Page 20 of Return to Pemberley
Elizabeth felt the tremor of indignation rise again, but she mastered it.
“You flatter me with such attention from the county, Lady Catherine—though I confess I had hoped my domestic arrangements might prove less fascinating to general society.
But if I am indeed a subject of conversation, I can only trust that Mr. Darcy's judgment in entrusting Pemberley to my care will eventually prove more compelling than any doubts about my qualifications. As to the work itself—I find that practical duties have a wonderfully clarifying effect upon theoretical objections.”
Lady Catherine’s nostrils pinched. “You have always been clever with words, Mrs. Darcy. But cleverness is not the same as wisdom. There is a reason that some are born to lead and others to serve. My nephew—your husband—has been led astray by… affection. It is a failing in all men of sense, I find. But do not suppose that I, or the greater world, will be blinded by such illusions. If you persist in this course, you risk not only your own reputation, but that of the family whose name you have so recently acquired.”
Anne, who seemed to wilt further with every syllable her mother uttered, now watched Elizabeth with a look of pure alarm, as if she expected her cousin’s wife to be struck down by the power of Lady Catherine’s words alone.
Elizabeth, however, was unmoved. She replaced the last stem in the vase, straightened its line, and turned to face Lady Catherine with a composure so unyielding that even the elder woman was momentarily checked.
“Your lessons on the importance of breeding are most instructive, Lady Catherine, and I assure you I am properly sensible of my disadvantages in that regard. Yet I have been so fortunate in my observations as to notice that the most admirable persons of my acquaintance—present company certainly included—seem to owe their distinction as much to their exertions as to their inheritance. If I am to fail in my duties here, I confess I should prefer to fail spectacularly through effort rather than quietly through neglect. Though perhaps that is merely another symptom of my unfortunate tendency toward activity over elegance.”
Lady Catherine’s hand, gloved in black silk, tightened upon the head of her cane.
“You are determined, I see. It is a trait I have always deplored in women, especially when misapplied. I had hoped, when first I learned of your engagement, that you would be content to govern the household with discretion and to defer, in matters of consequence, to those better qualified by experience. But I perceive now that you intend to be not only the mistress of Pemberley, but its master as well. It is a dangerous ambition.”
Elizabeth met her gaze without flinching. “I have no ambition beyond the happiness and well-being of those who live here. If that is dangerous, it is a danger I am willing to brave.”
The two women stood thus, fixed in a tableau of opposition, until Anne, gathering what courage she possessed, rose from the settee and approached her mother.
“Please, Mama, it is not so very grave. Mrs. Darcy is only doing what she thinks right, and I am sure Mr. Darcy would not object.” She laid a tentative hand on Lady Catherine’s sleeve, an act of daring unprecedented in her adult life.
Lady Catherine’s reaction was immediate, but curiously muted.
She drew herself away from her daughter’s touch and fixed Elizabeth with a final, glacial stare.
“Very well. You have made your intentions clear, Mrs. Darcy. But do not imagine that I will be so easily dissuaded from my own duty. I shall remain at Pemberley until I am satisfied that the household is not in jeopardy. If I discover any further evidence of impropriety—any further trespass into matters beyond your ken—you will answer for it, not only to me, but to the world.”
She turned, her skirt sweeping the air like a censor’s blackwing, and moved to the window, where she stood with her back to the room, surveying the drive as though expecting a procession of allies at any moment.
Anne lingered, caught in the current of events, and looked at Elizabeth with an expression that was part apology, part longing, and wholly incapable of translation into words.
Elizabeth, finding her hands unexpectedly unsteady, gripped the back of the nearest chair and steadied herself with a slow, deliberate breath. The narcissus, perfectly arranged, seemed almost to mock the disorder in her chest.
“I am sorry, Miss de Bourgh,” she said quietly, “if I have caused you distress.”
Anne shook her head, her eyes darting nervously between her mother’s rigid silhouette and Elizabeth’s face. “Not distress, exactly. Only—I wish things were less… difficult.” She hesitated, then added, “You are very brave, Mrs. Darcy. I should not have thought it possible, but you are.”
Elizabeth smiled, the gesture more weary than triumphant. “I am not so brave as I appear, I assure you. But it is a comfort to hear it said.”
Anne seemed about to say more, but a sharp glance from the window recalled her to her station. With a mumbled apology, she retreated to her mother’s side, where she stood, silent and small, as the first of the morning’s carriages rounded the curve of the drive.
Lady Catherine did not turn, but her posture radiated a certainty that was itself a kind of tyranny. Elizabeth, released from the field of immediate battle, sat at last on the settee, her mind racing with the possibilities of what had just transpired.
The confrontation had left her oddly invigorated, but also more deeply aware than ever of the precariousness of her position.
For all her defiance, she knew that Lady Catherine’s disapproval, once fully awakened, could marshal allies in the most unexpected places; the gentry of Derbyshire was a web of allegiances, and even the faintest whiff of scandal could spread through it like powder in a dry wind.
Yet as she regarded the narcissus, the morning light glancing off each petal, she found herself unwilling to regret any part of the exchange.
She had spoken as she believed, had defended her place not only as mistress of Pemberley, but as its conscience.
If that was insufficient to silence the voices of tradition, it was at least enough to satisfy her own.
She rose, poured herself a cup of tea from the pot Mrs. Reynolds had set out earlier, and drank it in silence, her gaze fixed not on the figure at the window, but on the grounds beyond, where the first tentative shoots of spring promised—if not certainty—at least the hope of renewal.
It was in this posture of contemplation that she was found, some time later, by the housemaid, who announced the approach of the master. Elizabeth straightened, composed herself, and prepared to meet the next trial, whatever shape it might assume.
For now, at least, the field was hers.
T he moment of respite was short-lived. Elizabeth had barely composed her thoughts when the heavy, deliberate tread of Mr. Darcy was heard in the corridor—a sound so familiar, and yet so altered in its effect by the morning’s events, that she was uncertain whether to brace herself for rescue or for rebuke.
He entered without fanfare, as was his custom, his presence instantly felt even before he crossed the threshold.
His eyes, keenly observant, swept the room in an instant: the arrangement of narcissus on the table; Lady Catherine at the window, rigid as a column; Anne beside her, pale and wilting; and finally, Elizabeth, standing at the edge of the settee with the remains of tea in her cup and a flush still lingering in her cheeks.
For a moment, no one spoke. Lady Catherine, who had been so unassailable before, now seemed to shrink before the gaze of her nephew, as though her authority depended on his assent. Anne, whose existence was usually overlooked, found herself rooted to the spot by an anxiety that was almost visible.
It was Elizabeth who broke the silence, though only by the smallest, most involuntary of movements—a tightening of her fingers around the teacup, a half-turn in Darcy’s direction, as if to signal both warning and welcome.
Darcy’s voice, when it came, was quiet but edged with steel. “Good morning, Aunt Catherine. I trust you have found everything to your satisfaction.”
The question was a challenge, and Lady Catherine took it as such.
She turned from the window with a movement at once stately and severe, her black skirts billowing like storm clouds.
“I have found much to concern me, Mr. Darcy. Your wife—Mrs. Darcy—has been busy at her investigations, and I must tell you, in no uncertain terms, that her actions are the subject of talk far beyond these walls.”
Anne gave a nervous start, but was hushed by the imperious flick of Lady Catherine’s hand.
Darcy’s gaze flickered to Elizabeth, then back to his aunt. “Indeed? I confess myself curious to learn what domestic arrangements could prove so fascinating to our neighbors. Pray enlighten me as to these remarkable proceedings.”
Lady Catherine’s lips thinned. “It is not only a question of conduct, but of propriety. There are matters in the family, in the history of this house, that are not for the curiosity of outsiders. Your wife has been asking questions—making inquiries that ought to have been left in the past. I am told she has even unearthed old correspondences best left in peace.”
Elizabeth, feeling the heat rise anew in her cheeks, spoke before she could reconsider.
“How considerate of you to concern yourself with Mr. Darcy's knowledge of my activities, Lady Catherine. I am happy to assure you that I have shared with him everything of consequence. There is no secret between us.”
This declaration, delivered with all the calm she could muster, had the effect of momentarily destabilizing her opponent. Lady Catherine glanced between nephew and niece-in-law, her composure rattled by the show of unity.
Darcy stepped forward, not in haste, but with a deliberation that commanded the floor.
“Aunt Catherine, I must ask that you address my wife with the respect her position demands. If she is mistress of Pemberley, it is because I have judged her worthy. If she takes an interest in the affairs of the estate, it is not only at my invitation, but to its great benefit.”
Anne inhaled, her eyes alight with a sort of desperate hope, as if she herself wished to step out from behind the shelter of her mother’s opinions.
Lady Catherine’s voice, though still formidable, now wavered on the edge of incredulity.
“You mean to tell me that you condone this… this rummaging in the past? That you see no danger in disturbing what has been at rest for generations? You astonish me, Mr. Darcy. I expected better of your sense, and of your loyalty to the name you bear.”
Darcy’s answer was measured, his posture unyielding.
“Your concern for family loyalty does you credit, Aunt Catherine, and I assure you that my devotion to Pemberley and to my parents' memory remains unchanged. However, I cannot persuade myself that concealment of past difficulties serves either justice or the family honour. My father, I believe, would have preferred to meet any challenge with openness rather than evasion. If we are to be worthy of the Darcy name, let us earn that distinction through our actions, not merely inherit it through our silence. If there is a matter to be resolved, let us resolve it openly, and with the dignity our family deserves.”
Lady Catherine glared, her face stiffening in a mask of outrage. “Dignity! You speak to me of dignity, when your own wife exposes the house to the ridicule of every busybody in the county? I am mortified, Mr. Darcy, that you should prefer her judgment to mine.”
Elizabeth, seized by a sudden, reckless boldness, said, “You mistake the matter, Lady Catherine. There is no question here of Mr. Darcy preferring my judgment to yours—such a comparison would be most improper. Rather, there is the happy circumstance of two minds discovering themselves in agreement upon matters of principle. When husband and wife find themselves united in their sense of duty, surely that is cause for congratulation rather than censure?”
The finality of this statement echoed in the room, leaving no space for further debate.
Lady Catherine, at last, seemed to recognize the futility of her campaign.
She drew herself to her full height, collected Anne with a wordless gesture, and prepared to quit the field.
But she could not resist a final shot, delivered over her shoulder as she advanced to the door.
"I shall not trouble myself to wish you good day, Mrs. Darcy, for indeed, after such a display of obstinacy and wilful disregard for propriety as I have witnessed this morning, you have shown yourself wholly undeserving of any civility from me.”
With this, she swept from the room, Anne trailing behind, her eyes once more downcast and her step uncertain.
Darcy watched them go, his expression unreadable. When the echo of their passage had faded, he turned to Elizabeth and, with a gentleness that belied the tension of the moment, reached for her hand.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I should have anticipated that my aunt's... concern for family traditions might express itself so forcefully. You should not have been required to defend either your position or your principles without my support.”
Elizabeth shook her head, managing a small, wry smile.
“You need not apologize for Lady Catherine's convictions—they appear to be quite independently formed and rather energetically maintained. As for standing my ground, I confess I find it rather invigorating to discover that my principles are capable of surviving such a comprehensive examination. If defending Pemberley requires occasional trials of this nature, I believe I am equal to them.”
He looked at her with a mixture of pride and tenderness, then drew her arm through his and led her, in silence, to the window. Together they watched as Lady Catherine’s carriage was brought round, the team of bays stamping their impatience on the gravel.
From their vantage, they saw the old lady ascend, her spine unbending, Anne following with one backward glance at the house. The carriage rolled away, and with it went a cloud of acrimony that seemed, for a moment at least, to lighten the air of the morning room.
Elizabeth rested her head against Darcy’s shoulder, and he—never one for public displays—allowed it, his own hand resting lightly over hers.
They stood thus until the carriage disappeared among the trees, the household slowly returning to its customary rhythm. The confrontation had left its mark, but it was not defeat that lingered in the air.
Rather, it was the promise—however hard-won—of understanding.