Page 49 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

Chapter 21

Pemberley

I am a selfish creature, being mothered, sistered, brothered—are they words?—on the ever-so-tedious five-day journey from Wastwater to Pemberley. Was it worth the pain of the torn ligaments in my ankle and knee, and the sting of grazed hands and arms? My back was bruised; my dislocated shoulder sore and swollen after being reset. Mr. Appleby had been responsible for resetting it—he had insisted that it must be done immediately, that I was already in pain and shock from the fall, and a little more would be of no account. He was correct, of course, and Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed that, unless promptly treated, a shoulder dislocation could lead to enduring disability.

I was bandaged, my arm in a sling, my foot bound up and stretched out before me. If I ever suffer such injuries again, I will ensure that a large landau with C-springs and heavy leather braces is available to take me home. The gentle and luxurious swaying lulled me to sleep, even as we passed over the deepest ruts in the road.

Whenever we came to an inn for refreshment, or to stay overnight, Fitzwilliam would carry me to the parlour; and, after dinner, to my chamber, the scent of amber and sandalwood lingering in the room. Mr. Darcy ensured we always had the very best of everything, Mama fussed, and Georgiana read to me. We had begun rereading Evelina, where both Georgiana and I could dream of meeting a man as perfect as Lord Orville, who marries Evelina no matter her humble origins.

It was during our journey to Pemberley that I became aware I was coming home. Mr. Darcy made no secret of his increasing preference for Mrs. Bennet. And I rejoiced in it! For while Jane would always remain my dear sister, her life had moved on—she and Bingley would fill the nursery with a family of their own. A place, perhaps, where a spinster sister could play aunt to their children, but their life separate from her own—a disconnect I had experienced when Jane made her come out at the Meryton assembly.

Having taken luncheon at the Old Sun Inn in Buxton, my pain settled into a dull, aching throb which I was unable to ignore. I fell into a disturbed sleep, leaning against Mama’s shoulder, thankful that mothering was unmindful of my irritable mood. Thus I missed the first appearance of Pemberley Woods, and the gradual ascent until Pemberley House came into view on the opposite side of a charming valley.

“Oh, Lizzy,” exclaimed Mama, forgetting I was asleep. “What a wonderful aspect. You have a very fine house, Mr. Darcy. Such a handsome building.”

“It has been in the family for generations, Mrs. Bennet,” he replied. “I cannot say it is my doing, though it has always been a duty of the Darcys to maintain it and care for it. It is a duty, but not a burden.”

Roused from my slumber, I watched with great curiosity—nay, unfeigned admiration—as we descended the hill, crossed the bridge across the stream where the lake narrows, and drove to the door.

Naturally, Mr. Darcy had sent ahead, the housekeeper immediately opening the door and welcoming the master home. She was a respectable-looking, elderly woman, very well dressed as befitted the housekeeper of such a fine house.

Mrs. Reynolds curtsied deeply. “Welcome home, Mr. Darcy. And welcome to your guests. We have prepared the blue suite for Mrs. Bennet, as you requested, and the adjoining apartment for Miss Bennet.”

Mr. Darcy nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds. Please see that Mrs. Bennet has everything she requires. And send tea to the drawing room.”

Mama’s cheeks were slightly flushed, whether from the journey or the attention I could not say. She glanced up at the high, ornamented ceiling and then at Mr. Darcy, her expression delighted. “You are very generous, Mr. Darcy. It was so kind of you to take Lizzy and me into your home; I believe the journey to Meryton might have quite defeated her.”

Mr. Darcy smiled. “No, Mrs. Bennet. After rescuing Georgiana, it would be the height of discourtesy to leave Miss Elizabeth to the vagaries of the Great North Road. Once we have refreshed ourselves, I suggest we take tea, then, perhaps, I could show you the house.”

Darcy took my arm. “Come, Elizabeth, you must rest. You look as though you have fought a pitched battle and lost.”

“I feel as though I have,” I replied, though Mama was already at my side, offering her arm as well. I laughed. “I was hoping you could carry me, Fitzwilliam, for I think we would otherwise take all afternoon climbing the stairs. There are so many—my figuring is insufficient to count them.”

“Five and twenty.”

“Five and twenty?”

“Yes, there are five and twenty steps from this floor to the next, each of six inches.”

I placed my hands on his shoulders as he gently picked me up, his hands holding me firmly, avoiding the bruises on my back. “You have counted them?”

“Of course, when I was a child. Richard and I used to race to the top—he would take the left-hand stairs, and I the right.”

Both Lydia and Kitty giggled. It was all too much—the reserved scion of Pemberley racing an earl’s son up the grand staircase of Pemberley.

Georgiana followed. “Fitzwilliam, did you really?”

Darcy laughed. “Richard’s and my secret. I never let Father know, for certainly he would have given us a lecture on proper behaviour for young men at Eton.”

“Not at all, Fitzwilliam,” interrupted Mr. Darcy, chuckling. “I had a guinea with Matlock that your longer legs would win the day. The sweetest guinea I have ever won!”

My room was lofty and handsome, decorated with soft blue embossed paper and elegantly furnished. A maid, Sally, was waiting to assist me.

Truly, I was weary, gratefully allowing her to help me undress. With my arm constrained by a sling, slipping on a night-rail was difficult, but with much twisting, laughter, and the occasional painful exclamation, I finally was able to climb between the linen sheets under the coverlets of the softest, most comfortable bed I had ever known. I had hardly finished requesting Sally to give my apologies for not taking tea, when I was asleep, dreaming of a handsome brother taking my hand in the line for the Duke of Kent’s Waltz. Sometime during the night, I found myself dancing a full waltz—Fitzwilliam’s hand about my waist, my left hand on his shoulder.

‘I suppose,’ said Mary primly, ‘that it is proper for a brother to dance a waltz with his sister. But otherwise, it is quite unseemly.’ I laughed, and returned to sleep.

* * *