Chapter Fourteen
“Mrs Darcy, might I have a moment of your time?” Mrs Reynolds appeared in the doorway of the morning room, where Elizabeth had been reviewing household accounts. Her expression carried the particular satisfaction of a servant with welcome news to impart.
A few days had passed since the ominous arrival of Wickham’s letter, yet life at Pemberley had settled into rhythms that felt surprisingly natural.
Elizabeth set aside her ledger, grateful for the interruption.
Managing the domestic arrangements of such a grand establishment had initially seemed daunting, but she was discovering both competence and pleasure in the role.
“Certainly, Mrs Reynolds. I hope all is well?”
“Indeed, madam. I wish to inform you that the new linens you ordered from Derby have arrived and are of exceptional quality. The maids are most impressed—they say they have never worked with such fine materials. You have an excellent eye for household matters.”
The compliment pleased Elizabeth more than she might have expected. “I am glad they meet with approval. I confess I relied heavily on your guidance in making the selections.”
“Oh no, madam. The choices were entirely your own. I merely provided information about our usual suppliers. Your decisions show both practical wisdom and consideration for those who must work with the materials daily.”
After Mrs Reynolds departed, she returned to her accounts with renewed satisfaction.
The respect she had earned from the household staff meant more to her than she had anticipated.
These people, who had served the Darcy family for years, had welcomed her not merely as their master’s wife but as someone worthy of their regard.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of laughter drifting in from the gardens.
Through the window, she could see Ambrose racing across the grounds with a wooden hoop, his delighted shrieks punctuating the morning air.
Since their arrival at Pemberley, the boy had bloomed like a flower in rich soil.
The anxious edge that had marked his demeanour during the crisis with Wickham had faded, replaced by the carefree joy natural to his age.
“Lizzy! Lizzy, come and see!” His voice carried clearly as he spotted her at the window. “I’ve learned to keep the hoop rolling all the way to the fountain!”
She waved in acknowledgement, her heart swelling with affection for this child who had claimed such a central place in her life.
Their bond had deepened with each passing day, built through countless small moments—bedtime stories, scraped knees requiring comfort, geography lessons that turned into imaginative adventures.
He had begun calling her ‘Mama’ with increasing frequency, the title slipping out naturally during moments of excitement or distress.
The transformation in their little household had not gone unnoticed beyond Pemberley’s walls.
During her regular excursions to Lambton for shopping and social calls, she had been struck by the warmth of her reception among the local tradespeople and villagers.
Unlike the stiff deference typically shown to the mistress of a great estate, their manner expressed pleasure in her company.
“Mrs Darcy!” Mrs Patterson, the baker’s wife, had greeted her just yesterday. “How delightful to see you again. I trust Master Ambrose enjoyed the gingerbread soldiers I sent up to the house?”
“He was thoroughly enchanted by them,” Elizabeth had replied. “Though I fear he declared war on the entire regiment and devoured them systematically.”
The woman’s delighted laughter had drawn smiles from other customers, creating an atmosphere of easy fellowship that Elizabeth treasured.
She had discovered true satisfaction in these simple interactions, finding the villagers’ straightforward honesty a refreshing contrast to the calculating conversations that dominated fashionable society.
Her integration into the community had accelerated when word spread of her practical approach to charitable endeavours.
Rather than making monetary donations from a comfortable distance, she visited the families in need herself, offering not just financial assistance but concern for their circumstances.
The local vicar had commented with obvious approval that Pemberley had not seen such hands-on involvement from its mistress in many years.
The morning’s peaceful routine was broken by Mr Darcy’s appearance in the doorway, his expression carrying the particular satisfaction of a man who had concluded his business affairs successfully.
“I have finished with my correspondence earlier than expected,” he announced. “The weather remains fine, and I wondered if you might care to join Ambrose and me for an expedition into Lambton. The harvest festival commences today, and I suspect our young gentleman would enjoy the festivities.”
Elizabeth’s face brightened at the suggestion. “What a lovely idea. I have heard much talk of the festival during my visits to the village. The preparations have been quite elaborate.”
Within the hour, they were settled in the carriage for the short journey to Lambton, Ambrose practically vibrating with excitement between them. His enthusiasm proved infectious, and even Mr Darcy’s usually reserved demeanour seemed to warm under the influence of the boy’s anticipation.
The village square had been transformed for the occasion.
Colourful bunting stretched between the buildings, while wooden stalls offered everything from fresh-baked pies to handcrafted toys.
The air hummed with laughter and conversation as families moved between the various attractions, children darting between their parents’ legs with sticky fingers and bright smiles.
“Look, Papa!” Ambrose exclaimed, tugging at Darcy’s sleeve. “There are puppet shows and ring toss and—oh! May we try the apple bobbing?”
“Perhaps we might sample some of the local delicacies first,” Elizabeth suggested diplomatically, noting several stalls offering tempting displays of festival fare. “I am particularly curious about those meat pasties Mrs Henderson mentioned.”
Their progress through the festival proved leisurely, as they were frequently stopped by villagers eager to greet them. Elizabeth noted with growing pleasure how welcoming everyone seemed, their manner suggesting real affection rather than mere deference to rank.
“Mr and Mrs Darcy!” called Mr Swanson, the village blacksmith, approaching with a broad smile. “Such a pleasure to see you at our little celebration. And Master Ambrose—my word, how you’ve grown!”
“We would not miss such an occasion,” Mr Darcy replied. “The preparations are most impressive. The entire village should be commended for such organisation.”
“Aye, well, we wanted to put on a proper show.
‘Tis good to see Pemberley folk mingling with us common sorts,” the man said with a wink that suggested no offence was intended or taken.
“Your lady wife here has been such a blessing to our community. Always time for a kind word, always ready to lend a hand where needed.”
Elizabeth felt warmth flood her cheeks at the praise, while Mr Darcy’s expression carried something that might have been pride. “Mrs Darcy has indeed made herself indispensable to our local community,” he replied. “I confess I am learning much from her example about true neighbourly spirit.”
The compliment, delivered with such sincerity before witnesses, made Elizabeth’s pulse quicken unexpectedly. She had grown accustomed to his formal courtesy, but this public acknowledgement of her contributions felt significantly more meaningful.
As the afternoon progressed, they sampled local specialities—rich pasties filled with seasoned beef and vegetables, sweet cakes studded with dried fruit, and fresh cider that made Ambrose wrinkle his nose comically at its tartness.
They watched puppet shows that delighted the boy, attempted ring toss with varying degrees of success, and applauded enthusiastically as local musicians performed traditional country dances.
“Papa and Mama, may we try dancing?” Ambrose asked hopefully as couples formed sets in the square’s centre. “Mrs Patterson said even children may join if they know the steps.”
Elizabeth glanced at her husband uncertainly. Public dancing at a village festival was hardly the sort of refined entertainment typical of their social sphere, yet the idea held unexpected appeal.
“I’ll admit I know very few country dances,” she said. “Our assemblies in Hertfordshire favoured more formal arrangements.”
“Then we shall all learn together,” he surprised her by saying. “Mrs Henderson, might you demonstrate the basic figures for us novices?”
Mrs Henderson, the vicar’s wife, beamed at the request. “Oh, Mr Darcy, how delightful! ‘Tis a simple enough pattern—we’ll start with ‘The Harvester’s Reel’. Master Ambrose, you stand here beside your mama, and Mr Darcy, if you would take your place opposite…”
The next hour passed in delightful confusion as they attempted to master the intricate steps of traditional country dances.
The music, provided by a fiddle, flute, and drum, had a lively tempo that seemed to mock their uncertain footwork.
Elizabeth discovered that country dancing required far more athleticism than the sedate minuets and cotillions of polite society.
“Skip to the right, then back, then forward with your partner—no, Mrs Darcy, the other right!” called out Mr Thomson, the village schoolmaster, who had appointed himself their instructor. His good-natured corrections drew chuckles from the growing circle of spectators.
Ambrose proved surprisingly adept despite his height disadvantage, his natural grace compensating for his short legs. “Look, Mama!” he called during a particularly energetic passage. “I’m a spinning top!”