Page 9 of Return to Pemberley

“I have always believed,” she began, “that the proper management of an estate reflects itself most truly in the health and disposition of its tenantry. Mr. Willoughby—my husband, you know—was ever insistent that the wellbeing of the people must precede all other considerations, even when that meant personal inconvenience or expense. Do you find it so, Mrs. Darcy?”

Elizabeth, who had spent the past few days reviewing the ledgers with Mr. Harrow, the steward, replied with more candour than perhaps was prudent.

“I do find it so, though I confess I am only beginning to understand the scale of the operation. The farms, the livestock, the repairs to the cottages—all are dependent upon the weather, the labour, and the ability to plan ahead. I have been learning a great deal about crop rotation, which I am told will improve the soil and, over time, the yields for everyone.”

Mrs. Channing brightened. “My nephew says as much! He is a curate, and very interested in agricultural improvement. He says it is the future.”

Mrs. Willoughby’s gaze sharpened. “How fortunate Mr. Darcy is to have married a lady with such… farming knowledge. I suppose a practical upbringing does indeed teach certain… efficiencies. Though, one hopes, not at the expense of those finer accomplishments that distinguish a lady of society.”

There was a moment’s stillness in the room, as if the very air wished to see how Elizabeth would respond. A quick glance passed between Mrs. Channing and Miss Grey—the latter’s eyes wide, the former’s brow knit with the beginnings of outrage or embarrassment.

Elizabeth felt a flush rise to her cheek, but she met Mrs. Willoughby’s gaze with a composure born not of confidence but of necessity.

“Indeed, Mrs. Willoughby, I find that understanding the foundation of one’s prosperity is never a disadvantage…

though I confess, some might prefer that prosperity unexamined, lest its workings disturb genteel sensibilities. ”

Mrs. Willoughby, who had not expected to be parried so deftly, inclined her head. “Very well said, Mrs. Darcy.”

There followed a clink of teacups as if to punctuate the exchange; Mrs. Reynolds, observing from her post near the sideboard, permitted herself the briefest nod of approval, which Elizabeth caught in the glass and returned with a smile that was almost a secret handshake.

The remainder of the visit passed with greater ease, as if the brief skirmish had established the boundaries of the new order.

Conversation wandered to the topic of Lady Catherine’s impending visit (“Always an education,” Mrs. Willoughby declared), to the latest French fashions (“Impractical in the Derbyshire mud,” was the consensus), and to the question of whether Miss Grey might ever be induced to perform at the next assembly.

By the time the carriage was called, all parties had settled into a species of cordiality, if not friendship, and Elizabeth found herself, at the conclusion, genuinely wishing them well.

When the room was at last restored to its original serenity, Mrs. Reynolds entered, carrying a plate of untouched cakes and a look of thoughtful satisfaction. “They were very much impressed, Mrs. Darcy. I heard Mrs. Willoughby say so, as she was putting on her gloves.”

Elizabeth laughed, and this time allowed the sound its full liberty. “Did she? Then I must have done something truly revolutionary.”

Mrs. Reynolds set the plate down and said, in a tone that carried the finality of benediction, “You are the mistress of Pemberley, ma’am. You may do as you please.”

Elizabeth, looking about the morning room—her morning room—felt the truth of it settle about her, not as a yoke, but as a garment fitted at last to its owner.

“Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds,” she said, and meant it.

She turned to the window, where the light was already changing, and saw in the reflection not the nervous debutante of the early morning, but a woman quite equal to her task.

If she permitted herself a private smile, there was no one to observe it but the lilies, which nodded in the sunshine as if applauding her first, and most critical, victory.

O nly after the echoes of departing carriages had faded and the last of the servants had withdrawn did Elizabeth permit her shoulders to lower from their parade-ground posture.

She allowed herself a single deep breath—half relief, half exhaustion—and surveyed the now-empty morning room.

The air, which so recently buzzed with the polite stratagems of her guests, seemed uncommonly still, as if the walls themselves wished to rest from the effort of maintaining so many simultaneous fronts.

She lingered for a few moments, letting the hush reabsorb her, before slipping quietly into the corridor.

Her intent was not defined; she wandered, as if by accident, through the suite of public rooms, past the vestibule with its ever-watchful portraits, through the library where her own reflection in the glass seemed faintly amused at her retreat, and into the long corridor that led to the music room.

It was there, at the farthest remove from the distractions of estate business, that she heard the first tentative strains of the pianoforte.

The melody was cautious, almost as if the player sought not to disturb, but its progress was steady and touched at intervals with flashes of confidence.

Elizabeth hesitated at the threshold, uncertain whether to intrude, but the music, like a hand extended in silent welcome, drew her forward.

She entered softly, and found Georgiana seated at the instrument, her back perfectly straight and her eyes fixed on the keys with the intense absorption of one for whom every note was both a risk and a pleasure.

The afternoon light caught the shine of her hair and cast delicate shadows across her hands, which, though slim and a trifle tentative, moved with a grace that promised much for the future.

Elizabeth did not announce her presence, but contented herself with standing at a respectful remove, watching the progress of the piece. At a particularly tricky run, Georgiana stumbled, paused, and then, as if sensing her audience, turned abruptly, colour rising in her cheeks.

“Oh! I did not know—” she began, and then stopped, composing herself with a small, practiced smile. “Mrs. Darcy. I did not expect company.”

Elizabeth approached, and with a gentleness born of their shared awkwardness, replied, “Nor did I. But I am glad to have found you here. Your playing is very fine, Georgiana. I am always impressed by those who can coax such order from so many notes at once.”

The compliment had its intended effect; Georgiana’s shoulders eased, and she gestured shyly to the seat beside her. “Would you care to join me? The bench is wide enough for two.”

Elizabeth accepted, smoothing her dress as she sat, careful not to crowd the younger woman. For a moment, both fixed their eyes upon the keyboard, as if awaiting instructions from some invisible conductor.

It was Georgiana who broke the silence, her voice scarcely louder than the pianissimo she had just played. “Did your tea go well, Elizabeth? I was told Mrs. Willoughby is… demanding.”

Elizabeth suppressed a laugh. “She is precise, yes, and very sure of her own opinions. But the visit was instructive, if nothing else. I have learned, for instance, that the arrangement of petit fours is a matter of county-wide interest.”

Georgiana smiled, a real and unguarded smile. “I have always thought the petit fours were too sweet, but Mother insisted upon them.”

“She was not alone in her convictions, I believe. If I dared to suggest a change, I should have the entire county at my door, pitchforks raised and sugar-dusted.”

They shared a brief, companionable silence. Elizabeth found herself absently tracing the pattern of the carpet with the tip of her shoe, the words she wished to say gathering at the edges of her tongue.

“Georgiana,” she said at last, “do you ever feel… not quite at home here? As if the house expects something of you that you are not entirely sure how to provide?”

The question surprised even Elizabeth; it was not a topic she had ever permitted herself to voice aloud.

Georgiana’s response, when it came, was softer still, but more certain than any note she had played.

“Often. Sometimes I think Pemberley has its own memory, and that it remembers everything I do wrong. I am always afraid I will not live up to what is expected. But—” she hesitated, stealing a glance at Elizabeth—“it is easier now, with you here. You do not seem to mind when things are not as they always were.”

Elizabeth felt a wave of gratitude, both for the candour and for the alliance thus declared.

“You are kind to say so, but I fear I am no less a student of Pemberley’s customs than you.

I have spent the morning learning the precise number of lilies to place in a vase, and the afternoon being reminded—rather pointedly—that one’s antecedents are never quite forgotten, no matter how far one has come. ”

Georgiana’s hands, which had been folded in her lap, now fidgeted with a loose thread on her sleeve. “Did Mrs. Willoughby say something unkind?”

“Not unkind, exactly,” Elizabeth replied, amused at the girl’s discernment. “But she did observe, with her customary delicacy, that a farming family is well suited to the practical aspects of estate management, even if it lacks certain… refinements.”

Georgiana coloured, the expression in her eyes shifting from embarrassment to something near indignation. “She is wrong. It is not refinement that makes a house a home, but kindness and sense. My brother says as much, though he would never say it to Mrs. Willoughby.”

Elizabeth’s surprise must have shown, for Georgiana hurried on, more boldly than before: “He does! He admires you, Elizabeth. He admires how you see things clearly, and how you do not pretend to be anything you are not. I think that is why Pemberley is better now than before, even if Mrs. Willoughby cannot admit it.”

Elizabeth, touched and somewhat abashed, struggled to find a suitable reply. “I am glad you feel so. I confess there are days when I wonder if I shall ever be more than a caretaker—someone merely keeping the place tidy until the next portrait is hung.”

Georgiana considered this, then reached for Elizabeth’s hand, squeezing it with a tremulous, but determined, warmth. “You are not a caretaker. You are the mistress of Pemberley. And that is more than enough for everyone who matters.”

Before Elizabeth could answer, a discreet tap sounded at the door, and a footman entered, bearing a folded note on a silver tray. He presented it with the solemnity of a court official, bowed, and withdrew.

Elizabeth unfolded the paper. The message, in Darcy’s careful script, read:

“If you have survived Mrs. Willoughby’s visit unscathed, I propose a walk after supper, that you may describe the battle in full. Yours, F.D.”

She laughed—a genuine, unforced sound—and passed the note to Georgiana, who read it with a conspiratorial smile.

“I suppose we are a family of survivors,” Elizabeth said, tucking the note into her pocket. She rose, straightened her dress, and regarded Georgiana with a new appreciation. “Thank you, I believe I needed your wisdom more than I realized.”

Georgiana flushed, but did not look away. “It is nothing. I am only glad to be of use.”

They parted, Elizabeth pausing at the door to look back.

The afternoon sun had shifted, filling the music room with a soft, golden light that made even the most formal objects seem gentle and familiar.

Georgiana had returned to the pianoforte, but her playing was now sure and unhesitant, the melody bright and clear as a bell.

Elizabeth listened for a moment, then turned, resolved to meet the next challenge of Pemberley not as a mere inhabitant, but as its mistress, in all the ways that mattered.

In the corridor, her footsteps were light and her mind at ease. The house was quieter now, but the silence was companionable—a promise, rather than a test. And somewhere, in the warm heart of the music room, she knew, another voice was learning to be strong.