Page 62 of More Gentlemanlike

She had no desire to overshadow Georgiana’s efforts, nor to dismiss the elegant restraint of her taste; rather, she hoped to build upon it. If this was to be her first harvest celebration as mistress of Pemberley, she wished it to bear some mark of her hand, but not at the expense of those who had so kindly begun the work before her. If she was to occupy that place with any confidence, she must begin somewhere, and perhaps flowers, fruit, leaves, and a little music were as gentle a beginning as any.

Monday, 5 October 1812

The day of the celebration arrived sooner than Elizabeth had expected, falling only a few days after Michaelmas. It seemed, in more ways than one, a fitting occasion for the newly married Darcys; for it came very near the anniversary of their first meeting.

Only that morning, Elizabeth had reminded her husband of the dance awaiting him that evening.

“I hope, Fitzwilliam,” she said, as they broke their fast in their sitting room as had been their habit since arriving at Pemberley, “that you will find me tolerable enough this evening, since we are to open the dancing for the tenants. You need not fear that I shall require you to dance all night, but I do expect at least four dances from you.”

Fitzwilliam raised one brow and regarded her over his tea. “I find you rather more than tolerable, dearest, which I believe I have demonstrated on multiple occasions by now. But why four dances? With whom else am I to stand up?”

“With me, first,” Elizabeth replied, counting them upon her fingers with an air of great seriousness. “Then with Georgiana, then Mary, and then with me again, to atone for the dance we did not have at the assembly in Meryton last year.”

His mouth softened, though his eyes betrayed his amusement. “I see I am to be punished for my former sins.”

“Punished?” she said, her eyes bright with mischief. “Certainly not. I am far too fond of the offender for that. You are only to be properly reformed.”

Elizabeth took up her cup with an air of innocence, though the glance she cast at him over its rim was anything but innocent.

“Besides, as Mrs Darcy, I must occasionally borrow a little of your consequence, and I can think of no better way than to make you dance with me twice before all Pemberley’s servants and tenants. You shall not find the exertion too great, I hope. My sisters and I will allow you to rest between the sets, if such consideration should be necessary.”

She was obliged to bite the inside of her cheek as her husband’s eyes narrowed at her words. The look he gave her was not at all severe, whatever he might have wished her to believe; there was too much warmth in it, too much promise, and she felt the colour rise in her cheeks before he had spoken a word.

“I assure you,” he said, setting down his cup with great deliberation, “I can manage four dances without requiring the least interval for recovery.”

“Can you indeed?”

His gaze lowered briefly to her mouth, and when it returned to her eyes, the heat in it was enough to make her forget the remains of her breakfast. “Shall I prove my stamina to you now, Mrs Darcy?”

Elizabeth’s laugh escaped her then, although it was softer than she had intended. A little shiver of delight passed through her at the note in his voice. “At breakfast, sir? You grow very bold.”

“With my wife?” he replied, rising and coming round the table with unhurried purpose. He held out his hand, and Elizabeth, with very little pretence of hesitation, placed hers in it. At the slightest tug, she rose and nearly fell into him. “I hope to grow bolder still.”

Whatever answer she might have made was lost when he drew her nearer. Their breakfast was quite forgotten, as were the harvest preparations,the expected guests, and every respectable intention with which the morning had begun.

Very little more was said for some time, though Elizabeth thought her husband made his argument with remarkable eloquence. By the time Mr and Mrs Darcy at last quitted their rooms, considerably later than either had intended, she was obliged to concede that four dances were unlikely to tax him beyond endurance. Nor, although she was perfectly aware that she ought to feel some remorse for the delay, could she summon even the smallest portion for the lateness of their arrival downstairs.

Thirty-Four

In the years that followed, the harvest celebration proved only the first of many things upon which Elizabeth Darcy left her mark. Pemberley, although it never lost any of its dignity or natural quiet, became a house of greater warmth and liveliness, the centre of much family affection and frequent activity.

The Matlocks, the Gardiners, and, on occasion, the Bennet sisters could often be found at the estate, particularly during the holidays and in the summer months. Each of the Darcys’ sisters eventually found her own happiness, and more than one match owed something to the discernment, kindness, or quiet interference of Mr and Mrs Darcy. Even Lydia had been much improved by her years at school, and, upon the conclusion of her education, had been granted a season in Town under her elder sister’s watchful eye.

In time, the nursery at Pemberley was rarely empty during such visits, for between the Darcys’ own children and those of their sisters, there was seldom any want of noise, movement, or occupation. Elizabeth and Darcy’s first child, a son to carry the Darcy name, was born not long after their first anniversary, and several more followed in the years after. Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing that fatherhood did not lessenFitzwilliam’s dignity in the least, though it frequently rendered him powerless when a small hand was laid upon his own or when a solemn request for a story came from the nursery door.

As a hostess, Elizabeth Darcy became rather well known for her drawing rooms in Town on those infrequent occasions when the family was in London. Both she and Mr Darcy found that they preferred the country to Town, and every foray into the capital only seemed to confirm them in that preference. Still, when they did go, Elizabeth brought to their circle the same warmth, wit, and ease that had transformed Pemberley itself.

For Pemberley and its master had both been transformed in the years after Fitzwilliam and Elizabeth married. Although its woods and waters, its long galleries and quiet rooms, remained as they had always been, the spirit of the place had altered beneath the influence of its lively and engaging mistress.

There was more laughter throughout the house now, more music, more voices in the halls, some young and high with delight. It gave evidence that its master did not merely preserve what had been entrusted to him, but knew how to share it with those who were dear to him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, who had once thought dignity chiefly expressed by restraint, discovered that happiness made him no less respected by his servants or his tenants. Indeed, those who knew him best thought him greater for the liveliness that seemed to have awakened in him upon his marriage. He was still reserved among strangers, still exacting in matters of duty to his estate and his family, and still incapable of false ease or careless civility; but there was a gentleness in him now that had not always been readily apparent unless one looked closely.

Elizabeth sometimes wondered what might have become of them had he remained silent that day at Lambton, or had she opened Jane’s letters sooner. Would he—or she—have allowed pride, mortification, or fear of refusal to keep them from speaking plainly? A different sort of gentleman might have retreated behind wounded dignity after his rejected proposal and called it prudence not to ask again. He might, perhaps, have been civil when they met, but not solicitous; attentive,but not vulnerable; honourable, but not so very determined to make himself understood.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, to his everlasting credit, had done otherwise.

Instead of retreating behind hurt pride, he had humbled himself without ceasing to be honourable, and loved her without demanding that she first become easy to love. He had stood steadfastly beside her when scandal seemed not merely possible but probable, and once she had accepted him, he had determined that nothing would prevent their marriage.

Once, she had accused him of behaving in a manner not quite gentlemanlike. She had been wrong in some respects and right in others, as young ladies with lively minds and injured feelings are apt to be. But the man who sat beside her now, who looked upon their home with quiet satisfaction and upon her with an affection that years had only deepened, had become something far better than the proud gentleman she had first imagined him to be.

He had become her dearest friend, her truest companion, and the best of husbands.

And if, in learning to love her well, Mr Darcy had grown a little less proud, a little more open, and altogether more gentlemanlike, Elizabeth could only think the improvement had been very well worth the trouble.