28. Building the House
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
BUILDING THE HOUSE
Elizabeth allowed Thomas’s sticky hand to commandeer her own as he tugged her toward the kitchen garden, where she paused, blinking at the spectacle that awaited.
The snails, it appeared, had multiplied with the enthusiasm of a vicar’s family.
The damp patch beneath the rhubarb had transformed itself from a modest hamlet into a thriving snail metropolis. The larger citizens clambered over their juniors, eye stalks extended in hopeful pursuit of sunlight, while Thomas, undeterred, upended a vase in search of further inhabitants.
“Sidney!” Thomas plucked the largest one, turning it upside down. “Sidney has babies.”
The snail retreated into its shell. Apparently, Sidney, who was now a mother, had produced what appeared to be several dozen offspring, each no larger than a peppercorn.
“Sidney, Mamma now!” Thomas crouched beside the rhubarb, his face alight with the wonder of a naturalist beholding a new species. “Lots and lots of babies!”
“So I see.” Elizabeth knelt beside him, heedless of the damp seeping through her morning dress. “Sidney has been busy.”
“Good Mamma.” Thomas poked gently at the largest snail, who had still not emerged from her shell. “Like Lizba.”
Elizabeth’s throat caught at a sentiment she had not anticipated—that a two-year-old’s observation should touch her with such force.
“Yes,” she managed. “Like Lizba.”
Thomas pointed at the tinier snails. “One, three, four, six, seven!” And then he began again at “one.”
Harley, meanwhile, devoted his considerable energies to the less fragrant attractions of kitchen scraps and discarded bedding, his ears trailing in dignified resignation.
Elizabeth remained crouched beside Thomas, content to watch him count and, for a fleeting moment, to surrender to the peculiar peace of a spring morning that demanded nothing of her but her presence.
The sky wore the washed blue of early May, the air was fragrant with turned earth and the promise of new growth, and somewhere beyond the wall, a gardener’s whistle threaded through the quiet.
She could almost forget that her husband was in London hunting his half-brother, that her marriage was built on foundations she had not examined until they cracked. All while carrying keys in her pocket that opened doors she had not yet found the courage to enter.
“Thomas.” Georgiana’s voice carried across the garden, light and fond. “You shall ruin your new breeches if you kneel in that mud.”
Elizabeth looked up to find her sister-in-law approaching along the gravel path, her morning dress a cheerful yellow that seemed determined to match the late daffodils still blooming along the border.
The shadows beneath Georgiana’s eyes had lessened since the day before, though they had not entirely disappeared; she had the look of a young woman who had wept herself out and was now attempting to reconstruct normalcy from the available materials.
“The snails have started families,” Elizabeth reported, rising and brushing dirt from her skirts. “Thomas is conducting a census, although he seems to skip the numbers two and five.”
“Ah.” Georgiana peered at the peppercorn-sized creatures with the tolerant interest of an aunt who had learned to appreciate whatever her nephew found fascinating. “They are… very small.”
“They will grow. Thomas has assured me that Sidney is an excellent mother.”
Thomas, hearing his name, abandoned his count to inform Georgiana of this fact in considerable detail. Georgiana listened with admirable patience, nodding at appropriate intervals, until Thomas’s enthusiasm wound down and he returned to his census with renewed determination.
“He seems better this morning,” Georgiana observed quietly, watching him. “Less… unsettled.”
“He asked for his father only twice at breakfast.” Elizabeth kept her voice neutral. “I told him Da was working, and he accepted it. For now.”
“Fitzwilliam will return soon.” Georgiana’s tone carried the particular brightness of someone convincing herself as much as her audience. “Once he has found George and sorted everything out. George will sign the papers, and then—”
She faltered, perhaps hearing the tremor in her own assurances.
Elizabeth let the silence stand. The previous evening had found her with Lady Anne’s journals, reading of the boy George had been: charming, restless, always stretching for what lay just beyond his reach.
She could not summon Georgiana’s faith that he would sign anything without first naming his price.
But Georgiana’s faith in her brothers was not Elizabeth’s to dismantle.
Let her believe, for now, that George would do the honorable thing.
Let her imagine that the Kashmiri shawl would arrive, red and gold and proof that her favorite brother had not forgotten her.
Reality would intrude soon enough; there was no need to hasten its arrival.
“I am certain your brother will manage it,” Elizabeth said instead, and if the words were hollow, Georgiana seemed not to notice.
They walked together back toward the house, Thomas trotting between them with Harley galumphing ahead to announce their return to anyone who might be listening.
The morning had warmed enough that Elizabeth did not regret leaving her spencer behind, and the light fell kindly on Pemberley’s stone facade, softening its grandeur into something almost welcoming.
She was beginning, almost against her will, to comprehend Darcy’s affection for this place.
It was not the size or consequence that endeared it, but its steadiness: the house had stood for generations and would stand for generations more, unmoved by the small dramas of its inhabitants.
There was comfort in that permanence, even for a woman whose place within these walls remained uncertain.
Mrs. Reynolds met them at the garden door. “Mrs. Darcy, if you have a moment, there are several matters requiring your attention.”
Elizabeth felt the keys more as an ornament than authority, but she replied, “Of course. Georgiana, would you—”
“I shall take Thomas to the nursery.” Georgiana reached for her nephew’s hand. “Come, Thomas. Hartley has promised to read you the story about the dancing duck.”
“Duck Darcy!” Thomas’s priorities realigned instantly.
He seized Georgiana’s fingers and tugged her toward the stairs, all thought of snails abandoned.
Harley, torn between following the boy and investigating a promising smell near the boot rack, eventually chose loyalty over curiosity and bounded after them.
Elizabeth watched them go, then turned to face Mrs. Reynolds with what she hoped was an expression of capable readiness. “Pray, show me the way.”
The housekeeper inclined her head and set off down the corridor, her pace brisk but not hurried. Elizabeth followed, keenly aware that she was about to be tested—that Mrs. Reynolds would be weighing her competence with every question asked and every decision made.
“The first matter concerns the dinner party,” Mrs. Reynolds began, not breaking stride. “You have been married about a month, ma’am, and the neighborhood expects to be received. To delay much longer would occasion remark.”
A dinner party. Elizabeth had hosted dinners at Longbourn—modest affairs with the Lucases and the officers, her mother’s nerves requiring management and her father’s sardonic commentary requiring deflection—but a dinner party at Pemberley was an altogether different proposition.
Here, she would be the hostess in truth, responsible for menus, seating arrangements, and the precise calibration of social obligation.
“How many guests would be appropriate?” she asked, grateful that her voice did not betray her trepidation.
“For a first dinner, I would suggest no more than twelve. Sir William and Lady Cathcart, the Duntzes, Colonel and Mrs. Powell from Bakewell, your husband’s uncle and aunt, the Matlocks, and perhaps Mr. Pencewell, the magistrate, with his sister.
A manageable number, and representative of the principal families.
You will need to consult Debrett’s or Burke’s for the seating order. ”
“Assuredly, but what about Miss Entwhistle?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s expression flickered—the barest suggestion of opinion before professional neutrality reasserted itself. “Miss Entwhistle is… enthusiastic. She might be better suited to a larger gathering, where her enthusiasms would be diffused among more company.”
Elizabeth suppressed a smile, although she was aware that spinsters created odd numbers that could be unlucky. “Very well. We shall save Miss Entwhistle for another occasion.”
They had reached a door Elizabeth did not recognize—heavy oak, iron-banded, tucked into an alcove at the end of the east corridor. Mrs. Reynolds withdrew a key from her own ring and fitted it to the lock, then paused.
“Forgive me, ma’am. This is your domain now.” She stepped aside, gesturing toward Elizabeth’s pocket. “The large iron key with the Darcy crest.”
Elizabeth found the key—old, cold, substantial in her palm—and fitted it to the lock. The mechanism turned smoothly, as though it had been waiting for her, and the door swung open to reveal a room she had not known existed.
The strongroom.
It was smaller than she had expected, perhaps fifteen feet square, with walls of dressed stone and no windows.
Iron sconces held candles that Mrs. Reynolds lit one by one, their flames revealing shelf upon shelf of ledgers, document boxes, and velvet cases of various sizes.
A heavy desk occupied the center of the room, its surface bare except for an inkstand and a leather blotter.
“The estate accounts,” Mrs. Reynolds said, gesturing toward one wall of ledgers. “Quarterly reports from the farms, the mines, and the timber operations. Mr. Clarke, the steward, maintains them, but Lady Anne reviewed them monthly, and Mr. Darcy has continued the practice.”