Page 39 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter sixteen

Echoes of Longbourn

E lizabeth had always believed that the first hour of morning belonged, if not to the philosophers, then at least to those of moderate ambition and regular habits.

She made it a rule, therefore, never to allow the business of the day to intrude upon her solitude until after she had read the letters from Longbourn and seen to the essential liberties of breakfast. This morning, the sunlight was so generous upon the mullioned windows of her study, and the scone so perfectly crisp, that it was some minutes before she could be prevailed upon to break the lavender-sealed wafer of her sister Jane's most recent communication.

As she held the letter—its folds still untroubled by any but the most delicate of hands—Elizabeth permitted herself a moment of anticipation.

There were, after all, few things more likely to animate her spirits than Jane's handwriting, which had an economy of line and a candour of sentiment that perfectly reflected the author.

The opening lines contained the customary inquiries after health and happiness; but before she had reached the second paragraph, Elizabeth felt the familiar twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.

"My dearest Lizzy," it began, "if you were here, you would laugh outright at the spectacle now daily afforded by our parlour.

Caroline Bingley has undertaken to instruct me in the finer points of household management—an enterprise as ambitious as teaching a peacock humility.

She arrives each Tuesday with a new volume of Mr. Farquhar's Domestic Economy , armed with the zeal of a missionary and the tact of a bailiff.

Yesterday she discovered me dispensing lavender amongst the linen and declared, with such theatrical horror, that nothing so provincial had been witnessed since Noah's wife attempted to organise the ark.

I assured her that my lavender was quite as refined as any in Grosvenor Square, but she remained unconvinced and proceeded to lecture me on the proper distribution of sachets—apparently there is a mathematical formula known only to the fashionable. "

Elizabeth, who had herself been lately the subject of several treatises on the proper employment of household fragrances, could not suppress a laugh. "Poor Jane," she murmured, "to be so beset by prophets and reformers, and with such patience to bear it all." She read on, her eyes quickening.

"Kitty has grown—if it can be believed—quite melancholy for want of Lydia's noise, and has made a project of haunting the window to observe the postman's comings and goings, as if devotion alone could conjure letters from Brighton.

Papa finds this vigil vastly entertaining and has taken to timing her appearances with his pocket watch, whilst Mama grows more agitated by the hour.

She suspects, with considerable justice, that every letter is a potential herald of disgrace, and has consequently forbidden the very word 'militia' within our walls—though she will still hear nothing against the efficacy of vinegar as a polish for silver, maintaining that domestic wisdom must not be sacrificed to military anxieties. "

Here, Elizabeth was seized with such a convulsion of mirth that she was obliged to set down her teacup, lest its contents find their way to the hearthrug. She read the passage aloud, savouring each turn of phrase.

"Yesterday we had a scene at the haberdasher's which you must allow me to recount, if only for your private entertainment.

Mama, having conceived the notion of purchasing ribbon for each of us, chose the precise moment of transaction to announce—with a voice so penetrating that I fear all Meryton must now be privy to our affairs—that she had 'two daughters married to gentlemen of ten thousand a year between them, and did not scruple to advertise the fact.

' The shopman, who until that moment had maintained the bland civility peculiar to his trade, immediately produced a second tier of ribbons, 'suitable for the daughters of dukes, if not quite royalty itself,' and quoted prices so astronomical as to make Mama's triumph remarkably short-lived.

We departed without purchase, but not, alas, without adding a fresh chapter to the ever-expanding chronicle of our family's celebrity.

I suspect the tale will reach London before we do. "

At this, Elizabeth was obliged to bite her lip, so vivid was her recollection of her mother's triumphal proclamations and the chaos they inevitably produced.

She tucked the passage away mentally to share later with Mr. Darcy, who, though he professed indifference to such domestic intelligence, never failed to smile at Jane's finest observations.

The letter continued with affectionate details of Jane's poultry, Mr. Bingley's constitution— "still more robust than his logic, though one does not marry a man for his reasoning powers, dearest Lizzy, or half the pews in England would remain forever empty" —and the relative merits of Meryton's latest imports.

Elizabeth noted particularly a paragraph devoted to some new muslin, which Jane had initially dismissed as frivolous but then pronounced "so perfectly light and so amenable to alteration as to tempt even the most disciplined of sisters to folly. "

As she reached the signature—Jane's familiar "Ever your own, and ever most grateful, J" —Elizabeth found herself smiling in a way that was both unguarded and touched with the melancholy of distance. She was folding the letter carefully when a discreet cough announced Mrs. Reynolds.

The housekeeper entered with her customary quiet authority, bearing the morning's post and what appeared to be invoices.

"Good morning, Mrs. Darcy," she said briskly.

"I hope the hour finds you well. I have brought the accounts from the upper dairy and the note from Lady Matlock's butler regarding the carriage.

If you have a moment—" She paused, observing the letter in Elizabeth's hand.

"But I would not wish to interrupt your correspondence. "

Elizabeth held up Jane's letter with a wry smile. "Merely intelligence from Longbourn, Mrs. Reynolds—and such delightful intelligence that even news of carriage repairs cannot dampen my spirits. Is it very dreadful news, or may I continue to hope that our wheels remain attached?"

Mrs. Reynolds allowed herself a modest smile.

"Nothing catastrophic, ma'am. The usual accounts requiring attention, and a question from Cook whether the imported peaches should be reserved for Wednesday's dinner or employed immediately in the ice-cream.

There is also a letter for Mr. Darcy." She presented the packet. "The seal is unfamiliar."

Elizabeth accepted it, noting the heavy paper.

"How providential that you possess such a talent for anticipating needs, Mrs. Reynolds.

I confess myself quite spoilt by such efficiency.

" She hesitated, then added with a conspiratorial air, "You know, I begin to grow concerned by my youngest sister's silence—three weeks without a single line.

Should I interpret this as evidence of exceptional virtue or unprecedented mischief? "

Mrs. Reynolds, whose acquaintance with family foibles was both extensive and discretely managed, replied with perfect gravity, "I have often observed, ma'am, that young ladies abroad write home only in proportion to their difficulties.

Silence, in my experience, generally indicates either perfect contentment or perfect occupation—both of which are preferable to the alternative. "

Elizabeth laughed—a sound that filled the sunlit room with warmth. "What admirable philosophy! I shall adopt it immediately to preserve my peace of mind. Henceforth, every missing letter shall be evidence of Lydia's exemplary behaviour."

"Indeed, ma'am. The logic appears quite sound."

"Logic from a housekeeper and wit from a sister—I am remarkably well-served this morning." Elizabeth gathered the remaining correspondence. "I believe I shall adjourn to share Jane's latest observations with the household. Surely Pemberley deserves its portion of Longbourn's wisdom?"

As she left the study, Elizabeth glanced once more at Jane's letter.

The words, though light, carried the substance of all she treasured from her former life—the laughter, the affection, and even the small embarrassments that distance had transformed into dear remembrances.

She resolved that Pemberley's morning rooms should never lack for the sparkle of wit or the comfort of sisterly regard.

She walked down the corridor with the sun at her back, feeling happiness bloom anew.

I t was Elizabeth's good fortune, and perhaps also her design, that she should encounter Georgiana at the very entrance to the morning room. The younger Miss Darcy was negotiating a precarious tower of music books when Elizabeth intercepted her with a gentle pressure on the arm.

"Pray, do not let me interrupt your musical endeavours," said Elizabeth, noting the faint flush that rose on her sister-in-law's cheek at being thus detained.

"But I have had such a letter from Jane—so perfectly balanced between wisdom and absurdity—that enjoying it alone would be positively selfish.

Will you honour me with your company? I promise the entertainment will far exceed anything Haydn might offer this morning. "

Georgiana, ever eager for inclusion yet always surprised to be sought out, gave her assent with an enthusiasm she immediately seemed to question. "I should like it excessively," she said, steadying the topmost volume with careful fingers. "Shall I bring my embroidery, or—?"

"Bring only yourself and your capacity for amusement," replied Elizabeth warmly. "Today we declare war on industry and make ourselves thoroughly idle."