Chapter 19
“This is the morning room,” said Mrs Reynolds, Pemberley’s housekeeper, a stout, pink-cheeked woman somewhere in her sixties, with all the bustling efficiency and dedication of Mrs Stark at Darcy House but more softness in her manner.
“Well, by rights it is the east drawing room, but Mrs Darcy always called it the morning room and loved it best.”
Pale golden curtains were drawn back from long windows overlooking the east lawns, and the room was set about with furniture in a tawny-coloured wood, its sofas and armchairs upholstered in cream silk and scattered with cushions in light yellow and green.
A sparse but tastefully chosen selection of local landscapes hung on the walls.
Presently, the morning sun poured in through the window panes, but Elizabeth could imagine it feeling like morning in that sunshine-touched room at any hour of the day or night.
They had arrived at Pemberley late last night after three days on the road, and Elizabeth was seeing the house for the first time this morning.
“It is a beautiful room,” Elizabeth remarked, looking around with a smile of real pleasure. “Did Mrs Darcy decorate it, too?”
“Yes, it is just as Mrs Darcy left it,” confirmed the housekeeper. “Miss Georgiana likes the room as it is, and Mr Darcy takes no care for furnishings and decoration as long as everything is neat and orderly.”
“Well, if Miss Darcy likes to sit in here some mornings, I shall have no objection,” said Elizabeth, enjoying the warmth of the sunbeams on her bare arms for a few more moments.
They soon moved on through the house, for Mrs Reynolds prodigiously enjoyed giving tours of Pemberley, and had been only too happy to do so for Elizabeth while Mr Darcy took his sister out for a drive.
It had been obvious even from a first meeting that Mrs Reynolds was a keen-eyed and intelligent servant.
She was also evidently very proud of Pemberley and its family, having nothing but good to say of Mr Darcy and his parents, and holding a real affection for Georgiana Darcy.
The only former occupant of Pemberley for whom Mrs Reynolds had a bad word was George Wickham, and even then she was circumspect, only calling him “rather wild” without further qualification.
Listening to the housekeeper’s account of Mr Darcy’s many virtues as a landowner, employer, son, and brother, Elizabeth felt somewhat ashamed of her own early misreading of the man. Then she rallied her spirits, deciding that it was Mr Darcy’s own fault she had received such a wrong impression.
As Mr Darcy himself had admitted in his apology at Rosings, he did not always succeed in communicating his thoughts as he wished.
If he did not learn to do so, other people could not be blamed for misunderstanding him.
A mischievous part of her wanted to find him and tell him this, enjoying the mingled shock and admiration she saw on his face when she spoke plainly.
“When my husband was ill, Mr Darcy couldn’t do enough for us,” Mrs Reynolds chattered on as they entered a long marble-floored hall, filled with classically styled sculptures and family portraits.
“He organised the physician, the servants and the tradesmen, and nothing was too much trouble until Mr Reynolds was well again. His father was the same, of course…”
Despite the early demise of both old Mr Darcy and his wife, Pemberley was still a happy house as well as a grand and well-furnished building.
Elizabeth had found herself falling in love with the place as she strolled around it in Mrs Reynolds’ wake, thankful again that Mr Darcy had been true to his word in removing them so quickly from Rosings and Lady Catherine’s influence.
“These are the best of the family portraits, Miss Bennet,” announced the housekeeper, stopping at a section of wall where four large and lifelike paintings hung on the clean white walls.
“That’s old Mr Darcy, and Mrs Darcy beside him.
That dear little girl in blue is Miss Darcy, only a few years ago.
Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy himself you will recognise, of course. He has not changed.”
Elizabeth came to stand beside Mrs Reynolds and gazed at the pictures before them. Of the four, it was Mr Darcy’s picture that held her eye. True to life in both size and depiction, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s image stood before her with steady eyes of midnight blue, clear brow and firm jaw.
“My master is a handsome man, is he not, Miss Bennet? And the best of gentlemen too, I’ll be bound.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth was forced to agree, finding the housekeeper’s keen eye upon her and not wanting to praise Mr Darcy either too much or too little. “Yes, he is. What a fine portrait.”
“Some call him proud, but that’s only because he doesn’t prattle on and prance about in silks and jewels like all the fashionable young men in London.”
At the summoning of such an image, Elizabeth laughed. Mr Darcy certainly did not do either of those things.
“Mr Darcy is a more serious man than those you talk of, I think,” she noted, and Mrs Reynolds nodded. “He cares more for his family and his home than for frivolities.”
“As a man should,” the older woman pronounced, seeming content with Elizabeth’s response and ready to move onto the rest of the house.
As they moved towards the doors on the far side of the exhibition space, Elizabeth glanced back over her shoulder and looked back again at those dark blue eyes in the painting.
Then she gasped and stopped dead as the real Mr Darcy came into view, standing further down the long hallway, his actual eyes presently rather self-conscious.
Had he overheard their conversation about him? If so, he did not look angry, only a little embarrassed. True to life as the painting was, Mr Darcy was even more handsome in the flesh, and his eyes were very blue indeed.
“Miss Bennet?” called back Mrs Reynolds, and Elizabeth hurried after the housekeeper, her cheeks flaming and her pulse beginning to race in a most peculiar fashion.
“I shall be there in a moment,” Elizabeth said quickly, deciding that it was most politic and best for everyone’s peace of mind if she pretended not to have seen Mr Darcy at all.
∞∞∞
Mr Darcy too seemed to have decided that silence was best, if he had indeed borne witness to that personal conversation between Mrs Reynolds and Elizabeth.
He said nothing of it at supper that night nor on any of the days that followed, and Elizabeth gradually relaxed, feeling sure that if he had overheard them, he had not been offended.
A whole month passed quickly, the golden and flowering springtime filled with sunshine, pianoforte playing on Pemberley’s beautiful instrument, and long rides or walks around the estate with Miss Darcy, and often Mr Darcy too.
This time at Pemberley felt almost dreamlike to Elizabeth.
The three of them lived a full but quiet life, only occasionally seeing neighbours and receiving no visitors, but all seeming content.
Mrs Reynolds managed the household competently, occasionally referring to Miss Darcy for instruction, at which the flustered girl often turned to Elizabeth for guidance.
“I do wish that Mrs Reynolds would just ask you about the menus or the employment of maids, Miss Bennet,” Miss Darcy sighed one day after such an encounter. “I never know what to say.”
Elizabeth smiled and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Not yet, but you will learn, Miss Darcy. One day you will be mistress of your own house, and now you are learning how to perform that role. I cannot do that for you, although I am happy to advise as best I can. I am sure Mrs Annesley would say the same.”
“Pemberley ought to have a mistress,” said Mr Darcy, speaking up for the first time in this conversation after having kept his head in a book while Mrs Reynolds consulted the ladies on the matter of linen to be ordered from London.
His voice sounded almost wistful, and Elizabeth wondered if he was thinking of his mother, whose clever hand and tasteful eye seemed to have been responsible for so much of the house’s pleasing arrangements.
“If you ever marry, Brother, it will have a mistress,” returned Miss Darcy with unusual boldness. “It is past time, don’t you think?”
“How pert you are growing, Georgiana,” Mr Darcy said with amusement more than censure, and a faint pinkness to his cheeks.
“If you are looking forward to attending a wedding, you will have to look further than me. Perhaps Cousin Richard will oblige you by finding himself a wife one of these days, or Charles Bingley. They will both reach the altar before me, I suspect.”
At this mention of Mr Bingley, Elizabeth smiled to herself.
That was her hope too, and if Mr Darcy could jest of it, then he was likely not opposed to the match.
Jane’s letters over the last few months had been encouraging, with Mr Bingley having become a regular caller at Gracechurch Street and then even returning to Netherfield Park the week after Jane went home to Longbourn.
There had been little mention of Caroline Bingley or Louisa Hurst, and Elizabeth had high hopes that their hold over their brother had been broken.
As she mused, Elizabeth noticed Miss Darcy regarding her thoughtfully.
“Do not look to me, Miss Darcy, I shall likely never marry,” she laughed as unselfconsciously as she could. “Mr Darcy has the right of it, I hope. I will be happy to see my sisters well married, and you too someday.”
“I don’t see why…” Georgiana began, but Mr Darcy rose to his feet abruptly, hist sister’s line of enquiry seeming to disturb him in the same way as Elizabeth.
It did not cause anger or distress, but this talk of marriage somehow got under Elizabeth’s skin and made her feel restless and strange. It was like an itch which there was no means of scratching, and talking of these things only made it worse.