Chapter Seven
If it had not been for the writing desk debacle, I might have ignored the cliffside wing’s upper floor for years.
My preference for the library was immediate; for reading, the room was perfection. However, for writing letters, it was less so for me. There was a desk, of course, but built for generations of Darcy men; Mr Darcy fit it comfortably and often occupied it. The tables were the wrong height. My mind latched upon the writing desk in the morning parlour as ideal—there was enough room in the library’s spaces to set up my own within it.
But when I gave orders to a sturdy footman to have it moved, the look of unease upon his face was obvious. I imagined him speeding away to Mrs Reynolds to report another blow to Pemberley’s established customs. I did understand; it was an estate which thrived upon tradition. It did not change easily or lightly. However, Mrs Reynolds had been the one to tell me that the morning parlour had been redone by Anne Darcy. Therefore, its desk had not stood in place for a century, but for less than a decade. Mrs Reynolds had also pointed out that much of the furniture she had placed throughout the house had come from the attics; who was to say that some previous Darcy scion had not preferred the writing desk reside in the library?
It was not Mrs Reynolds who appeared before me, however, but the bombazine-clad Mrs de Bourgh. I had not understood, she said. I did not realise that the morning parlour had been flawlessly decorated in a period style, and every stick of furniture, the vases, the wallpapers, each piece of bric-a-brac selected for a cohesive whole. To remove the writing desk from its pride of place was akin to slashing the portraits, sloshing mud upon the carpets, and storing dead bodies in its place.
Well, perhaps she did not use those exact words. But it was clearly what she meant, all delivered with a sort of imperious condescension, as if I were too stupid to have realised my error unless she pointed it out.
“I appreciate that,” I said, with what I hoped was kindness. “I promise you, I do not plan any major redecorations to the house as a whole. I see the work your daughter has done here, and I appreciate it. It is beautiful, and I know you must be proud of her efforts.”
She gave an irksome, regal nod, as if I were finally seeing reason.
“I do, however, require the writing desk to be moved at present. If Mr Darcy wishes, another can be commissioned for me, that the original desk might be restored to its former placement. But for the nonce, it will have a new home in the library.”
I thought it magnanimous of me, really. I had no desire to force Mr Darcy to buy new furniture.
“You will not understand, madam,” the lady repeated herself. “It is a mishmash of style and décor to wreck the morning parlour thus. Pemberley House will be poorer for the change.”
“I noted several other pieces of the same period throughout the house—in the green parlour, the gold parlour, the hall, and even in Mr Darcy’s bedchamber,” I replied evenly. “Perhaps one of those furnishings could be placed in the desk’s current position while it is in use elsewhere.”
She liked even less that I had knowledge enough of style to see the weakness of her argument, and grew less civil in her exchange. “I can see you are the obstinate sort who intends to push herself upon others, to force her decided, uninformed opinions, and ignore the work of generations. I wonder at you. Pemberley will be ruined.”
I sighed. “I believe, of the two of us, there is only one attempting to force an opinion. When your daughter came here as Pemberley’s mistress, she made changes. Some of them were large, some small. Her influence will be felt for decades. I, too, will make changes, beginning with the library. Future mistresses will do the same. We all will leave our mark, and it is hoped that Pemberley will be the richer for it.”
The gleam in her eye should have warned me, but I was more naïve then. I had been most reasonable; I thought that whether or not she conceded my point, she must at least accept my right to make it. I remember wondering whether I would have to have such an argument about every tiny change I wished, and thinking that I would have to proceed slowly so that our home would not become a battlefield. It was fortunate, I thought, that the first Mrs Darcy had had excellent taste. Even if it was not my own, most changes could certainly wait.
Foolishly, I waited in the library so I could direct the desk’s placement. When the door opened, however, it admitted not burly desk-carting footmen, but my husband. He was very upset. He did not, of course, raise his voice or betray it physically, but it was in him nonetheless. Mrs de Bourgh followed him inside, her aspect solemn but her small eyes sharpened, the triumphant vulture circling.
“The library is not to be changed,” he ordered, low-voiced but intent. “Not a stick of it. Am I understood?”
Of course, this command—given as if I were a ridiculous child and without any discussion—put my back up. I had many, many things I wished to say—but I refused to give Mrs de Bourgh the conflict she craved. She wanted me to react poorly, which would only drive Mr Darcy to further entrench his position. I had no idea what she had told him, but I could imagine my plan had been presented in as inciting a way as possible.
I wondered what she would do if I threw my arms around my husband and exclaimed my joy in seeing him in the middle of the day, utterly ignoring his temper. I was too angry to manage the pretence, however, as much as I might have enjoyed the expression upon her face.
My marriage was not a tool for her manipulation. She was not allowed to create arguments between us for her amusement and pleasure.
Instead, I took three deep breaths—something my aunt used to do when the children were naughty, before she reprimanded them. I looked at my husband, really looked at him. His eyes were a little wild—whatever she had said to him stirred emotions far deeper than this discussion deserved. In that moment, I hated her, not only for what she had done, but to be completely frank, that she knew so well how to do it. I could not imagine what could have caused a resentment so deep at such an innocent provocation.
I stood, went to him, and placed my hand upon his cheek. He stiffened; thus I was happy I had not chosen any deeper expression of affection. “I can see the arrangement of this room means a great deal to you. I understand. I believe it to be my favourite room in the house,” I said. “Please, excuse me.”
Thankfully, he only nodded, allowing me to exit gracefully. I had not missed his quick confusion at my response; it was not one he had expected.
I discovered the maids had chosen this moment to freshen my chambers; they looked at me with veiled annoyance when I entered my sitting room. Well, they should not have expected me to understand their daily schedule so soon. I greeted them, asking their names.
“Nora, ma’am,” said the elder.
“Alice, ma’am,” murmured the younger.
“Have you finished my bedchamber?”
“No ma’am,” Nora answered. “We always start in here.”
“Usually that would be fine, Nora, and now that I know your routine, I shall not disturb it in the future. But for today, the bedchamber will be first. Thank you,” I said, dismissal in my tone.
There is little worse for a servant than a mistress with unclear expectations. With the possible exception of Mrs Hill, who had the patience of Job, Longbourn’s had suffered under my mother’s rule. After she rid the home of anyone loyal to my grandmother, Mama proceeded to constantly change her priorities, issuing criticism when the servants performed in a way that had been requisite only the week before and then forgetting the new demands a week after. While living with my aunt and uncle, I saw how important adherence to routine was in the smooth administration of a household. In my own home, although I intended to respect the maids’ customary schedule, it would not rule me or my decisions. As expected, they retreated apologetically, their annoyance at disruption fading.