“Mr. Bennet and Jane are coming from Longbourn. The children love her, for she has a sweetness of temper exactly adapted for teaching and playing with them as much as you do. Mr. Bennet would rather you did not visit Meryton. He thought it best to let the gossip in the town dissipate of its own accord. And, without your being there, it cannot feed upon itself. The nerves of Mrs. Bennet are too frayed to travel, and she will have the care of Mary and Kitty to look after her.”
“But why is Papa coming to London?” Elizabeth asked. “I know he dislikes town immensely.”
“It is felt that if he were seen with Jane, visiting museums and the like, then people will accept that the Bennets at least hold no store by the gossip.”
Elizabeth took her uncle’s hands. “Oh, you are too good to me. I have long wished to travel to see the beauties of Chatsworth, Dovedale, and the Peaks. I would rather it were for a less auspicious purpose—but yes, I would love to go.”
The Gardiners very quickly set out, leaving the day after Mr. Bennet and Jane arrived from Longbourn. Jane embraced Elizabeth, held her closely as Elizabeth’s tears tumbled down her cheeks, then, almost forcibly, pushed her into the travelling coach, waved farewell, and turned away, lest her beloved sister see her own tears.
“I have received a note,” said Mr. Bennet, as he and Jane returned to the parlour. “It is from Mr. Bingley, who wishes to call tomorrow. Will we be home?”
“Oh, Papa, when he went to London I thought he might not return, as happened before.” She looked curiously at her father. “But how did he know we were in Town?”
“It is Mr. Darcy, Jane. He has been organising everything. He wished Elizabeth to be out of London, at least for three weeks, for he was concerned that the correspondent of the Morning Post, the so-called Mr. Williams, would write more articles; that he would find other ways to defame her, and, by association, the Bennets. Bingley was intending to return to Hertfordshire, but when he found you were coming to London, that trip was no longer necessary.”
“Mr. Bingley was returning to Netherfield—for me?” Jane’s happiness was such that Mr. Bennet was almost at a loss to apply his wit. “There, there, my girl,” he said, “I can assure you that he does not come to visit me, for though he is an amiable fellow, he scarcely reads—I have yet to hear him quote either Herodotus or Thucydides, though he surely knows I am overly fond of history.”
* * *
Chapter 21
Pemberley
Elizabeth’s spirits rose as she and the Gardiners drove north through Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham until they reached the little town of Lambton, some three weeks after their departure. It was the scene of Mrs. Gardiner’s former residence, and where she had lately learned that some acquaintance still remained. Having spent three blissful days visiting her friends and seeing the local sights, Mr. Gardiner declared that he wished to see a local estate, where it was rumoured the landowner was wont to allow visitors to fish in his lake; the fishing was said to be excellent.
Mrs. Gardiner agreed to the visit, saying that if it were only a fine house richly furnished, she should not care to go; but the grounds were delightful. They had some of the finest woods in the country.
Elizabeth had no opinion on the matter, for she was entirely at the disposal of her aunt and uncle. She had begun to leave the worries of London behind, and no one they had met had associated the scandal reported in the Morning Post with Elizabeth and the Gardiners. A few had agreed it was highly unusual for the Earls Matlock and Wellington to jointly denounce the newspaper—for it was known they were on opposite sides of politics, one a Whig and the other a Tory. But these were strange times, and who knew the minds of great men.
To Elizabeth, departing the inns where they stayed overnight was always a relief, for the thoughts of the staff and the company in the taproom always pressed against her. They were fleeting memories—mostly inconsequential—but occasionally so poignant that she was forced to walk outside, or, if that were not possible, retreat to her room. Mr. Gardiner often requested rooms as far as possible from the common rooms of the inn. Not for the quiet—which was always welcome—but for Elizabeth’s peace of mind.
They had come five miles from Lambton before turning in at the lodge to the estate. The park was very large, and contained a great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent. Unaccountably, Elizabeth found her spirits in a high flutter. They had visited many grand homes, perhaps Chatsworth being the most noteworthy, yet her sense of anticipation began to grow as the road gradually ascended, until the wood abruptly ceased and she found herself looking out over a broad valley. Beyond a wide stream stood a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground.
She was enchanted. As they descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door she felt something she had never felt before. No, it was not something felt—it was the very absence of thoughts which hitherto had always pushed against her. The memories of her aunt and uncle receded—were gone; likewise, those of the coachman and the footman. This was bliss.
“Lizzy, you have gone quite pale.” Mrs. Gardiner reached to take her hand.
“They are gone, all those thoughts, all those memories which push against me—they are gone! ’Tis a miracle. I have never felt such silence, such calm before. Is this what all people experience? Oh, I do not know how it is so, but it is truly glorious.”
She stepped down from the coach, spun around. Nearby, a gardener was tending a hedge which bordered the gravel drive. He looked up from his clippers, touched his brow in respect.
“Good morning, Mr. Siddals, how is young Annie?”
The man stared at her. Oh dear, where did that memory come from? It was not his, for sure.
While Mrs. Gardiner had visited the manor when living in Lambton, it was unknown to Mr. Gardiner. Therefore, wishing to see the public rooms before inquiring about the fishing, they ascended the steps to the house.
“Winthrop, so pleased to see you so well.” Elizabeth’s hand went to her mouth. She knew this man, the butler of Pemberley.
Winthrop blinked, and for a moment, Elizabeth feared she had spoken too much out of turn. But the butler’s face resolved into a polite, if slightly puzzled, smile.
“Welcome, ma’am,” he said, bowing first to Mrs. Gardiner and then to Elizabeth. “If you would care to follow me, I shall inquire whether Mrs. Reynolds is at leisure to show you the house.”
As they stepped into the great hall, Elizabeth’s senses were assaulted by impressions so vivid that she could barely sort her own recollections from those that seemed to drift in the air—echoes of laughter, the faint clatter of boots on stone, a low voice reading aloud, arpeggios played on a harp. She pressed her hand against a cool pilaster, fighting the urge to gasp.
Mrs. Gardiner, meanwhile, had not noticed her niece’s distraction. “I recall a little of Pemberley, but I was unprepared for the reality,” she whispered, her eyes tracing the intricate mouldings of the ceiling panels. “It is all that is graceful, without ostentation.”
As they waited for the housekeeper, Elizabeth wandered to a window that framed the portico. The landscape beyond wasa painting come to life: lawns sweeping down to the water, trees casting long shadows, and in the distance, beyond an ivy-covered folly, a deer darting at the edge of the wood.
