Page 16 of Return to Pemberley

Elizabeth’s answer—neatly evasive—was lost in the arrival of Mrs. Augusta Willoughby and her retinue.

Mrs. Willoughby, the very personification of fine taste and ferocious memory, advanced with a critical eye already appraising the crowd.

Her dress, a confection of emerald-coloured silk and black lace, was set off by a necklace of such lustre that even Lady Matlock could not resist a fleeting glance.

“My dear Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Willoughby exclaimed, taking Elizabeth’s hands as if to arrest her in a moment of history, “one hears so much of your accomplishments and yet, upon seeing you, finds the reports have still fallen short.”

Elizabeth was unsure whether to incline her head or laugh outright, so ambiguous was the compliment; she chose instead to smile, and returned the pressure with a gentle certainty of her own. “You are most welcome at Pemberley, Mrs. Willoughby. I hope the journey was not too disagreeable.”

“Not at all! The roads are greatly improved, and the prospect of your company more than compensated for any jostling. Lady Matlock, I am delighted to find you here. And Lord Matlock—well, you are as dashing as ever, even in the Derbyshire chill.”

There followed a choreography of bows and curtsies as the remainder of the company entered: a Colonel Lewis, all affability and open brow; his lady, distinguished only by a penchant for abrupt agreement; Mrs. Channing, widow of the Lambton rector and possessed of an exuberance that would not be suppressed by rank or rebuff; and Miss Felicity Grey, the inevitable companion to any gathering, whose only ambition was to avoid being noticed by Mrs. Willoughby.

Throughout, Elizabeth maintained a composure equal to the occasion, greeting each guest by name and circumstance, recalling particulars of their health and pursuits, and always taking care that no one was left for more than a breath unattended.

Mr. Darcy played his part with the understated excellence that had become his signature, directing the gentlemen to a conversation nook where the fireplace promised comfort, while the ladies were guided by Elizabeth to the principal drawing room.

It was there, under the gaze of half a dozen ancestral portraits and the attentive ministrations of the staff, that the real contest of the evening began.

Footmen appeared with trays of delicate glasses; the amber of sherry caught the light and seemed to multiply it.

Conversation, at first halting, soon found its rhythm in the seasoned hands of Lady Matlock and Mrs. Willoughby, who circled the room in competing orbits, drawing others into their gravity as the moment required.

Mrs. Willoughby’s first sally was directed at the room itself.

“I see, Mrs. Darcy, that you have retained Lady Anne’s taste in arrangement.

The French mirrors are perfectly placed, though I must say I would have risked the exchange of that ottoman for a pair of bergères.

They are so much in favour in Town just now. ”

Elizabeth smiled, allowing herself a glance at the item in question. “It was a point of some debate, I confess. Mr. Darcy is sentimentally attached to it; and though I may govern the table, I cannot yet govern his upholstery.”

A ripple of laughter ensued, but Mrs. Willoughby was not to be diverted. “You are kind, Mrs. Darcy, and one must indulge the men in their peculiarities, else how would we find them tolerable company?”

Lady Matlock interjected, her voice calm but firm. “I find the ottoman much improved by its present association. And I hope, Mrs. Darcy, that you have not removed the Gainsborough from the west corridor?”

“Indeed not,” Elizabeth answered. “Mr. Darcy has declared that neither painting nor person shall be displaced without the most rigorous debate. I suspect the matter will not be settled even after several generations.”

Here the earl, who had been engaged in low conversation with Colonel Lewis, entered the fray.

“I am glad to see the wine has not been altered. The last mistress of the house, before Lady Anne, was said to have served nothing but claret—so abominable a taste I could not forgive it even at this distance.”

Lady Matlock allowed herself a full smile at this, and the conversation was carried forward by Mrs. Channing, who recounted a tale of her late husband’s foray into elderberry wine, with results so catastrophic that it rendered the entire table momentarily speechless.

In this environment, Elizabeth found her composure growing rather than diminishing.

She moved among her guests with a grace not unlike that of a seasoned conductor, guiding conversation away from potential shoals and into safe, if sometimes trivial, waters.

At one point she caught Mr. Darcy’s eye across the room, and in that glance there was a mutual recognition of success; whatever the outcome of the evening, it was clear that the household had weathered the arrival of its most critical auditors with dignity intact.

But even in the midst of triumph, vigilance was required.

As Elizabeth accepted a second glass of sherry from the footman, she noticed Mrs. Willoughby in close confidence with Lady Stanton, the two of them shielded from view by the angle of the hearth.

The conversation was low, but the sideways glances toward Elizabeth made plain the subject.

She felt, rather than heard, the words: “It is very well, but one wonders—” and “so different from the last, is it not?” and, finally, “I do not say she is out of her depth, but—”

The suspicion of such scrutiny might once have undone her, but tonight Elizabeth met it with a serene amusement.

She allowed her mind to wander, for a single heartbeat, to the journals of Lady Anne—how even the most competent mistress must endure a period of probation under the watchful gaze of those whose only qualification to judge is the habit of having always done so.

She rejoined the circle at the window, where Miss Grey was attempting to describe the merits of a new novel without betraying her utter ignorance of its plot.

Elizabeth rescued her with a deft turn, relating an anecdote from her own acquaintance in Hertfordshire, and thus won a grateful smile from the younger woman.

Lady Matlock, who had observed the maneuver, later took Elizabeth aside under the pretense of admiring the view from the west windows. “You are to be commended, my dear. Mrs. Willoughby is not easily satisfied, but I perceive she has met her match.”

Elizabeth demurred. “It is only the first act, Lady Matlock. I am sure she will rally for the dinner.”

“Let her,” replied the countess, with a nod of approval. “In the meantime, you may take credit for the present victory.”

The summons to dinner, announced by the resonant chime of the great hall clock and the discreet voice of a footman, brought the gathering to a graceful conclusion.

Elizabeth paused at the threshold to the dining room, allowing herself a final survey of her company: Lady Matlock, serene and unreadable; Mrs. Willoughby, arm in arm with the earl and animated by the prospect of a new arena; the others, each in their place, each rehearsing the roles that would see them through the meal.

Elizabeth glanced once at Mr. Darcy, who stood ready at her side. “Shall we?” he asked, his voice so low only she could hear.

She lifted her chin and smiled. “We must.”

Together, they entered the dining room, where the real contest of the evening—subtler, and perhaps more perilous than any before—was to be joined.

T here are few spectacles so formidable to the novice mistress as the first formal dinner at Pemberley, and none so exquisitely calibrated to reveal both her powers and her limitations.

The array of candles upon the table—each flame reflected in the lustre of silver and the undulation of crystal—offered an illusion of warmth, but Elizabeth, in her place at the head, felt the true temperature of the evening measured less by fire than by the scrutiny of her guests.

The opening course, a consommé so clear it was nearly philosophical, set the tone for conversation: transparent, undemanding, yet with depths to be sounded if one possessed the palate for it.

Lady Matlock, always the diplomat, began with a reminiscence of the London season, drawing in the earl and Mrs. Willoughby with anecdotes both bland and perfectly suited to the soup.

The earl, after a polite interval, shifted the topic to Derbyshire’s spring, and thence to the vexed question of the sheep’s late lambing, a subject which—while safe—proved sufficiently rich for a round of mutual complaint.

Elizabeth, seated between the earl and Colonel Lewis, found herself the object of several experimental sallies, but answered each with an economy that drew praise from the earl, and a flicker of admiration from the colonel, who confessed himself “quite unable to survive the frost without the prospect of such company.”

Mrs. Willoughby, installed at Lady Matlock’s right, was less easily satisfied.

Her gaze traveled the length of the table, cataloguing every innovation and deviation, but she confined herself, for the time being, to inquiries into the fortunes of the Pemberley dairy and the annual harvest of orchard fruit.

She congratulated Elizabeth on the improvement in the ices, and suggested that a dash of lemon might further enliven the punch—a remark so precisely balanced between compliment and correction that Elizabeth could only incline her head and make note of it for future use.

As the footmen cleared the first course and replaced it with a dish of poached turbot, the company’s attention turned—almost by tacit agreement—to the subject of family.

Mrs. Channing, whose cheerful disregard for social danger had already enlivened the drawing room, asked whether any of Elizabeth’s own relations were to be expected at Pemberley for the summer.