Page 15 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter seven

The Dinner Party

T he transformation of Pemberley’s principal dining room from daily splendor to ceremonial perfection had, in Elizabeth’s estimation, required no less ingenuity than the restoration of a neglected estate.

On the evening of her first true dinner party as mistress, she found herself engaged in a campaign of minute adjustments—each one, though infinitesimal, invested with the weight of tradition.

The table, a marvel of polished mahogany and mirrored plateaux, stretched the length of the chamber, its surface an alternating cadence of crystal and silver, candlelight and the demure luster of Worcester porcelain.

Vases of fresh-cut lilacs, procured at no small expense from the hothouse, punctuated the length with their pale abundance, lending to the atmosphere a gentle defiance of Derbyshire’s tardy spring.

Elizabeth surveyed the arrangement with the practiced eye of one who had spent a fortnight dissecting engravings of London’s most celebrated tables, and another in subtle reconnaissance of Lady Matlock’s celebrated entertainments.

She had rehearsed the placement of every goblet and napkin, but in the moment of execution, found her composure subject to the treachery of the body; as she leaned to align a single fork, her hand trembled so perceptibly that the utensil rattled against the charger.

The sound, though minor, seemed to reverberate through the marble and into her bones.

She stilled herself, drew a measured breath, and tried to imagine the room as a neutral battleground—its history an asset, not a verdict.

The great sideboard, overburdened with decanters and the sculpted impersonality of cold dishes, glowed under the scrutiny of a dozen sconces.

The walls, with their restrained gilding, reflected nothing but the meticulous purpose to which they had been restored.

If the ghosts of former hostesses hovered in the shadows, they did so in absolute silence.

She bent again to the final place setting, and in so doing, permitted herself a glance at the seating chart she had secreted beneath the fold of her handkerchief.

The names, copied in her neatest script, represented the most formidable cross-section of county and family to be had: Lady Matlock, of course, presiding at her right; the earl, that living monument to proper hierarchy, to her left; Mrs. Augusta Willoughby, whose penchant for conversational marksmanship was rivalled only by her intolerance for social innovation; and a half-dozen others whose claims to significance rested less on character than on the relentless accrual of generations.

Elizabeth had, at least, ensured her husband’s comfort by placing Mr. Darcy between two gentlemen of such unimpeachable manners that even Lady Catherine (were she in attendance) could find no grounds for complaint.

Georgiana, still not considered eligible for the principal table but very much a member of the party, was to sit between Mrs. Willoughby and the dowager Countess Stanton, a position both privileged and perilous.

A discreet cough from the corridor signaled the approach of Mrs. Reynolds, whose authority over the dining room was second only to Elizabeth’s own.

The housekeeper entered, her gaze skimming the room with a scrutiny that might, on another day, have seemed an affront; but tonight it was merely the abutment of two equal and differently constituted anxieties.

“Everything is precisely as you wished it, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her tone a study in conciliation. “The carriage from Matlock has just been sighted on the avenue, and Mrs. Willoughby’s party is no more than fifteen minutes behind, judging by the turn-out at Lambton Bridge.”

Elizabeth’s response was a smile too brief for the full exercise of relief. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. And the kitchen—?”

“On schedule to the quarter-hour, ma’am. Mr. Darcy expressed himself most pleased by the arrangement of the oyster course. I have taken the liberty of instructing the staff to approach each new service by the left, as Lady Matlock prefers.”

Elizabeth found herself oddly touched by this declaration of allegiance.

“You are the reason I sleep at all, Mrs. Reynolds; left to myself, I should dream nightly of overturned tureens and scandalized dowagers,” she replied, the quip half-masking her gratitude.

“If there is any matter that requires my intervention—”

“I should not hesitate, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds’s features softened in a manner that bespoke something very like pride. “Pemberley is fortunate, tonight as always, to have a mistress who takes such pains.”

With that, she withdrew, leaving Elizabeth to the stillness—a stillness now animated less by foreboding than by the hum of imminent encounter.

There was, in those final moments before the arrival of guests, a peculiar kind of privacy—one granted only to those who stand upon the threshold of spectacle.

Elizabeth smoothed the folds of her evening dress, a creation of palest jonquil, and studied her reflection in the glass above the sideboard.

The effect was satisfactory; she saw a countenance composed, even radiant, with only the subtlest tightness at the corners of her mouth betraying the storm beneath.

She moved to the archway and through the gallery that led to the entrance hall, pausing at the threshold not from reluctance, but to savor the interval.

Through the high windows, she saw the lanterns of the approaching carriage—first one, then a pair, then the slow, dignified emergence of liveried figures.

The air in the hall, tinged with beeswax and the perfume of hothouse lilacs, was already redolent of expectation.

Elizabeth did not proceed directly to her post; rather, she allowed herself one more glance into the main drawing room, to confirm that the footmen were properly arrayed, the fire suitably subdued, and the route from antechamber to dinner calculated to accommodate both ceremony and comfort.

Satisfied, she entered the hall, where she found Mr. Darcy already waiting, his posture a model of unaffected grace.

He turned at her approach, his gaze appraising but gentle. “All is ready, I presume?” he asked, in a tone that suggested both confidence and invitation.

“As ready as may be,” Elizabeth replied, her voice light but steady. “Mrs. Reynolds foresees no catastrophe—which, from her, is the equivalent of a benediction.”

A hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Then we have only to survive the evening, and perhaps enjoy it, if Lady Matlock’s sense of duty does not render every pleasure suspect.”

“Duty is the mother of all enjoyment,” Elizabeth countered, “if one learns to disobey her just enough.”

At that, the great doors swung open, and the first guests appeared—Lady Matlock at the forefront, her figure imposing in sapphire silk, followed by the earl, whose progress was assisted by a cane more ornamental than necessary.

The footmen fell into their prescribed choreography, and Elizabeth, drawing a final fortifying breath, stepped forward to receive her company.

As she advanced, her mind briefly revisited Lady Matlock’s advice on the art of introduction: “It is not enough to present a name; one must invest it with a future the recipient cannot refuse.” Elizabeth summoned her most luminous smile, and, with the ease of long preparation, pronounced the opening welcome of the night.

In that instant, her hands no longer trembled. The room, the house, the entire evening awaited her command.

T he threshold of Pemberley’s entrance hall, never more a stage, admitted its company in a parade so deliberate that even the staff—seasoned in the rites of receiving—seemed to stand a fraction taller in their livery.

Lady Matlock, first of the arrivals, swept into the light with a calculated majesty, her sapphire train echoing the restraint of her features.

She offered Elizabeth her hand with the air of a sovereign presenting a boon, but her eyes, sharp and glinting, were quick to measure the hostess’s composure.

“My dear Mrs. Darcy,” she intoned, “how splendidly you have risen to the occasion. I perceive the lilacs were an inspiration—one hopes the scent does not overpower the gentlemen.”

Elizabeth’s curtsy, performed without a moment’s hesitation, was the more effective for its simplicity. “If any gentleman is undone by a flower, I fear he is ill-equipped for the company.”

“Good sense,” murmured the countess, allowing her gaze to sweep approvingly over the assembly.

She made no secret of her satisfaction at finding the earl already at her elbow—a tall, spare man whose sobriety was only occasionally disturbed by wit, and then only in the direction of his wife or his gamekeeper.

He bowed with courtly precision, and in greeting Elizabeth, allowed himself the smallest of smiles.

“Pemberley is much improved, Mrs. Darcy, since my last visit,” he said, not so much sotto voce as with the pitch of a man who expects to be overheard. “The house seems to have acquired a lighter step.”

Elizabeth coloured, but replied, “We are all made to stand straighter when under your lordship’s inspection—though I hope not so straight as to resemble the portraits.”

He seemed to consider this, then nodded, as if granting her the point. “You must have found the cellars in tolerable order,” he continued, “else I do not see how you could have persuaded Matlock to travel in such weather.”

Lady Matlock, accustomed to the earl’s conversational mischief, responded with a shake of her head, her lips pursed to conceal a smile.

“My husband’s interest in the grape is exceeded only by his interest in the affairs of his niece.

He has been talking of your dinner these three days past, and will not forgive any disappointment. ”