Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
Elizabeth had been enamoured of Pemberley from the first moment she saw it that summer, but entering it now as its mistress felt almost beyond belief.
Early in August, she had passed through its gates in a turmoil of apprehension..
She had believed then—or rather, had been informed by reliable sources—that the family was away, never imagining that within a matter of hours he would arrive and alter the course of everything.
That apprehension had turned into outright anxiety when she came across Mr Darcy so unexpectedly, with no assurances of how he might react when he saw her trespassing upon the grounds of his home.
This time, she arrived at his side, not as a visitor uncertain of her welcome, but as his wife.
She greeted the servants, many of whom she had met only a few short weeks before, with an ease that belied both her youth and her slight nervousness.
It soon became apparent, however, that they were as pleased with her as she was determined to be pleased with them.
Their bows and curtsies were respectful, certainly, but there was a warmth in many of their expressions that reassured her more than any formal welcome could have done.
Whether it was because they remembered her former visit, or because Mr Darcy’s evident happiness had recommended her to them before she spoke a word, Elizabeth could not know.
She only knew that she had expected to feel the weight of Pemberley’s grandeur upon her shoulders, and instead found herself met with kindness.
It steadied her. For the first time since the carriage had come within sight of the house, she felt that she might not merely live at Pemberley, but belong there.
With this in mind, she turned her attention with all diligence to the preparations for the Harvest Celebration.
Mary and Georgiana, assisted by Mrs Reynolds and Mrs Annesley, had already advanced the arrangements considerably during her absence.
Mrs Reynolds remained with them to answer such practical questions as must arise, while Mrs Annesley, seated near Georgiana, offered the quiet support of her presence more than any decided opinion.
Elizabeth was grateful for their efforts, and though she still wished the occasion to bear some mark of her own taste, she was conscious that she was joining work already begun with care.
“I know the tenants usually celebrate with a dance after the family has departed, but this year, I would like the music to follow immediately after the supper,” Elizabeth explained to those assisting her.
“In some great houses, the master and mistress open the dancing, and although Mr Darcy does not greatly care for the exercise, I believe he might be prevailed upon to dance with me—and perhaps with his sisters as well.”
Georgiana still regarded her brother with something very like awe, and Elizabeth knew she did not always understand the ease that had grown between herself and Fitzwilliam.
Yet she was determined that her new sister should become accustomed, by degrees, to hearing him teased, contradicted, and loved without ceremony.
The conversation continued from there, turning next to the decorations.
Georgiana had chosen ornaments of a more restrained character: ivy that would be wound neatly about the torches that would provide light, small sheaves of wheat bound with pale ribbon, and bowls of apples from the Pemberley orchards arranged upon the long tables.
Elizabeth admired the elegance of it, for Georgiana had an eye naturally inclined towards delicacy; indeed, there was something in the simplicity of the scheme that suited both Pemberley and its young mistress-in-training very well.
“I like this exceedingly well,” Elizabeth said, taking up one of the sheaves and turning it gently in her hand. “It is graceful without being severe, and it does you credit, Georgiana.”
Georgiana coloured with pleasure. “I was afraid it might be too plain.”
“Not plain,” Elizabeth replied warmly. “Only perhaps there is room to let it grow a little. A harvest celebration may be elegant and still look plentiful, may it not? What do you think, Mary?”
Mary, who had been considering the table with grave attention, said, “Abundance is certainly proper for the season. Still, I should not like it to descend into disorder or into excess; not like Mama would prefer.”
“No, indeed,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “We shall have no disorder or excesses if we can help it. But perhaps a few touches of colour might enliven what you and Georgiana have already begun.”
She suggested, rather than directed, that the apples might be joined by crab apples, damsons, and late plums from the kitchen garden, with hazelnuts scattered among the greenery.
The gardeners might spare Michaelmas daisies in purple and white, a few marigolds, and perhaps any of the last roses from the little walled garden, if they survived the cooler nights.
Rowan berries and rose hips would lend a livelier red, while a little heather, used sparingly, would recall the hills beyond the park.
“And perhaps,” Elizabeth added, with a glance towards Mrs Reynolds, “a few sprigs from the orangery? Nothing extravagant, only enough to give freshness to the whole—if it may be done without injuring any plants or their fruit in the process.”
Mrs Reynolds considered the suggestion with a look of cautious approval. “I believe it may be done, madam. The orange and lemon trees are in very good order, and Mr Darcy will not object to a few sprays being cut.”
“Then we shall be very moderate thieves,” Elizabeth said, laughing softly. “A little myrtle or lemon-leaf, and no more than the orangery can spare.”
Georgiana looked from the modest sheaves of wheat to the imagined brightness of berries, flowers, and glossy leaves. “I had thought too much colour might appear inelegant. Our celebrations have always been muted.”
“They have been very elegant, I am sure,” Elizabeth said gently.
“And I would not lose that. Your arrangement already has good bones, Georgiana. I only wonder whether the season might be permitted to speak a little more fully. When one looks at the trees just beginning to turn, there is nothing vulgar in their green and gold, nor even in the touches of red and orange. Nature herself is rarely timid in autumn.”
Georgiana smiled at that. “Then perhaps the table may be a little less timid as well.”
“Only a little,” Mary put in, with such solemnity that Elizabeth laughed.
“Only a little,” Elizabeth agreed. “Enough that it still looks like Pemberley, but Pemberley in harvest. Pemberley is rather spectacular, after all, and should not our celebration mimic that?”
It took only a few moments more before the three ladies began to speak of the arrangements with greater animation.
Georgiana considered where the brighter berries might be placed without overwhelming the pale yellow ribbons she had chosen; Mary recommended that the nuts be scattered sparingly, lest they make the tables appear untidy; and Elizabeth, pleased by both contributions, found herself less anxious to impose her own design than to see the several tastes before her brought into harmony.
She had no desire to overshadow Georgiana’s efforts, nor to dismiss the elegant restraint of her taste; rather, she hoped to build upon it.
If this was to be her first harvest celebration as mistress of Pemberley, she wished it to bear some mark of her hand, but not at the expense of those who had so kindly begun the work before her.
If she was to occupy that place with any confidence, she must begin somewhere, and perhaps flowers, fruit, leaves, and a little music were as gentle a beginning as any.
Monday, 5 October 1812
The day of the celebration arrived sooner than Elizabeth had expected, falling only a few days after Michaelmas. It seemed, in more ways than one, a fitting occasion for the newly married Darcys; for it came very near the anniversary of their first meeting.
Only that morning, Elizabeth had reminded her husband of the dance awaiting him that evening.
“I hope, Fitzwilliam,” she said, as they broke their fast in their sitting room as had been their habit since arriving at Pemberley, “that you will find me tolerable enough this evening, since we are to open the dancing for the tenants. You need not fear that I shall require you to dance all night, but I do expect at least four dances from you.”
Fitzwilliam raised one brow and regarded her over his tea. “I find you rather more than tolerable, dearest, which I believe I have demonstrated on multiple occasions by now. But why four dances? With whom else am I to stand up?”
“With me, first,” Elizabeth replied, counting them upon her fingers with an air of great seriousness. “Then with Georgiana, then Mary, and then with me again, to atone for the dance we did not have at the assembly in Meryton last year.”
His mouth softened, though his eyes betrayed his amusement. “I see I am to be punished for my former sins.”
“Punished?” she said, her eyes bright with mischief. “Certainly not. I am far too fond of the offender for that. You are only to be properly reformed.”
Elizabeth took up her cup with an air of innocence, though the glance she cast at him over its rim was anything but innocent.
“Besides, as Mrs Darcy, I must occasionally borrow a little of your consequence, and I can think of no better way than to make you dance with me twice before all Pemberley’s servants and tenants.
You shall not find the exertion too great, I hope.
My sisters and I will allow you to rest between the sets, if such consideration should be necessary. ”
She was obliged to bite the inside of her cheek as her husband’s eyes narrowed at her words.
The look he gave her was not at all severe, whatever he might have wished her to believe; there was too much warmth in it, too much promise, and she felt the colour rise in her cheeks before he had spoken a word.
“I assure you,” he said, setting down his cup with great deliberation, “I can manage four dances without requiring the least interval for recovery.”
“Can you indeed?”
His gaze lowered briefly to her mouth, and when it returned to her eyes, the heat in it was enough to make her forget the remains of her breakfast. “Shall I prove my stamina to you now, Mrs Darcy?”
Elizabeth’s laugh escaped her then, although it was softer than she had intended. A little shiver of delight passed through her at the note in his voice. “At breakfast, sir? You grow very bold.”
“With my wife?” he replied, rising and coming round the table with unhurried purpose. He held out his hand, and Elizabeth, with very little pretence of hesitation, placed hers in it. At the slightest tug, she rose and nearly fell into him. “I hope to grow bolder still.”
Whatever answer she might have made was lost when he drew her nearer. Their breakfast was quite forgotten, as were the harvest preparations, the expected guests, and every respectable intention with which the morning had begun.
Very little more was said for some time, though Elizabeth thought her husband made his argument with remarkable eloquence.
By the time Mr and Mrs Darcy at last quitted their rooms, considerably later than either had intended, she was obliged to concede that four dances were unlikely to tax him beyond endurance.
Nor, although she was perfectly aware that she ought to feel some remorse for the delay, could she summon even the smallest portion for the lateness of their arrival downstairs.