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The first few weeks at Pemberley had been blissful, almost a second honeymoon. Mrs Reynolds had eased her gently into her new life as mistress of the great house — and her husband less gently into life as mistress of his heart — but soon her responsibilities increased from overseeing the day’s menus and making arrangements with her housekeeper to the more expansive role of a great lady of Derbyshire. Their first dinner had not been an abject failure, but nor was it a roaring success.
She was a gentleman’s daughter and entirely competent in the necessities of running a household, but had any of the Bennet women ever even daydreamed of a house on this scale? The obstacles at this level were invisible: those of taste and discretion, of meeting unspoken rules with unspoken consequences.
It was a strange time, with Lizzy so caught up in threads and pulled in different directions that she was losing track of things. Something that she was looking for would disappear and another appear in its place, always just right for the occasion - ribbons, a necklace, once a gown. She couldn't explain it.
Still, even these small follies had their uses. When she had been asked to decide between two sets of napiery for the dinner table — one classic and plain but perhaps too safe, the other bolder but likely to invite comment — somehow a decanter of red wine had spilled all over the crisp white linen of the former, and for all Mrs Reynolds' protestations that the laundry would ameliorate such a mishap, it could still not be done in time. Perhaps it was for the best: of all the disparaging whispers she caught about her arrangements, none were about that element!
She didn't know how she could have spilled wine from two feet away, but she was glad to have done so.
In the aftermath, relieved to have survived such an ordeal, Lizzy settled to write a letter to Jane, who had been prevented from joining them by a crisis of Mama's nerves at Longbourn at such a journey in midwinter.
Elizabeth had laughed at that little absurdity when she received Jane's letter, but she was still disappointed not to have the Bingleys firmly on her side. Of course Jane would not leave their mother if she was distressed, but what different ladies the two of them were — all three of them, in fact. The portrait of Lady Anne Darcy, her late mother-in-law, caught Lizzy's eye as she sat down to write. It was painted when she was a similar age and Lizzy liked the picture; there was a playfulness to its subject's countenance, a gleam in the eye as if she were sharing a jest with the viewer, but there was still an effortless elegance that did not come naturally to Lizzy.
What kind of lady should be mistress of such an establishment? she wrote to her sister. What would Lady Anne have thought of me, of this?
Lizzy’s preferred parlour, with a view of the woods to the south east, fine blue wallpaper and floor to ceiling shelves full of cloth bound volumes on one wall, featured a writing desk before one of the great windows. She stared out, head in one hand, as she pondered her latest question. It had been Lady Anne's choice of parlour, Mrs Reynolds had said, when they met there on Lizzy's first morning as mistress, and they had followed that venerable lady's tradition. It had not been Lizzy's favourite of all the grand rooms at Pemberley, but it was growing on her for its surprisingly comfortable arrangements and the excellent view of the comings and goings outside.
A deer suddenly bolted across the lawn directly outside the window. Lizzy jumped, thumping the underside of the desk with her knee and upending the ink bottle.
A lady did not swear, even in the privacy of her own parlour, but Lizzy’s exclamation was more coarse than was appropriate for the new Mrs Darcy. Already on her feet, she stepped back, trying to keep her gown clear of the spreading puddle.
She opened and closed each drawer in turn, frantically searching for something to stem the flow. Edging back again, she backed into the bookshelf, knocking a few volumes to the floor. There was no time to waste; she extracted a handkerchief and mopped at the black danger.
It was ruined, but better a scrap of muslin than one of Pemberley’s fine carpets, and Lizzy again felt a brief flush of inferiority, of insufficiency. She knew she was good enough and had never truly doubted it, but where was the elegance, the poise? When would she feel comfortable as the lady she was becoming?
One of the volumes on her feet had fallen open, and Lizzy would have closed it and slipped it into the gap on the dustless shelf, except it was clearly handwritten. One word caught her eye, and she found herself reading the neat cursive script.
Fitzwilliam is such a big name for a little boy; I cannot help but wonder if that is why he is so serious. It is said that a man becomes his name - a Baker would be adept as such - and we have given my boy such a burden of syllables and history. But he is a fine boy, and he will be a fine young man. God willing, his wife will lighten that seriousness and bring him laughter. His laugh is the sweetest in all the world.
Lizzy looked around; the hairs on her neck stood on edge. What were the chances of this volume falling open to this page in such a moment?
Her eyes fell on the portrait of the late Lady Anne Darcy hanging above the mantle, a smiling and gentle-faced young lady with hair dressed in the fashions of a quarter of a century ago, and it seemed to Lizzy as if she were looking at her. Still holding the volume, Lizzy stepped closer, and compared it to the one in the painting. It was the same.
“I will do my best,” Lizzy said to her late mother-in-law’s image, and she felt the lady smiling on her. She shivered, then slipped the journal back into its place on the shelf and went in search for her husband, letter abandoned for the moment in favour of different duties.
This was not a moment for misery; it was one for mirth and joy.