Page 44 of Return to Pemberley

“You are quite right, Lizzy,” Mrs. Bennet replied in a stage whisper that carried to the far end of the ballroom.

“I must see to Jane and dear Bingley. Oh, and you must promise to save a dance for your papa; he has not stopped boasting since we left Meryton that he will be the first to stand up with you tonight.”

Elizabeth promised, and, with a sidelong glance at Lady Matlock—who seemed more amused than otherwise—delivered her mother into the capable hands of Jane, whose serenity could withstand any onslaught.

By this time, the musicians had completed their tuning, and the first strains of a cotillion drifted into the air. There was a moment’s lull as the company arranged itself; then Darcy, who had quietly materialized at Elizabeth’s side, offered his arm.

“Mrs. Darcy,” he said, with the faintest suggestion of mischief, “may I claim the honour of the first dance?”

Elizabeth, her composure entirely unshaken, replied, “You may, Mr. Darcy. If only to prevent the entire assembly from remarking on your absence, as they did the last time you declined a set at Netherfield.”

His eyes, which betrayed what his voice seldom did, warmed to her. “I believe the risk is well worth it, in this instance.”

They took their place at the head of the set, and the effect upon the room was instantaneous: every conversation paused, every eye fixed upon the couple who, even now, commanded the attention of the entire assembly.

The music began, and Elizabeth, conscious of her every movement, matched Darcy step for step, their partnership so perfectly attuned that even the strictest observer could find no fault.

As they moved through the figures, Elizabeth was keenly aware of the watching eyes—her mother’s, brimming with pride; Lady Matlock’s, coolly appraising; Jane’s, full of affection; even Mrs. Augusta Willoughby’s, which flickered with a grudging admiration.

But most of all, she was aware of Darcy’s hand in hers, steady and sure, the silent communication that passed between them more meaningful than any speech.

When the music ended, the applause was genuine, and the smiles—so often a currency of society—were, for once, entirely sincere.

Darcy bent close and said, just loud enough for her to hear, “You have done it, Mrs. Darcy. Pemberley has never looked so well, nor been so happy.”

She laughed, the sound light as the falling snow outside, and said, “We have done it, Mr. Darcy. As always, it is a joint enterprise.”

They moved off the floor together, and as the next couples took their places, Elizabeth glanced once more around the room.

Everywhere, there was evidence of happiness—small, imperfect, but real.

It was, she reflected, all she had ever wanted: a place to belong, and to see those she loved safe and at ease.

She caught Jane’s eye, and was rewarded with a smile so radiant it seemed to light the room. Then, as if by silent agreement, the two sisters found themselves side by side, arms entwined, observing the swirl of dancers and guests.

“I am so glad you are here,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft.

“As am I,” Jane replied. “I would not have missed it for anything. You are—” she hesitated, then finished, “just as you ought to be.”

Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “So are you, Jane.”

The night, barely begun, already promised a hundred more moments of grace and laughter. And as the musicians played on, and the snow deepened beyond the windows, Elizabeth felt the weight of the day’s anxieties slip away, replaced by a contentment as soft and persistent as the winter itself.

H ere is, in every ball worth the name, a moment when social ambition's pageant and conversation's rush give way to something quieter, more elemental.

It is not the music, nor the food, nor even candlelight's flicker, but a subtle sense—felt rather than seen—that the evening has begun to belong not to the assembled company, but to the intimacies blossoming at the crowd's edges.

For Elizabeth, that moment arrived during the third set, when the punch table's press had slackened and the dance floor was, for once, not the theatre of a hundred simultaneous dramas.

She was at the room's margin, observing with satisfaction the interplay of friends and strangers—her mother's unflagging pursuit of distinction, her father's discreet campaign for the best wine, Darcy's fixed attention upon the evening's patterns—when Jane intercepted her.

Jane, whose beauty had always resided less in her features than in her spirit's luminosity, drew Elizabeth aside with a look of such import that words were unnecessary.

The sisters retreated to a small alcove off the main hall, where voices' babble was replaced by music's muted resonance and the fire's low, companionable hum.

"Lizzy," Jane began, her voice trembling between laughter and tears, "I have something to tell you. I meant to wait for tomorrow, but I cannot contain it any longer."

Elizabeth, instantly alert to news possibilities, took her sister's hands. "If it brings sorrow, tell me now so we may bear it together; if joy, let us savour it completely."

Jane hesitated, then said in a voice no louder than a moth's flutter, "We are to have a child, Charles and I. I am only just certain—none but Charles and the doctor know—but I wanted you to be first, Lizzy, after my husband. Oh, Lizzy, I am so very happy I can scarce contain it."

For a moment, Elizabeth could only stare.

Then, in a rush of understanding and joy, she embraced Jane with ferocity that nearly overset them both.

"Jane! Oh, dearest Jane! If ever anyone deserved such perfect happiness, it is you—and here you are, creating it not merely for yourself, but for all who love you. Does Mama suspect?"

Jane's cheeks were flushed, her eyes luminous. "I believe she does, though I wished to be certain before speaking. Lizzy, are you—" she faltered, "—are you surprised?"

"Surprised? Only that you managed such discretion for so long.

I fully expected you might wait until the very last moment to spare Mama the raptures.

" Elizabeth laughed, then grew thoughtful.

"You shall be the most devoted of mothers, Jane.

My only regret is that Pemberley cannot offer you five sisters to assist in your child's proper education in mischief. "

Jane squeezed her hand. "Then you must visit often, dearest. You must teach my little one what you taught me—how to find courage, and how to choose happiness even when it seems impossible."

Elizabeth's reply was interrupted by Mrs. Bennet's arrival, who, having noticed her daughters' absence from the main assembly, now advanced with triumph written across her features.

"There you are, girls! I have searched everywhere for you both.

What conspiracy is this, I wonder? Some delightful secret, or may your own mother be trusted with your confidence? "

Elizabeth, reading the signal in Jane's eyes, turned with composure.

"We were merely indulging in sisterly reminiscence, Mama.

Jane will share her thoughts when the moment seems right, I am sure.

But come—perhaps you will assist me with the next set?

The musicians have particularly requested your favourite air, and I cannot disappoint them. "

Mrs. Bennet, torn between curiosity and dancing's pleasures, allowed redirection.

"Well, if 'tis only that! But Jane, my dear, you are positively blooming tonight—such colour, such brightness!

Mr. Bingley is the most fortunate of men.

Oh, Lizzy—Lady Matlock has just declared you the evening's triumph, and you know how sparing she is with praise!

Come at once, lest we offend her with inattention! "

Jane pressed Elizabeth's hand, and together they rejoined the party, Mrs. Bennet's satisfaction preceding them by several yards.

For the evening's remainder, Elizabeth floated through her obligations with lightness unknown since childhood.

The supper proved triumphant—Bingley, in particular, consuming enough syllabub to sustain Meryton's entire garrison—and conversation, lubricated by the cellar's finest wines, became progressively more candid and less ceremonial as hours advanced.

At one point, Elizabeth caught sight of her father and Darcy standing together near the hearth, engaged in what appeared an aphoristic contest. Mr. Bennet, glass in hand, was in his element, and Darcy, though more reserved, met him jest for jest with dry humour Elizabeth had learned to treasure above any other.

Across the room, Georgiana was coaxed to the pianoforte by Jane and Mrs. Reynolds, playing with confidence that, though not showy, nonetheless revealed how greatly she had progressed from her earlier shy, awkward performances.

Mrs. Bennet, never at rest, had attached herself to Lady Matlock and was now, to Elizabeth's astonishment, engaged in spirited debate over Bath versus Brighton's merits—a contest which seemed to amuse rather than distress her ladyship.

During the final quadrille—when the house was momentarily united in music, movement, and merriment's common pursuit—Elizabeth allowed herself simple observation's luxury.

She saw Jane and Bingley, radiant in each other's company; Georgiana, quietly triumphant at the keyboard; her parents, for once in complete accord; even Mrs. Willoughby, who had spent considerable time conferring with Lady Matlock, appeared genuinely pleased.

It was then that Lady Matlock sought Elizabeth out, drawing her aside with the air of one imparting state secrets.

"You have succeeded admirably, Mrs. Darcy," she said, her voice pitched for privacy.

"Pemberley has not witnessed such warmth in many years.

You have brought it a lightness that even dear Lady Anne never quite achieved, for all her gentleness.

I hope you will not take it amiss when I confess I harboured doubts initially.

I am most gratified to be proved wrong."

Elizabeth, who had never expected so frank an admission, smiled. "I confess, Lady Matlock, to having doubted myself far more frequently than you ever could. But I have discovered that creating happiness becomes remarkably easier when surrounded by those who genuinely wish one well."

Lady Matlock inclined her head. "A sage observation. See that you remember it."

They parted cordially, and Elizabeth returned to the room's centre, where Darcy waited with patience born of long familiarity with society's demands.

"Will you walk with me?" he asked quietly.

She took his arm, and together they crossed the ballroom to tall windows, beyond which the world was transformed by night's snowfall. Pemberley's lawns and woods lay blanketed in white, the avenue's lamps glowing like watchful stars.

They stood in companionable silence.

"You are content?" Darcy asked—not as challenge, but as certainty seeking only its echo.

Elizabeth leaned her head against his shoulder. "Entirely. And you?"

He covered her hand with his own, the gesture eloquent as any declaration. "Completely."

They watched the snow longer, the quiet within as complete as that without. Music from the ballroom drifted through the doors, muffled and sweet, guests' voices rising and falling in counterpoint.

At last, Elizabeth turned to Darcy, her eyes bright. "I have received the most wonderful news from Jane. She is to become a mother."

Darcy's expression softened, and he drew her closer. "Then you are to be an aunt. I cannot imagine happier fortune for any child."

Elizabeth laughed, feeling the future expand before her like the snow-lit park: wide, dazzling, filled with infinite possibility.

They remained at the window until the hour grew late and guests began departing. Then, arm in arm, they made their way through Pemberley's silent corridors, candles guttering in sconces, shadows gathering in corners, the evening's memory still bright and unspent.

Only when the house lay wholly still, and music's last echoes had faded, did Elizabeth allow herself to believe it real: that she was mistress of this place, that she had found her home, and that all her past's uncertainties had, at last, resolved into a single, perfect present.

She slept that night with the window ajar, cold air sweet upon her face, and dreamed not of the world's follies or disappointments, but of laughter, and music, and morning's promise.