Page 23 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter ten

Difficult Decisions

T he morning broke with a lucidity Elizabeth had not seen in many weeks; it was as though some cosmic magistrate had ruled that all ambiguities must, for a day at least, be illuminated into stark relief.

The grounds about Pemberley were awash with that rare, spring-bright sunlight which makes every windowpane a looking glass and even the most reticent of shadows confess their true dimensions.

The effect upon the library was, if anything, more severe: the long windows admitted not only the full parade of daylight but a steady march of dust motes, each one rising, falling, and settling as if auditioning for the role of Evidence in a tribunal soon to be convened.

Elizabeth entered arm in arm with Mr. Darcy, the latter in that state of controlled alertness which bespoke a mind at once braced and reserved for trial.

The room, which had always seemed to her a place of refuge, now bore all the anticipatory hush of a courtroom before the verdict.

She took her place at the writing table, the same table which had presided over so many hours of her solitary research, and set her hand atop the blotter with a show of composure that, she suspected, deceived neither of the men present.

Mr. William Harrow was already waiting for them, stationed at the margin of the rug with the precise humility of a man who has, for twenty-three years, managed the affairs of Pemberley without ever presuming to exist independently of its master’s shadow.

He bowed, but not deeply, and after an exchange of greetings at once formal and almost conspiratorial, he proceeded to open the black lacquered case which, in his hands, might as well have been Pandora’s own.

“Mrs. Darcy. Mr. Darcy.” His voice was soft, but so distinct as to leave no word unclaimed by memory. “I have brought the materials as you requested. If you wish, we may begin with the registers.”

Elizabeth, whose instinct was always to advance, nodded for him to proceed. Darcy leaned forward, the line of his brow foretelling neither welcome nor objection, but a neutrality so perfect it could only be the product of sustained discipline.

Harrow produced a folio, the cover of which bore the faded arms of Lambton Parish, and opened it to a sheaf of thin, yellowed leaves.

“I have copied only the relevant entries, ma’am.

Here, in the baptismal list, is the family of Thomas Blackwood, beginning with his birth in the year of our Lord 1746, and following to the son, also Thomas, in 1772.

” He paused, then with an economy that bordered on artistry, slid the folio across the table for Elizabeth’s inspection.

She read the entries, each one written in that measured, somewhat fusty script peculiar to churchmen who imagine the Lord’s ledger to be as neat as their own.

The facts, though plain, had about them the power of revelation: Thomas Blackwood the elder, cousin once removed to Lady Anne Darcy; Thomas the younger, alive and—at least as of the last notation—residing in the neighbouring county of.

.. here she paused, for the ink had bled in a way that made the place-name less a fact than a tease.

“Might this be Yorkshire?” she asked, more to herself than to the others.

“Just so, ma’am,” replied Harrow. “The family removed there sometime before the turn of the century. My inquiries—such as could be made with delicacy—suggest that the line has not been extinguished, though its circumstances are much reduced from what they once were.”

Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, but he was studying the register with the absorption of a man who does not wish to be interrupted by even his own thoughts.

Harrow resumed. “There is also, as you will see, an entry in the Lambton vestry records concerning the so-called Shepherd’s Lot. It appears to have been a distinct parcel, though whether it was leased, lent, or merely occupied by custom, the record is silent.”

Elizabeth, who had come to believe that ambiguity was the true mother tongue of land tenure, found herself almost amused at the artful evasions of centuries of parish clerks. “And the boundary?” she asked.

“Marked by the old river stone and a row of hawthorn, according to the estate map of 1762, which I have here.” Harrow unfolded a vellum map so fine that it seemed, in places, as translucent as the day’s light itself.

He placed it upon the desk with reverence, then pointed—without the faintest tremor—to the western margin, where a faint, hand-drawn ellipse surrounded the word Shepherd’s Lot.

Darcy drew the map toward him, running a finger slowly along the demarcated line. “It does not appear in the current estate survey,” he observed, his voice flat, “nor in the map of 1811.”

“That is correct, sir,” said Harrow. “It was subsumed, as it were, during the consolidation of lands after the enclosure. But the evidence of the earlier registers and the map is… hard to dismiss.”

A silence fell, so complete that the ticking of the clock became for a moment the most pressing fact in the room.

Elizabeth broke it. “If the land was never formally conveyed, and the original grant unsigned, what is its status?”

Harrow’s reply was measured. “That is the difficulty, ma’am.

In law, the absence of signature is fatal; in equity, especially in matters of kinship and custom, it is less decisive.

There are instances—rare, but not unknown—where a claim has been revived after half a century or more, if supported by witness and long usage. ”

Elizabeth nodded, her mind already arranging the next tier of questions, but was surprised to see that Darcy’s attention had shifted to the steward himself.

“Is there more, Harrow?” he asked, in a tone that was at once gentle and utterly without appeal.

Harrow hesitated, then reached for the last of the documents.

“There is, sir. I have compared the hand of the unsigned grant with several letters of Lady Anne’s, as preserved in the family papers.

The script is not hers, but that of the late Mr. Darcy—your father, sir.

I recognize it from his ledgers. My belief is that the document was prepared, and that he intended to sign it, but was prevented by… circumstance.”

Darcy’s face, so little given to outward drama, showed at this a sharp contraction—whether of pain, anger, or some alloy of the two was hard to say.

Elizabeth, who understood perhaps better than any the weight of such a revelation, said nothing, but shifted in her chair so that her shoulder brushed his. The gesture, though small, seemed to steady them both.

Harrow, sensing that the moment required either completion or retreat, added, “I have also to report, with your leave, that the current Thomas Blackwood is still living. He is a gentleman farmer, not wealthy, but respected in his district. He is married, with a son at the grammar school and a daughter, I believe, in service to a baronet’s family.

There is no sign that he is aware of any claim upon Pemberley, or of his own possible rights. ”

There followed a quiet so profound that the room itself seemed to await permission to breathe.

Darcy looked up, his expression now composed into the icy clarity that always presaged a decision. “And your judgment, Harrow?”

The steward, for perhaps the first time in his life, looked directly at Elizabeth. “If I may be so bold, sir, I think Mrs. Darcy’s handling of the matter has been most judicious. There is no scandal, no urgency—only a question of honour, which must be answered as you see fit.”

He gathered the documents into a precise pile, closed the folio, and then, with a bow not only to Mr. Darcy but to Elizabeth as well, withdrew to the margin of the rug, there to await further orders.

For a moment, Elizabeth and Darcy sat in silence. She saw that his hands, usually so steady, betrayed themselves by the faintest tremor—an unaccustomed loss of composure that touched her more than any speech.

She placed her hand upon his, not as mistress to master, nor as advocate to judge, but as a woman who, at long last, understood both the weight and the privilege of her place.

They remained so until the hour struck, the echo of the chime as much a verdict as a summons. It was then, and only then, that Mr. Darcy spoke.

“Thank you.”

She met his eyes, and in them read the truth: not victory, nor defeat, but the slow, hard-won emergence of justice from the tangled thicket of legacy.

The sunlight, by now less insistent, filtered through the window and fell in a bright oblong upon the Shepherd’s Lot of the old map, as if Nature herself wished to have the last word.

T he library had not yet relinquished its tension when Elizabeth, compelled by an urgency she could no longer disown, turned to her husband and said, “If the facts are as Mr. Harrow presents them—and I do not think they can be otherwise—then there is only one course open to us. We must write to Mr. Blackwood at once.”

She saw at once that Mr. Darcy had anticipated the suggestion, and also that he had arrayed against it every shield of caution and reluctance at his command.

He stood, arms folded, before the tall window, where the glass caught not only the sunlight but his own reflected image: two Darcys, one turned to the world, the other perpetually regarding itself.

Elizabeth, from her seat at the table, observed both with equal concern.

Mr. Darcy did not speak at first. His gaze travelled from the far edge of the park to the narrow ribbon of road that led—by the mathematics of consequence—to the fate of Shepherd’s Lot.

“You are eager to dispatch justice,” he said at last, “but it is not a matter of a single letter. To disturb the title of Pemberley, even for so worthy a reason, is to invite scrutiny—and, perhaps, reproach. There will be those who say we act not from conscience but from weakness.”

“Let them say it,” Elizabeth replied, her tone soft but invincible. “It is not weakness to correct a wrong, even an old one. You have always said that Pemberley’s honour is its most precious inheritance. What else is it, if not this?”

Darcy’s reflection wavered in the sun, a ripple of uncertainty flickering across his features.

He made a small adjustment to his cufflink, the gesture oddly poignant in its meticulousness.

“And if it should come to nothing?” he asked.

“If the Blackwood heir rejects the claim, or is unworthy? Or worse—if it becomes a scandal, as Lady Catherine has already threatened?”

Elizabeth did not shrink from the objection. “Then at least we shall have discharged our part. To do less is to let the wrong fester, until it is not merely a matter of land, but of character.”

Mr. Harrow, who had maintained a silence so tactful as to be almost invisible, now signalled his assent with the faintest inclination of his head.

He handled the Shepherd’s Lot map with a deference reserved only for relics or sacred things, and in so doing, seemed to be voting with Elizabeth’s party.

Darcy turned, no longer regarding his ghost in the glass, but facing them both fully. “I do not dispute your logic. Only—” He stopped, searching for the right tone. “Only, I wish it were not so clear.”

She reached across the table, her fingers grazing his sleeve. “Justice delayed is often justice denied, my dear.”

The phrase, uttered not as a rebuke but as a confidence, carried such authority that even Mr. Darcy, for all his armour, must yield to its force. He looked down, then up again, and Elizabeth saw the storm pass from his eyes, replaced by the steady resolve she knew so well.

She thought, then, that the moment would be sealed in understanding and that the letter to Mr. Blackwood would be written before the hour was out, when a discreet knock—timed with the infallible instinct of house servants for the most inopportune entry—disturbed the air.

“Enter,” said Darcy, his voice recovering its habitual calm.

The door opened to admit a footman, whose countenance bespoke not only the gravity of the occasion but a certain pleasure in being the harbinger of news.

He bowed, then addressed Mr. Darcy in the tone of one who bears a message both urgent and inconvenient.

“If you please, sir, Lady Matlock’s carriage has just arrived at the portico.

Mrs. Reynolds thought you would wish to be informed at once. ”

The effect was immediate: Darcy’s composure assumed an even greater rigidity, while Elizabeth’s first response was to suppress a smile at the predictable mischief of timing.

Mr. Harrow, whose instincts for survival were as fine as his memory for legal precedent, quietly collected the registers and maps into their case, leaving only the unsigned grant upon the table.

Elizabeth caught the steward’s glance, and in it, recognized a new and rare accord: he trusted her, perhaps even admired her, and would support her—so far as his station and honour allowed.

Darcy straightened, his decision no longer theoretical but imposed by circumstance. He turned to Elizabeth, and in a voice pitched low enough for no one but her to hear, said, “We shall continue this discussion at the earliest opportunity.”

He looked at Mr. Harrow, whose bow was now a degree deeper than before. “Thank you, Harrow. Please see that the documents are secured.”

“Very good, sir,” said the steward, and with the efficiency of one who never wasted a gesture, placed the grant back into its folder and locked it with a small but decisive click.

Elizabeth stood, and as Darcy offered his arm, she accepted it with more than formality: it was, she thought, the compact not only of husband and wife, but of allies. The footman hovered by the door, ready to conduct them to the entrance hall and their awaiting guest of formidable presence.

As they stepped into the corridor, Elizabeth cast a final glance behind her, to where the morning sun now caught the edge of the lacquered case upon the table.

The room, once charged with the spectre of ancestral disappointment, was now empty but for the memory of voices—hers, her husband’s, the steward’s—all converging, for once, on a single, honourable point.

She felt the certainty, then, that the matter would not rest until it was resolved: not for the sake of law or legacy alone, but for the integrity of those charged with their keeping.

In the stillness that followed their departure, the dust motes resumed their patient ascent and descent, indifferent to the verdict just pronounced but perhaps, in their way, bearing witness to it.