Lambton," Elizabeth echoed, her excitement barely masked.
"That is the missing link! There are no Blackwoods in the parish registers of the immediate neighborhood, but the northern villages—Lambton and beyond—have always been a refuge for the more…
independent of Derbyshire's sons. If the Blackwood line survived, it would be there. "
Georgiana smiled, shy but proud of her contribution. "I hope I have been of some help. I know so little of these things, and my memory is not always reliable."
"You are the most useful of witnesses," Elizabeth assured her, reaching across the desk to squeeze her hand. The gesture, though brief, conveyed a solidarity not merely of purpose, but of affection—a recognition that, in this house, neither history nor sentiment need be solitary pursuits.
They bent together over the maps, Elizabeth showing Georgiana how the westernmost parcel, the so-called Shepherd’s Lot, had once been marked in the family records but now existed only as a faint scar in the landscape, its boundaries all but erased by time and custom.
Georgiana followed the lines with her finger, her confidence growing as she asked questions, made conjectures, and began to see the narrative not as a threat, but as a living legacy.
It was in the midst of this communion—a communion as delicate and earnest as any between sisters by blood—that a sudden knock sounded on the door, firm and regular, without the uncertainty that usually attended a servant’s approach.
Elizabeth glanced up, her mind shifting at once from the terrain of the past to the immediate battleground of the present. “Yes?” she called, her tone bright with the anticipation of new information.
The door opened, and in the aperture stood the unmistakable figure of Mr. William Harrow, the Pemberley steward: tall, precise, his graying hair neatly combed, his expression as inscrutable as a court’s verdict.
He carried with him the air of a man accustomed to bearing tidings of both good and ill, and his bow, though perfectly measured, betrayed a certain urgency.
"Forgive the interruption, Mrs. Darcy. Miss Darcy.
I was told I might find you here." He glanced at the table, taking in the array of documents with a clerk's avidity, before returning his attention to Elizabeth.
"There is a matter regarding the western boundary that requires immediate attention.
With Mr. Darcy detained in London until the month's end, I thought it best to bring the particulars to you directly.
It is not, I trust, a crisis, but the tenants in the far cottages have raised a question regarding the placement of a fence, and the name Blackwood has come up in their recollections.
I deemed it prudent to consult with you before making any adjustment to the boundaries. "
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Georgiana, who colored, then smiled—a smile of recognition and satisfaction.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrow. You could not have come at a better moment. Please, bring the papers here, and we shall address the matter together.”
M r. Harrow’s presence in the study was attended by a formality so ingrained that even the casual setting could not dispel it.
He placed his ledger on the desk with the care of a surgeon laying out his instruments, and inclined his head to each of the ladies before seating himself on the edge of a straight-backed chair.
His expression, though as composed as a marble bust, betrayed to the discerning eye a subtle current of satisfaction—he was, for once, in the very epicenter of decision.
“Mrs. Darcy, Miss Darcy,” he began, addressing them both with a nod that included Georgiana in the proceedings as if by established right, “I trust you will forgive the urgency of my call. I have received from Mr. Attenborough, the farmer at the north end of the estate, a note expressing his concern about the position of the boundary fence separating Pemberley from the common land. He asserts that, according to the recollection of his late father and the records kept in the Lambton vestry, the present fence line encroaches upon a strip historically assigned to the Blackwood family.”
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Georgiana, whose composure was as practiced as her own. “I am grateful to you for bringing the matter at once,” Elizabeth said. “Do you have with you the correspondence, or are there other particulars we should know?”
Mr. Harrow produced from his ledger a sheaf of papers—neatly folded, their edges ruler-straight.
“These are copies of the Lambton parish records, as provided by Mr. Attenborough; and here, the estate maps in current use. I have already compared the two, but the difference is not so easily resolved, as the old stone marker appears to have disappeared sometime during the last generation. If you wish, I can summon the bailiff to give testimony, though I suspect his memory will be no less partial than the farmer’s. ”
Elizabeth accepted the papers, laying them side by side with the estate maps she had consulted earlier.
“Thank you, Mr. Harrow. I shall look into the matter myself and consult with you before any action is taken. But you may assure Mr. Attenborough that his claim will receive every fair consideration.”
Harrow bowed, the compliment of her answer not lost on him. “Very good, Mrs. Darcy. Is there anything further I may provide? I believe the land in question is not critical to the estate’s function, though it is a matter of principle that any irregularity be addressed before the spring planting.”
Elizabeth allowed herself a moment to consider, her mind racing through the possibilities.
She could, of course, let the matter proceed as such things always did—through slow attrition, polite correspondence, and the eventual fading of interest on all sides.
But the principle at stake—the legacy of Lady Anne, the debt to the Blackwoods—could not, she felt, be left to the casual workings of tradition.
“Mr. Harrow,” she said, “I would like you to assemble whatever information you can find regarding the Blackwood family, particularly in connection with the northern parish. If there are living heirs, or anyone who has made a credible claim in the last fifty years, I wish to know of it.”
The steward’s eyes flickered in approval, or perhaps surprise; it was not every mistress of Pemberley who embraced an ambiguity so eagerly, nor accepted the possibility of ceding land to a rival. “Of course, Mrs. Darcy. I will make inquiries without delay.”
He stood, pausing to address Georgiana with a wordless nod—more deferential than before, as if he now recognized her as a silent partner to the lady of the house. “If you will excuse me, I shall begin at once.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, and as the door closed behind the steward, she allowed herself a single exhalation of relief. The matter was now, as she had wished, entirely within her own hands.
Georgiana broke the silence first. “You handled that very well. He is not easily impressed, but I believe you have won him over.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I suspect he is more surprised than impressed. But it is no matter. The business will not rest until we have the facts. I will not permit Pemberley to be thought unjust, nor to have it said that the new mistress is ignorant of the obligations owed to others.”
She rose and crossed to the window, where the grounds, in their winter severity, seemed more the preserve of principle than of pleasure.
The woods at the far edge of the park stood dark and unmoving, and to the west, the pale slash of the disputed line was visible—a ghost of history waiting to be made manifest.
Georgiana joined her, the two women standing side by side, gazing out at the frozen landscape. “Do you think the Blackwoods will return?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Elizabeth did not answer at once. She watched the sunlight glancing off the distant fields, watched the wind stirring the tops of the bare trees. “I do not know,” she said, at last. “But I think, if they do, we shall be ready to receive them.”
They stood in companionable silence, the weight of the house’s past now a shared burden rather than an isolated secret. In the hush, Elizabeth felt the quiet accumulation of confidence, the slow but unmistakable growth of purpose that would, in time, make her truly the mistress of all she surveyed.
She turned back to the desk, her mind already leaping ahead to the interviews, the research, the patient unraveling of records that must follow.
But there was no sense now of panic or haste; only a steady determination to see justice done, and to set the affairs of Pemberley on a footing worthy of its best traditions.
As she gathered the papers into a tidy sheaf, Elizabeth glanced at Georgiana and smiled. “Come, let us have some more tea. There is work ahead, and it is always easier with an ally at one’s side.”