Page 27 of Return to Pemberley
Chapter twelve
The Weight of Duty
T he morning on which the Bingleys were to arrive at Pemberley was so radiant that even the swallows, executing their loops above the lawn, seemed to partake in the general atmosphere of expectation.
The sunlight, poured without moderation upon the facade, turned every pane and ornament to a thing of promise, and the gravelled approach, so often the theatre of anxiety, was today the very image of ordered anticipation.
Elizabeth was, for perhaps the first time since her arrival at Pemberley, in such a fever of impatience that she could scarce confine herself to the window.
Having reviewed the arrangements in the guest rooms twice, dispatched Georgiana to consult with the housekeeper regarding every anticipated comfort, and subjected the morning room to a scrutiny that left even the footmen dazed, she found herself—after only the briefest resistance—abandoning dignity altogether.
As the carriage wheels at last sounded their approach along the eastern avenue, she flew to the head of the steps, the force of her eagerness overcoming every vestige of composure.
She was not alone in her anticipation. The house, as if responding to some silent signal, had arrayed its staff along the portico in a symmetry of rank and readiness.
Mrs. Reynolds, at the summit, directed the operations with an eye that let no detail escape, while the lesser maids, arrayed behind, indulged in the more modest excitement of peering between the balusters.
Even the garden boy, posted at the margin to receive any errant parcel, seemed animated by the prospect of this particular arrival.
It was in this state of suspense that the carriage—a high-perched affair emblazoned with the Bingley arms—came into view, the horses gleaming with evidence of superior grooming, the coachman in livery so immaculate as to reflect credit upon both employer and employee.
The moment the wheels found their purchase on the final approach, Elizabeth felt her heart, long subject to the discipline of sense, execute a brief and flagrant rebellion.
The carriage had scarcely halted before she was descending the steps, her feet skipping the last two in a manner that would have horrified Lady Catherine.
She waited only long enough for the footman to lower the step, and then, with a cry more of pleasure than decorum, enveloped her sister Jane in an embrace that seemed to fuse the entire history of their shared childhood into a single instant.
The two stood thus for a moment, oblivious to the universe of eyes upon them, until Jane—ever the more composed—laughed and extricated herself, holding Elizabeth at arm’s length for a better survey.
“My dearest Lizzy!—how splendid you look. I declare, Pemberley agrees with you.”
Elizabeth, her cheeks alight with both exercise and emotion, replied, “If it does, it is because I have a share in its best treasures—beginning with this day. Oh, Jane!—I have so much to tell you, and never enough hours in the world to say it.”
Behind them, Mr. Bingley, having leapt from the carriage with his customary energy, turned to offer his hand to his wife, but was instantly intercepted by Mr. Darcy, who had followed Elizabeth at a pace so measured as to imply not indifference, but the intention to dignify the proceedings.
The two gentlemen exchanged a handshake of such mutual warmth that even Mrs. Reynolds, permitted herself a discreet smile.
“Darcy, my boy!—never so glad to see a man as I am this instant,” exclaimed Bingley, clapping his friend’s shoulder in a manner that suggested a decade’s intimacy, though it had in truth been rather less.
“And I you, Bingley,” returned Darcy, the formality of his tone belied by the evident satisfaction in his face. “You must have made record time from Netherfield. I thought you not due until noon.”
“Time enough to suffer the old turnpike at Matlock, and still arrive with a quarter-hour to spare,” said Bingley, his eyes sweeping the elevation of the house with undiminished admiration. “Mrs. Darcy—Elizabeth, I mean—is she not the very picture of a great lady, Jane?”
Jane, whose smile was a thing of such serenity as to quiet even the nerves of arrival, glanced from Elizabeth to Darcy and back.
“I believe she always was, even before she had a title to it,” she replied, and in her voice was such perfect sincerity that Elizabeth, quite overcome, found herself laughing to conceal the possibility of tears.
The reunion thus established, the business of arrival proceeded in the orderly chaos which attends the confluence of strong feelings and heavy luggage.
The Bingleys’ manservant, a man of ancient extraction and modern expectations, supervised the transfer of trunks and hatboxes with an authority that was only grudgingly acknowledged by the Pemberley footmen, while the stable hands, summoned by some cryptic signal, materialized at precisely the right instant to relieve the horses of their harness and lead them away to rest.
All this might have been mere prelude, however, to the moment when Elizabeth, having linked arms with Jane, led her across the portico and through the massive oak doors.
The two sisters entered the hall together, and if there was a sense of parade in Elizabeth’s step, it was entirely justified by the pleasure of the occasion.
“Now, Jane, you must promise to see everything with your own eyes, and believe nothing I have written you unless confirmed by the evidence of your senses. Here—do you see the new arrangement of the vestibule? It was a horror when I arrived, all mounted specimens and furniture of so determined a brown you might have thought yourself in a solicitor’s office.
Darcy very kindly allowed me to banish the worst offenders, and now look: lilies, as far as the eye can see. ”
Jane, her eyes wide and appreciative, let herself be steered through the entry and into the principal hall. “It is beautiful, Lizzy. But you need not have worried—I would believe anything you told me, even if you said it snowed in July.”
Elizabeth laughed. “If it did, Mrs. Reynolds would find a way to make it seem appropriate. I have never seen a woman so convinced of the rightness of Pemberley’s weather, even in a thunderstorm.
But come—look at the stair, Jane! Does it not remind you of the old house at Longbourn, only magnified by a hundred? ”
The main staircase, newly polished and flanked by the ancestral portraits of the Darcy line, ascended in a sweep that managed to be at once grand and inviting.
The sunlight, streaming through a bank of windows at the landing, illuminated not only the marble treads but also the faces of several Darcy forebears, whose expressions seemed to alternate between stoic approval and mild surprise.
Jane, ever the more diffident, hesitated before one such portrait. “Is this your mother, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, turning to the master of the house, who had accompanied the ladies into the hall.
Darcy nodded, his gaze softening at the sight. “Lady Anne. She was very fond of gardens, and would have liked you, I believe. My sister has arranged fresh flowers below her picture every week since the spring.”
Elizabeth, observing this brief interval of sentiment, refrained from comment. She was learning, slowly but inexorably, the value of certain silences.
They moved together, Elizabeth running ahead to open the drawing room doors, where the full expanse of Pemberley’s park could be seen through the great windows. The effect was so dazzling that even Jane, rarely given to hyperbole, exclaimed aloud.
“I had no idea, Lizzy! It is—well, it is quite the finest thing I have ever seen.”
Elizabeth turned, her eyes alight. “I wanted you to see it first. It is my favourite place, except when I am in the library, or in the garden, or in the morning room—oh, Jane, I am so happy you are here, I cannot say it properly.”
The moment was interrupted only by the gentle cough of Mrs. Reynolds, who had entered to oversee the distribution of refreshments and to announce that the Bingleys’ rooms were prepared whenever they should wish to retire.
Her eyes, though focused on Jane and Bingley, flicked once to Elizabeth with a glance that could only be interpreted as a silent endorsement of the new regime.
“Mrs. Bingley, your suite is on the west, overlooking the rose terrace. Mr. Bingley, if you require anything for your comfort, simply ring. Mrs. Darcy has ensured that every possible necessity is at hand.”
Jane thanked her, but Mrs. Reynolds, ever the tactician, deferred to Elizabeth with a slight and unmistakable nod. “It is our mistress who sets the tone of the house, ma’am,” she said. “We are all the better for it.”
Elizabeth, caught off guard, coloured deeply and busied herself with the tea tray, pouring and distributing cups with such industry that even Jane’s gentle curiosity was diverted.
The rest of the hour was spent in a happy confusion of reminiscence and speculation.
Jane, delighted to be reunited with her sister, listened with warmth and the occasional raised brow as Elizabeth detailed the triumphs and tribulations of the last months—her first dinner party, the challenge of persuading the cook to attempt syllabub, the running skirmishes with Lady Catherine, and the campaign to have the old nursery converted into a reading room for Georgiana.
Darcy, meanwhile, engaged Bingley in a lively discussion of improvements to the tenant cottages, a subject upon which the two gentlemen were as nearly agreed as any two persons could be.