Page 29 of Return to Pemberley
After a time, Jane spoke again, her voice gentle. “Will you tell me, Lizzy, what troubles you most about the Shepherd’s Lot?”
Elizabeth sighed, turning her cup in her hands.
“It is the sense of unfinished business, I think. The knowledge that something was left undone, some promise not fulfilled. I do not want the name of Darcy to be remembered for what it withheld, but for what it gave. Even if it means yielding up a portion of land, it is worth it to keep faith.”
Jane nodded, her face as grave as Elizabeth had ever seen it. “Then you must do as you believe, and the rest will follow.”
Elizabeth smiled, the resolve returning. “I think you are right. You always are. And I am glad, more than I can say, that you are here to listen.”
Jane reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “I will always listen, Lizzy. That is a sister’s privilege.”
They sat a while longer, the peace between them as bright and untroubled as the morning. When at last they rose to return to the house, Elizabeth felt lighter, her burdens—if not dissolved—at least made manageable by the simple fact of being shared.
They walked back through the gardens, their laughter joining the birds’ in the air, and knew that whatever uncertainties awaited them, the day, at least, was perfectly their own.
T he days that followed settled into a rhythm so agreeable that even the unpredictable Derbyshire weather seemed to conspire in its maintenance.
Each morning, the gentlemen rode out to the lake, where they indulged in the ancient sport of fishing—a pursuit that provided more opportunity for speculation and reminiscence than actual prey.
From her vantage in the west garden, Elizabeth could often hear the low rumble of their conversation, occasionally punctuated by a whoop of triumph from Bingley, whose capacity for hope seemed not to have diminished in the least from his bachelor days.
The ladies, for their part, divided their hours between the drawing room—where Jane’s hands, though not as nimble as Elizabeth’s, could coax surprising music from the pianoforte—and the shaded walks that wound about the estate.
Georgiana, growing daily more at ease, confided in Jane matters she would never have spoken to Elizabeth alone, and the two of them formed a gentle alliance that brightened the whole of Pemberley.
Elizabeth watched this development with an emotion she could not have named, half pride, half something softer, and took pains to avoid crowding their intimacy with her own.
Afternoons were often spent in open air, with picnic baskets conveyed to whichever part of the grounds promised the most agreeable aspect.
On these occasions, Elizabeth and Jane would steal away from the main party, their conversation ranging from the silliest memories of Longbourn to the newest dramas of the county.
They revisited the follies and triumphs of their youth, each story growing more vivid with the retelling, until at last they would collapse in laughter, heedless of the eyes of the world—or of the servants, who found in the sisters’ camaraderie a perpetual source of entertainment.
Evenings drew the company together in the drawing room, where cards or chess offered a mild contest, and the conversation—sparked by Darcy’s wit or Bingley’s enthusiasm—ran late into the night.
The house, so lately the scene of struggle and uncertainty, now seemed to radiate a domestic tranquility that Elizabeth felt keenly and valued above any compliment or conquest.
But time, that implacable visitor, could not be delayed forever.
The morning of the Bingleys’ departure dawned bright and clear, the lawns jewelled with dew and the sky a bowl of unbroken blue.
Elizabeth, having risen early to oversee the packing of the breakfast hamper—Jane would require sustenance for the journey, or so Mrs. Reynolds asserted—found herself wandering the upper hall in a state of restless anticipation.
From the window she watched as the trunks were loaded, the horses brought round, the carriage dusted and polished until it shone.
The parting, when it came, was as composed as decorum required, but only just. On the gravel sweep before the portico, Jane and Elizabeth stood together, their hands entwined as if neither could quite relinquish the claim.
They spoke little, both knowing the futility of language in such moments, and instead exchanged a series of glances that seemed to distil the essence of all their shared history.
Bingley, bustling with the energy of three men, alternated between farewelling his wife’s trunk and pumping Darcy’s hand in grateful recognition of hospitality.
“Darcy, you are the best of men, and I shall not rest until I return the favour at Netherfield. Jane, are you quite sure you have your shawl? Mrs. Darcy, you have made our visit a paradise, and I declare I am not fit to leave it behind.”
Darcy, whose own method of expressing affection was subtler, offered a smile and an undertone of warmth that only those who truly knew him could detect. “We will expect you in October, Bingley, or sooner if the harvest allows it. Travel safely.”
Georgiana, pale and a little tearful, hugged Jane and then Elizabeth, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you for coming,” that carried all the weight of her shyness.
At last, all was readiness. Jane turned to Elizabeth, their hands still joined.
“Promise me, Lizzy, that you will write often. I could not bear to lose you again so soon.”
Elizabeth squeezed her sister’s hands with a force that belied her apparent calm. “I will write every week, and more if you require it. But you must promise to return.”
A flush coloured Jane’s cheeks, but she smiled and replied, “Perhaps, by then, I will have something to bring.”
Elizabeth, catching her meaning, felt a surge of joy so sudden it nearly betrayed her composure. She blinked rapidly, determined to preserve the dignity of the moment, and pressed Jane’s hand to her lips.
"Then you must come to us at the earliest opportunity. I shall know no peace until I have the happiness of seeing you blessed with the fulfilment of your dearest wish."
Jane embraced her, and for an instant the sisters were as inseparable as they had been in girlhood, two halves of a whole unwilling to be parted by anything so mundane as duty or distance.
“Go,” whispered Elizabeth, her voice thick with affection. “Before I disgrace myself entirely.”
Jane climbed into the carriage, Bingley following with a final, extravagant bow to the assembly.
The driver set the team in motion, and the carriage rolled down the avenue, its wheels crunching on the gravel and its windows catching the morning sun.
Elizabeth stood on the steps, her head high and her smile unwavering, until the last glimmer of the carriage was lost to the curve of the road.
Only then did she allow her shoulders to slump, and only then did the solitary tear, which she had refused to shed in front of the world, trace its way down her cheek.
She was not long left alone in her vigil. Darcy, who had observed the entire tableau from a respectful distance, now approached and placed a hand gently on her shoulder.
“Your sister is, I think, both your anchor and your guide,” he said, not as a question but as a recognition.
Elizabeth, still gazing after the departed carriage, replied, “And my sail, too. I am never quite myself without her.”
They stood together on the steps, the house at their back and the morning alive with promise. A breeze stirred the trees, and in it Elizabeth thought she heard, faint and distant, the echo of her sister’s laughter.
The day beckoned, and with it the innumerable tasks and pleasures that made up the fabric of their lives. Elizabeth squared her shoulders, took Darcy’s arm, and together they walked into the sunlight, each step forward less a farewell than an affirmation.
For she knew, as surely as she knew the turnings of the garden walks, that whatever partings the world required, love would always furnish a return.