Mrs Reynolds’ gaze shifted to Elizabeth, and her expression softened further into a welcoming smile. “Mrs Darcy. Welcome to Pemberley, ma’am. Though I confess, it grieves me that your first sight of this house is under such circumstances. We would have wished for a brighter welcome for you.”
The unexpected warmth in the housekeeper’s greeting, the kindness in her eyes, was like a candle in the overwhelming gloom of Pemberley.
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds,” she said, smiling.
“How was your journey, sir, ma’am?”
“The journey was as expected. Have the east wing chambers been prepared as I instructed?”
“They have, sir,” Mrs Reynolds replied, her gaze lingering on Elizabeth with a touch of sympathy. “A fire lit, fresh linens, and the rooms aired. Though as you have seen, ma’am, much of the house remains closed off. We do our best with the faithful staff we have left.”
“Staff?” Elizabeth enquired, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous hall. “It seems remarkably quiet for such a large house.”
A shadow of sorrow crossed the housekeeper’s kind face. “Indeed it is, ma’am. My sincerest apologies for not having the staff assembled to greet you, but our household is much reduced. The Blight has taken a heavy toll. We manage with who remains,” she explained, proceeding to list a cook, a steward, and several footmen, maids, and stable boys by name. Elizabeth realised with a touch of humour that this depleted household could still staff Longbourn three times over. Mrs Reynolds concluded, “...and now, your own personal maid, Sarah.”
A young woman, pale and somewhat timid-looking, with neat brown hair stepped forward from the shadows and curtsied low. “Sarah, ma’am, at your service,” she said, her voice soft and a little breathless.
Elizabeth offered Sarah a smile, grateful at this luxury afforded her.
Darcy said solemnly, “Mrs Darcy, should any of the present arrangements not be to your liking, you are welcome to make any changes you see fit. Mrs Reynolds will assist you.”
The words, meant perhaps as a transfer of power, landed like a stone. Elizabeth felt a flush of mortification on behalf of Sarah, who was now looking wide-eyed.
“Thank you for your consideration,” she said, “But I cannot imagine wishing to change a single thing.”
With that, Darcy seemed to consider his duty to her discharged. “Mrs Reynolds,” he said, turning to her, “if you would be so good as to show Mrs Darcy to her rooms. I have urgent matters to attend to immediately. The state of the primary wardstones requires my urgent assessment.” He did not spare Elizabeth another glance, his focus already shifting to the pressing magical concerns of his estate, but turned and strodeaway, his footsteps echoing as he disappeared into the deeper shadows of the house.
“Of course, Mr Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds murmured, then turned back to Elizabeth, her expression softening again. “This way then, ma’am. Let me show you to your rooms. It is a long walk, but the east wing is the most secure, and the most cheerful, such as it is these days.” She led Elizabeth through a series of long, empty corridors.
Most of the doors they passed were closed, a strong sense of neglect and forgotten memories emanating from behind them. The few tapestries that still hung on the walls were threadbare, their once vibrant colours faded.
As they walked, Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice the overall barrenness of the walls. In a house of such antiquity and evident former grandeur, one would expect to see generations of Darcys immortalised in oils, expressions silently judging their descendants. But the walls were disturbingly bare, marked only by rectangular patches where pictures had clearly once hung. It was an odd omission, as if a vital part of Pemberley’s history had been deliberately erased.
“Here we are at the east wing, Mrs Darcy. This is traditionally the family wing of the house,” Mrs Reynolds announced at last, stopping before a set of imposing double doors that, unlike most of the others they had passed, seemed recently polished and free of dust.
The suite, when Mrs Reynolds pushed open the doors, was indeed large, consisting of a spacious sitting room, a large bedchamber, and what appeared to be a well-appointed dressing room.
Like the rest of the house Elizabeth had seen, it was furnished with antique pieces that spoke of generations of wealth and consequence, but here, at least, the ghostly white dust sheets had been removed. Fires had been lit in the ornategrates of both the sitting room and the bedchamber, casting a welcome glow and doing much to combat the chill that pervaded the rest of the house.
A clear attempt at cheerfulness had been made with a large vase of late-blooming lilies on a polished side table. The tall windows, though their glass was thick and slightly distorting, overlooked a walled garden that showed signs of struggling cultivation.
It is very comfortable, Mrs Reynolds,” Elizabeth said, trying to inject some warmth into her voice. Pemberley was not just afflicted by the Blight; it felt like a house in silent mourning, a house holding its breath, waiting for some final, inevitable blow.
“Mr Darcy has not resided here regularly at Pemberley for the past year, ma’am,” Mrs Reynolds said, her voice tinged with a gentle understanding, as if sensing Elizabeth’s unspoken questions and the oppression of the house’s atmosphere. “Not since, well...his duties with the Arcane Office have kept him much in Town.”
“Are there any other members of Mr Darcy’s family in residence, Mrs Reynolds?” Elizabeth asked, venturing a delicate question.
The housekeeper’s kindly expression clouded over with an unmistakable sadness. “No, there are not.” She hesitated, and then added, “His dear parents, the late Master and Mistress, both passed some years ago.”
The knowledge, delivered with such gentle sorrow by the housekeeper, chipped away another small piece of Elizabeth’s preconceived notions. It explained, perhaps, some of his determined aloofness, and the immense weight of solitary responsibility he seemed to carry.
“If you will excuse me now, Mrs Darcy,” Mrs Reynolds continued, her composure regained with a practiced effort, “I must see to the household duties. There is much to oversee,especially with so few of us. Sarah will attend to your needs. Dinner will be served for you here, in your private sitting room, at seven o’clock, if that is acceptable to you. Mr Darcy, I fear, rarely dines formally when he is in residence alone, especially when preoccupied with the estate’s troubles.”
“That will be perfectly fine, Mrs Reynolds. Thank you for your kindness.”
“Not at all, ma’am,” the housekeeper said, patting Elizabeth’s arm with a warmth that felt genuinely motherly. “You are mistress here now. We will do our best to make you comfortable, though Pemberley is not what it once was.”
Later, as Sarah helped her unpack the few belongings she had brought from Longbourn – her simple gowns looking entirely out of place amidst the dark opulence of Pemberley – Elizabeth tried to glean more information about the house and its master. But Sarah, though respectful and clearly eager to please, was as new to Pemberley as Elizabeth herself and knew little beyond the immediate concerns of her duties.
