Page 42 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter seventeen

A Pemberley Christmas

B y noon, Pemberley's halls had surrendered every hint of the ordinary.

The customary hush, which even in summer's height never quite abated beneath servants' formal tread and distant pianoforte echoes, was entirely upended by activity that would, on any lesser estate, have bordered on the anarchic.

The staff—augmented by temporary hands from Lambton and, it was rumoured, two adventurous housemaids from distant Bakewell—moved in carefully orchestrated tumult through the corridors.

At this operation's nucleus stood Elizabeth, who, though more accustomed to Longbourn's modest society, now found herself orchestrator-in-chief to nearly three dozen souls.

She wore no cap, as was her preference when work demanded doing, and her hair—less tamed than usual by the hour's labours—caught candlelight from the double sconce by the landing.

In her hand she held a paper, annotated in script that, despite her best efforts, could never quite suppress its native exuberance.

The document served as both map and manifest: listing every room's decoration sequence, table arrangements and intended occupants, the precise moment when, according to Mrs. Reynolds's timetable, the grand ballroom doors would admit the first guests.

Elizabeth surveyed progress from the great hall's threshold, her eye travelling from servants—who, having commandeered every ladder and step-stool, now threatened to annex the wall panelling's uppermost reaches—to clusters of holly, fir, and ivy that had already achieved festivity bordering, by her own generous standards, on the vulgar.

"Not so many boughs on the south window, Thomas," she called to the nearest footman, who, after a single glance at her face, moderated his enthusiasm to degrees more befitting the room's dignity. "We are creating a scene for Christmas, not mounting a siege worthy of Cromwell himself."

She smiled as she spoke, and the servants, recognising the jest, returned to work with renewed vigour.

Elizabeth continued her circuit, making mental notes at every step.

The entrance garlands required straightening; the ices tables needed moving three feet toward the east wall; the music-stand, missing since Michaelmas, must be located and positioned in the corner agreed upon with the musicians.

There was, she reflected, unexpected pleasure in supervising so grand an event—one she could not have imagined herself capable of even six months prior.

She was adjusting an evergreen swag's drape—her hands as ungloved as any gardener's—when Mrs. Reynolds appeared, her approach noiseless as ever but eyes bright with impending triumph's peculiar excitement.

"Ma'am," said Mrs. Reynolds, bowing with her station's unassailable formality, "the musicians require another table for their punch, owing to the instruments' number. Also, Cook wishes to know whether the syllabub accompanies the sweet course, or serves as refreshment during dancing."

Elizabeth, whose respect for Mrs. Reynolds deepened daily, met the housekeeper's gaze with all due gravity.

"The musicians may have their table, provided it does not impede the flow from doors to hearth.

As to the syllabub, let it appear with the ices at the first interval.

I am convinced the gentlemen will prove more inclined to exert themselves if fortified by something beyond the usual negus—though I suspect their dancing may benefit more from the sustenance than their partners' slippers. "

Mrs. Reynolds permitted herself a fractional nod—the nearest she approached to applause—and made notes on her considerably neater sheet.

"Very good, ma'am. The gardener's lad enquires whether he may gather more yew berries for the topiaries, but I recall you reserved them for the footmen's buttonholes. "

Elizabeth considered, then replied, "Grant him half a basket only. The remainder must serve both buttonholes and pudding garnish. Should he protest, inform him he may lead the queue for tomorrow's leftovers—a privilege that ought to reconcile even the most devoted adherent to botanical excess."

This elicited the faintest quirk at Mrs. Reynolds's mouth corner—acknowledgement that the negotiation had been both understood and appreciated. She retreated, her mission multiplied and refined.

The next hour passed through minor crises, all handled with composure that surprised Elizabeth herself.

The extra candelabras threatening to ignite the draperies were resolved through judicious shade application; whether the top table should face east or west was settled, after considerable debate, by consulting the house's ancient plans, where Lady Anne herself had favoured the eastern prospect.

When under-footmen scuffled over candied orange peel distribution, Elizabeth intervened with such firmness and humour that both parties departed convinced of victory.

Near four o'clock, she found a moment's solitude in the little antechamber adjoining the ballroom.

Here Mrs. Reynolds—who possessed uncanny ability to anticipate both employers' wants and failings—had arranged modest repast: tea, miniature sandwiches, and syllabub in cut-glass, with silver spoon beside.

Elizabeth, who had not intended eating until supper service, regarded the syllabub with suspicion.

Few excellences proved more elusive than that perfect balance of lemon, wine, and cream distinguishing true syllabub from inferior cousins.

She tasted cautiously at first, instantly rewarded by sweetness so precisely judged, so lightly effervescent, that questioning it seemed almost insulting. Setting down her spoon with relief, and casting one final glance over her list, she prepared for the evening's last survey.

By this hour, the house had completed its transformation entirely.

Derbyshire winter's chill, which even the grandest fireplaces could not entirely subdue, had yielded to hundreds of candles' warmth; pine and orange peel scented every quarter; the corridors, usually severe, now echoed with servants' light, excited voices still wearing their rehearsal finery.

Elizabeth walked these halls as though for the first time, noting shadows dancing upon walls, light falling upon polished banisters, the main staircase's holly arrangement mirroring, in miniature, the ballroom's archways.

She paused at the threshold, allowing private satisfaction.

The garlands achieved perfect symmetry; floors had been swept to outshine the very candlesticks; chair arrangements, so often vexatious, displayed military precision.

Even the musicians, assembled in the far corner, had tuned their violins with respect befitting the occasion, if not actual dread of their mistress.

Elizabeth found herself smiling—not at the preparations' success, but at the absurdity of ever doubting her management abilities. She thought momentarily of Longbourn—its smaller scale, larger obstacles—and felt quiet pride in finally making a place for herself in this house, this life.

She remained thus occupied when Mrs. Reynolds appeared, this time bearing no list, no concern, but only the smallest nod—acknowledgement not merely of completed work, but of the journey from newcomer to Pemberley's mistress.

The gesture, barely more than a head tilt, proved as eloquent as any speech.

Elizabeth returned it, feeling communion not of rank, but of shared enterprise, mutual respect. The house stood ready; the ball would succeed, or not, by its assembled company's merits. Her work was accomplished, and accomplished well.

As the first drive lamps were lit and distant carriage wheels announced approaching guests, Elizabeth lingered in the ballroom a moment longer. She reached up to straighten a holly sprig—wholly unnecessary, but not without meaning—and drew breath scented with pine and possibility.

The night ahead was hers to command, and she welcomed it with confidence born of finally finding her place.

I f the hours before the ball had been characterized by a restless industry, the onset of twilight introduced a hush of anticipation so profound as to be almost musical.

Outside, the snow that had been forecast for a week at last began to fall—first in lazy, desultory flakes, then the steady, irresistible accumulation that presaged either the best or the worst of Derbyshire winters.

The lamps had been kindled along the drive, their yellow glow transforming the avenue into a corridor of expectation, each carriage that rattled over the frozen gravel advancing not just its cargo of guests, but the story of the night itself.

By seven, the outer hall had achieved the highest pitch of drama possible for any entrance in England.

Footmen, arrayed in livery more splendid than usual, flanked the doors and relieved the guests of their outermost wrappings with the silent efficacy of magicians.

In the background, a string of lesser lights—scullery maids promoted for the evening to tasks of ceremony—waited with an air of suppressed excitement, eager for any glimpse of the notables whose names were legend in the servants’ hall.

Elizabeth, stationed at the foot of the grand staircase in a gown of deep sapphire (selected, after much internal debate, for its indifference to fashion and its flattery to her complexion), was equal to every requirement of the moment.

She received the first arrivals with composure: the rector and his wife; the new family from Ashbourne, whose uncertain grasp of custom was more than compensated by their genuine delight in novelty; a scattering of county gentry, each attended by an increasing number of children and relations, as if the reproduction of one’s likeness were the chief business of country life.