The thought of my childhood friendship–more than a friendship, because I had loved George with my whole heart—still left a bittersweet pang in my chest. In the quiet moments, I sometimes found myself longing to recapture that sense of freedom and friendship, to ask him if he ever missed it too. But the years had stretched between us, a widening chasm filled with silence and unspoken questions. I folded the last of my gowns, tucking away the nostalgia with it, wondering if our paths would ever cross again.
It was not impossible. As I had told Jane, Lambton was small. Derbyshire, while sprawling, was rather intimately connected. If there were a picnic or some sport or entertainment to be had, or neighbors welcoming a new child or hosting guests from out of town, George Darcy would know of it. He could not help it.
Then again, perhaps he was not even in Derbyshire this summer. He could be… he could be anywhere. In the army or tucked safely away at some far-flush parish as the rector or… or even married.
I clenched my teeth and closed my trunk. Best not to let my imagination spin on what I did not know.
Five days in a carriage is usually sheer torment for me. Jane is different–she can while away the dullest of hours simply by staring out of a window and letting her soul rest. But I am cut from a wry and off-grain cloth–the seconds, I suppose. I never can stand to sit idle, and I cannot abide the tingling of ideas and energy, all threatening to burst through my skin at the slightest breath of wind on my cheeks. This journey, however, proved that I can, in fact, sit still for five days. If it ishome, that will greet me when the carriage door opens on that last day.
“I wonder if Pemberley is as majestic as I remember,” I mused aloud during a lull in the conversation.
Uncle Gardiner turned the page of his book. I caught the edge of his glance, but he dropped his eyes again to his book before he spoke. “Places change, Lizzy, as do people. Best not to set your heart on past memories.”
“Yes,” I sighed. “I suppose.” But there was no help for it.
The tame and rolling hills had given way to spiraling rocks and mountains broken by verdant fields. Aunt Gardiner kept us amused by stories of her youth and her sister, Helen Westing, née Fairbanks. But I could not join in sharing my own memories, for they were far too precious and fragile. Instead, my mind wandered, landing on George Darcy, Senior–Father, I used to call him. The man who used to bring me gifts and mend my hurts and sing to me when I had a nightmare.
The man who had sent me away. With no word of explanation, no warning… The man who had simply gazed back at my forlorn tears that last day, closing the door of his study when I begged not to be torn away. What had I done? I had pleaded to know, and he never replied.
I could still picture him sitting in his study, a fortress of efficiency and goodness around which everything at Pemberley always revolved. What truths were nestled in those quiet corners? His words were always measured, his advice sound, but on the matter of my eviction from my home, there was nothing to be said. But one thing I knew; the man I called Father was never wrong. So, the fault must have been mine.
Would he welcome me now, I wondered, with the same fatherly affection, or would I see a flicker of something else, some hidden reason dancing in his gaze? The thought of confronting him, of demanding answers, sent a thrill of both fear and excitement through me.
Did I dare? How could I not? I was no longer a child to be sent away, and I no longer resented… all of it. The Bennets were my family now, and I was happy. I had a good life. But he owed me an answer, and perhaps one day, I would have it.
But not today. Today, we rolled through Lambton and took a turn off the main road that would have taken us west to Pemberley. Instead, we drove north for another half hour. Farthingdale was, indeed, smaller than Longbourn but built on a rambling slope and set in such a way that it looked longer upon its face, giving the house an appearance of size that was rather misleading.
As we stepped down from the carriage, Mr. Westing met us at the door.
“Gardiner!” he greeted our uncle with an outstretched hand. “And Madeline, my dear. Helen will be overjoyed to see you.”
Aunt let him kiss her hand, and then she turned to present us. “Robert, these are the nieces I wrote to you about. Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr. Westing bowed to us. “Welcome, and may I express my deepest gratitude? For certainly, you may have had your choice of amusements this summer, and you came here to help your aunt. I fear my poor Helen may have to lay more on our dear Madeline here than she had hoped, so your arrival is a true blessing in these trying times.”
“How is Helen?” Aunt asked. “Not overexerting herself, I trust?”
“Ordered to keep to her bed, I am afraid,” Mr. Westing replied. “The doctor was here two days ago, and he said she was not resting enough. Poor thing is going mad, confined to her room and wondering about the management of the house and our little Anne Rose. She will be overjoyed to see you.”
Without a moment’s hesitation, Aunt hurried inside and up the stairs. Mr. Westing turned to Jane and me, his demeanor still warm but tinged with the fatigue of a worried husband. “Please, come in. Sarah will see to the ladies, and Gardiner, I fancy a drink in my library would not go amiss?”
The interior was cozy and peaceful—a world away from the grandeur of Pemberley or the loving chaos of Longbourn. Jane and I turned round, our gazes crossing as we both surveyed the house. Yes, we could pass a very pleasant month or two here.
The maid led Jane and me up the narrow steps of Farthingdale, then opened the uppermost door at the top of the staircase. The attic room, nestled under the eaves of the house, was quaint and simple. Twin beds with patchwork quilts sat under a sloping ceiling, and a small window offered a view of the stretching fields.
As she checked the window shutter and straightened the quilts, she turned to us apologetically. “Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth, I am sorry we cannot offer more suitable accommodation. Mrs. Westing regrets she has but one guest room, which your aunt and uncle are using.”
Jane’s smile was reassuring as she glanced around. “This is quite comfortable, thank you. We don’t need much.”
The maid nodded and set down a basin of water and some fresh linens on a small table. “Mrs. Westing asked me to tell you that tea will be served in the drawing room shortly.”
“That sounds lovely, thank you,” I replied, placing my small bag on one of the beds. The room, though small, had a cozy charm, and the prospect of tea was a welcome one after our journey.
After the maid left, Jane made use of the basin to freshen her face. As I waited for my turn, I wandered over to the small window, peering out at the landscape bathed in the soft light of the afternoon. The fields stretched out to the west, a lush expanse of green that bordered the edge of memory and longing. Under my breath, almost without thinking, I murmured, “Pemberley...”
“What’s Pemberley like, Lizzy?” Jane’s gentle voice caught me off guard. I hadn’t realized she heard my quiet musing.
I turned, a flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks. Jane’s curious eyes were upon me, filled with a mix of interest and sisterly concern. I moved slowly, sinking onto the edge of the bed, feeling the weight of her question. Pemberley, with all its grandeur and shadows of the past—how could I encapsulate it in mere words?
