Chapter 25
Pemberley
I had thought that our time in the Lakes would be my strongest memory of those early days in the North, but the week with Lady Catherine, the Crawleys, and the Hursts at Pemberley stands out in that peculiar way—like when you fall and graze your knee, and are forced to drink Mr. Jones the apothecary’s bitter tonic, yet go to bed singing because, in spite of everything, you find the day quite remarkable.
I had expected Miss Crawley to launch yet another assault on Fitzwilliam—who could resist, when staying in the same house, eating at the same table, in his company each evening after dinner?
The household and estate were restored to order, and I decided I had the time to visit Lady Ann’s rose garden. Miss Crawley, seeing me put on my bonnet and shawl, asked if she might accompany me. Of course I agreed, and we set off along the gravelled path towards the gardens.
“I wish to apologise, Miss Elizabeth, for my behaviour when we were at dinner a few weeks past.”
We were admiring the Quatre Saisons rose that had just come back into bloom. “Miss Crawley, I do not remember you acting with anything but decorum and propriety. You certainly do not have anything to apologise for.”
“Oh, but I do. I was so forward with Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy? But you hardly spoke to him.”
“No, no. His son, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“All I recall was that you and he had a lively discussion. Horse riding. And those entertainments he enjoyed of an evening—surely there is nothing improper about that?”
“B—but I have realised that you and he had an understanding.”
I halted, flushed, and turned to her in amazement. “I cannot take your meaning. Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and I have an understanding?”
“B—but the accomplishments he allowed—why, I know of only one woman who possesses even half of them.”
What could I say? This was so dreadfully awkward; yet Miss Crawley spoke with such sincerity, I could hardly doubt her.
“I have been told, Miss Crawley, that I overthink—certainly you are doing the same. Come, we all have a knowledge of music—indeed, you performed very well that evening—you sing, no doubt draw, and dance.”
There was a long pause, and we continued to stroll along the paths among the roses.
“I am known for being forthright,” said Miss Crawley after a time. “If we are to venture further down this path, can we not enjoy a slight intimacy? Perchance you could call me Marianne?”
“Yes! And you shall call me Elizabeth, as the household does. When we return to the house, you and Miss Darcy should also become similarly acquainted. Then both Georgiana and I will have another sister.”
“A sister? Are you and Georgiana sisters? I can see some likeness between Mrs. Bennet and Miss Darcy—both tall and fair-haired—but there is little similarity between you and her.”
“Oh, no. We are honorary sisters! It is so much fun. And Mr. Darcy—Fitzwilliam—is an honorary brother. I am so fortunate, for I never had a brother, nor any younger sisters of my own.”
Miss Crawley—Marianne—gave me a searching look. “Elizabeth, you have a gentle heart, and I wish you no harm. But you must see that Mr. Darcy is not your brother—he is something far, far more.”
“Having never had a brother such as yours, I cannot say. But surely brothers share interests in common with their sisters. Fitzwilliam and I have many common interests, though I admit we were fortunate both of us enjoy the classics, and that my Latin is adequate.” I skipped lightly ahead.
“Oh, look! Mama and Mr. Darcy have cultivated a Sweet Briar—’tis my favourite hedgerow plant, and so sweetly scented. ”
Marianne smiled, kneeling down to take in the apple-scented foliage. “Do you truly believe, Elizabeth, that Mr. Darcy’s attentions are the mark of mere brotherly affection? Oh, to have such a brother myself!”
I laughed. “Georgiana and I are the luckiest sisters. No, Marianne, you are determined to make a romance of it when there is none. Mr. Darcy senior was a friend of my father, Mr. Bennet. Subsequently, he has been of great assistance to Mrs. Bennet in her bereavement.” Of course, I could not speak to her of the intimate exchange of letters between Papa and Mr. Darcy, of which I was a party, nor the traumatic experience of Wickham’s attempt to abduct Georgiana.
Marianne shook her head. “I wish there were a man who looked at me the way he does you. And the way you speak his name—so quick to defend him. The lady protests too much me thinkes.”
“You would have me marry, Marianne? I am not Ophelia, nor is Darcy Hamlet.”
“Already, Elizabeth, you defend him! What shall we do with you?” She stood, taking my hand. “Very well. I can see you are resolved not to discuss it further—let us talk of roses.”
‘Whatever does Marianne mean?’ Lydia regarded me with a puzzled expression. ‘Indeed, her brother merely sees her—but Fitzwilliam stares at Lizzy.’
‘Perhaps not all brothers are alike in their admiration of their sisters,’ said Mary, a little uncertainly.
‘Fitzwilliam truly loves Georgiana—he is the best of brothers.’ Kitty sighed. ‘Yet he never looks at her with such intensity as he does Lizzy. Is it proper, I wonder, for a brother to love his sister with such passion?’
I could not reply, for truly I had begun to doubt my heart—that of mere sisterly affection.
For Kitty had the right of it—Fitzwilliam’s regard was highly improper.
Hamlet loved Ophelia, and claimed that forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up his sum.
I wished for the love of only one brother, if, indeed, it was a brother’s love I desired.
* * *
The household had returned to some semblance of order, though pot-meat and broth were still being made up and carried to those tenants in need.
The dinner, of three courses, was sufficiently handsome to deny Lady Catherine’s censure, and Mrs. Crawley remarked that she had never before seen such a good table whose dishes were prepared with an eye to economy and convenience for the kitchen.
Mama promised to share the receipts, once the Crawleys had returned to their estate.
When the ladies returned to the drawing room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission until coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner as proved that she was not used to having her judgement controverted.
I had thought—after her crude warning earlier in the week—that I would be freed from further impertinent interrogation.
“Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?” Lady Catherine directed her attention to me.
“A little.”
A flat response. Likely, she perceived a weakness that she could exploit, for she continued her offensive. “Just a little? Then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Mr. Darcy’s instrument is a capital one, probably superior to any of your experience.”
Mama grew somewhat irritated—it was not Lady Catherine’s place, as a guest, to secure the entertainments for the evening. “It is a fine instrument,” she interrupted, “Broadwood and Sons—similar to that which Mr. Bennet bought for Jane and Elizabeth. We thought very well of it.”
“Oh, Elizabeth, you must play,” cried Georgiana, springing up and moving toward the piano-forte.
“We are to have a performance, what a delight!” At that moment, the gentlemen joined us; Mr. Darcy spoke to the room. “And five young ladies to display. Gentlemen, I believe we are in for a treat.”
Lady Catherine pursed her lips. “Anne, if her health allowed her, would have made a great proficient. Yet there are few people in England who have more enjoyment of music than myself. Miss Bennet, are you to play for us, then?”
Before I could reply, Miss Bingley moved with alacrity to the piano-forte, and after a polite request that I, or the other young ladies, would lead the way—which we as politely and more earnestly demurred—she seated herself.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and their performance was excellent, receiving much well-deserved applause.
Miss Crawley, after some persuasion, took the music stool and entertained us with some lively Scottish airs, all very well received; though Lady Catherine sniffed that such pieces were overly provincial for an evening’s entertainment.
“Shall I play something more suited to your taste, Aunt?” said Georgiana. “Perhaps you would enjoy one of Handel’s suites for keyboard?”
“I have a great natural taste, preferably for the English composers. Certainly, Handel would suit.”
‘Does she know,’ Mary murmured, ‘that Handel was born in Germany?’ Fitzwilliam looked at me and smirked.
Soon, the sparkling Fugue of Handel’s keyboard Suite in E minor filled the room.
I sat back, closing my eyes, enjoying the chromatic passages and far-ranging modulations of the movement.
The following Allemande was graceful and expressive; then the swift Courante, the stately Sarabande, and the Gigue, a fast, energetic movement concluding the suite.
Georgiana’s playing was refined and sensitive; both Mr. Darcy and Fitzwilliam were beaming, proud as they had every right to be, of her musical ability.
I fought a frisson of fear as I made my way to the instrument. My shoulder ached slightly; I had barely touched the keys since our return from the Lakes.
“If you would rather not play, Elizabeth,” said Fitzwilliam, seeing my discomfort, “I am sure our guests understand you are still recovering from your shoulder injury.”
“Oh, tosh, Fitzwilliam. Miss Bennet seems recovered enough to me. Neither Anne nor I would refuse to entertain guests for such a trifle.”
“Catherine, you have no idea what you speak of: Elizabeth suffered a serious injury. And whenever has Anne entertained us, except to sniffle and demand more shawls? And if you find your continuous prattle entertaining, then you are the only one in the room who does!”