Darcy, she had been informed, was unavoidably occupied with estate matters. There would be no training today. He had evidently ridden out early in the morning, before the sun had even fully risen.
Well, she could not say she would miss his presence.
With her morning now quite at leisure, Elizabeth contemplated how she wished to fill it. There were letters to her friends and family to complete, a few society invitations to kindly decline, household accounts she could review, or…or…
And then, with a sudden spark of spirit, she knew.
Enough. Enough with Darcy’s edicts, his forbidden rooms, his suffocating environment. Pemberley was her prison, but she would at least explore the confines of her cage.
After all, she was the Mistress of Pemberley, however unwillingly, however nominally.
Filled with a liberating sense of transgression, Elizabeth walked through the doors of the east wing, where she spent most of her days. As she ventured further into the abandoned parts of the house, the signs of neglect and decline became increasinglyapparent.
The corridors were draughty and dark, all the windows tightly shuttered and grimy with dust. Cobwebs festooned the ornate plasterwork of the high ceilings and clung to the candelabras.
Most of the doors she passed were closed, some even appearing to be locked or barred from the outside. Elizabeth began to try the handles. Many, as she suspected, were indeed secured. But others, with a protesting creak of hinges, yielded to her touch, opening onto rooms that had clearly not been entered, or cared for, in many months, if not years.
She found herself stepping into a succession of once-grand chambers, now fallen into a state of disrepair. Drawing rooms with elaborately carved marble fireplaces, their hearths cold, their mirrors clouded with age. Dressing rooms with faded, peeling wallpaper, the delicate patterns barely discernible.
With each room she entered, Elizabeth’s sense of Pemberley’s tragic history grew. This was not just a house suffering from the Blight; this was a house that was slowly dying.
She wondered about the generations of Darcys who had lived and loved, celebrated and mourned, within these now-silent walls. Where had their magic, their vitality, their joy, all gone?
The absence of portraits continued to trouble her. The bare patches on the walls, the ghostly outlines where frames had once hung, were a constant source of mystery.
She wandered deeper into the west wing, the part of the house Mr Darcy via Mrs Reynolds had most specifically warned her against. The air here was noticeably colder, and the scent of decay more pronounced.
Elizabeth pressed on.
She came to a set of imposing double doors. Unlike the other doors she had encountered in this part of the house, however,these silver door handles were neither dusty nor strewn with cobwebs. They looked recently attended to.
Hesitantly, she reached out and tried the handle. To her surprise, it turned easily and silently. She pushed the doors inward, and stepped into a room that took her breath away.
It was a long gallery, its ceiling high and vaulted, pierced at regular intervals by arched windows.
And the walls were covered, from floor to ceiling, with portraits.
Generations of Darcys, stern-faced men in powdered wigs, elegant ladies in shimmering silks, solemn children clutching toys or thin, leather-bound books, stared down at her from their frames.
Her gaze tracing from one portrait to the next, Elizabeth moved down the length of the gallery with a hushed and sombre grace.
This was the history of Pemberley, the legacy of the Darcy line, a lineage stretching back through centuries of history, a lineage that now rested solely on the proud shoulders of the man she had been forced to marry.
She paused before a large portrait of a man who bore a striking resemblance to her husband. His eyes were the same dark shade, his expression one of intelligence. Beside him stood a woman of almost unnatural beauty, her golden hair swept up in an elaborate coiffure, her smile gentle, yet tinged with a hint of sadness. Darcy’s parents, Elizabeth surmised, the late Master and Mistress of Pemberley, in their prime.
Further on, she found another portrait, this one clearly more recent. It depicted a slightly older version of the late Mr Darcy, his expression softened by a tender smile, his arm resting protectively on the shoulder of a boy of perhaps seven or eight.
The boy was unmistakably Darcy.HerDarcy, strange as it was to think of him in such terms. Yet one she could scarcelyhave envisioned. His dark hair was unruly, his eyes bright and hopeful, and he had an air of mischief about him.
Elizabeth lingered there, a strange, unexpected feeling stirring within her. The arrogant, insufferable man had once been…a boy, a son, loved and protected.
And then, her gaze fell upon a smaller portrait, tucked away in a slightly darker alcove. It depicted a young girl and a young man. The man was Darcy, perhaps at sixteen or seventeen, thin, gangly, undeniably classically handsome, and solemn.Thisversion of Darcy far more resembled the man she knew than the boy in the previous portrait. Darcy’s lips were unsmiling, set in a flat line.
The girl, no older than eight, had a cascade of beautiful blonde hair falling around her delicate shoulders, and her eyes were the same light blue as Darcy’s mother. She was dressed in a white gown, with a single rose clutched in her small hand. Her smile was shy yet sweet.
Drawn closer, Elizabeth’s eyes fell to the nameplate etched in brass.Georgiana Darcy.The name was a quiet confirmation of what her heart had already guessed.
She was Darcy’s sister.
