Page 26 of Return to Pemberley

“Mrs. Willoughby is in rare form this evening,” said Lady Matlock, her voice pitched so low as to be audible only to Elizabeth and, perhaps, the candelabra.

“She has always had a talent for making observations that linger in the air like perfume—pleasant at first breath, but apt to become suffocating if one lingers too long in their vicinity.”

Elizabeth laughed, the sound both genuine and edged with weariness. “I thank you, Lady Matlock, for the warning. I had not expected to become the subject of so much… horticultural interest in my first season.”

The countess’s lips twitched at the joke. “You acquitted yourself admirably, my dear. It is only that Mrs. Willoughby is unaccustomed to competition. I advise you to give her nothing further to work with, at least not tonight.”

Elizabeth nodded, and for the first time since the confrontation, felt a measure of her confidence return. “I shall endeavor to follow your advice, though I confess it requires considerable restraint to remain silent when one's character is so freely interpreted by others.”

“Then do not attempt it,” replied Lady Matlock. “Be yourself, and let the county adjust as it may. You have a friend in me, and I am not without influence.”

Elizabeth thanked her, and after a few moments’ further conversation—during which the countess expertly intercepted a would-be inquisitor—she excused herself, pleading a need for air and the restoration of her equanimity.

The corridors of Harrington Hall, so recently crowded with guests, now stretched before her in cavernous solitude.

Elizabeth found her way to the side entrance, where the spring air struck her heated skin with welcome coolness.

She drew several measured breaths, the night alive with the delicate fragrance of lilac and the distant rumble of carriage wheels.

Above, the stars maintained their scattered vigil, indifferent witnesses to the small dramas enacted beneath their eternal gaze.

She remained thus for several minutes, hands clasped before her, contemplating the evening's events.

There was indeed bitterness in what had transpired, yet she was conscious also of an unexpected exhilaration—the recognition that in being tested, she had discovered unsuspected reserves of strength within herself.

Elizabeth straightened her shoulders, drew her shawl more closely about herself, and prepared to rejoin the assembly. She had not yet been vanquished. The night, after all, retained its youth—as did she.

I t was not until the carriage rounded the final curve of the Pemberley avenue and the ancient mass of the house emerged from the enveloping darkness that Elizabeth permitted herself to acknowledge the full measure of her exhaustion.

The lamps flanking the portico burned with patient, unwavering devotion, and beyond them the gardens—her gardens, though the phrase still carried the force of revelation—lay wrapped in a hush that seemed almost sacred.

Mr. Darcy offered to escort her to the door, but she declined with gentle firmness, directing her steps instead toward the east terrace, where moonlight traced silver pathways across the weathered flagstones and her only companion was the persistent melody of a nightingale.

Elizabeth walked the length of the stone balustrade, her arms clasped tightly about herself—more from long habit than from any actual chill in the spring air.

Her slippers whispered across the fine gravel of the path leading to the Italian fountain, and there, beside the ancient stone basin with its eternal murmur of falling water, she finally allowed herself to pause.

The evening at Harrington Hall returned to her in jagged fragments: Mrs. Willoughby's razor-edged smile; the calculating angle of the colonel's wife's interrogation; the suffocating kindness of the vicar's spouse.

Elizabeth's memory, ordinarily so precise in its recollections, now offered up the sequence in broken shards, each one rendered more painful by its public nature, its complete removal from her influence or control.

She settled upon the marble bench—worn smooth by countless generations of ladies who had sought sanctuary from the demands of house or society—and gazed into the fountain's depths, where moonlight transformed the water into liquid silver.

Tears threatened at the corners of her eyes, but she forced them back with characteristic determination.

It was merely water, after all, and it would continue its ancient course regardless of scandal or succession, indifferent to the small tempests of human ambition.

A soft footfall sounded on the gravel behind her—hesitant, almost apologetic, yet unmistakably familiar.

Elizabeth turned, half-expecting to discover Mr. Darcy, but instead found Georgiana approaching through the shadows, her evening cloak drawn close and her hair forming a delicate aureole against the pallor of her complexion.

"Forgive me if I intrude," Georgiana began, her voice carrying all the fragility of the crescent moon suspended above them.

"I observed your return from my chamber window, and I confess myself unable to resist the impulse to seek your company.

I thought—that is to say, I hoped—you might welcome a friend's presence, though I fear I have little wisdom to offer beyond my affection. "

Elizabeth, moved by the exquisite delicacy of this overture, rose immediately and drew her sister-in-law down beside her upon the bench.

"My dear Georgiana, your presence could never constitute an intrusion.

Indeed, I cannot recall when I have felt the want of a true friend more acutely than I do this evening. "

They remained in companionable silence for several heartbeats, the fountain's gentle discourse their only conversation. At length, Georgiana ventured to speak again.

"I am conscious that I failed you tonight, Elizabeth.

Had I not been so foolishly indisposed with that wretched headache, I might have accompanied you to Harrington Hall and stood as your ally against whatever trials awaited.

Mrs. Willoughby, I am told, exceeded even her usual standards of.

.. refined malice. I have long been acquainted with her particular gift for rendering others diminished while maintaining an appearance of perfect propriety.

" Here she paused, as though wrestling with some private recollection, and Elizabeth, sensing the approach of a confidence, waited with patient attention.

Georgiana's smile, when it came, was touched with shadows of memory.

"I recall an occasion—I was perhaps fourteen years of age—when Mrs. Willoughby complimented my performance at the pianoforte by declaring that my execution was so mechanically precise it might have been achieved by the finest clockwork.

I was initially gratified by what I mistook for praise, but spent the entire winter tormented by the conviction that I possessed nothing beyond a facility for striking keys in proper sequence—that I was, in essence, a musical automaton. "

Elizabeth's laughter rang out across the terrace, clearer and more genuine than anything that had escaped her lips throughout the long evening.

"How perfectly that observation illuminates the speaker rather than her subject!

You possess what Mrs. Willoughby can never hope to acquire, dearest Georgiana: a soul that inhabits every note you play, and a heart that transforms mere technique into genuine artistry.

If comparisons to machinery must be made, let yours be to a timepiece that maintains perfect rhythm while all the world about it falls into discord. "

Georgiana's hand sought Elizabeth's with sudden warmth, clasping it with unexpected strength.

"And you, dear sister, possess what she most desperately covets and can never obtain through artifice: Fitzwilliam's devoted heart, his absolute trust, and the genuine esteem of every person whose opinion merits consideration.

Mrs. Willoughby must manufacture her influence through manipulation and spite precisely because she cannot command the natural authority that belongs to you by right. "

Elizabeth returned the pressure of her sister's hand with grateful intensity. "Such truths are not always easily recalled when one stands exposed to the scrutiny of an entire assembly, each member apparently convinced of their right to pass judgment upon one's smallest gesture."

"Yet you did recall them when it mattered most," Georgiana replied with quiet conviction.

"You faced Lady Catherine's formidable displeasure without yielding an inch of ground, and you bore tonight's ordeal with a dignity I should never have possessed in similar circumstances.

Mrs. Willoughby represents nothing more substantial than the shadow of what she aspires to become—a pallid counterfeit of her superiors.

Do not permit her manufactured venom to disturb your rightful peace. "

The absolute sincerity of these words, unmarked by artifice or calculation, affected Elizabeth more profoundly than she dared reveal. She drew Georgiana closer to her side, and together they listened to the fountain's patient, eternal monologue.

After several minutes had passed in this restorative silence, Georgiana spoke once more.

"Will you not come indoors now, Elizabeth?

The house seems to echo with emptiness in your absence, and I suspect the entire household awaits your return—if only to determine who shall emerge victorious in tomorrow's great debate regarding the arrangement of lilies in the morning room.”

Elizabeth smiled, feeling at last the accumulated tensions of the evening begin their gradual dissolution.

"I should be deeply grieved to deprive them of a single moment's rest over so momentous a question.

Come then, let us return together, and demonstrate to one and all that Pemberley's mistress possesses sufficient fortitude to survive even the combined forces of a Derbyshire assembly. "

They rose as one, linking arms with natural grace, and traced their way back along the moonlit path toward the house. The night air carried away the final echoes of gossip and speculation, leaving in their place only the promise of dawn and renewal.

As they entered the great hall, Elizabeth glimpsed Darcy waiting at the foot of the stair, his expression a mingling of concern and quiet pride.

He asked no questions, but offered his hand in silence.

She took it, and in that simple clasp felt both reassurance and resolve: that whatever examinations society devised, she would not endure them alone.

Georgiana’s gentle presence at her side, Darcy’s steady arm before her—these were her true counters to Mrs. Willoughby’s artifice.

Tomorrow the county might resume its judgments; but tonight, in the hush of the old house, Elizabeth discovered that strength shared was strength multiplied.

And that, for the moment, was more than enough.