From somewhere behind her, she heard George Darcy say, “Oh, God. Not Catherine.”
Elizabeth did not flinch. She kept her eyes on Lady Catherine, her smile in place, and did not, by any visible sign, acknowledge the ghost of her father-in-law, who had materialised just inside the front door, staring at his sister-in-law with undisguised horror.
“She is wearing the black again,” George said. “She has been wearing it for seventeen years. Lewis has been dead for seventeen years and she is still punishing everyone with it. He would not have wanted this. Lewis wanted to be cremated ona Viking pyre, which Catherine refused to consider, so I hardly think she is wearing it for his sake.”
Elizabeth had to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep the laughter from erupting as she envisioned Lady Catherine’s expression upon being told that her husband had wished to be cremated on a Viking pyre. It was one of the most difficult things she had ever done. She tasted blood.
Lady Catherine swept into the entrance hall, cataloguing deficiencies. “The floors need polishing. The flowers are wrong. Why are the curtains different in the yellow drawing room? They were blue when I was last here.”
“Because they were faded,” Nana said, materialising at Elizabeth’s shoulder with a loud sniff. “They had been faded for years, and she did not notice when she last visited. On the last three occasions she visited.”
Elizabeth now had two ghosts providing commentary, and Lady Catherine had only reached the yellow drawing room.
George and Nana followed Lady Catherine, and Elizabeth trailed behind them all, receiving commentary from two directions at once. Catherine examined the furniture, ran a finger along the mantelpiece, checked it for dust, and found none, which appeared to disappoint her. She examined the arrangement of chairs and declared them wrong. She looked at the pianoforte and said it needed tuning, though how she could possibly tell without playing a single note, Elizabeth could not imagine.
“She can’t play,” George confided to Elizabeth. “She never could. She has strong opinions about everyone else’s music, and shecan’t manage a scale herself. Annie used to say it was Catherine’s greatest sorrow, though she never would have admitted it.”
Catherine paused before the portrait of Lady Anne that hung above the fireplace. She was quiet for a moment, and George was quiet too. Then Catherine said, “The frame wants cleaning,” and walked on.
“She cannot say she misses her,” George said. “Sixteen years, and she still cannot simply say she misses her sister.”
“The servants look well enough,” Lady Catherine continued, turning her attention to the two maids and two footmen who were lined up against the wall awaiting instruction. “Though the footmen could use better posture. In my household, I insist upon it. Good posture is the foundation of domestic order.”
“She said exactly the same thing in 1796,” George observed. “And in 1802. And on every visit in between. I believe she considers it a philosophy.”
Georgiana, who had come down to greet her aunt, caught Elizabeth’s eye at the precise moment George delivered this. She could not see her father; she could not hear him. But she could read Elizabeth’s face, and whatever she found there was too much; she made a sound that was nearly a laugh, turned it into a cough, said, “Excuse me, I think I left something in the music room,” and fled.
Lady Catherine watched her go. “The girl is still nervous. You must do something about that, Fitzwilliam.”
“Georgiana is well,” Darcy said, in a tone that did not invite further comment.
Lord Matlock appeared in the doorway, unhurried, because he had survived decades of his sister’s arrivals and had learnt the value of a late entrance. “Catherine. What a pleasant surprise.”
“It is not a surprise, Matlock. I wrote to you.”
“You did not.”
“I intended to. The effect is the same.”
“It is not remotely the same,” Lady Matlock said, entering behind her husband, “but we shall manage. Mrs Reynolds says you will have the blue rooms, Catherine; they face east, and I know you prefer the morning light. Mrs Darcy, shall I see to the arrangements?”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, and meant it with her whole heart, because Lady Matlock was already steering Lady Catherine out of the yellow drawing room and in the direction of the staircase. Elizabeth was quite desperate for a few moments alone before she disgraced herself entirely.
“I like Margaret,” George said, watching the two women disappear up the stairs. “I have always liked Margaret. She is the only person alive who can make Catherine do anything without Catherine noticing she is being made to do it.”
Elizabeth allowed herself, for one brief moment, to close her eyes.
Anne de Bourgh had not followed her mother upstairs. She stood in the entrance hall, small and quiet and looking around at Pemberley as though seeing it clearly for the first time. When she caught Elizabeth watching her, she smiled; a tentative thing, uncertain. Elizabeth smiled back, and thought:here is a girl who has been told all her life what to think, and is beginning to wonder whether any of it was true.
“Miss de Bourgh,” Elizabeth said. “Welcome to Pemberley. I hope you will be comfortable here.”
“Thank you, Mrs Darcy,” Anne said. “I believe I shall be.”
It was such a simple sentence, and Anne delivered it so quietly, but it sounded remarkably like relief.
“We’ve the yellow rooms ready for you, Miss de Bourgh,” Mrs Reynolds said warmly. “If you’ll allow me to escort you upstairs?”
“Thank you, Mrs Reynolds,” Elizabeth said, deeply grateful for the housekeeper’s efficiency. How Mrs Reynolds had two of the best guest suites prepared on ten minutes’ notice was a mystery, but Elizabeth had no doubt that Pemberley would not be disgraced by the efforts.
