Chapter 49
TO HAVE HIS OWN WAY
T he view out to sea was Eleanor’s favourite.
She talked constantly of the tall ships sailing by, the changing clouds, the water that was sometimes choppy, sometimes smooth and glistening.
Aloud, Mrs Reynolds agreed, for her friend had done too much for her to hear any manner of complaint, but privately, she could never perceive anything extraordinary in the monotonous, grey vista.
Her eyes were no longer strong enough to see the distant specks of boats, and her heart was too fragile not to be terrified by the vastness of the disappearing horizon.
She longed for Derbyshire, to be once more grounded betwixt rocks and mountains.
Yet, here she sat, as she did most mornings, at the rickety table outside Eleanor’s cottage, wrapped in shawls to ward of the wind that whipped up over the cliffs as she and her friend drank chocolate and observed the view.
If she did not, there was every chance she would forget what fresh air tasted like, for she never left the house otherwise.
Mr Wallis had procured a bath chair for her use, but neither he nor Eleanor were strong enough to push it up and down the steep hills of the town. This was as far as she ever got.
Eleanor had gone inside to fetch some biscuits when a movement at the head of the cliff path caught Mrs Reynolds’s attention.
Her failing sight showed her only the silhouette of a man in a hat, but as she watched him approach, her eyes filled with disbelieving tears, for she would be blind before she failed to recognise that stately stride.
She had never been given to flights of fancy, but she wondered whether she had drifted to sleep in her chair and begun to dream.
Then the figure drew near enough that the shadows receded, and a little cry escaped her lips to see his dear face. Mr Darcy had come to see her!
“You know how I like to have my own way, Mrs Reynolds,” he said gently but firmly. “I am afraid I must insist that you come home to Pemberley. Where you belong.”
He had not lost his piercing gaze, though it no longer had the haunted quality from the summer and instead contained a warmth that gladdened her heart to see.
She held out a shaking hand and the dear man took it.
She smiled unsteadily. “You always were the most sweet-tempered, generous-hearted boy in the world.”
Somebody else appeared at his side. Mrs Reynolds suffered a moment of apprehension when she recognised Clarabelle, but there was no hint of censure in her countenance, only a hopeful smile as she took Mrs Reynolds’s other hand and asked, “Will you come?”
Eleanor had evidently returned as well, for she said from somewhere behind, “Did not I tell you, Agnes? Not a bone of resentment in her body, my Dot.”
Eleanor had told her, repeatedly, but it had been difficult for Mrs Reynolds to imagine anyone forgiving her when she could not forgive herself.
Yet, Mr Darcy evidently had. He truly was the best master that ever lived.
And he had found the only woman in the world who was good enough for him, and she had forgiven her as well.
Thus, although she assured Mr and Mrs Darcy that she would be honoured to accept their generous offer, and though the prospect of seeing Pemberley again before she departed this world gave her pleasure such as she had never felt before, Mrs Reynolds thought that if she had died there and then, she would have died happy.