Dressing Room
“Miss Bennet, it is time to wake up.”
Elizabeth awoke with a start, blinking blearily at the maid who had gently roused her. “It is seven o’clock; you asked to be called.”
Elizabeth nodded, fully alert the moment she realised there were things to be done. She was surprisingly refreshed; were the beds at Pemberley magic?
“Thank you! My apologies, I did not catch your name.”
The maid, a kindly woman of forty, replied, “You did not miss it, ma’am. I was visiting tenants for Mrs Reynolds on the other side of the estate. I returned late last night.”
Elizabeth was no longer surprised that Pemberley took care of its tenants, whether Mr Darcy was in attendance or not. It was simply the way of the estate.
The maid gave a small curtsy which might have seemed foolish with Elizabeth still lying in bed, yet she made it appear the proper thing to do. “I am Molly Stewart, ma’am. If you have no objection, I should like to serve as your lady’s maid.”
“I have no objection, though I hardly believe I need one for more than a dozen minutes per day. Should I address you as ‘Molly,’ ‘Stewart,’ or something else?”
“‘Stewart’ would be perfect, ma’am, and I will dispute the dozen minutes.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I see you have heard the rumours of the disagreeable dragon lady. Or perhaps you know how frightful my hair is to control, or my extreme particularity in all matters of dress.”
Molly smiled. “Perhaps I need to catch up on the gossip. My friends neglected to mention any of those things, but the day is young.”
“Well, what shall we do with our dozen minutes?”
“I took the liberty of bringing you a tray. Stockton said you did not eat nearly enough last night. I do not know your preferences, so we brought a variety. Once you finish, you should try on your dress. The sleeves and length were hemmed last night, but the bodice requires attention. I will see to it while you bathe.”
A bath was a heavenly prospect, so she put on a dressing gown. She knew not which rooms she occupied, save that they lay in the family wing, and she looked about with delight.
It was a large, well-proportioned room, handsomely fitted up.
Elizabeth went to a window to enjoy its prospect.
The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended in the rain the previous day, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object.
Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene—the river, the trees scattered on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it—with delight.
The rain had ceased, and it had all the appearance of a fine day, though the ground would obviously be muddy.
From the window, Elizabeth smiled in wonder.
She had seen Pemberley reasonably well through a short break in the rain the previous day from across the valley, though at the time she had not made the effort to truly appreciate it.
She recalled the view: a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance.
She had never seen the like; and of course, those benefits had at the time been entirely superseded by being a place that was warm and dry.
Resigned to the impossibility of wandering, she went into the sitting room to begin her day. There she found a tray with every variety of breakfast imaginable.
“I cannot possibly eat all this.”
“Do not worry; eat what you wish.”
Not normally given to a large breakfast, Elizabeth sat to nibble at the porridge, but soon found the bowl empty, along with several slices of ham, an egg, half a dozen rolls, a cup of coffee, and another of chocolate.
“I imagine I was hungrier than I thought.”
“Yes, ma’am. Now, we have time to pin the dress before your bath.”
“Truly, that dress does not need work. I wore one of Miss Darcy’s dresses yesterday, and it was perfectly adequate.”
Stewart looked stern. “‘Perfectly Adequate’ will not do for the mistress of this house, Miss Bennet.”
Surprised she was not snapping at the maid, Elizabeth said kindly, “I am not the mistress of this house—simply helping Miss Darcy.”
“No, ma’am. For all intents and purposes, you are the mistress, and—”
Steward stopped speaking abruptly, looking horrified, as if her tongue had run away with her, and an embarrassed look passed over her face.
Elizabeth gently asked, “—And?”
“‘Tis not my place.”
“Nor is it mine to act as mistress; we are even. Pray tell me what you were about to reveal. As you say, I am mistress for perhaps another day or less until the Matlocks appear. It would help me to know what is said below stairs. If I am doing damage that Mr Darcy will have to repair, I would at least like to know what it is.”
“Damage?” Stewart squeaked in alarm. “How could you even think that? No, Miss Bennet. It is said that you took this role reluctantly but executed it with grace and intelligence. They hope that… well—”
“Go on, I shall not censure you.”
“Well, they hope for a permanent mistress. If not you, then someone very much like you.”
Elizabeth stared, her heart sinking, but it was nowhere near as distressing as it should have been.
She had known her reputation might not survive this experience intact.
There could be nothing worse than being seen as a grasping mercenary, intent on forcing a way into an estate.
She might very well be beyond the moment when she would be obliged to accept Mr Darcy’s proposal just to remain respectable.
“What do the people of the area think of me? Am I likely to start rumours along those lines? Will my reputation survive this experience?”
Stewart looked shocked. “Of course it will! Everyone for a dozen miles has heard the story of a young lady who stepped in to help her particular friend, Miss Darcy. You are attributed only the highest of motives. Nobody believes you are scheming to become Mrs Darcy, but… well, we can hope and dream.”
Elizabeth sighed resignedly. “It is something of a muddle. I do not suppose there is any talking you out of an hour improving that dress. You seem as if you would agree with me on every particular, nod sympathetically, then make certain all my instructions precisely match your desires.”
They laughed, though both suspected there was more truth than jest in the statement.
“Well, let us get on with it. I would not want to embarrass this fine estate.”
To Elizabeth, there could be no finer pleasure in life than a hot bath after a dirty and dusty day.
She revelled in the simple luxury of hair that was clean, and free of smoke and ash.
She resolved to indulge in at least a quarter hour of simply soaking and was pleased when Stewart joined her in a chair in the corner, to work on her dress.
“What can you tell me about Mr Darcy?”
“Which one? I have known the present master since he was breeched, and his father before that.”
“Either one… both… well, we do not have all day, so tell me something interesting.”
“Both are the finest men I know,” Stewart said.
“I assume you know that, since it must be perfectly obvious to anyone who knows them well. The current master is the best landlord, and the best master, that ever lived. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.”
Weeks earlier, Elizabeth would have been astonished to hear such praise and vigorously denied it, but a long time spent reflecting on the man had left her in a more receptive mood.
She had known him for six weeks in Hertfordshire, and another fortnight in Kent, mostly in social situations where all intercourse was constrained by propriety, and to be honest, her prejudice against the man for finding her not handsome enough to dance with.
In Hertfordshire, they were also constantly dodging the cloying attentions of Miss Bingley, which added no pleasure to the interaction; and the less said about Lady Catherine, the better.
In reality, she did not know the man at all but was beginning to reevaluate their acquaintance.
She was at least disposed to listen and learn.
After all, she had two months of acquaintance, while Stewart had over twenty years and Miss Darcy a lifetime.
Was this not what she had sought in Kympton and Matlock?
Had she not repented her failure to question Lady Matlock more thoroughly?
Very cautiously, she said, “You present a very good picture of the gentleman, though I must confess, I have not seen that aspect of him.”
Stewart appeared shocked. “Perhaps you did not see him at his best. In society, he tends to shyness and reserve, which comes across as haughtiness. I believe the ladies of the ton have hunted him for years, and he does not react well. He is especially vulnerable when he meets marriageable ladies with, how shall I say it, ‘ambitious’ mothers.”
“Perhaps. So, what makes you think I am not just another huntress with a better strategy? I can assure you, I know ladies who would jump at the chance to do what I have done to force his hand.”
Stewart paused over her sewing. “He is very much like his father. You are right… you could probably force his hand after this, but nobody in this house believes you would, and to be honest, there are those who would consider that outcome ideal. This house needs a permanent mistress.”
Elizabeth gasped. Stewart laughed softly.
“Do not worry, Miss Bennet. Those are just dreams. Nobody but me would dare speak them aloud, and I would not to anybody but you.”
“You have known me all of an hour.”
“I have known Miss Darcy since she was born, and Mr Breton as long as Mr Darcy. They trust you, and that is good enough for me.”
“So, tell me about Mr Darcy.”
Over the next hour, as she finished her bath, dried her hair, and had her dress altered, Elizabeth received the first true, first-hand, honest assessment of Mr Darcy.
If Stewart was to be trusted, he did indeed sound like the best of men…
for the most part. Stewart did not stint in praise, nor was she shy about telling when he did something disagreeable, which happened as often as it might for anybody.
She had quite a lot to say about the three boys who grew up together.
She could not say enough good things about two of them, nor enough bad about the third.
Elizabeth was shocked to learn how very bad Mr Wickham appeared, and she felt shame for having fallen for his tale so readily.
She had already decided he was unreliable but now had to entertain the shocking idea that he deliberately lied, specifically to paint Mr Darcy in a bad light.
Stewart knew not all the particulars, but believed him an especially bad man who would do just about anything to injure the master, any chance he got.
Furthermore, not only could he do it, but he had done it more than once.
An uncomfortable thought struck Elizabeth: like a ship that took the wrong river, Mr Wickham had pointed her in the wrong direction, and she had taken just about every interaction after that point in a negative light, merely because it matched her first impression.
She resolved to begin anew and rethink every single encounter, with the idea that Mr Darcy was being as honest as he could under the circumstances, which was admittedly not without fault.
Stewart was just about done with the dress when Elizabeth started. Poor Stewart thought she might have pricked her with a pin, and it took a moment to convince her otherwise, but at the end of it, a thought struck Elizabeth forcibly.
Suppose Mr Darcy started feeling an attraction to her but found her circumstances inadequate for the mistress of Pemberley.
He had no indication she could manage a large estate—and given her mother, who would think it likely.
Had she not been thrust into the role, she was not even certain she would have thought herself up to the task.
Her younger sisters were noisy flirts, and her mother an ill-mannered mercenary who made no bones about it.
Her father was an indolent master who left daughters with no dowries or education to speak of.
She had no connections, no wealth, marginal beauty and accomplishments; in short, nothing to recommend her.
Suppose he felt some attraction anyway or even fell in love as he claimed.
Not love as a man was expected to declare in a proposal out of form, but true love, of the kind a man could not ignore.
He would be honour-bound to keep his distance, raising no expectations until he was certain what he was about.
When he was certain, he would have to make his intentions known; but before that, he could not in good conscience do so, for fear of raising expectations that could not be met; expectations which might damage a lady’s heart and reputation, as had happened to her poor sister.
The Mr Darcy Stewart described would not do that.
Suddenly, Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy seemed not so complicated after all.
He might well be just what he appeared—a man who fell in love very much against his will, against his reason, against his family and societal expectations, and against his better judgement.
If so, it begged a single question. Was that a terrible thing?