Page 17 of Return to Pemberley
Elizabeth’s reply was delivered with composure. “My eldest sister and her husband, Mr. Bingley, are to visit in July. I hope also to see my father, though he is not easily parted from his library, and my mother finds the air in Derbyshire uncongenial.”
“I should have thought,” observed Mrs. Willoughby, with the air of one imparting a confidence, “that the atmosphere of Pemberley must be agreeable to any lady. But I recall your mother is much in request at Longbourn—she was always a celebrated hostess, was she not?”
Elizabeth, catching the implication, replied, “My mother’s genius is for assemblies of the noisiest description; she believes quiet tolerable only when accompanied by fifty people talking at once.” This was delivered with such a spark of humor that even Mrs. Willoughby was obliged to smile.
The earl, perhaps to relieve the gentle pressure on his hostess, turned to the merits of county society: “It is a pity, Mrs. Darcy, that your father is not here to regale us with tales of the classics. Lady Matlock is forever trying to tempt me into reading Horace, but I have not your father’s stamina for it. ”
“Mr. Bennet is indeed a devotee of the ancients,” Elizabeth allowed, “though his affections tend to waver in the face of adversity. I suspect the difficulty of keeping his daughters in order has convinced him that there is more truth in Juvenal than in all the rest.”
This provoked a chuckle from the earl, and the conversation shifted to the merits of female learning—whether it was improved or hindered by the presence of accomplished women in the house.
Colonel Lewis, whose own daughters were famed in three counties for their musical talents, averred that “no girl who could play H?ndel without error ever had time to trouble her parents.”
“I doubt it,” murmured Lady Matlock, “but the music is a mercy regardless.”
By the third course, a triumph of venison and forced vegetables, the table was at its most animated. The wine had been decanted to a clarity that rivalled the company, and even Miss Grey, usually a creature of silence, had found the courage to remark on the elegance of the table flowers.
It was then, as the plates were exchanged for the entrée, that Mrs. Willoughby launched her first direct volley.
“I am always curious, Mrs. Darcy, as to whether you find the transition from country life to Pemberley’s exalted standards to be…
entirely natural. You are so refreshingly direct, it is almost as if you have brought the best of the country with you—without the rest.”
The pause that followed was the longest of the evening. Elizabeth felt a flush rise to her cheek, but met Mrs. Willoughby’s gaze with a composure that was hard-won.
“I hope I have brought some of the best of the country with me, Mrs. Willoughby,” she replied, her tone measured but firm. “Though I daresay Pemberley has already set about improving its new mistress.”
The earl, sensing the sudden chill, interjected with a laugh that carried just enough force to defrost the table.
“Better to be improved by Pemberley than by London, in my experience. We must all hope that some of Mrs. Darcy’s candour survives the process, else we shall perish of drawing room vapidity. ”
Elizabeth caught his eye, and in that glance there was an alliance, however momentary.
Mrs. Willoughby, not to be so easily bested, pressed on. “There are some who find a lady’s openness rather—disconcerting. But I confess I prefer honesty, even at the expense of delicacy. The world is too full of triflers as it is.”
Elizabeth permitted herself a brief smile. “Indeed, Mrs. Willoughby, at Longbourn we learned to speak plainly, though at Pemberley I find that directness, when tempered with consideration, serves all parties well.”
Lady Matlock, who had observed the exchange with a serenity bordering on satisfaction, nodded in approval. “It is a valuable lesson, and one I hope will be more widely adopted in future.”
The remainder of the meal passed with a buoyancy that surprised even Elizabeth.
The courses, perfectly timed, succeeded one another with the grace of a well-rehearsed play; the footmen, schooled to anticipate every need, were almost invisible in their efficacy.
Mr. Darcy, engaged in a lively discussion with the colonel and the earl, from time to time glanced at his wife with the look of a man not merely proud, but grateful.
By the time dessert was served—an extravagance of syllabub and fruit—the table had settled into a rhythm of pleasure and mutual regard. Even Mrs. Willoughby seemed to relent, offering Elizabeth a compliment on the port that was nearly genuine.
As the ladies rose to retire to the drawing room, Lady Matlock lingered at Elizabeth’s side. “Well done, my dear. It is not easy to prevail in such company, but you have shown yourself equal to the charge.”
Elizabeth, her earlier anxiety now replaced by something like contentment, replied, “I have learned from the best, Lady Matlock.”
They exchanged a glance—one of understanding, and, perhaps, of conspiracy—and followed the others to the drawing room, leaving the gentlemen to their port and their politics.
In the corridor, Elizabeth paused for a moment, allowing herself a single deep breath. She had not conquered every heart at the table, but neither had she yielded. And as she listened to the laughter of the ladies ahead, she realized she was, at last, at home.
T he drawing room, though appointed with all the comforts and ornaments that taste and wealth could supply, was on this evening less a retreat than a crucible.
The candles, now fewer and clustered in gilt candelabra, lent the room an intimacy at odds with the grandeur of its proportions.
The ladies arranged themselves on sofas and chaises in a pattern both instinctive and rehearsed: Mrs. Willoughby claimed the centre of the largest settee, her closest allies fanned to either side; Lady Matlock and the Countess Stanton took their seats by the hearth, leaving Elizabeth and Georgiana at the tea table.
If Elizabeth had expected a reprieve from the scrutiny of dinner, she was soon corrected.
Mrs. Willoughby, her voice lower now but no less penetrating, directed the conversation to the amusements of Town and the peculiarities of its society.
She recounted, for the apparent benefit of her hostess, the latest fashions in entertainments: the emergence of the quadrille as the dance of the season, the scandal attending Lady Fitzroy’s masquerade, the appearance of a new tragedienne at Drury Lane.
Every anecdote was delivered with a subtle glance at Elizabeth, as if to remind her of the gulf that separated the capital from the provinces.
Elizabeth, conscious of her role as both observer and participant, took refuge in the duties of hospitality.
She attended to the tea things with a precision that, though outwardly serene, betrayed an undercurrent of vigilance.
Each cup was poured and passed with the grace of long habit; not a drop was spilled, not a teaspoon mislaid.
Even Mrs. Willoughby, accepting her cup, was compelled to acknowledge, “You have quite the hand for it, Mrs. Darcy. One sees at once that the art of tea is not neglected at Pemberley.”
“I owe it to Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth replied, smiling, “whose lessons were so thorough that I believe I could serve even in my sleep.”
A gentle laugh circled the room, and for a moment the tension was suspended.
But Mrs. Willoughby, never one to relinquish advantage, soon resumed the offensive.
“I wonder, Mrs. Darcy, how you find the society of Derbyshire after that of Hertfordshire. It must be a considerable change—from the cheerful frankness of country gatherings to the more…elevated expectations of a house like this.”
Elizabeth set down the teapot and met her guest’s gaze with a poise that surprised even herself.
“It is indeed a change, Mrs. Willoughby, but I have found Derbyshire possesses all the beauty of the country with all the refinement one could wish for in society—a most felicitous combination, if I may say so.”
A faint ripple of approval passed among the guests, and even Mrs. Willoughby was for a moment checked.
It was the Countess Stanton who seized the opening.
“I quite agree, Mrs. Darcy. When I first came into the county, I thought I would be buried alive in sheep and mud. But there is more amusement here, I believe, than in half of London, provided one learns where to look for it. Lady Matlock once introduced me to a poet from Bakewell who made me laugh for a fortnight.”
“Was it the vicar?” asked Lady Matlock, with a twinkle. “He is a notorious wit, but his sermons have not improved with success.”
This sparked a brief, companionable debate about the merits of local clergymen, during which Elizabeth found herself less the object of examination and more a member of the company.
Georgiana, emboldened by the lighter mood, ventured a quiet observation about the Lambton assemblies, which was received with polite interest.
It was not long, however, before Mrs. Willoughby, having exhausted the subject of Town, returned to the offensive.
“I have heard,” she said, lowering her voice in a confidential manner that did nothing to obscure the intent, “that your sisters are all very clever, Mrs. Darcy. Will any of them be marrying soon? I am sure Derbyshire would welcome the infusion of such lively spirits.”
Elizabeth felt, rather than saw, the collective holding of breath.
She answered, after a brief pause, “My eldest sister is happily settled at Netherfield. The others are still very young, but I am certain they will make their way in the world—if not by marriage, then by their wit. We Bennets are a resourceful family.”