Chapter 23
Elizabeth
A month after our arrival at Pemberley, I hosted my first dinner as mistress of the house.
Mrs. Reynolds had prepared every detail with such competence that my presence was almost decorative.
Yet I checked the place cards, the flowers, the menu, and the state of the silverware with feverish diligence.
I had entertained enough neighbors at Longbourn to know a dinner could survive overcooked vegetables and mediocre conversation.
At Pemberley, however, the slightest decision became a test of rank.
The guests came from the families nearest the estate. Several had known Fitzwilliam’s mother. Others had awaited his marriage with the curiosity my parentage, my fortune, and Lady Catherine’s intervention made inevitable.
“You’re going to wear out the carpet,” my husband observed, finding me in the dining room for the third time.
“It’s very durable.”
“So are you.”
“The carpet doesn’t have to wonder whether twenty people will compare its hospitality to your mother’s.”
His expression changed.
“No one has the right to impose that comparison on you.”
“Rights have never stopped people from forming opinions.”
He approached and took my hands.
“My mother knew Pemberley from childhood. You’ve been here four weeks. If anyone expects the same assurance from you, their judgment doesn’t merit your concern.”
“That’s an admirable consolation from a man who’s never been judged on his choice of soup.”
A smile crossed his lips.
“I’ll be judged on my choice of wife.”
“And if the dinner is bad?”
“I’ll claim to have married you for other qualities.”
I tried to pull my hands away. He held them fast.
“Elizabeth, you have nothing to prove tonight.”
“You said the same thing before our wedding night.”
His gaze darkened at once.
“The result was very satisfactory.”
“For a man who wasn’t supposed to distract me, you choose your memories poorly.”
He brought my fingers to his lips.
“Then I’ll leave you to your soups.”
The dinner began well. I remembered the names, steered conversations with sufficient skill, and prevented a nearly deaf old lady from questioning Georgiana about Wickham.
Fitzwilliam, seated at the other end of the table, sometimes looked at me with a pride that unsettled my concentration more than any criticism could have.
Then Fitzwilliam’s aunt—his maternal uncle’s wife—mentioned the last reception Lady Anne Darcy had given before her death.
“She always placed white roses in the gallery,” she said. “She claimed the red ones darkened the portraits.”
Her tone was not hostile. Yet several glances drifted toward the red roses I had chosen that very morning.
I replied lightly:
“The portraits will have to get used to less discreet company.”
The table laughed. The conversation resumed.
My confidence did not.
Every detail suddenly seemed wrong. The sauce too thick.
The wine served a minute too late. My Hertfordshire accent more noticeable among the polished voices.
I wondered if Fitzwilliam noticed my errors, if he missed the perfect mastery of a mother whose place I filled without possessing her training.
After the guests left, I went up to our chamber before him.
I removed my earrings with sharp movements. When he entered, he found me at the dressing table, my shoulders rigid.
“The dinner was a success,” he said.
“Because no one died of poisoning?”
He closed the door.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“You taught me not to accept that answer.”
I set an earring down on the table.
“Your aunt spoke of your mother.”
“She often does.”
“She spoke of how she entertained, how she chose flowers, how she ran the house. Everyone knew exactly what she would have done in my place.”
“No one criticized you.”
“You don't get to decide I wasn't judged simply because you didn't hear any criticism.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
I stood up.
“I know your mother was loved. I have no wish to erase her memory. But I refuse to live in a house where every choice is measured against a dead woman I can never equal.”
Fitzwilliam remained silent long enough for my anger to mingle with fear.
“Say something.”
“I'm thinking before I make the mistake of telling you what you should feel.”
That answer lowered some of my defenses.
He came toward me.
“I grew up at Pemberley. My mother's habits seem so natural to me that I failed to see how completely they surround you. Mrs. Reynolds, my aunt, the neighbors… They speak of her with affection, but every memory can become an instruction you never asked for.”
“Yes.”
“What would you like me to do?”
I considered the question. Once, he would have decided on a solution and presented it as the only reasonable one. Now, he waited.
“Nothing with the others, for now. I don't want you ordering them to stop saying her name. I just need you not to dismiss what this costs me.”
“I won't do it again.”
“And I need to be able to change some things without fearing I'll hurt you.”
“This house is yours.”
“It's ours.”
His face softened.
“Yes. Ours.”
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Lady Anne's pearls encircled my neck. I touched them.
“Should I stop wearing them?” he asked.
“No. I love them. I just want to be free to choose red roses with them.”
He smiled.
“My mother hated white roses.”
I turned toward him.
“Your aunt said…”
“My aunt preferred them. My mother only used them in the gallery because her aunt complained about the red ones every time.”
I stared at him, then burst out laughing.
“So I suffered for an hour over a fifteen-year-old floral surrender.”
“The grandest traditions are sometimes born of exhaustion.”
He brushed his fingers against the necklace.
“She would have loved you. Not because you resemble her, but because you don't try to.”
Emotion tightened my throat.
“How can you know that?”
“She said Pemberley needed living people, not museum keepers.”
I rested my forehead against his chest.
“I was ridiculous.”
“No. You were afraid, and you told me.”
“After first assuring you that nothing had happened.”
“So your perfection remains out of reach.”
I raised my face.
“And you love me despite this disappointment?”
“I love you in part because of it.”
He kissed me.
The tenderness of the kiss slowly transformed. His hands undid the pins in my hair, then the buttons down my back. My dress slipped to my waist.
“Fitzwilliam,” I murmured, “the servants haven't cleared the dishes yet.”
“They have a great deal of experience with discretion.”
“That's a troubling level of confidence.”
He kissed the curve of my neck.
“Do you wish me to stop?”
In that question, I found the whole journey we had traveled since Hunsford: his proud proposal, my consent dictated by fear, the freedom he had returned to me, every moment we had learned to trust each other.
“No.”
He lifted me and carried me to the bed.
Later, lying in his arms, I announced that the red roses would stay in the gallery.
“I would never have dared suggest otherwise,” he replied.
“You learn quickly.”
“I have an excellent mistress.”
“Of the house?”
His smile against my skin gave me the answer before his hands did.
The next day, Mrs. Reynolds asked me if I wanted to replace the flowers.
“No,” I said. “They’re exactly where they belong.”