He all but vaulted the stile before him on the path, a kernel of certainty unfurling in his mind that Elizabeth’s earlier discomfiture, rather than being founded on her ill opinion ofhim, instead signified a wish that he not think ill ofherfor coming. A notion so ridiculous he almost laughed aloud. There had been no choice but for him to relinquish all hope of marrying her after his disastrous proposal, for she had spurned any possibility of an alliance. Yet the regard in which he held her had not diminished, for neither had any of her fine qualities.
In coming to Pemberley, she had given him yet more to admire, for none of her previous enmity had been in evidence that afternoon. Unlike him—and the implacable resentment to which he had so arrogantly professed at Netherfield—Elizabeth was not above clemency. How anyone could forgive the vilification of their family, situation, and worth was beyond him. Such, to his eternal shame, he had inflicted upon her. And such she had apparently forgiven, at least enough to greet him with civility, to converse without bitterness, and to consent to be introduced to his sister.
Darcy bounded up the steps to the lawn and strode towards the house, his mind leaping erratically from imagining Georgiana’s delight, to calculating what time she would arrive the next day, to envisioning how the interview might go, to revelling in the possibilities such an introduction must portend. He had felt sad for so long that such unbridled anticipation was dizzying.
He wondered what Elizabeth was thinking at that moment, and whether she was as unsettled as he by their chance encounter. He hoped at the very least that she was not dismayed by it. The tentative smile she had bestowed upon him as her carriage departed gave him reason to hope not. It was unlike any she had directed at him before—sincere, with neither teasing nor challenge.
The desire to secure that cordiality, to permanently remedy her ill opinion of him—perchance to nurture a still warmer sentiment—manifested as a fire in his belly that demanded action. If he thought she would receive him, he would have turned on his heel and walked all the way to Lambton that instant. He was obliged to satisfy himself with musing how soon Georgiana might be persuaded to go there after she arrived home. And whether she might be better placed than he to extend an invitation to dinner, for he would be bitterly disappointed if Elizabeth refused as she had done his earlier offer of refreshments. There were few scenarios he had imagined more times than welcoming Elizabeth to Pemberley.
He wished the privilege of showing her the house had been his. Interrogating the housekeeper was out of the question, but Darcy longed to know what Elizabeth had said, how she had looked, and which rooms had pleased her best as she was shown around. In the fleeting second before she noticed him on the lawn, she had been staring pensively at the building, as though attempting to make out its character. Just as she did every person she met. Darcy stopped walking and regarded it also, attempting to guess what conclusions she had drawn.
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, and the moon was barely out. All the windows of this newly deserted part of the house were black. In the gloom, the fault that criss-crossed the wall was not visible; night had plunged the whole elevation into complete darkness. All Darcy could see was a vast black void, as though the entire east wing were missing. He shivered slightly and walked indoors to begin making plans for the morrow.
CHAPTERFOUR
MORE THAN A PASSING ACQUAINTANCE
With a firm tug, the heavy white sheet billowed into the air like a dense cloud before collapsing into a puddle at Hannah’s feet. Mrs Reynolds placed a hand on the exposed mattress, pressing firmly to establish whether it was merely chilled, or the cold signified a more penetrating moisture. With a shake of her head, she wiped her hand dry on her skirt. She was not overly surprised; these rooms were seldom used, and damp was a pernicious blight. It presented a difficulty, however, for one night was not sufficient time to air a bed, even in high summer.
“We shall need the mattresses brought over from the closed bedrooms, but I’ll not have any of you girls doing that. Hannah, run and see if anyone is available in the servants’ hall to do it. Ask Mr Matthis if you cannot find anyone. Martha, go with her and help strip the beds before they are moved, else the sheets will all be scuffed about, and we shall have to begin again.”
Both girls curtseyed and left directly.
“Edna, these fires all need lighting, post-haste. And you had best fetch some rosemary or orange peel or something to burn on them. Let us see if we can at least give the appearance of freshness. The grates will have to be done at dawn, I’m afraid, for these fires will need to be kept burning all night.”
Edna set off for the stillroom with a nod. Mrs Reynolds turned to the other maids.
“Well then, girls, you know what needs doing. Mr Bingley will be in this room, and his sister in the next. Across the hall will be Lord and Lady Garroway with Miss Adams next to them in the Mahogony Bedroom. Remember, she must not have flowers in her room.” With one last look around, Mrs Reynolds nodded. “I shall have the kitchen prepare you a supper for when you are finished.”
Despite having been labouring since dawn, the girls set about their extra work without a murmur of complaint, though Mrs Reynolds did not doubt there would be grumbling enough behind closed doors later. It could not be helped; Mr Ferguson had given the instruction, and it was not her place to cavil.
The chef and his undercooks had returned from Astroite House on Monday, and Pemberley’s kitchen was once again returned to a cacophonous hive of activity. With fifteen guests and their servants arriving with the family the next day, there was no shortage of work to be done. Supplies were strewn in every direction—still being sorted and stored according to Chef’s preferences. The kitchen maids were dashing about between the great oak tables with armfuls of ingredients. Young Pip, whose job it was to turn the spit, looked fit to combust so hot did the fire blaze. It was a scene Mrs Reynolds observed with great fondness, for the kitchen was the heart of any house, and Pemberley’s only beat when its master was at home.
After a quick word with Monsieur Dubois about supper for the housemaids, she took a cup of tea to drink quietly in the upper servants’ hall. She discovered Mr Darcy’s manservant there, eating a dinner of bread and cheese. “Mr Vaughan! Welcome back.”
“Thank you.” He stood, bowed formally, and sat back down, ever efficient in all things, not least conversation.
“’Tis a shame you missed dinner.”
He made a movement with his mouth equivalent to a shrug. “The luggage had already been unloaded when Mr Darcy received the summons home. Took some time to sort out.”
Mrs Reynolds lowered herself onto a chair. “Are you aware of the matter that required him to return early?”
“A problem with the house.”
“The architect who was here this afternoon does not appear to have put anyone’s mind at ease. Mr Ferguson has ordered the entire east wing closed.”
Mr Vaughan frowned. “Did Mr Darcy seem concerned?”
“I must say he did. Quite out of sorts.”
He gave a low grumble of unease.
Mrs Reynolds shifted her old bones about on the chair, doing nothing to make herself more comfortable. “A party of three came to the house today. One of them—a young woman—claimed an acquaintance with the master.”
“Name?” Mr Vaughan enquired in a business-like tone.
“Her friends called her ‘Lizzy’.”
