“How long do you intend to remain in Derbyshire?” asked the colonel, in a voice sufficiently loud that, for a moment, the conversation ceased around the table, as though all awaited her answer.
Elizabeth already felt at ease, and, with a gentle smile, replied, “Certainly until the autumn.”
She could not determine whether she imagined it or truly heard a slight sigh of relief from the head of the table, where Mr Darcy sat. She did not look towards him, since she was immediately surrounded by questions—how she found Derby, whether Pemberley pleased her—and she wondered whether those about her believed her to be the principal guest. Orperhaps she was the only guest who did not reside in the neighbourhood, and, as she had said, she came from London, they supposed that to be her home.
The thought amused her. Wherever one might be in England, in Hertfordshire, Kent, or Derbyshire, London and its inhabitants seemed to exercise the same fascination, as though they formed a distinct species. Her gown was indeed from London, and without doubt followed the latest fashion; and, in truth, Longbourn had not been her home for several days, so that to say she resided in London was not entirely false. She was certain she would one day return to her uncle’s house.
A moment later, the pain overcame her, but she made an effort, as her father would have wished, and returned to that beautiful table and the agreeable company around her. The colonel had been right: at Pemberley, unlike at Rosings, she was a valued guest, even if her host had begun the evening with irony—or something harsher; she could not determine which.
In the midst of their cheerfulness, a violent peal of thunder was heard without, and suddenly the heavy lace curtains stirred dangerously as the rain forced its way into the room. In haste, several servants closed the windows and drew the curtains; still, the thunder resounded, and from time to time the garden was illuminated by flashes of lightning.
“What weather!” said one of the gentlemen. “It has been thus for three days; at our house, a fine old tree was struck, and we were obliged to have it cut down.”
“That is Mr Robertson; he lives with his family a few miles from Pemberley. The lady beside him is his wife. We have all known one another from childhood,” whispered the colonel.
Elizabeth looked at him with gratitude. She liked to understand those around her, and the unpleasant beginning had prevented her from paying attention to their names.
She soon heard of another family from Derby, the Russells, with whom Mrs Cooper had been conversing, and, without intending it, she wondered how Mr Darcy had selected his guests; none appeared to be above forty, and all possessed a liveliness she had not expected. They seemed long acquainted and had admitted her into their circle with perfect ease.
Perhaps such might have been her life at Pemberley, and, unbidden, a faint regret found its way into her heart. She glanced, almost against her will, towards Mr Darcy, who was, as throughout the evening, attentively observing her.
Their eyes met, and Elizabeth felt herself slightly warmed—not by resentment or displeasure, yet she could not have said by what. She only hoped she had not coloured; mostly because of the people around the table, for she cared very little, at that moment, what the gentleman at the head of the table might think.
“Who is to play this evening?” asked Miss Darcy, and the whole company laughed, as though it were an accustomed subject of amusement. The colonel explained to Elizabeth and to Mrs Cooper that his cousin was an accomplished pianist, and that all present were eager to hear her.
“Perhaps Miss Bennet will also favour us,” said Darcy, looking towards her—the first time he had addressed her directly. From the other end of the table, Miss Darcy replied with cheerful readiness, “The very thing I wished to propose; you have heard me quite enough.”
There was again general laughter, and Elizabeth turned towards him with a shade of reproach, though without ill humour. “I do not know that I can truly oblige you. Mr Darcy is aware that I possess no extraordinary skill.”
“Whatever small deficiency there may be in skill is fully compensated by the feeling you bring to your playing,” said Darcy. Elizabeth could not but wonder whether he spoke from adesire to please, and whether it were an attempt at apology, or merely the instinct of a considerate host. She chose to believe it no more than that; yet, towards the close of the dinner, she began to doubt it.
Amidst the applause of the company, a magnificent cake was brought in, a wedding cake, covered in its unmistakable white icing, but almost entirely concealed beneath an abundance of berries. She looked from the cake to Mr Darcy as all admired it, and he smiled, with a nuance of complicity. She distinctly remembered that, at Rosings, she had once been asked what she most liked to eat, and had replied, without reflection, that she preferred wedding cake. Those about her had laughed, supposing she meant only to hint at marriage, but Mr Darcy alone had seemed to understand that it was truly her favourite.
And now, upon the table at Pemberley, stood that very cake she so much liked. The berries did not conceal his intention. She wondered what manner of man he might be, who had made her first moments at Pemberley so painful, only to strive afterwards to anticipate her every pleasure. Even the wildflowers upon the table were not commonly chosen for such a dinner, yet they were her favourites, and all that had the air of celebration belonged to her taste. She began to believe what the colonel had murmured—that the dinner was, in some measure, given for her.
∞∞∞
Immediately after dinner, another surprise awaited her. Acting together, Mr Darcy and the colonel assisted her and Mrs Cooper to rise from the table, and Mr Darcy said, “Georgiana will conduct you to the library.”
Elizabeth turned towards him in astonishment. The ladies always withdrew to the drawing room, but he raised his shoulders slightly. “My sister does many things in her own way, and we encourage her.”
“That is not entirely true,” said the colonel, laughing. “We merely told her that Miss Bennet is fond of libraries, and she wishes to impress you with her own at Pemberley.”
“Oh, delightful!” exclaimed Mrs Cooper, herself an eager reader.
“But there will remain many parts of Pemberley still to be seen, so we must entreat you to spend an entire day here, that we may do the honours as we ought. I am certain you will admire my mother’s collection of miniatures.”
Elizabeth looked at him again with attention, and, had they been alone, she felt certain she would have asked which was the true Mr Darcy—the one who had received her on her arrival, or the one who now addressed her.
But she forgot everything the moment she entered the library; it seemed to her that she had quitted a world which had lately grown strange and hostile, and had stepped into some delightful retreat.
The bookcase itself took her breath away. In another scale, it resembled her father’s at Longbourn. Her eyes filled with tears, and she made a great effort to conceal them; yet Mrs Cooper observed it.
“What is it, my dear?” she whispered, taking advantage of the others’ admiration of the room.
“My dear Mrs Cooper, the bookcase is exactly like my father’s. I believe the same hands must have made it.”
Mrs Cooper took her gently by the hand to soothe her. She understood the shock of such a discovery, yet knew that to speak of it aloud would only disturb Elizabeth the more.
