CHAPTERONE
CLARABELLE
Pemberley was hers. Every chamber, every passageway, every stair; each and every nook—from the attic rafters to the cellar floor—were embossed upon her mind. The house was in her blood. Indeed, there was no small quantity of her blood in the house, for one could not scrub properly without scraped knuckles to show for it, and not even the lofty rank of housekeeper had exempted Mrs Reynolds from scouring her share of grates and flagstones over the years. Her home, her livelihood, her world for the last quarter of a century—Pemberley had earned an unassailable place in her heart.
There was but one entity to which she was more devoted, and he was arriving on the morrow, bringing a large party of friends and his younger sister with him. It was vastly inconvenient, therefore, that visitors had chosen this day to apply to see the house. Rooms were aswarm with servants; labourers climbed like ants up and down ladders; deliveries of fresh produce poured into the bowels of the house by the cartful—all in preparation for the master’s first return in many months. Interruptions were undesirable.
The footman who had brought her the vexatious news shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Should you prefer that I ask Mr Matthis to show them around?”
“No, there is no need for that. I shall come directly. But you had better let everybody know to stay out of the way until they are gone. And alert Mr Howes, for they will likely wish to see the gardens after the house.”
With a quick nod, James left to deliver the instructions. Of course, Mr Matthis was perfectly capable of giving a tour of the house, but he considered it beneath him and preferred Mrs Reynolds to attend to all comers. It was an arrangement that suited her well. She was paid handsomely for her dedication to Pemberley, but she could never match the butler’s chief qualification of being a man, nor, by the same token, ever receive equal remuneration, thus she felt no compunction in taking all visitors’ tips for herself. Indeed, having no family to whom she might send funds, she had saved quite a sum by precisely those means for such a time as she was no longer able to work. A time which, of late, seemed to be accelerating towards her with disconcerting haste.
A party of three awaited her in the hall. Two were of middling years and married, if their linked arms were any indication. His brown coat, thickset stature, and sun-flushed complexion gave him all the appearance of a highly polished tea caddy. Her pale-yellow bonnet, protruding from her head like a trumpet, made her the picture of a daffodil. A younger lady accompanied them, and the eyes with which she unblinkingly surveyed her surroundings were so dark and so wide, and framed with such startlingly long lashes, as instantly put Mrs Reynolds in mind of Clarabelle the dairy cow. She curtseyed to all three and invited them to follow her into the dining-parlour.
It had long been her habit to name those who came seeking a tour of Pemberley. Such people rarely introduced themselves—something she had always considered a false conceit, since anyone whose only method of crossing the threshold of such a fine house was as a tourist could generally be but a warehouse door removed from the position of respectable upper servant themselves. Name them she must, however, for she required some method of identifying them in her letters to dear Eleanor, who never ceased to be delighted by the peculiarities of so many strangers.
“This is a fine room,” Tea Caddy remarked. “Sizeable without forfeiting the acoustics. Not like the dining hall at Chatsworth that echoed every drop of a pin.”
His manner pleased Mrs Reynolds. He seemed not unduly awed, only genuinely pleased. He listened with keen interest as she detailed the provenance of the vast dining table and the dinner served upon it to the king in 1764. Daffodil nodded appreciatively as she wandered the length of the room, admiring this sideboard and that ornament. Clarabelle only slightly surveyed it all before drifting to a window and staring out over the grounds. Mrs Reynolds was pleased to have a keener audience in Tea Caddy and Daffodil, else such indifference might have rankled.
From the dining-parlour, she led the party into the Venetian drawing room, a chamber always guaranteed to amaze. Though every bit as tasteful as the rest of Pemberley, it boasted the only ceiling in the house whose mouldings were gilded, and together with the vast, south-facing windows, they gave the room a lustrous, ethereal glow during the day. Daffodil exclaimed over the lightness of the space. Tea Caddy admired the elegant proportions.
Mrs Reynolds resolved not to be vexed when Clarabelle once more gave it only a cursory glance before ambling to peer outside. After all, the view was—by design—spectacular and warranted admiration. Her resolve wavered when the young lady showed the same disregard in both of the next two rooms. If all she wished to do was look at trees, Mrs Reynolds wished she had not petitioned to be shown indoors at all, for then her own activities might not have been interrupted.
There was more universal approbation of the Stag Parlour, but then, it was a difficult room of which not to approve. Its dark hues, welcoming furniture, and oversized fireplace made it a snug, intimate space that exuded cosiness and warmth.
An admiring turn came over Tea Caddy’s countenance. “Now this is a room to which a gentleman could very quickly grow accustomed. I expect it is used a good deal when your master is at home—though our chambermaid seemed to think he is away at present.”
Mrs Reynolds replied that he was and could not resist adding, “We expect him tomorrow, with a large party of friends.” Alas—or perhaps fortunately—her allusion to the inconvenience of the trio’s visit went undetected. She left Tea Caddy inspecting the tapestry above the chaise and walked to where the two ladies were looking at the miniatures that hung above the mantelpiece. As she approached, Daffodil pointed at the likeness of George Wickham and enquired of her companion how she liked it. Bristling that either woman should have singled him out over and above any of the other, finer gentlemen whose paintings were likewise displayed, Mrs Reynolds interjected.
“That is the picture of a young gentleman, the son of my late master’s steward, who was brought up by him at his own expense. He is now gone into the army, but I am afraid he has turned out very wild.” She pointed to the painting of Mr Darcy. “And that is my master, and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other. About eight years ago.”
“I have heard much of your master’s fine person,” Daffodil replied. “It is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not.”
“Does that young lady know Mr Darcy?” Mrs Reynolds enquired with a start.
Clarabelle admitted that she knew him a little, colouring slightly as she did—and well she might! To pry about the home of one’s acquaintance while he was away was unaccountably strange. Perhaps she and the master were not on good terms, in which case, her coming was the most insolent thing in the world.
“And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma’am?” Mrs Reynolds enquired. She kept her tone friendly, for she would never discredit Mr Darcy by being uncivil, but she felt a great inclination to make the young lady say something agreeable of the man into whose house she was presently intruding.
“Yes, very handsome,” Clarabelle acceded, somewhat reluctantly.
“I am sure I know none so handsome. But in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master’s favourite, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them. This one is Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.”
“And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?” Tea Caddy enquired, coming to join them.
“Oh! Yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen, and so accomplished! She comes here tomorrow with him.”
“Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?”
“Not so much as I could wish, sir, but I daresay he may spend half his time here.”
“If your master would marry, you might see more of him.”
“Yes, sir, but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him.”
“It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so,” Clarabelle observed. There was a question in her expression and tone that betrayed her doubt.
