Chapter 8 #2
“I must confess I find the prospect of managing such a well-established household daunting. At Longbourn, we had only a fraction of the staff, and my mother oversaw most household matters herself.”
“Mrs. Reynolds will guide you. She has managed Pemberley’s domestic affairs since before I was born. But do not feel obliged to assume full responsibility immediately. There is time to acclimate yourself.”
“I would not wish to disappoint you by neglecting my duties.”
Darcy’s expression softened. “You could not disappoint me, Elizabeth. I married a woman of intelligence and character, not a housekeeper.”
The statement was delivered with such unconscious certainty that she could not help but be set at ease.
They continued their meal in companionable conversation, Darcy describing features of the estate she might wish to explore in coming days, Elizabeth sharing observations from their journey through Derbyshire.
Later, as they retired to a comfortable parlor for tea, Elizabeth studied her husband with new awareness.
Here at Pemberley, Darcy was different—more relaxed, more natural in his movements and speech.
The rigid formality that had characterized him in Hertfordshire and even in London had yielded to a quieter confidence.
This was his domain, the place where he needed no armor against the world’s expectations or judgments.
“You are staring. Have I food on my face?”
Elizabeth smiled. “No. I was thinking that you are more comfortable here than I have ever seen you. Logical though it may be to exist as the most genuine of spirits at one’s own home, I confess it is rare enough to me thus far not to wonder at it.”
“Am I? I suppose it is natural. Pemberley has always been my sanctuary. London requires a certain vigilance that exhausts me.”
“The burden of being Mr. Darcy in society.”
“Exactly.” Gratification at her understanding showed in his eyes. “Here, I need not guard against fortune-hunters or manage others’ expectations quite so carefully.”
This was a glimpse of the constant pressure he had lived under—the weight of the Darcy name, the responsibilities of his position, the necessary caution of a man whose wealth made him a perpetual target.
Elizabeth felt a rush of sympathy for the boy he must have been, thrust into this role too young by his parents’ deaths.
“Then I am glad to see you at home. Though I hope you will not feel you must guard yourself with me, even in Pemberley.”
Something vulnerable flickered in Darcy’s eyes, quickly masked. “I shall endeavor not to. Your frankness has always been refreshing, even when it takes the form of criticism.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I have not been wanting in criticism, have I? Perhaps not the most promising beginning for a marriage.”
“On the contrary.” His gaze held hers. “Honest criticism from one whose opinion I value is worth more than hollow flattery from a hundred others.”
What could she say to that? How he managed to compliment and expose her all at once! They were courting each other more after their wedding than she would expect most couples to accomplish before the vows.
Before she could formulate a response, a yawn escaped her, betraying her fatigue despite her interest in their conversation.
“You are tired. We should retire. Tomorrow will bring ample opportunity to continue our discussions.”
They ascended the grand staircase together, the house silent around them save for the occasional creak of ancient timbers settling for the night. At the door to their chambers, Darcy paused.
“If you would prefer privacy after our journey, your bedchamber connects to a private dressing room as well as to mine. You need not—”
Elizabeth silenced him by placing her fingers against his lips, a boldness that would have been unthinkable weeks earlier. “I have grown accustomed to your presence. I would not wish to sleep alone our first night at Pemberley.”
Relief in his expression was quickly overshadowed by a different heat as he caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “Nor would I.”
Elizabeth woke to unfamiliar birdsong and light streaming through windows larger than any at Longbourn or the London house.
Disorientation held her motionless before memory rushed back—Pemberley, her new home.
Darcy’s side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool to her touch.
He must have risen early, allowing her to sleep after their journey.
Hannah arrived soon after Elizabeth rang, bringing tea on a silver tray. “Good morning, ma’am. Mr. Darcy said not to wake you but to have breakfast ready when you rang.”
“Thank you. Has Mr. Darcy been gone long?” Elizabeth sipped the excellent chocolate, appreciating the thoughtfulness of the light breakfast.
“Since dawn, ma’am. Mr. Graves says the master always walks the estate when he first returns, checking on everything that has happened in his absence.”
She had never imagined him as an early riser, though it made sense given his responsibilities. “I shall dress quickly. I would like to explore the house myself this morning.”
Once attired in a simple morning gown of pale yellow muslin, Elizabeth set out to begin her acquaintance with Pemberley’s interior.
The house was already alive with activity—maids cleaning, footmen polishing, a gardener arranging fresh flowers in the entrance hall.
Each servant she passed stopped to bow or curtsey, their expressions varying from curiosity to assessment to genuine welcome.
Her first systematic exploration took her through reception rooms of varying sizes and degrees of formality, each appointed with furniture and artwork of exceptional quality.
Unlike some great houses Elizabeth had read about, where excessive ornamentation created a sense of oppressive grandeur, Pemberley’s rooms displayed restrained elegance.
Beauty served comfort rather than ostentation.
In the morning room intended for the mistress’s use, Elizabeth paused to admire the delicate Chinese wallpaper depicting birds among flowering branches. Sunlight streamed through tall windows overlooking a rose garden, illuminating a writing desk positioned to take advantage of the view.
“Lady Anne selected that paper.” A voice came from the doorway. Elizabeth turned to find Mrs. Reynolds watching her. “She had it installed the summer before Master Fitzwilliam was born.”
“The brushwork is exquisite.”
“The late Mrs. Darcy had exceptional taste.” The housekeeper moved further into the room. “This was her favorite morning room. She would sit at that very desk, writing letters while watching the garden.”
Elizabeth sensed she was being evaluated through the lens of comparison to Darcy’s mother. “I can see why she preferred it. The light is perfect for correspondence, and the view would provide pleasant distraction when words proved elusive.”
Mrs. Reynolds nodded, perhaps hearing the genuine appreciation in Elizabeth’s tone. “Would you care to continue your tour with me, madam? There are aspects of the house that might interest you.”
“I would appreciate that very much.”
For the next hour, Mrs. Reynolds guided Elizabeth through Pemberley’s principal rooms, offering commentary that revealed the house’s history and the family that had shaped it.
The housekeeper’s initial reserve thawed noticeably when Elizabeth asked intelligent questions about practical matters alongside historical ones.
“The tapestries are magnificent, but how do you protect them from fading? At Longbourn, we struggled with sunlight damage to far less valuable textiles.”
“We rotate the shutters throughout the day. And in summer, special coverings are placed over the most delicate pieces when the family is absent.”
Their tour brought them to the family portrait gallery, a long room lined with paintings dating back centuries. Elizabeth moved slowly from one to another, tracing the evolution of the Darcy features through generations.
“The current master favors the Fitzwilliam side more than most,” Mrs. Reynolds observed, pausing before a portrait of Darcy’s father. “Though he has his father’s height and bearing.”
Elizabeth studied the painting with interest. The elder Mr. Darcy appeared more severe than his son, his expression conveying authority without the hint of underlying sensitivity she occasionally glimpsed in Fitzwilliam.
“And where is Mr. Darcy’s portrait? I see his father, his grandfather, but not him.”
“The master has refused to sit for a formal portrait. Says he sees no need for it until he has gray in his hair. His mother’s death shortly after Miss Georgiana’s birth left him with little patience for such matters.”
This casual reference to Darcy’s childhood loss affected Elizabeth more than she expected.
She recalled Mrs. Wilson in London mentioning how her husband had changed after his mother died—becoming more serious, less inclined to laughter.
Now, surrounded by evidence of the responsibilities that had fallen to him so young, Elizabeth felt renewed appreciation for the man he had become despite such early sorrow.
Their last stop was the magnificent library, a two-story room lined with thousands of volumes.
Tall windows alternated with bookshelves, providing ample natural light for reading at various times of the day.
Comfortable chairs and small tables were arranged in conversational groupings, while a massive desk occupied one end beneath a striking portrait of a gentleman in Tudor dress.
“The first Darcy to own Pemberley,” Mrs. Reynolds explained, following Elizabeth’s gaze to the painting. “He began the library with a collection of manuscripts brought from London. Each generation has added to it since.”