Page 18 of Return to Pemberley
This answer, delivered with a hint of defiance, had the effect of disarming even the most inveterate gossip.
The Countess Stanton, now warming to Elizabeth, interposed, “I think there is much to be said for a family of sisters. Mine were a terror in our youth, but there is nothing now I would not do to have them back for a single Christmas.”
Lady Matlock, who had until now remained a silent witness, turned to Elizabeth and said, with a gravity that lent the words unusual force, “Pemberley is fortunate to have you, Mrs. Darcy. I have never seen the house more lively, nor its company more agreeable.”
The compliment was echoed by the others, and Elizabeth, her cheeks tinged with pleasure, murmured her thanks. The remainder of the tea passed in a haze of contentment, the old hierarchies momentarily suspended. Even Mrs. Willoughby seemed, if not reconciled, at least appeased.
As the evening drew to its close and the gentlemen rejoined the company, Elizabeth found herself at the centre of a circle of conversation, her wit and warmth in full display.
She caught Lady Matlock’s eye across the room, and in that look was an unmistakable message: you have acquitted yourself admirably.
The music began, a gentle pianoforte piece played by Georgiana, and the company, united at last, settled into the ease of true enjoyment. Elizabeth, surveying the room, felt a profound satisfaction—not of victory, but of belonging.
And in that moment, Pemberley was, for the first time, entirely hers.
T he last rituals of hospitality, though among the most perfunctory, were also the most revealing.
Elizabeth stationed herself at the great door, the chill of early spring barely touched by the lamps in the portico, and watched as the company, sated and a little softened by the evening, gathered their cloaks and their closing compliments.
Lady Matlock was the first to depart, the earl on her arm, their progress stately as befitted their rank and disposition.
The countess—who had, in the course of the evening, acquired both a fondness for Elizabeth and an appetite for further conversation—pressed her hand and promised to return before summer.
Georgiana, dismissed from her duties at the pianoforte, hovered at Elizabeth’s side, her eyes alight with the satisfaction of an ordeal well survived.
Mrs. Willoughby, trailing the last of the guests, made her approach with the careful deliberation of one preparing a final thrust. She paused just inside the threshold, her posture impeccable, her lips set in a smile of ambiguous provenance.
“My dear Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her voice pitched to carry no further than the entrance hall, “I had thought Pemberley a place immutable, but I perceive I was mistaken. You have adapted yourself to the house with a…rapidity I find quite astonishing. It is a rare quality in a lady of your—background.”
Elizabeth, every nerve attuned to the nuance of the moment, returned the smile with a curtsy so measured and elegant that it drew a nod of approval even from the departing earl.
“You are most obliging, Mrs. Willoughby,” she replied, the phrase perfectly balanced between irony and gratitude. “I can only hope to profit by so distinguished an example in all matters of taste—though propriety may occasionally slip my grasp.”
For the briefest moment, Mrs. Willoughby’s composure faltered—whether at the deftness of the reply or the impossibility of bettering it, Elizabeth could not say.
But the older woman recovered herself, offered a farewell so polished it gleamed, and swept into the night with a final flourish of her reticule.
As the last of the carriages was lost to the avenue, Elizabeth stood for a time in the entrance hall, the echo of voices and laughter lingering like a perfume in the air.
She was conscious, now that the pressure was off, of the fatigue that settled in her shoulders and the warmth that flushed her cheeks.
Georgiana, silent until then, touched her arm.
“It was wonderful, Elizabeth,” she whispered. “You made everyone welcome. Even Mrs. Willoughby must admit it, in the end.”
Elizabeth smiled, not trusting herself to speak, and together they walked the length of the corridor, the candles flickering in the draught as they passed. At the entrance to the dining room, Elizabeth paused, bid Georgiana good night, and stepped inside.
The room, stripped now of its guests, seemed oddly larger and less formidable.
The table bore the evidence of its recent conquest: a napkin left folded on a chair, a glass turned on its side, the faint, sweet residue of fruit and sugar on the plates.
The air was rich with the last fumes of candle wax and the memory of conversation.
Elizabeth moved slowly among the chairs, righting a place setting here, smoothing the linen there, her motions deliberate and unhurried.
She paused at the head of the table, resting her hand on the polished wood.
The events of the evening replayed in her mind, each moment illuminated by a new confidence.
She was exhausted, yes, but the exhaustion was of the kind that follows achievement, not defeat.
For the first time, she saw the room not as a gallery of judges, but as her own domain—a place where she might, with practice and patience, be truly at home.
She allowed herself a single, unguarded smile, and then, as if responding to some private signal, looked to the window.
The moon had risen high above the lawn, its light flooding the room in a wash of silver.
Elizabeth stood there, framed by the ancient mullions, and let the moonlight touch her face.
She was, she realized, alone—but not lonely. The house was hers, and she belonged in it.
“If Pemberley has room for Mrs. Willoughby’s compliments," she indulged, "it will certainly have room for me.”
With that, she straightened the last of the chairs, dimmed the candles, and walked slowly from the room, the moonlight following her steps and crowning her with a quiet, indomitable sovereignty.
It was not victory, exactly. But it was—at last—enough.
She had reached the doorway when a familiar step sounded in the corridor, and she turned to find Darcy approaching, his evening dress somewhat loosened, his expression softened by the hour and the wine.
He paused at the threshold, taking in the scene—the dimmed candles, the moonlight painting silver patterns across the floor, and Elizabeth herself, poised between the remnants of triumph and the promise of rest. His eyes, dark and knowing, held hers with that particular intensity she had come to recognize as his way of reading the depths of her thoughts.
"My dear," he said, his voice low and warm with affection, "let us retire to bed.
" There was no question in it, only the tender solicitude of one who had observed her courage from afar and understood, without need of explanation, both the cost and the reward of her evening's performance.
He extended his arm, and Elizabeth, feeling the last of her carefully maintained composure give way to something softer and more yielding, placed her hand upon it.
Together they walked from the dining room, leaving the moonlight to keep its silent vigil over her first great victory at Pemberley—a victory that was, she knew, only the beginning of many such quiet conquests to come.