CHAPTER 71 #2
By the time they returned to the sitting room of the western apartments, Elizabeth was tired, but her mind had grown clearer with every order given.
"This suite," she said, "is to be made ready first for use, and then for winter.
I do not require elegance before September.
I require air, warmth, clean furniture, sound windows, working bells, and rooms that do not accuse a person of inhabiting them.
Elegance may follow when it has learned manners. "
Mrs. Reynolds closed her book. "I shall begin today, ma'am."
"Begin with what can be done quietly. Send for the men who must see the chimneys and windows.
I will have estimates for the curtains and carpets before anything is ordered from a distance.
If suitable pieces exist in store, bring them out to be judged.
If they are ugly but useful, they may be tolerated.
If they are ugly and useless, they may retire with honour. "
"Yes, ma'am."
"And Mrs. Reynolds--"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"If any room has a history that ought to be considered before it is made intimate, I should rather know it now than discover it from a portrait later."
Mrs. Reynolds's expression softened. "These rooms have no unhappy history, ma'am. Not that I know."
"Good," said Elizabeth. "Then we shall try not to give them one."
Fitzwilliam looked at her then, and the feeling in his face was so open she almost wished Mrs. Reynolds had not been there to see it.
Almost.
They went next to George Darcy.
The visit was Elizabeth's decision. The rooms were in his house still, and it was not in her nature to pretend he had vanished merely because illness had altered the government of the household.
But neither did she go to ask whether Pemberley might be made habitable for her.
She went because he was Fitzwilliam's father, because he was mending, because a great house should not learn of its own future from servants' movement in the passage, and because there was no Mrs. Darcy at Pemberley except herself.
George Darcy was seated near the window in his chamber, with a rug over his knees and papers within reach.
He looked less ill than he had a week ago, though still reduced enough that strength seemed something he borrowed by the hour.
His eyes went first to Fitzwilliam, then to Elizabeth, and then to the folded plan in her hand.
"Mrs. Darcy," he said. "You have been walking."
"Under supervision, sir. Pemberley has become very fond of chairs."
His mouth moved faintly. "Then Pemberley is learning sense."
Elizabeth sat when Fitzwilliam placed the chair for her. She accepted the footstool without comment, which she hoped would be counted somewhere in her favour.
"We have chosen the western apartments," she said. "Or rather, I have chosen them, and Fitzwilliam has been permitted to agree."
"I agreed with great sincerity," said Fitzwilliam.
Elizabeth unfolded the plan. "The rooms are warm, near enough to the nursery, and not so grand that one must defend oneself from the furniture.
I mean to have them made ready before winter.
Chimneys inspected, windows repaired, bells restored, curtains changed, nursery furniture brought from store and judged without mercy. "
George Darcy looked over the plan for some time. His finger moved from the bedchamber to the sitting room, then along the small passage toward the nursery.
"Yes," he said at last. "That is how it ought to be."
Elizabeth glanced at him.
"A house considered for living," he said. "Not merely kept."
Fitzwilliam was very still beside her.
George Darcy's hand rested near the marked nursery bell. "There has been no Mrs. Darcy at Pemberley for too long."
The words sounded less like grief than relief.
Elizabeth recovered herself. "Then I shall order the bell restored."
"Do," he said.
That was all; but it was enough.
Mrs. Reynolds began that afternoon.
No great noise was permitted near Elizabeth's rooms, but below and westward Pemberley stirred.
Covers were removed; windows opened; old curtains taken down to be beaten, judged, and mostly condemned; chimneys inspected; men sent for; storerooms unlocked; furniture brought into corridors; and maids dispatched with pails, cloths, brushes, and the subdued excitement that entered a house whenever long-shut rooms were opened for use.
Elizabeth received reports in the sitting room she still occupied and made decisions from a chair.
This suited her better than rest.
By the second day, Mrs. Reynolds had produced three possible sets of curtains, two carpets from store, an inventory of nursery furniture, and the news that the bell-pulls were more easily repaired than expected.
By the third, the glazier had seen the western windows, the chimney-sweep had been summoned, and a carpenter had been ordered to examine two sticking doors and a cupboard Elizabeth meant to convert for nursery linen.
By the fourth, Elizabeth had rejected one carpet as melancholy, one chair as deceitful, and a painted screen as unsuitable for any Christian infant.
Fitzwilliam sat beside her while she judged these objects and looked absurdly happy.
"You are enjoying this," she accused.
"I am enjoying watching Pemberley answer you."
"It is not answering me. It is obeying Mrs. Reynolds."
"She is obeying you."
"Then everyone is behaving very sensibly."
He smiled.
In truth, Elizabeth liked the work more than she would have admitted.
It was not that she forgot the reasons for remaining, nor the heat, nor the faintness that had betrayed her, nor the letters still to come from Rosings.
But command, when properly used, gave shape to fear.
Curtains could be changed. Bells could be restored.
Chairs could be moved. A child could not be guaranteed safety by arranging furniture; but a household could be taught, before winter, not to make care more difficult than it needed to be.
Jane's letter came before any word from Richard.
It was not the first answer. Other congratulations had begun to arrive in the ordinary traffic of the house.
Mrs. Gardiner wrote with tenderness carefully restrained by good sense, asked after Elizabeth's comfort, and promised that Lydia should be told only as much as could be trusted not to become theatre.
From the Halls came advice, congratulations, and a severe warning not to confuse household reform with bodily invincibility.
Mrs. Belwick added her own concern about hot rooms. Hartwood replied with practical consequence, promising to review the necessary papers; and Mrs. Albright, in a hand more exact than elegant, assured Elizabeth that Portman Square remained in order and would continue to do so until its mistress chose to return.
But Jane's hand made Elizabeth set all the others aside.
She opened it quickly.
My dearest Lizzy,
Your letter gave us very great happiness, and I hope you will believe how much I wished myself with you as soon as I had read it.
I shall not write all I feel upon the subject you have trusted to me, for paper is a poor guardian of such happiness; but I am very glad, my dear Lizzy, and very anxious that you should not overtask yourself.
Charles and I will come gladly, and as soon as the journey can be arranged. Mary and Caroline will come with us. You must not trouble yourself to make more preparation than is easy; we are coming to see you, not to be entertained. If I may be useful in any small way, I shall be happier still.
Charles sends every affectionate congratulation, and bids me add that he will obey any direction Mr. Darcy gives concerning the road, though I cannot promise he will not form opinions of his own before receiving it.
Your ever loving,
Jane
Elizabeth folded the letter carefully.
"They are coming," she said.
Fitzwilliam looked up. "All of them?"
"Jane, Mr. Bingley, Mary, and Miss Bingley."
"Then Pemberley must prepare itself."
"No," said Elizabeth, reaching for the guest-room list. "Pemberley will be prepared."
Jane came because Elizabeth had asked her to come. Bingley came because Jane wished it. Mary came because she was invited. Miss Bingley came because curiosity, good manners, and ambition had reached some private agreement and chosen to call itself civility.
Pemberley would be made ready for them.
The next letter arrived an hour later and injured the morning.
It came from Longbourn in Mrs. Bennet's hand, which had never learned to enter a room quietly even upon paper.
Elizabeth had written to her father, knowing he would show her mother; she had not expected silence.
She had expected delight, complaint, reproach that others had known first, advice about food, rest, shawls, warming pans, and the untrustworthiness of physicians who were not mothers.
She received all these.
Then she received more.
My dear Lizzy,
Your father has shown me your letter, and I am sure I am very happy for you, though I cannot say I think it kind that such news should come so late to your own mother, who has had five children herself and might be supposed to know something of these matters.
You must do exactly as your physician says, for I know very well how young ladies will think themselves stronger than they are, and I hope Mr. Darcy is attentive, for husbands are sometimes very helpless at such times, though they like to think themselves wise.
Elizabeth breathed out through her nose. Thus far, there was only ordinary injury.
She read on.
You must be sure to give Mr. Darcy a son, my dear, for gentlemen generally prefer sons, whatever they may say before the event.
Daughters are very well, as I have reason to know, but a son is a great thing in a gentleman's family, particularly when there has been so much trouble among his relations.
Elizabeth stopped.
There were sentences which ought not to be written by mothers.
Fitzwilliam saw the change in her face and came at once.
"What is it?"