4. Unboxing Pemberley
CHAPTER FOUR
UNBOXING PEMBERLEY
Elizabeth began compiling a list in her thoughts, arranging the items as she sat opposite her new husband in the carriage, carrying them steadily toward Pemberley. She asked questions, he answered according to categories, and she made notes in her mind.
His responses on any subject related to his estate were detailed and with animated interest. He gave her the lay of the land, its ancient history, the pride of his Norman ancestors who came over the Channel with William the Conqueror—hence his Fitzwilliam moniker—and the intricate details of the legacy and living it provided.
He would have spent the entire journey regaling her about his magnificent property and family history, if he could find the breath.
Her responsibilities as mistress of Pemberley, duties she had quite forgotten to consider, proved to be rather more extensive than she had imagined.
She had supposed her time would be occupied primarily in caring for Thomas, with little beyond the role of mother to occupy her thoughts.
When Darcy enumerated the social obligations that would demand her attention—visits to neighboring estates, church responsibilities, the oversight of the tenant farms, and the need to entertain the local gentry—she found herself quite overcome.
“Indeed, Fitzwilliam, had you informed my parents that I must assume certain duties I could not possibly foresee, I might have reconsidered my decision to marry you.” She had jested, and he had grimaced, and she wasn’t sure if he felt a sting she hadn’t meant.
“You will find sufficient guidance from Mrs. Reynolds,” he had assured her, his tone becoming more formal.
“She has served our family upwards of thirty years, thoroughly acquainted with my mother’s way of managing the household.
You will, of course, have access to Lady Anne’s journals and daybooks, which contain detailed instructions for every aspect of the estate’s management. ”
“Might those instructions, perhaps, be somewhat dated by this time?” Elizabeth had hesitantly suggested, only to receive, in response, a stony silence that spoke volumes about the untouchable nature of his mother’s memory.
Elizabeth added another item to her mental catalog: Do not jest concerning Darcy’s mother.
By the third day, Elizabeth had turned her inquiries to Darcy himself: his habits, preferences, and the small details that reveal a man.
The closer she drew to his inner life, the more resolutely he retreated.
He spoke of his sister, Georgiana, in the manner of a census-taker: twelve years his junior, motherless since six, raised by nursemaids, with himself and Colonel Fitzwilliam as guardians.
When Elizabeth, emboldened by boredom, ventured an awkward question about how the girl had learned of her courses and the whereabouts of the necessary linens, Darcy turned a remarkable shade of crimson and spluttered that his sister, believing herself at death’s door, had hidden the evidence and summoned the rector for prayer.
And then, there was the wall. Nothing about the half-brother, other than that he had absconded with money Darcy had paid and a promise to his father to provide for him.
His age remained equally vague—somewhere between Darcy’s years and Georgiana’s, and Elizabeth refrained from pursuing any further details about Thomas’s mother, recognizing that the subject was not merely closed but firmly mortared against exploration.
And so, on the fourth day, the carriage rounded a sharp shoulder of wooded hill, and the trees lining the road, ancient and heavy, abruptly parted.
Pemberley appeared at last, its limestone gables catching the sedate light. The estate was handsome and substantial, much like its master, seated with quiet authority. A smooth stream wound through the park, a silver thread leading toward the stone bridge where their carriage now slowed.
Elizabeth could not restrain her gaze from the magnificent sight before her; the estate possessed a completeness that required no validation from a haphazardly acquired mistress to justify its existence. It had stood, dignified for centuries, its worth proclaimed by time itself.
“You are uncommonly silent this morning,” Darcy observed, his eyes fixed upon her rather than the passing landscape.
Elizabeth understood that, in his typically reserved manner, he sought her assessment of the approaching estate.
“I am composing my opening sentence,” she replied. “A house like that deserves a worthy one, and I should hate to waste a poor sentence on it. I shall have it by the bridge.”
The corner of his mouth moved, and she noted it, adding a private item to her list. He smiles when he forgets to guard against it. The trick will be to make him forget more often. And he will wax eloquently about his estate as he is rather proud of it, and from the looks of it, he should.
He leaned toward the carriage window, pointing.
“The water you see is dammed above the house to form the lake. My grandfather’s doing.
The trout in it are the only tenants who have never once given me trouble.
” He indicated the surrounding woodland, which he called the home wood, and pointed toward a rise where an old hunting tower stood, its stone chimney just visible beyond the leafy branches.
“And what about that charming cottage out yonder?” Elizabeth inquired, for it appeared to be a delightful retreat from the imposing main structure with its seemingly endless wings and imposing facades.
“That… is Rose Cottage. A dower house where my mother had meant to live after my marriage.”
Elizabeth reached out to place a consoling hand upon his arm. “It is a truly beautiful residence, though I must confess that I am not accustomed to homes with so many wings. At Longbourn, we contented ourselves with a single, albeit leaky, roof.”
“I have a report that the workmen have arrived. Fear not, Elizabeth, for I shall spare no expense.” His demeanor relaxed as the conversation returned to estate management.
He looked at Elizabeth’s hand on his arm, and she withdrew it quickly, continuing.
“You should be prepared for the formal reception upon our arrival. An outrider was dispatched at our last change of horses, which means the entire household has had nearly an hour to prepare themselves for your arrival. They will be assembled in the hall to receive you—all of them, from Mrs. Reynolds down to the boot-boy. It is the custom when a master brings home a bride. You need to do very little. Walk the line with me, incline your head, and say nothing you do not wish to say. They do not expect a speech, only to see your face, so that they may begin forming the opinion of you they will hold for the next forty years.”
“How comforting to know,” Elizabeth remarked, catching herself just before adding that she was the first bride to be brought to Pemberley since his mother thirty years prior. “At Longbourn, our household consisted merely of Mr. and Mrs. Hill, a cook, and one footman.”
“Mrs. Reynolds has managed this household since long before my birth,” Darcy stated.
“Her opinion carries more weight than all the others combined. If you can earn her respect and regard, you will have effectively secured the loyalty of the entire establishment. The others will naturally follow her lead.”
“Then I shall endeavor to defer to her wisdom then.”
“You must not.” Darcy’s tone was stern. “You are the mistress of Pemberley, and you must act with authority. Mrs. Reynolds will defer to your position as she understands the proper order of things.” Elizabeth nodded without meeting his gaze, and he continued, “One matter requires care. Your maid, Clarice, was hired in town and has never set foot in Pemberley. She knows no one below stairs, and no one knows her. She will enter as a stranger at the head of the upper servants, a circumstance unlikely to be well-received by the established staff. I would advise you to introduce her simply to Mrs. Reynolds and allow the housekeeper to integrate her into the household structure. Do not champion her too warmly. A mistress who fights her maid’s battles risks making that maid an enemy of every other servant in the house. ”
Elizabeth made a note of this observation: he has considered the politics of a lady’s maid to whom he will scarcely speak ten words. There is no end to the matters this man will think about and never feel.
The grand entrance of Pemberley came fully into view as the carriage crossed the bridge.
Whatever Elizabeth had meant to say was lost, because a small figure had detached itself from the imposing front steps and was running—skirts in both hands—down the gravel toward them, well ahead of the assembled and scandalized ranks of servants spilling out behind her in a line that was supposed to have stayed put.
Darcy made a sound low in his throat. “And there,” he said, “goes every protocol I have just described to you. That, my dear, is my sister, Georgiana. Sixteen, wild, and motherless. This is why I could not allow Thomas to grow up without a proper mother.”
This admission struck Elizabeth as perhaps the most personal feeling Darcy had shown. He had clearly sacrificed whatever marital alliance was appropriate for his station in the interest of the boy. The absence of a mother must have weighed heavily upon both him and his sister.
The carriage had not fully stopped before the girl was at the door, and a footman, scrambling, got it open barely in time to prevent her from opening it herself.
She was all coltish height, not yet grown into, with her brother’s dark coloring and none of his composure.
Her face was lit with a joy so undefended that Elizabeth smiled in response.