Chapter Four
Clerkenwell lay but a short drive from Gracechurch Street, yet the turn into its narrower lane was greeted with an excitement that had been building since breakfast. Grace and Bethany pressed their faces to the carriage glass, speaking at once of games they hoped to resume and whether Grandmama’s cat would remember them.
Eddie sat very straight, his elephant tucked firmly beneath one arm, while Freddie slept soundly in the nurse’s arms despite the jostling of the wheels.
The moment the carriage came to a halt, the girls burst forward with delighted cries, their ribbons streaming behind them as they ran up the path, calling for their grandmother.
Mrs. Gardiner followed with her usual composure, adjusting her bonnet with one hand and gesturing for Nora to follow.
Elizabeth stepped down more carefully, retrieving a small valise that had been nudged beneath her feet by a pair of restless shoes.
The morning was fine, the breeze light, and the rosemary planted near the steps gave the air a clean and welcome fragrance.
The door opened before they could knock.
A maid with a cheerful expression stood ready and held it wide as the children hurried past with loud greetings.
Within, the house had a settled, comfortable air.
The woodwork shone with care, and the scent of lavender and hearth ash lingered faintly beneath the polish.
From the back room came the sound of footsteps, and a moment later Mrs. Pembroke appeared, wiping her hands on a neatly folded cloth.
She was small in figure, but her posture was upright and her expression full of affection.
Her white hair was arranged simply beneath her morning cap, and her eyes brightened at the sight of her grandchildren.
Bethany reached her first and was immediately swept into a firm, warm embrace, followed quickly by Grace, who began chattering about her drawing box and which bed she hoped to sleep in.
Eddie hung back for a moment before approaching with solemn dignity, which his grandmother received with a smile and a kiss on the forehead.
“Let me look at you, my darlings. Goodness, how you grow when I am not watching.” She drew the older children close before taking Freddie from Nora's arms. “And you, young sir, are heavier every time I see you. Come along. I believe bread and milk are in your immediate future.”
Only then did she turn to her daughter and gather her into a warm embrace.
“Madeline, my dear. It is good to have you home.”
“I am glad to be here.”
Mrs. Pembroke's attention shifted at last to Elizabeth.
“And this must be Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth curtsied.
“I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, ma'am.”
“Come closer, then. I have heard a great deal about you and intend to see whether any of it is true.”
Elizabeth obeyed, smiling despite herself.
“My grandchildren insist you tell the best stories in England.”
“They are partial judges, I fear.”
“As all sensible grandchildren ought to be.”
The remark was delivered with such certainty that Elizabeth laughed.
“Now,” said Mrs. Pembroke, turning back toward the house, “I believe there are trunks to be sorted and children to settle. Sally is waiting for Nora, and I have tea in the parlour.”
She glanced back at Elizabeth.
“And buns. One cannot properly welcome a guest without buns.”
“Mother has been planning this reception for a fortnight,” said Mrs. Gardiner, slipping her arm through hers.
“A month,” corrected Mrs. Pembroke. “I simply refrained from admitting it.”
Elizabeth followed as they crossed the front hall and entered a broad, sun-warmed room where the scent of lemon peel and sweet buns mingled with beeswax and polished wood.
The children hurried toward the low settee, and Nora followed to remove Freddie’s shoes.
Mrs. Pembroke exchanged a word with the housekeeper, who stood waiting with a tray, and Mrs. Gardiner paused beside Sally at the door.
Left to herself for a moment, Elizabeth crossed toward the hearth.
A portrait hung above it. Its colours were softened by time, but the impression remained undiminished.
The subject was a lady seated with composed formality, her gown a pale blue, her powdered hair arranged in smooth coils and crowned with pearls.
She did not smile. Yet there was clarity in her eyes, and quiet strength in the set of her mouth.
“She was Lady Eleanor.”
Elizabeth turned to find Mrs. Gardiner beside her.
“My great-grandmother. She grew up in this house and returned to it in her widowhood.”
Elizabeth studied the painting a moment longer.
“There is something so resolved in her manner. As though she had no need to be admired, only understood.”
“She was a clergyman's daughter who married a Fitzwilliam and kept her household with more grace than grandeur.
She always intended this house for her daughter, my grandmother Amelia.
But after my grandmother's death, and the changes that followed soon after, she left it to my father instead. She had a particular affection for him. He reminded her of her own father, and she believed he would do some good in the world.”
Mrs. Gardiner glanced toward the portrait.
“I think she would be pleased that it remains in the family.”
“It suits the memory,” Elizabeth said. “There is nothing in this room that contradicts her.”
A burst of giggles from the far side of the room drew their attention. Bethany had attempted to pour tea and made a great mess of the sugar, while Grace was busy instructing her on the proper way to serve.
“Come,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “My mother has promised us tea, and the children appear to have begun without us.”
They returned to the circle of chairs, where the scent of cinnamon and warm bread greeted them.
Mrs. Pembroke presided from her seat with quiet ease, her lap already occupied by Freddie, who was babbling cheerfully between bites of bun.
Bethany had recovered her dignity and was now passing the cups as though born to it.
Elizabeth accepted hers and sat back. She watched the little scene unfold with quiet wonder.
Mrs. Pembroke gave direction without raising her voice, listened with care, and seemed to possess a way of managing everything without managing at all.
She laughed more easily than Elizabeth had expected.
There was nothing weak in her kindness; it was the strength of a woman who had been both mother and rector’s wife, who had held her family together through grief and grown children and the endless details of ordinary life.
It was not a life that claimed much notice.
There were no grand accomplishments, no crowds gathered in admiration.
Yet as Elizabeth sat in that sun-warmed parlour, watching the ease with which affection and order coexisted, she felt something stir.
She had not been taught to wish for such a place in the world. And yet, she wished it all the same.
~BTML~
They had left London at dawn the previous day, the mist still clinging to the eaves of Gracechurch Street.
The bustle of departure left little time for reflection, but once the city faded and the carriage settled into its rhythm, Elizabeth had turned eagerly to the window.
It was the furthest she had ever travelled.
Even the unfamiliar names on mileposts and the curve of distant hills lent the journey a quiet thrill.
Their inn had been plain but clean, and Elizabeth found the novelty of dining in a shared parlour and listening to carts rattle through the courtyard oddly diverting.
The next morning dawned mild. As the road stretched ahead, the air grew lighter and the countryside opened into long fields and stone-banked lanes.
Mr. Gardiner, though his papers were beside him, made no attempt to read.
Elizabeth, too, was content to watch the changing land and let her thoughts drift between the city behind and the sea ahead.
By midmorning, they passed a grey-roofed village nestled in a shallow valley, its hearth smoke rising faintly into the summer air.
“We are coming into Wallcombe,” said Mrs. Gardiner, peering through the glass. “There it is, just beyond the hedgerow. That hill and those cottages, there, are where Pembroke House once stood.”
Mr. Gardiner had set his papers aside somewhere before Wallcombe and did not take them up again. He sat watching the countryside with the particular stillness of a man who has heard a story before and finds it no less worth attending to.
Elizabeth looked to where her aunt gestured. Two whitewashed dwellings stood neatly side by side, their gardens well kept but simple. Between them she glimpsed the remains of a low stone wall, part of which curved away into a cluster of tangled brambles. The land rose gently to a crest just beyond.
“Your father was born there?” she asked.
“He was. But he never called it home. The house was lost while he was still in the cradle.”
Elizabeth kept her gaze upon the hill as the carriage began to move again. “What happened to it?”
“It was a tragedy,” Mrs. Gardiner said at last. “My grandfather, Mr. Richard Pembroke, was a close friend of my great-uncle Frederick. They met at Cambridge and were inseparable by all accounts. Through that friendship, my grandfather came to know my grandmother, Arabella, and they fell in love while they were still very young. But her father, the third Earl of Matlock, did not approve.”
“Was it a question of rank?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not quite. The Pembrokes were of good family, respectable and long established, but my great-grandfather Pembroke had been a man of poor judgement. Cards, wagers, and ill-fated ventures ruined the estate. When he died, my grandfather inherited nothing but debt. He was only one-and-twenty and had little but his name and his ambition.”
“Yet Lady Arabella married him?”