Page 8 of Return to Pemberley

Chapter four

A Test of Wit

T he following morning, Pemberley’s corridors hummed with a quieter but no less determined anticipation, as if the very house understood the importance of the day.

Elizabeth had risen early, not from anxiety, she insisted to herself, but from a prudent wish to see that the final arrangements for her inaugural morning tea were in proper order.

She surveyed the progress of the servants—hands already abuzz with the ritualized tedium of boiling, polishing, and trimming—and marvelled at how, in so short a time, the prospect of presiding over a gathering of neighbouring ladies had become as momentous as any ball or wedding in her previous existence.

The morning room was small by Pemberley standards, but admirably situated to admit a generous wash of eastern light, which played upon the pale-green walls and gilded moldings with a cheerfulness calculated to put even the most determined social critic at ease.

The central table—round and elegantly inlaid with marquetry—was set for four, with the best Worcester porcelain arranged to the last symmetrical degree.

Silver gleamed on the sideboard, polished to a degree of reflectivity that would surely have scandalized the late Lady Anne, whose opinions on ostentation had bordered on the draconian.

Mrs. Reynolds moved among the furnishings with her usual stately economy, pausing now and again to direct a footman or correct the angle of a vase.

At intervals she would glance at Elizabeth, whose composure, while superficially flawless, showed itself to the experienced eye in the restless movement of her hands—straightening a serviette here, repositioning a teacup there, as if the smallest detail might determine the outcome of the morning’s campaign.

“If I may suggest, Mrs. Darcy,” Mrs. Reynolds offered in a voice pitched so as to carry no further than necessary, “the lilies in the far window would do better with a fresh change of water. And perhaps the petit fours should be arranged in twos rather than threes, as Lady Matlock once advised.”

Elizabeth smiled, grateful for the intervention. “I shall defer to your expertise, Mrs. Reynolds. In matters of domestic warfare, I am not above consulting my general.”

The housekeeper, too well trained to permit a laugh, permitted herself a dignified nod, and set about making the improvements with a gravity that suggested she herself might one day be called upon to host a gathering of the great and good.

When the lilies had been repositioned and the cakes reduced to an even number, Mrs. Reynolds retreated to a respectful distance, leaving Elizabeth with her thoughts—and a view of the gravel path where the first of her guests would soon appear.

The company, though small, was not without consequence.

Mrs. Augusta Willoughby, the wife to a retired colonel and inveterate judge of all matters pertaining to household and rank, was to arrive at the stroke of eleven, accompanied by Mrs. Channing, a well-meaning but slightly deaf widow of the neighbouring rectory, and Miss Felicity Grey, whose youth and lack of prospects made her the perpetual satellite of Derbyshire’s better houses.

Elizabeth had met each in passing at prior assemblies, but today was to be her first test in the more perilous theatre of private conversation.

At precisely the appointed hour, the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel heralded the arrival of the Willoughby party.

Elizabeth glanced at her reflection in the glass—a habit she had never before indulged, but which she now justified as a last audit of her appearance—and, finding nothing amiss, arranged her features into the most cordial of welcomes.

She heard the measured steps, the polite commotion at the door, and the voices in the vestibule before Mrs. Reynolds appeared, ushering in the party with an efficiency that bespoke years of acquaintance with the principal guest.

Mrs. Augusta Willoughby entered first, her carriage precise and her countenance schooled to a look of pleasant vigilance.

She wore a dress of deep plum, perfectly suited to her complexion and the season, and carried, in the set of her mouth, the unmistakable air of one who finds herself both arbiter and audience.

Mrs. Channing followed, her smile apologetic but genuine, her hands already busy with the adjustment of her shawl and the clutching of a reticule that appeared, by all evidence, to be empty.

Miss Grey, last and least imposing, hovered at the threshold, eyes wide with the dual hope of making no impression and missing nothing.

Elizabeth advanced to meet them, keeping her smile easy though her mind had rehearsed every greeting more than once.

“You are most courageous, Mrs. Willoughby, to brave such weather,” she said, inclining her head with mock solemnity.

“I trust the tea will prove sufficient reward for the expedition, though I cannot promise it rivals the comforts of your own drawing room.”

Mrs. Willoughby responded with a smile that was both gracious and edged.

“It is always a pleasure to see Pemberley so well attended, Mrs. Darcy. I confess, I was curious to see what improvements you might introduce to the morning room. Lady Anne’s taste was much admired, and I observe you have chosen to retain her curtains. ”

Elizabeth acknowledged the observation with a gentle tilt of her head. “I have not yet dared to alter anything so universally esteemed. My changes, if any, have been of the most imperceptible sort.”

“Indeed. That is wise,” Mrs. Willoughby replied, seating herself with a care that suggested the upholstery might harbor secrets. “It is so much easier to undo a new arrangement than to repair a beloved tradition.”

Mrs. Channing, who had selected a chair nearest the fire, chimed in with, “I have always admired these lilies. Did you know, Mrs. Darcy, that the late Lady Anne imported them herself from Holland? She said they reminded her of her own childhood home.”

Elizabeth, delighted by the chance to prove herself not wholly ignorant, replied, “I did not know, but I am pleased to have them in the house. They do give the room a certain liveliness, do you not think?”

Miss Grey, who had so far managed only a faint smile, now found courage to add, “They are very fine, Mrs. Darcy. The light is so becoming in this room, it is almost like being in the conservatory at Rosings.”

There followed a brief but loaded pause—Rosings being the ancestral seat of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and the invocation of its name in Derbyshire society never a matter of indifference.

Mrs. Willoughby was first to recover. “I dare say nothing at Rosings could compare to the hospitality of Pemberley, even were the flowers to change places. Tell me, Mrs. Darcy, do you keep the same gardener, or have you brought in new hands?”

Elizabeth, sensing the true import of the question, replied with composure, “Mr. Darcy has a great loyalty to those who have served Pemberley faithfully. We have kept all the staff, though I confess I am learning as much from them as they are from me.”

Mrs. Willoughby nodded, as if confirming a hypothesis.

“It is always a risk, taking on a new household. There are so many hidden currents, so many… expectations. I have heard of new mistresses who found themselves quite lost among the old servants, though I do not, of course, suggest that Pemberley would ever suffer from such misfortune.”

Elizabeth smiled, and poured the tea with only the faintest tremor—a victory she would credit to careful composure, though she suspected the teacups judged her more harshly than any neighbor.

“I am fortunate in Mrs. Reynolds, who has the forbearance of a saint, and in the goodwill of the staff, who seem determined to make the house as welcoming as possible. If I err, it is through ignorance, never intention.”

Miss Grey accepted her cup with murmured thanks, while Mrs. Channing, intent on her own, observed, “I am sure no one could find fault. You have made the transition most gracefully. I remember the last time one of the great houses changed hands—oh, it must be twenty years past. There were the most extraordinary stories in the village. Do you recall, Augusta?”

Mrs. Willoughby’s lips quirked. “I do. And I recall how very quickly the new mistress left, once she understood the reality of running an estate.”

Elizabeth, not to be outdone, replied, “It is rather like being made captain of a ship whose crew has already sailed around the world. One can only try not to steer into an iceberg.”

The line, delivered with just enough self-deprecation, produced the desired effect: a ripple of laughter from Miss Grey, a benevolent chuckle from Mrs. Channing, and, from Mrs. Willoughby, a flash of genuine amusement before her features resumed their customary poise.

Conversation then turned to the weather, the prospects for the coming harvest, and the health of various mutual acquaintances—each topic handled with the gentle fencing of polite society, where every compliment concealed a potential thrust, and every confidence was both a gift and a test. Elizabeth acquitted herself well, even managing to introduce, with careful modesty, a few small innovations she had proposed for the estate—alterations to the tenant cottages, an experiment with new varieties of apple, a scheme to improve the dairy’s efficiency.

These were received with polite interest, if not unqualified enthusiasm.

It was when the subject veered, as it inevitably must, to the question of local charities and the obligations of great houses to their dependents, that Mrs. Willoughby made her most calculated move.