Chapter Five
Despite Mr Darcy’s desire to wed quickly, he showed a strange reluctance to return to Pemberley. We had a journey of one hundred-ninety miles, a distance we could have travelled in three or four days, even at a snail’s pace.
He stretched it into two weeks.
I did not argue the delay.
It was a happy journey. Mr Darcy loved the country through which we passed and could point out the many places nature had formed for our amusement and awe. We walked the fields of Dovedale, and he spoke of fishing—a favourite sport he much enjoyed—and seemed to find tramping about the countryside as great a diversion as I. We both hated oysters and loved early mornings. We did not speak of the past nor of the future, only relished the present. The weather cooperated with our ramblings for the most part, although my gown hems suffered. I did not care, and laughed when his man made a great fuss over the state of his boots.
And the nights. The first one was not comfortable, and I am afraid I giggled when the full expectation of what was to happen was explained to me. It was over very quickly—which I realised later must have been on purpose—but he held me close afterward and expressed his gratitude for my sufferings, such as they were. The next two nights were spent in sleep only, but he shared a bed with me, and I began to grow accustomed to his light snore, to expecting his large body beside me when I rolled over in the night. And the fourth night…he took his time. He worshipped every inch of me with reverence and dedication; and though it might be blasphemous to say so, it was a holy experience.
Every day thereafter was tinged with anticipation. A light touch on my elbow or the small of my back was fraught with meaning. We walked aimlessly and laughed at nothing in particular and looked at each other and imagined the night to come. We were aligned, in those heady days. I thought I was falling in love, but of course, love does not come as a result of bed pleasure and novelty. Still, when we woke Christmas morning to the sound of rain beating on the roof of The Ostrich, and Mr Darcy sent word to his coach and man that we would remain until the weather cleared and we stayed two days in our room…I was utterly, blissfully happy for what felt like the first time in years.
But the bridal trip could not last forever, of course. “We will reach Pemberley today,” he announced one morning as I called for the inn’s maid to help me dress. He left me to it, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with an anxiety unusual to my nature. I had the wardrobe of a lady’s impoverished companion, with absolutely nothing to wear that was suitable for presenting myself as mistress of a great estate, especially one which had suffered such a recent loss. I was the replacement mistress, the second choice. I decided upon a walking dress which, although in an ugly shade of brown, was of quality jaconet muslin, richly trimmed, showing my figure to advantage.
My hair was another problem. I was at the mercy of inn servants, and not all of them had experience with hair that had a life of its own. It was necessary to be very firm with its management, to show it just who was in charge. Unfortunately, many inn maids, by nature, were timid creatures, afraid to offend or cause pain.
Sadly, the maid du jour was the worst of the lot, until finally I dismissed her with a sigh, and then undid all her efforts. I re-braided my hair as I did every night, and then pinned it tightly into a severe spinster’s bun, leaving side curls to frame my face; truly, it was the only coiffure I could manage on my own. It was not particularly flattering but it was tidy. I refused to greet Pemberley wearing a lace cap, so I donned the Sunday bonnet, which was growing rather shabby since lately it had been my Monday through Saturday bonnet as well. Wistfully, I imagined a better trimmed affair with ribbons and gauze, a matching silk scarf thrown carelessly over my shoulders complementing the ensemble and softening the dreadful brown into a winsome amber.
I had been brought up to run a house the size of Longbourn, and Jane and I had, in our flights of fancy so long ago, discussed the challenges of being mistress to Netherfield Park, which was easily twice its size, with its twenty-five servants. I had lived at Rosings Park and visited Matlock Court, with their forty. Pemberley was, from Mr Darcy’s description, larger still.
We had not been travelling long before we turned off the main road, driving past high iron gates. Through the carriage window I saw the gatekeeper nodding solemnly, stone-faced, at our coachman, as though he allowed a funeral procession to pass instead of his master of many weeks’ absence.
Neither was it the drive I had imagined, with wide lawns, raked and brushed, fields and gardens and manicured perfections. Instead, Pemberley Woods barricaded its master’s home, the tree branches meeting overhead like clenched fists in the twisting, turning drive, barely wide enough, in places, for the horses to pass. And then, the trees gave way to boulders on one side, the road following a rocky cliff’s edge; if I peered out the window, I felt I would be looking over its rim. Each bend revealed only endless curves and frightening periphery.
“Inefficient,” I murmured, finally leaning back in my seat, my voice sounding loud within the quiet coach, and only then did I realise that my husband had not spoken more than a word or two in our entire morning. Mr Darcy was not, and never would be a talkative man, but I had become accustomed to his murmured asides, his occasional remark upon some passing carriage, town, or vista. I had been too caught up in my own nerves to notice his silence.
He glanced sharply at me, as though he had forgotten I sat beside him. “The road,” I said. “Have you never considered simply tunnelling a hole through the mountainside?”
He gave a half-smile, and that, too, was the first of the day. “It was cut by my great-grandfather who wished to preserve as many trees as possible, and, I suppose, begrudged the road the removal of any. He was a bit stingy with its width.”
I nodded in agreement, for I love trees and nature’s beauties more than man’s in most cases. “But how much longer until the house?”
He nodded, gesturing out my window, at the same time sunlight flooded the carriage.
It was exquisite, more beautiful than anything he could have described, or I could have imagined. “Oh,” I murmured, and for the first time that day, he took my hand, touching me.
I already knew he wanted no one’s pity, but one could not help but feel sympathy. I had only been married for two weeks, but if I lost him now, I would surely mourn. This homecoming must be difficult. Sure enough, even as we lurched forward, I noticed his expression growing distant. His hand grew limp around mine, as if his mind and spirit resided elsewhere.
The road widened, a sea of lawn swelling from the house and rolling out towards the woods, reclaiming space from them in civilised carpeted surfaces. The horses sped up, sensing their stables were near. As we drew closer, the broad face of Pemberley, in all its sky-backed majesty, filled my view. One woman, alone, all clad in black, stood waiting.
“Devil take it,” he snarled. “I told Mrs de Bourgh to have the household waiting to greet you. And there she stands alone, as if no one expected us—” He broke off, seeming to recall himself then, adding, “I do beg your pardon.”
“De Bourgh?” I questioned. “Is that our housekeeper?”
“No, no,” he said, impatiently, still obviously annoyed. “Mrs Reynolds is the housekeeper. Mrs de Bourgh is Anne’s mother. Do not mind if she does not seem over-warm in the beginning. She will grow accustomed, eventually.”
And with those words, we drew to a halt, a footman let down the steps, and he leapt out of the carriage. He held out his hand, and for a moment, I simply stared at it. I was to be mistress of Pemberley, of this country house larger than Rosings Park and Netherfield combined, while his dead wife’s mother looked on. Oh, and she would hate me.
Perfect.
* * *
I can still remember her, if I try; she was a tall, large woman, with strongly marked features which could never have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving me such as to make me forget my inferior rank. It seemed impossible that she be parent to the woman in Lady Matlock’s miniature. Even supposing Mrs Anne Darcy’s portrait to be a flattering pose, she had been…sparkling. Golden. Vivacious. A woman who knew her own worth and felt it a high one, while dispensing charm and a certain fascination to us lesser mortals. I tried to imagine Mrs de Bourgh as her mother and failed utterly. And yet I knew, without being told, that this grave creature with the claw-like hands stretched towards Mr Darcy must be she. Her scorn for me in my made-over dress was transparent, to me at least; and I knew that somehow, in some way, my humble personal circumstances were public knowledge.
It was not uncommon for servants to make a display of greeting a new mistress, especially of a home as grand as Pemberley, but I took her meaning—I was not worthy of attention, even from the upper servants, much less the notice of the whole household.
“Mrs Darcy, Mrs de Bourgh. Mrs de Bourgh, Mrs Darcy,” my husband said, performing the barest of introductions. One might suppose he did not much care for either of us.