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Chapter Twelve
Aweek passed, and I heard nothing from my husband. I tried not to dwell upon it, which was difficult. The weather turned nasty again, an icy sort of rain that managed to chill one to the bone without leaving any snow behind to beautify what it destroyed. I did some minor redecoration, changing the draperies in my rooms from dark velvet to a set of brighter green ones that were tucked away in one of the attics; Mrs Reynolds was a veritable treasure trove of information on Pemberley’s vast stores of linens. I also found a number of beautifully stitched pillows in a trunk, apparently created by Mr Darcy’s mother. They were whimsical and pretty and suited me perfectly. Come spring, I planned to repaint and repaper, but for now I was satisfied with my little changes. To further counter boredom and distress, I retreated to the library whenever possible, for an endless supply of entertainment, education, and edification.
My aunt replied to my letter, and, although she mentioned nothing of hearing any rumours, she reiterated that my husband’s family was a fine one, and that I could trust my own judgment in these matters—that she trusted my judgment in these matters. About Mrs de Bourgh, she was inclined to advise patience, but in no case should I tolerate abuse, and should report anything of the sort to Mr Darcy—who she believed would support me in any demand for respect. If he were here, perhaps, I thought morosely.
Happily, the day came that Miss Bickford, Lucy in tow, made the trek up the mountain in an ancient black coach, not trusting, evidently, that she could indeed request one from Pemberley. Mrs Reynolds told me of their arrival, and I greeted them with enthusiasm and brought them to my rooms. Lucy peered around expectantly, probably imagining masked assailants rising up from the shadows. I think she was a bit disappointed by the elegance of Pemberley, with nary a gothic horror to be found.
Miss Bickford brought five dresses completed—or nearly so, for Lucy pinned and hemmed, while Clara was ready to apply any other finishing touches. We both looked with great interest at the new trims she had obtained for the remaining dresses as I made my final selections. There was another surprise, for Mrs Dale—of haberdashery fame—had made so bold as to send along some excellent examples from her stores for my viewing pleasure. I bought them all.
I cared not at all for her earlier snub, for it was as I had hoped—the villagers had been predisposed to view Anne Darcy with approval, at least in part because she contributed to their livelihoods. Pemberley was in many ways self-sufficient, never relying solely on nearby merchants. Hopewell had no doubt suffered by her death, and those who suffered would be Mr Darcy’s loudest detractors. By giving a large order to Miss Bickford, I had sent a signal that my approval was worth earning. I ought to have had Mr Davis pull down half his store to show me his wares; only my surprise and shock had prevented me.
As Miss Bickford took her leave, she unexpectedly clasped my hand. “It is good to see you looking so well, Mrs Darcy,” she said, peering at me significantly. “A dressmaker knows.”
I was unsure just what she thought she knew, but I thanked her nonetheless.
The next day, I discovered how appearing in one of my new dresses improved my mood. A deep green velvet with ethereal gauze trims, it was warm, pretty, and suited me well—and I was shallow enough to find solace in it.
For I found Pemberley, though beautiful, a lonely place to live.
Perhaps a bit of my confidence had disappeared with Mr Darcy. I tried not to show it. I met at least twice daily with Mrs Reynolds, and felt I was earning her respect. But now that I understood the opinion of the villagers, I began understanding how it might not trickle down to the rest of the household very quickly.
The first Mrs Darcy had been much esteemed. Amongst the upper servants—those who had served during his parents’ time—respect for my husband remained strong. The hostility of the villagers had not infected those whom he paid, and paid well. Nevertheless, even these servants were not all predisposed to look kindly upon the replacement mistress. They did not show it except in the stiff formality of their obedience, the slight questioning of some of my requests. I told myself it would simply take time to achieve full acceptance.
But amongst many of the lower servants, those who perhaps had not been here long, or who had close ties to villagers, there were more difficulties. Mrs Reynolds ran an impeccable establishment, but she could not control every sidelong glance, every smirk, every slight show of reluctance disguised as confusion or failure to hear.
As I turned a corner, I overheard one maid whisper to the other, “They say as ’ow she were from some fam’ly as ’adn’t a sixpence to scratch with, an’ she tricked the master inta weddin’ ’er.”
“Don’t see’s how she could’ve done so,” the other replied in equally low tones. “She hasn’t a button on the ol’ mistress fer looks. O’course, there weren’t many as fine looking as Mrs Darcy were. I always thought her an angel fallen from the sky. And now she’s in heaven, too fair for earth, Lord rest her soul.”
“My uncle says as ’ow ’e beat ’er for jealousy’s sake, but I never saw ’im in a temper,” the first whispered, a bit uncertainly.
“He never would!” the second hissed vehemently. “And don’t ye let Reynolds hear ye even think such a thing, or ye’ll be in the basket and out on yer ear. It were grief what fooled him, never doubt it. But he’s made his bed, and now must lie in it.”
“With ’er, poor man,” replied the first, and they both burst out in laughter.
My first thought was to interrupt them with a scold, but I changed my mind and turned back the way I had come. What point was there? If Mrs Reynolds heard of it, she might turn them both off. I was hardly ugly, and cared nothing for their opinions of my looks. Still, some of my pleasure in my new dress faded.
I knew that even in smaller households, a mistress must earn her place, however much one might pretend it was the other way around. But with every day that Mr Darcy was absent, I could feel the undercurrents of distrust building.
It was not only a matter of winning over the servants. After all, I had, actually, been a servant—or treated as one, at Rosings. I would never allow myself to forget the immense amount of labour these people expended to keep Pemberley in fine fettle. I would ensure their welfare and take care with their feelings and, eventually, they would be happy enough with my stewardship. No, a greater issue was that the opinion of many villagers was shared by at least some of the finer families in the neighbourhood, and gossip, as Mrs Reynolds had hinted in the beginning, was rife. Mr Darcy had neglected to litter the neighbours with calling cards announcing his new bride, as a gentleman ought. Now I understood why. By way of half-hearted explanation, he had mentioned that his greater acquaintance was in London for the Season. Only a few of those who remained had bothered leaving cards, which, of course, I had promptly returned—to little effect. Obviously, my new surname would help me as little with my neighbours as it had in Hopewell.
Still, I determined to maintain an optimistic attitude. Perhaps Easter would bring those more amicable home to Derbyshire. Perhaps we would visit London later, and expand our circle by that means. I would not borrow trouble, and assume a life devoid of friends—I was not formed for solitude.
A day later, when Mrs Reynolds informed me I had a caller, how pleased I was for the distraction. It was one of those whose cards I had returned, a tall, heavy-looking woman, perhaps ten years my senior; her card identified her as Mrs Isabella Longthorpe. I am afraid I nearly gaped at her appearance—she was dressed all in gold, golden feathers fluttering from her golden hat, golden rings twinkling on every finger. She reminded me of a great house we had once toured in Kent, every inch of its décor gilded, decorated, draped, and uselessly fine.
After the usual niceties, Mrs Longthorpe came right to her purposes in visiting.
“Tell me about your father’s estate, I beg you. I have heard it was a grand place, but entailed upon a distant relation and unhappily lost.”
Ah.She played the part of Collectoress of Information for the neighbourhood. As my mother had once fulfilled that particular calling, I understood its importance—to her, at least—and tried to exercise patience.
“Longbourn is still in the family, ma’am. Indeed, my younger sister yet resides there, and one of my dearest friends is its mistress.”
Perhaps Charlotte and I were no longer close, but that did not mean I had no affection for her. And truly, she capably managed Longbourn, as well as her awful husband. But this answer was somewhat displeasing to my visitor, since it betrayed no particular grievance or sorrow.
“Ah, yes, I heard you were one of several girls. Of course, it cannot much matter to Mr Darcy, as he can do with Pemberley as he will. An entail is such an old-fashioned notion, I have always believed. You are the eldest?”
A dig upon my ancient birth. “No, ma’am. My sister Jane, wife to the rector of Matlock, holds that honour.”
