Page 5 of Return to Pemberley
At last, she closed the books, stacking them with the same order in which she had found them. She let her hand rest on the polished oak of the nearest chair, half in jest imagining that a little of its wisdom might pass into her.
The sun, having climbed higher, now cast sharp rectangles upon the carpet. Elizabeth rose and moved to the window, surveying the lawns with a new sense of solidarity—with the generations whose fears, like her own, had been woven through the very air of Pemberley.
E lizabeth had not long resumed her seat, hands folded over the journals as if to preserve their revelations from sudden dispersal, when a discreet tap sounded at the library door.
She turned, expecting perhaps a footman or maid come to deliver a message, and was surprised to behold instead the erect and formidable figure of Mrs. Reynolds.
The housekeeper entered with that peculiar blend of deference and proprietorship which Elizabeth had already come to recognize as the woman’s signature; it seemed to suggest that while Mrs. Reynolds would yield, when pressed, to the mistress of Pemberley, she would do so only upon first registering the full extent of her own investment in the matter.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her tone pitched to a register suitable for both intimacy and the echoing acoustics of the library. “I trust I do not intrude?”
“Not in the least, Mrs. Reynolds. Is there something requiring my attention?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s lips, thin and accustomed to discipline, flickered with what might, in a less regulated face, have been a smile.
“It is only to inform you, ma’am, that a letter has arrived from Rosings Park.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh will honour Pemberley with her presence on Thursday next.
The party is expected early in the day, and will remain a fortnight.
I have, of course, begun the necessary arrangements, but thought it best to apprise you at once. ”
There was a small silence. Elizabeth’s first impulse was a tightening of the shoulders—an almost imperceptible fortification against the prospect of her aunt-by-marriage’s scrutiny—but she schooled her features to a composure of which even Lady Catherine might have approved.
“That is excellent news,” she said, with only the slightest tremor in her voice. “Lady Catherine’s visits are always…memorable. I am grateful for your efficiency, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds hesitated, fingers folded at her waist with the stillness of a marble monument.
“If I may be permitted—her ladyship has particular expectations, and I have endeavoured to recall her preferences as observed during the last mistress’s time.
The west chamber is being readied, the menu adjusted for her tastes, and the silver—”
“I trust your judgment in all particulars,” Elizabeth interposed gently.
She knew the offer was both reassurance and subtle challenge; Mrs. Reynolds was inviting her to claim her own authority, or else defer to precedent.
“But if Lady Catherine’s tastes have altered, or if she expresses any dissatisfaction, I hope you will not hesitate to inform me directly.
It is my intention that she should be as comfortable as possible, and that the house reflect, in every respect, her high expectations. ”
Mrs. Reynolds’s posture relaxed by a shade. “Very good, ma’am. If I may, the kitchen staff are somewhat apprehensive about the prospect of an unfamiliar dinner party. I have assured them you will be in attendance for the first course, to ease any uncertainty.”
Elizabeth caught the underlying message: she was not only the mistress but also the keystone in the arch of the household’s composure. “Of course. You may count on me for the first course—and the last, should Lady Catherine require company until the final syllable of supper.”
Mrs. Reynolds permitted herself an actual smile, brief but genuine. “I thank you, ma’am. The house will be prepared.”
She withdrew with a curtsy so practiced as to be nearly invisible, leaving Elizabeth to the renewed, and now somewhat fraught, stillness of the library.
Elizabeth found she had, in the course of the exchange, pressed her thumb so hard against the edge of Lady Anne’s journal that a faint indentation remained.
She laughed, but with a dryness that owed nothing to humor.
How swiftly one’s private resolutions could be tested by the machinery of society!
There was no time to lament, however; Thursday was but a week and three days hence, and Lady Catherine’s arrival would transform the household into a stage, every actor obliged to his part.
Determined not to be taken by surprise, Elizabeth turned again to Lady Anne’s journals, this time with a deliberate focus on any mention of Rosings Park and its formidable chatelaine.
She recalled, from her earlier reading, the entries that danced around Lady Catherine’s influence—always a presence, sometimes a help, often a hindrance.
She leafed through the volume until she came upon an entry dated precisely thirty years previous:
“August the 2nd. A letter from my sister, Lady Catherine, urging me to consider the advantages of reordering the household according to the method lately adopted at Rosings. She is indefatigable in her pursuit of improvement, and though I esteem her intellect, I confess there are times when the energy is better suited to a parliament than a drawing room. Her observations, though often sharp, are not always practical for the conditions at Pemberley. Still, I am resolved to consider her suggestions, lest I be thought recalcitrant or, worse, indifferent.”
A later entry expanded the theme:
“August the 10th. Lady Catherine arrived at Pemberley today, accompanied by a retinue sufficient for a court. She began at once to critique the arrangement of the servants, the service at table, the selection of conserves, and the quality of Derbyshire air as compared to Kent. I bore it as well as I might, recalling my father’s advice: that Catherine’s reproofs are best met not with argument, but with a composure so steady it becomes its own refutation.
‘Let her exhaust herself, Anne,’ he would say, ‘and you will triumph by your very quiet; for nothing disarms a critic so surely as the absence of resistance. '”
Elizabeth smiled in reluctant admiration.
There was a music in the tone—part resignation, part affection—that mirrored her own feelings toward Lady Catherine.
How many times had she, as Miss Bennet, been on the receiving end of such “helpful” guidance?
And how many more might be in her future, now that she presided over a household herself?
The next entry was shorter, but more telling:
“August the 12th. Success! Lady Catherine has pronounced the west chamber ‘tolerable’ and the duck at supper ‘nearly as fine as at Rosings.’ Mrs. Reynolds is in high spirits, having received Lady Catherine’s endorsement of her methods.
I believe the secret to surviving a visit is to appear grateful for all advice, and to implement only what may be done without injury to common sense. ”
Elizabeth could not suppress a laugh at that—this time unalloyed by bitterness. She marked the passage, resolving to keep it near at hand for the duration of Lady Catherine’s stay.
The shadows in the library had shifted with the movement of the sun, and the silence was now less expectant than companionable.
Elizabeth sat for several moments, collecting herself and the journals, before rising to make her own preparations.
The prospect of hosting Lady Catherine was daunting, but not insurmountable.
If Lady Anne had endured—and even triumphed—so might she.
She smiled, and this time, the smile lingered.
I t was late in the afternoon, the library now gilded with that particular golden glow which Elizabeth had come, in the space of a day, to associate with comfort and secrecy.
She was restacking the journals—her fingers lingering over the cover of Lady Anne’s “Private Reflections”—when she heard a footstep more tentative than any yet in her Pemberley experience.
The door opened a fraction, then a little more, and there emerged the slender figure of Georgiana Darcy. She moved as though expecting to be repelled by invisible force, and it was only upon seeing her sister-in-law seated so companionably among the books that she gathered the courage to proceed.
Elizabeth smiled, setting aside the volume. “Georgiana! I hoped you might call. I am perfectly at leisure, I assure you.”
Georgiana, cheeks faintly flushed, advanced to the nearest chair and perched upon its edge, hands clasped so tightly together that the knuckles blanched. “I—I did not mean to interrupt. Mrs. Reynolds said you were in here, and I thought—” She faltered. “I thought perhaps you might not mind.”
“Not in the least.” Elizabeth’s manner was as open as the late sun, and Georgiana’s shoulders eased by a measurable degree. “I am only catching up on a little family history. Come and see,” she added, gesturing to the spot beside her by the window, “what your mother wrote in these very pages.”
Georgiana hesitated, then obeyed. She seated herself as directed, her gaze fixed upon the book in Elizabeth’s lap.
For several moments, she seemed content to read over her sister’s shoulder, absorbing the script and, perhaps, the spirit of her mother’s confidence.
At length, she said in a voice barely above a whisper: “She was very wise.”
Elizabeth closed the journal and turned to face her companion. “I believe so. And I believe you are, too, though you may not always credit it.”
Georgiana coloured, but did not look away. “I wish I could be. But I am always uncertain—always afraid of doing wrong. Even now, I am sure you would rather be alone than burdened by my nonsense.”
Elizabeth laughed—kindly, without mockery. “If your conversation is nonsense, then I prefer it infinitely to the company of the cleverest books. But tell me: what troubles you, truly?”
There was a pause, during which Georgiana’s gaze drifted to the window. The parkland beyond was now in full shadow, the only light remaining in the library itself, a private theatre for confidences.
“I am to perform at Lady Matlock’s musical evening next week,” Georgiana said, the words emerging as if each was a pearl to be surrendered reluctantly.
“It is expected. All the guests will be there—” she stopped, shivered, then resumed: “I fear I shall disappoint everyone. My playing is tolerable, but when all eyes are upon me—I forget everything, even my own name.”
Elizabeth regarded her with growing tenderness.
“There is not a soul at Pemberley who would judge you unkindly, least of all your brother. But I know—” she hesitated, recalling more than one mortifying performance at the assemblies of Meryton—“how the prospect of an audience can transform the simplest task into an ordeal.”
Georgiana exhaled, a sound more like a sigh than a laugh. “You have never seemed afraid of anything.”
“Then I am better at pretending than you suppose. There was a time when I would have given all the world to avoid speaking before a room, let alone playing. I recall, at the Lucas’s ball, I tripped over my own hem and nearly unseated the vicar.
Lydia told the tale for months, and I was so mortified I did not leave my room the next day. ”
Georgiana’s lips twitched, the ghost of a smile. “Did you improve with time?”
“I did. But only because I realized that most people are so occupied with their own discomforts that they have little left to spare for the failings of others. If you err, you will be forgiven—or at worst, you will provide a story for some future gathering, which is a service in itself.”
The notion seemed to settle upon Georgiana like a shawl, warming and comforting in equal measure. “That is a very sensible way of seeing it. You are always so very clever, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Sensible? Do not let Mr. Darcy hear of it, or he may expect me to be sensible at breakfast as well.”
Elizabeth leaned in, confidingly. “And you must remember: if Lady Catherine is present, all attention will be on her, no matter how exquisite your playing. You could perform with one hand and she would still contrive to outshine you with some pronouncement on the proper interpretation of H?ndel.”
Georgiana laughed aloud, the sound sweet and startling. “I do believe you are right.”
“I am certain of it. And should you wish, we might rehearse together beforehand—if only to chase away the worst of the nerves. I cannot promise to improve your technique, but I can guarantee an appreciative audience of one.”
There was a silence, but it was a companionable one, filled with the knowledge of shared understanding. At last, Georgiana said: “I should like that, very much.”
Elizabeth patted her hand. “Then it is settled. And should you wish to discuss Lady Catherine’s method of household reordering, I can furnish you with several volumes of cautionary advice.”
Another giggle, this time unrestrained. “You are very good, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Elizabeth, please. If we are to survive the coming week, we must be allies in truth as well as in name.”
Georgiana’s answering smile was the brightest of the day. She stood, as if suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour. “I should go—Mrs. Reynolds will be waiting for me. But I am very glad I found you here.”
Elizabeth watched her go, and, after a moment, returned to the journals. The library, still warm with light, seemed no longer a vault of memory, but the living heart of a household—one that, at last, felt not foreign but familiar.
She opened Lady Anne’s “Private Reflections” one final time before supper, and read:
“If there is any satisfaction in the work of life, it is to see those whom we love grow into themselves, and in doing so, renew our hope for the future.”
Elizabeth closed the book gently, and let the words settle in her heart.
And so it was, with Lady Anne’s words for company, Elizabeth thought herself equal to the role—at least until the cook demanded to know whether the chickens were to be roasted or stewed.