27. The Keys to Pemberley
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE KEYS TO PEMBERLEY
Elizabeth awoke with the peculiar conviction that Pemberley had emptied itself overnight.
The soft tread of servants in the corridor, the distant splash of water as Clarice prepared her bath—these were the ordinary proofs of habitation, yet they did nothing to dispel the dread that slipped down her throat.
It seemed entirely possible that Darcy, having seen the mask slip, had vanished with the dawn, leaving her to preside over the ruins of their little pageant.
Georgiana knew, and by now Mrs. Reynolds would have seen to the rest. Elizabeth’s disgrace would trickle down to the humblest footman, the most remote stable boy.
Mrs. Darcy, it seemed, had been engaged for a single, unflattering purpose: to tend the consequences of another’s folly.
The celebrated romance that haunted Pemberley’s corridors belonged to a woman long departed—dead to the world, but not, alas, to the only man who mattered.
Fitzwilliam had worshipped her, loved her steadily, paid homage to her literary ambitions, mourned her with a grief exceeding little Thomas’s cries—and it had not been unrequited. She had loved him enough to bear his son, trust him with her papers, her manuscripts, and her love-child…
And Elizabeth had been brought in to fill a hole.
She lay in that grey dawn, her eyes drawn to that crack—Mr. Collins’s unfortunate profile—and knew with a deep abiding certainty that her quest for love had failed—that the only circumstance that improved was Darcy’s wealth, his estate, and the boy she had grown to love.
That she would never occupy her husband’s heart, despite his desperate words.
He had performed for the household, and she had woven her own story, embellished by silly notions.
And as her eyes traced the crack, from Collins’s forehead to his regrettable nose, she pushed herself from the bed with the only certainty she knew—the absence of Darcy’s valet’s voice, no shuffling of furniture nor the sound of boots as he paced…
Darcy was gone.
Good. She did not want to see him at breakfast, did not want to navigate the treacherous waters of morning pleasantries while servants pretended not to notice that the master and mistress were barely speaking. His absence was a mercy.
She repeated this to herself with all the conviction she could muster, and nearly succeeded in believing it.
The connecting door stayed resolutely shut. Elizabeth regarded it for a span that would have scandalized her pride, then flung aside the coverlet and summoned Clarice. Pemberley did not halt for private catastrophes, and neither, she resolved, would its mistress.
Clarice entered, her expression as unruffled as ever, and Elizabeth saw no reason to disturb the peace. She was only half-dressed when Mrs. Reynolds materialized at the door, bearing a tray of chocolate—a gesture far too ceremonial for the head housekeeper’s usual habits.
“Ma’am.” The housekeeper’s voice carried its usual steadiness, though a softer note moved beneath it. “Mr. Darcy departed for London at first light. He left instructions that I was to wait upon you this morning.”
“How efficient of him.” Elizabeth accepted the chocolate and pretended not to notice the edge in her own voice. “I trust he left the household in capable hands.”
“He left it in yours, ma’am.” Mrs. Reynolds reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a heavy ring of ornate keys, placing them on the dressing table.
“These are for you. Mr. Darcy wishes you to understand that Pemberley is your home, and you are its mistress in all things with the same authority Lady Anne held.”
“But…” She stared at the multitude of keys, some large and heavy, as if coming from centuries ago, and others smaller, still polished and glinting in the morning light. “I have no knowledge of…”
“I will guide you to every location,” Mrs. Reynolds continued.
“The estate is large, but it belongs to you. The still room, the silver vault, the wine cellar, the strongroom, even Lady Anne’s jewelry box.
Estate offices, document vaults. All of it, ma’am.
We are to answer to you as we answered to the late Mrs. Darcy. ”
“That is…” Elizabeth reached out and touched the cold iron. “That is a great deal of trust to place in a woman he has known less than a month.”
“Mr. Darcy does not give trust lightly.” Mrs. Reynolds’s eyes were bright, although her tone was firm. “But when he gives it, he does not retract it. We shall care for you as we cared for Lady Anne. That is all he wished you to understand.”
When the housekeeper withdrew, Elizabeth glanced at Clarice, who had maintained a silence worthy of a confessor.
“You are not from this household,” she ventured. “What do you believe is the significance of a master who departed without a farewell and has evidently decided to bestow his kingdom on a stranger?”
“The significance, ma’am?” Clarice tilted her head a fraction—the only sign she found the question worth considering.
“A man who distrusts his wife does not hand her the keys to his strongroom. A man who regrets his marriage does not instruct his housekeeper to treat her as the late Mrs. Darcy was treated.”
As Clarice crossed to the wardrobe, Elizabeth was tempted to inquire about her previous households, and what dramas she had witnessed between master and mistress.
“Our marriage was arranged by my husband to fulfill a purpose,” she ventured. “I do not require the keys and the responsibility that comes with such authority.”
“You may not believe you are worthy, but your husband has placed his trust in your hands.” Her voice was gentle as she returned with a light-rose morning gown. “Not every woman is given this authority. Mr. Darcy evidently believes you are.”
“But why now? He has not discussed this with me. He simply leaves instructions.”
Clarice’s expression hardened, the first emotion Elizabeth had ever glimpsed on her face.
“I have seen women throw away their blessings because they did not regard…” She paused as if she’d said too much.
“The proverbs remind us, madam, that a wise woman builds her house, but the foolish one plucks it down with her own hands. I do not presume to know Mr. Darcy’s mind.
But if I were to guess, I would say he wishes you to see Pemberley as worthy of your care.
Not merely a place where you reside, but a place you might come to love. ”
Unspoken were the words that might follow, that she might come to love him, too. Her eyes met Elizabeth’s in the mirror, a flicker of knowledge or warning, quickly shuttered, making Elizabeth wonder about the other ladies Clarice had dressed—the foolish ones who destroyed their own happiness.
Clarice fastened the last button and set about arranging Elizabeth’s hair in a plain knot—nothing to suggest she hoped to charm or impress. The maid’s hands were swift and impersonal, her face restored to its customary composure.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
Elizabeth almost laughed. What else could there possibly be?
Her husband had fled to London. Her marriage was in shambles.
She was in possession of keys to a kingdom she had never asked to rule—a consolation prize as if he could mollify her with Pemberley now that his heart was discovered to belong to another.
“No,” she said. “That will be all.”
Clarice curtsied and departed, leaving Elizabeth with the troublesome notion that her maid had just called her a fool.
Well then, Elizabeth Bennet might have been humiliated by her folly in love and wretchedly blinded by the pride in her discernment, but she would not succumb to the common malaise of troubled women.
If Mr. Darcy had entrusted her with the keys, she would employ them. If he scorned her affections, she would demonstrate her worth so thoroughly that he might one day regret the loss of her esteem.
Thus armed, Elizabeth dropped the heavy keyring into her pocket and marched, almost regally, down the staircase to the morning room.
No more shrinking inside her bedchamber and asking for trays.
No more Gothic uselessness, bemoaning her fate, and pining for a man who had lost the only woman he had ever loved.
Elizabeth found Georgiana seated at the long table with a cup of tea without steam.
“You look dreadful,” she said, settling into the chair opposite.
Georgiana’s lips twitched. “So do you. Your eyes are swollen.”
“Not for the usual reasons, I assure you.” Elizabeth reached for the toast and began spreading butter with more attention than the task required. “I see your brother has fled to London rather than face me over kippers.”
“He has important business.” Georgiana’s voice held a note of defense, though it wavered.
“I am certain he does.”
They ate in silence for a moment—or rather, Elizabeth ate while Georgiana pushed ham around her plate. The morning light slanted through the windows, catching the red rims of Georgiana’s eyes, and Elizabeth felt a pang. She reached across the table and patted her hand.
“Your brother will fix everything, at least to his satisfaction.”
“Yes, I believe he will,” Georgiana agreed. “He has gone to London to find George and bring him back so he can correct the registry entry.”
Elizabeth’s hand stilled on her teacup. “Find him? I thought Mr. Wickham was on his way to India. Did he talk about living like a rajah?”
“Fitzwilliam believes…” Georgiana hesitated, her gaze dropping to her untouched eggs. “He believes George may not have gone to India at all. Viscount Drake let something slip during their meeting. That his parents have been in contact.”
“Then he has not gone to India, for it is quite impossible for a man on board a ship to be in contact with the Earl and Countess of Drake.”