Page 2 of Return to Pemberley

The housekeeper’s composure flickered into something approaching approval.

“If you should wish for any alteration, ma’am, you need only say the word.

” Her gaze lingered not on Elizabeth, but on the vases and gilded sconces, the mantelpiece where the late Mrs. Darcy had arranged porcelain birds in perpetual dialogue.

Each object in the room, Elizabeth saw, bore the impress of generations; to change so much as a cushion would be an act of historical significance, and, she suspected, a mild sacrilege in the eyes of the staff.

With a gentle clearing of her throat, Mrs. Reynolds launched into her appointed role as docent.

“May I show you the principal rooms, ma’am?

It is customary for the mistress—” here she hesitated, as if tasting the word for novelty “—to acquaint herself with the house entire. If it is not too fatiguing after your journey.”

Elizabeth assented, and together they set off, Mrs. Reynolds maintaining a dignified pace that matched exactly the degree of solemnity required for the occasion.

Their first stop was the entrance hall, now empty but for the echoes of earlier ceremony.

Here, Mrs. Reynolds gestured toward the wall of ancestral portraits—interspersed with mounted specimens of noble hunts—with the pride of a museum curator.

“These are the Darcys of Pemberley since the Restoration. Mr. Darcy’s father, the late master, was partial to this arrangement, and himself hung many of the lesser pieces.

The Van Dyck there is said to be of Sir Simon, though some maintain it was painted for another house and acquired after the fact. ”

Elizabeth, who had previously hurried through the hall with the uneasy consciousness of being out of place, now found herself drawn to the faces, each rendered with a gravity that seemed to demand a moral reckoning.

She paused before the portrait of Lady Anne, noting the intelligence in the eyes, the severe set of the mouth—features softened, but not erased, in her son.

“She was a remarkable woman,” Mrs. Reynolds said, observing Elizabeth’s interest. “All who served her remember Lady Anne with a singular respect. She had a manner of conducting the household that inspired not fear, exactly, but the sort of loyalty that comes from knowing one’s duty is observed.”

“I can well believe it,” Elizabeth replied, considering whether such a compliment was meant as encouragement or as gentle admonition. “She must have found the house a formidable charge.”

“She did, ma’am. But she rose to it. She always did.”

They then entered the principal drawing room, which was likewise known as the music room, and which Elizabeth could not help but observe exceeded by half the dimensions of her father's house at Longbourn.

The walls were adorned with silk hangings of the finest quality, while the floors possessed such a degree of polish as to create the pleasing illusion that the carpets rested upon a surface of glass.

Here Mrs. Reynolds's satisfaction became still more apparent, as she entered with evident pleasure into the particulars of each piece of furniture—relating the origin of every table, the considerations which had determined the placement of the chairs, and even the precise method by which the fire must be arranged to ensure the most agreeable temperature and circulation of air.

“If I may be so bold, Mrs. Darcy, the pianoforte in this room was Lady Anne’s particular favourite. It has a tone not often matched in Derbyshire, and Miss Darcy—your sister-in-law—has given many recitals here to the family’s delight.”

Elizabeth ran her hand along the back of a chair, imagining herself presiding over some stately musicale. The picture was both enticing and absurd; she resolved that, if ever required, she would either radiate perfect confidence or abandon the attempt entirely.

They lingered in the drawing room only as long as propriety required, and then moved on to the long gallery, which ran the width of the house and contained, among its curiosities, a pair of Egyptian urns and an extensive collection of natural history.

Mrs. Reynolds narrated each artifact with the patience of one who had repeated the story a hundred times, yet for whom the retelling never lost its savour.

Elizabeth was more drawn to the library, a room she remembered from her earlier visit only in the blurred excitement of discovering Darcy’s true character.

It was, as she entered, exactly as she wished it: books lined every wall from floor to ceiling, the spines a symphony of leather and gilt, interspersed with globes, busts, and the odd relic of youthful scholarship.

The air was tinged with the scent of paper and wood polish—a comfort more profound than she would have thought possible.

“You may find, ma’am,” Mrs. Reynolds offered, “that the mornings are best for reading here; the light comes from the east and is very kind to the eyes.”

Elizabeth smiled and reached for a random volume, running her fingers lightly along its spine before returning it to its place. “I believe I shall never want to leave this room.”

“Many have said as much, Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Darcy himself has spent more hours here than in all the rest of the house combined, unless you count the stables.”

There was a pause, during which Mrs. Reynolds’s face arranged itself into an expression of careful neutrality. “I do hope you will find the house as comfortable as your own. It has been some years since Pemberley welcomed a new mistress.”

Elizabeth, sensing a question beneath the statement, turned from the bookshelves and regarded the housekeeper directly.

“You must forgive any awkwardness on my part, Mrs. Reynolds. I have never managed a house of such consequence before. If I am to err, I can only hope it will be on the side of kindness, rather than neglect.”

The reply was prompt, and with more feeling than had hitherto been shown: “I do not doubt you, ma’am. Not for a moment.”

Reassured, and yet not entirely so, Elizabeth allowed herself to be led onward, through the breakfast room, the morning room, and at last into a corridor hung with family miniatures.

Here the sense of being watched—if only by oil and canvas—became nearly overwhelming.

Every step echoed, as if the floor itself remembered each previous occupant’s gait.

At one turning, Elizabeth caught sight of two maids who, having rounded the corner in eager conversation, now froze at the sight of their mistress.

One, a girl of perhaps sixteen, dropped her curtsy with such haste as to appear comical; the other, older and steadier, managed a look of unconvincing innocence before offering her own bow.

Elizabeth, aware that her approach had interrupted some delicious morsel of gossip, slowed her pace and fixed them both with a look of mild inquiry.

As soon as Mrs. Reynolds and Elizabeth were out of earshot, however, the younger maid could not restrain a stifled whisper: “…nothing like the previous Mrs. Darcy…”

Elizabeth heard the words as clearly as if they had been meant for her, and though she kept her face composed, a slight tightening at her jaw betrayed her reaction. She had expected scrutiny; she had not anticipated so swift a comparison, nor so open a pronouncement of difference.

Mrs. Reynolds halted so abruptly that Elizabeth nearly walked into her.

“Mary,” she said, her voice carrying with perfect clarity down the corridor, “you will present yourself in my sitting room at six o'clock. And bring Sarah with you.” The words were spoken with such quiet authority that even Elizabeth felt their weight.

When Mrs. Reynolds resumed walking, her posture was rigid with barely contained displeasure.

The tour concluded, as all such must, in the dining room—an expanse of mahogany and crystal, where the table, already set for a formal meal, sparkled in the now late afternoon light.

Mrs. Reynolds bowed her head and, with an air of finality, said, “If there is anything further you wish to see, ma’am, or any question you wish to ask, I am at your service. ”

Elizabeth, standing at the head of the table that would soon be hers to command, surveyed the length of the room, the symmetry of the place settings, and the perfect alignment of every fork and spoon.

She felt, for a moment, a dizziness at the scale of it all—a sensation that was at once humbling and exalting.

“No,” she said at last, her voice steady. “You have shown me all I could have hoped, and more. Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. I am in your debt.”

The housekeeper inclined her head in acknowledgment, and retreated with the silent efficiency of a woman who knew the precise limits of her duty.

Left alone in the quiet, Elizabeth let her gaze travel the room.

She allowed herself, for the briefest instant, to imagine the other Mrs. Darcy—how she might have walked these floors, directed these meals, presided over the staff.

The thought was at once a comfort and a challenge.

She would not—could not—be what others expected.

But she could, perhaps, be more than what they dared imagine.

She straightened her shoulders and set her hands lightly on the back of a chair. In that moment, she claimed the room as her own—not in the way of the portraits that lined the halls, but in the quiet certainty of her presence.

And so, when the distant chime announced the hour for dinner, she was ready to meet it—on her own terms, and with every expectation of success.