“You are mistaken,” Elizabeth replied firmly. “This gown indeed lends you an air of elegance that pleases the eyes of those around you, but people respect you for who you are. Those at Pemberley respect you because you treat everyone with kindness. In contrast, men like Mr Buxton respect you because you have finally begun to listen to those around you. And when you open your mouth, you now say what you think, rather than merely reciting a passage from some book you have just finished reading.”
“Could Mr Buxton come to dinner?” Mary asked, her voice laced with timidity.
“At any time. I shall write him a note as soon as we arrive home. He can also tell us whom else to invite to dine with us.”
“How wonderful! He told me that since Mr Darcy fell ill, he has not dared to visit your library.”
“What nonsense! The library is open to such a man,” Elizabeth replied, smiling to herself, for her sister had said‘your library’, a sign that, to Mary, it had been effortless to see her as mistress of Pemberley. The library—and indeed Pemberley itself—now belonged now to both Darcy and her. And, in truth, she had begun to feel as though she was the mistress of these lands.
∞∞∞
To her surprise and delight, she received a letter from Darcy entirely on the subject of Jane, who, in Elizabeth’s absence, had frequently called upon Georgiana. Her presence had brought some lightness to the young girl’s days, drawing her into the lively conversations of young ladies rather than the burdensome matters of the household.
When she received word from Jane that Mr Bingley had visited her at the Gardiners’, it became evident that Darcy was attempting to make amends for the disastrous advice he had once given his friend at Netherfield. She refrained from asking Darcy for details on how matters were progressing, for what truly mattered was Jane’s decision. She had accepted Mr Bingley’s apologies with a certain reserve—a response that greatly pleased Elizabeth, who saw in it a welcome change. Only in the third letter concerning Mr Bingley did Jane mention a reconciliation, which, it seemed, had taken place at Darcy’s home—though he had written nothing of it.
And then, something utterly astonishing occurred. Without any word from either Darcy or her father regarding their plans, one evening she received a bundle of letters—more or less from every member of her family—all conveying the same news yet from so many different perspectives: her mother, having arrived in London, had visited Darcy.
“It cannot be!” exclaimed Mary, breaking into laughter, for in the two weeks they had been at Pemberley, Elizabeth had recounted to her the entire story between Darcy and herself, from the first day at the Meryton assembly to the last day in Kent, even those details she would never share with another but had felt the need to confide in her sister. “Mother— At Mr Darcy’s—”
“Summoned byMr Darcy,” Elizabeth added.
They snatched the letters from one another’s hands.
“Father writes that Mother was both emotional and elegant,” Mary nearly shouted, tossing the letter into the air in sheer delight before seizing another. “Aunt Gardiner says Mother ate nothing at breakfast before the visit,” she continued. Both burst into laughter once more, for the image of that composed, elegant lady—who was not even able to eat—did not resemble the mother they knew.
I made my mea culpa,Darcy had written. ”Listen to this—mea culpa,” Elizabeth murmured, astonished yet deeply moved and overjoyed, for, in such moments, her love for Darcy felt boundless.
And Mary nodded, for it was truly remarkable for Mr Darcy to admit he had been mistaken.
“But Mother is not staying with Father at your house,” Mary noted, glancing again at their father’s letter.
“I do not believe my husband’smea culpawill extend so far as to invite Mother to stay with us,” Elizabeth replied, not in the least upset but rather amused and covertly accepting of her husband’s decision by saying ‘with us’.
They spent an enjoyable hour reading and rereading the letters, imagining with humour and sometimes even a little sarcasm every scene of that play that had taken place in Darcy’s parlour in London.
Mary had the gift of making Elizabeth forget, if only for a few moments, that her husband in London was close to death. Even if she tried not to keep that distressing thought in her mind all the time, it was forever nested like a pain in her heart that never left her. She blamed herself for leaving him, and she trembled before opening every letter from London, fearing it would bring terrible news.
And when, one evening, no letter from Darcy arrived, she spent the entire night sleepless, only to learn the following day that it had merely been a storm that had delayed the messenger.
∞∞∞
“I have resolved the matters for which I came,” said Elizabeth one evening at dinner, glancing at Mary. To her surprise, she saw her sister flush deeply. She must have known what was to come—Elizabeth longed to be in London, and each day spent at Pemberley had become a torment.
Then, Elizabeth caught the fleeting glance Mary unconsciously exchanged with Reverend Buxton. During the past two weeks, they had not entertained many guests at dinner, yet they had never dined alone. At times, Mr Balfour had joined them in the afternoon, engaging them in conversation before being persuaded to remain for the meal. On a few occasions, they had invited a family—close friends of Darcy’s—who reminded Elizabeth greatly of the Lucases. But nearly every evening, Reverend Buxton had dined with them. A scholar with relatively liberal views for a clergyman, he was a pleasure to converse with, often enlivening their evenings when they would have been too weary to entertain other guests.
Yet it was now evident that, beyond the delight of stimulating discourse, something had transpired between Maryand the reverend, and Elizabeth, preoccupied as she had been, had failed to notice.
Her decision to leave, however, was made.
“We shall depart in a few days,” she told Mary when they were left alone that evening. She then resumed reading, as was their habit, before retiring for the night. But keeping her attention on her book proved impossible, for Mary wanted water, then tea, then changed her book several times until it became apparent that something troubled her.
“Speak! What is it?” Elizabeth commanded in an amused tone. She looked at Mary, noting how much she had changed. Her neatly arranged hair framed a face that Elizabeth had never before noticed, illuminated by a light that rendered it beautiful. She resembled her. Only a few days ago, standing side by side before the mirror in the entrance hall, they had both observed it. Mary of Longbourn no longer existed; within the beauty of Pemberley, a young woman had blossomed whom no one had ever suspected lay hidden beneath her furrowed brows and past frustrations.
“Do you think I might remain here after you leave?” Mary asked at last, her voice frail. Elizabeth nearly dropped the teacup she held.
“Remain at Pemberley?” she repeated as though she had not understood, and Mary nodded, her face once more turning scarlet.
“I could continue what I have done daily with you—you have seen that I am capable…”
