#jaff

Garden

Fireplace

Restraint

Needlework

Pianoforte

Navy

Picnic

Bath

Inheritance

Lock of hair

Singing

Looking glass

Card playing

Yearning

Carriage

Gossip

Library

Headwear

Portraiture

Christian name

Secrets

Gloves

Court

Letters

Farm

Etiquette

Cravat

Riding

Harp

Lace

Year Two

Anne hemmed a handkerchief while Elizabeth complained about the number of Naval officers at Lady Vincent’s ball. Anne counted stitches instead of Elizabeth’s complaints, knowing her sister would exceed the capacity of her thread.

Year Three

Anne embroidered the handkerchief for Mary to carry to her wedding. Charles had waited six months before proposing, long enough for a respectable courtship. He’d found Anne alone once and said You’re certain, Nan, it isn’t too late, but she’d known she wasn’t ruining anyone life when she said no.

Year Four

Anne kept an extra handkerchief in her reticule when she visited Uppercross. Mary fretted that there were draughts in every room and the fires all smoked, Cook used too much pepper and the yellow paper in the sitting room would make a blind man’s eyes water. 

Mrs. Musgrove patted Mary’s hand and smiled at Anne. They had all expected Mary’s first confinement to be a bit difficult.

Year Five

Anne sewed handkerchiefs for the housekeeper Mrs. Cadell to distribute to all the staff. It was a bad year for the grippe. Her father instructed her to economize and then ordered a case of the best Madeira.

Her own handkerchiefs had ceased to be used for tears.

Year Six

Anne gave her nephew Charles his first handkerchief, his name spelled out in bright red silk. He wore it as a hat more often than attending to his nose. Mary lay on a chaise with a handkerchief soaked in cologne laid across her eyes, vowing that she had never felt so ill in her life and insisting Anne hand her another comfit.

Francis Musgrove weighed ten pounds when he was born.

Year Seven

For her birthday, the vicar gave her a silver thimble in appreciation for all the girls she’d taught and all the handkerchiefs and shirts she’d sewn for the poor. When Anne put it on, she saw her hands had begun to look old.

She took the thimble off and touched the base of her finger where Frederick had promised to put a rose-cut diamond as bright as her eyes.

Year Eight

Captain Wentworth offered a handkerchief to Henrietta Musgrove after her sister’s injury. Anne saw the faded monogram in the corner, pale blue after many launderings, remembered how solemn he’d been when he’d asked her to give him a token of her esteem, how he’d grinned when she’d handed it to him, as carefully folded as a flag.

Anne swallowed her tears.

Year Nine

Anne hemmed a dozen handkerchiefs with her monogram and hand-tatted the lace to edge each square. From the bow of the ship, she waved the delicate article, the sails billowing behind her. Frederick’s hand was warm at her waist and he murmured I’ve got you, madam, make no mistake.

The tears in Anne’s eyes she blinked away.

She felt the claws of a coward’s heart scratching against the inside of her throat and stomach.

Pemberley was no mere house and Fitzwilliam’s neighbors were no mere new acquaintances to delight and irritate with her wit. This was the rest of her life. This was some new person she must now become. And what if she was not sufficient for the challenge?

Fitzwilliam gestured out the carriage window, “Does it live up to your memory?”

“I am overcome,” she said with perhaps too much feeling.

Fitzwilliam looked at her strangely, until she smiled for him. The expression seemed enough in the way of reassurance. He settled back against the padded wall and they jostled down the last stretch of road in silence. 

~*~

The carriage rolled to a stop before the front entrance of Pemberely. Awaiting their arrival were the house’s servants, already arranged in neat lines along the drive with each of their faces schooled into a pleasant expression.

Elizabeth found cause to wonder if they were as anxious as herself. Had the great walls been buzzing for the last week with stories and speculation of what the new lady of the house would be like?

Fitzwilliam exited the carriage. Reaching a hand back to assist Elizabeth as she stepped out, he said, “We are home.”

She was introduced to the servants. The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynold’s familiar face was a welcome sight. The woman remembered Elizabeth from her previous visits and welcomed her warmly. 

The gardener also remembered Elizabeth. He entreated that once she was settled, Elizabeth come see which flowers in the garden were now in bloom. Elizabeth was all eager agreement to this idea as she had always found solace in nature’s beauty.

At the end of the introductions, the butler mentioned to Fitzwilliam, “Mrs. Hay has promised to visit this afternoon and would not hear any suggestion of it being too soon to call.”

“I appreciate your efforts to deter her, all the same,” Fitzwilliam told him.

Elizabeth asked, “And who is Mrs. Hay?”

“A person who takes great pleasure in being involved,” Fitzwilliam said, “despite her involvement being entirely unnecessary. She is harmless, verbose, but harmless.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I will look forward to her early visit and premature acquaintance. I can only hope to be equally overhasty in my own liberty of communication.”

“I must beg you not to. It will only encourage her and consequently, the rest of the neighborhood.”

Fitzwilliam then turned to inquire with the butler on a few concerns about the house. 

Elizabeth observed her husband’s back, following the curving lines of his coat seams and thinking. In short order, her thinking turned to speculating and her speculating to conjecture. It seemed entirely possible to Elizabeth that Fitzwilliam was also worried she would make an unfavorable impression on his neighbors.

“Lady?” The voice was gentle enough to pull Elizabeth’s attention back to the outside world. “I understand that you have not brought a lady’s maid with you,” Mrs. Reynolds continued. “If it pleases my lady, I have arranged interviews with several highly recommended candidates. And it would be my pleasure to assist you until a suitable girl can be hired.”

“I very much appreciate your conscientiousness, Mrs. Reynolds.” After a moment’s thought, Elizabeth added, “Perhaps you could start by showing me Pemberley House once more, for I am certain I will have remembered all the rooms in the wrong places.”

Mrs. Reynold’s agreed to Elizabeth’s plan, pronouncing it imminently sensible. However, Fitzwilliam insisted on conducting Elizabeth around himself. His description of the rooms began pragmatically enough but soon turned to the teasing liberties of newlyweds.

Mrs. Reynolds disappeared between one room and the next. Her absence going unnoticed for some time by either Fitzwilliam or Elizabeth.

~*~

Elizabeth’s review of Pemberley concluded in the gardens where Fitzwilliam named the plants in each bed. He correctly identified them only about half the time.

Without making any comments, Elizabeth smiled a bit wider every time he misnamed a plant. She remained silent until he pointed to a winter rose, confidently telling her it was peppermint at which point she was unable to contain her laughter.

Fitzwilliam quickly determined the source of her merriment. “It is not peppermint?”

“No,” Elizabeth admitted, “Though you are handsome enough, I would call it peppermint for the rest of my days.”

Fitzwilliam colored, either from his mistake or her praise. “Most of this was originated by my mother. Since her death we have let the gardener make all decisions about the…” He waved his arm to broadly encompass their surroundings.

“…Garden?” Elizabeth guessed.

“Yes, but the specifics: breeds of plants, design of their arrangement. Georgiana will come out here to sketch and I to walk, but I do not think either of us have ever dedicated our thoughts to its upkeep.”

“A shame for some place so lovely to go without the attention of its owner.”

Fitzwilliam smiled at her. “Perhaps the new owner will confer the regard it has long been lacking.”

“Perhaps, though I think I should start with a proper inspection rather than whatever delightful amusement this has been.”

From behind a tall hedge came a rather loud cough and then the gardener appeared offering that he might answer any questions for his master or the new lady of the house.

Leaving Elizabeth in the gardener’s care, Fitzwilliam excused himself to have a  meeting with his steward.

For her part, Elizabeth found much to be happy with in the gardener’s work and with the man himself. He inquired what plants Elizabeth preferred to keep and described where he thought they might do well.

After Elizabeth expressed a particular desire for syringas, the gardener promised he would make it his immediate concern to procure some.

An unfamiliar voice called, “Syringas? Quite a showy, uncultured plant.” The voice came from a short figure approaching along the gravel path. Her dress was smart though old-fashioned and her gait was very comfortable for a stranger in another lady’s garden.

Elizabeth disregarded the lady’s manner of approach and instead offered a defense of syringas, “They have a beautiful flower.”

“Just because a weed has pretty bloom does not mean it has any place in a cultivated garden.” The lady stopped some distance away, looking Elizabeth over. She then continued, “I am here to see my neighbor, Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth could not muster even the thinest smile. “He is in the house.”

The lady turned to the garden door without further comment, making her way into the house.

Before following, Elizabeth offered a goodbye to the gardener and very quietly asked, “Mrs. Hay?”

The gardener nodded.

~*~

Mrs. Hay was every bit as unpleasant as advertised. She was a woman who must have looked perfectly adequate in her younger years but the intervening decades had gouged deep frown lines in brackets around her thin lips. She had the air of someone who did not want to pleased.

There was a greeting for Fitzwilliam which was not entirely devoid of warmth. It gave Elizabeth cause to hope that her terrible first impression of Mrs. Hay was mistaken. Then the conversation turned to Fitzwilliam’s recent change of status.

Mrs. Hay looked at Elizabeth, but her words were for Fitzwilliam, “Your aunt has written me at length about your bride.”

“That was not her place,” Fitzwilliam was making an admirable effort to be polite, but Elizabeth recognized the anger which had caused him to end all civil communication with his aunt.

If Mrs. Hay noticed his vexation, she was incautious of it. “You are young and you are master of your house. But you do not understand these things. Before you were even born, I sat with your mother and your aunt in Pemberley’s gardens, Lady Anne’s gardens,” this last description she directed at Elizabeth before returning her attention to Fitzwilliam. “And we three knew that our lives and our marriages could never be fully our own. For those of our society, marriage is not simply a joining of a man and a woman, but of their families, relations, heritage and legacy.”

It was transparent to Elizabeth that if the conversation was not swiftly moved from this topic, Fitzwilliam was likely to end it himself with language he may later regret.

“What is done, is done,” Elizabeth told Mrs. Hay, “And reality makes no concessions to regret.”

Fitzwilliam twisted his neck to look at her but he did not interrupt.

Elizabeth continued, “Now, please, you must tell us of the latest news in the neighborhood. I am certain that you keep yourself well informed about such things.”

With great effort on Elizabeth’s part, they spoke of nothing but the latest Derbyshire gossip. Mrs. Hay’s early attempts to once more bring up Elizabeth’s marriage met with firm redirection. Eventually, the older woman caved to the ultimate temptation of any busy body and found pleasure in relating all the most salacious stories of her neighborhood to someone who had not heard them a hundred times before.

Throughout the remainder of the visit, Fitzwilliam was silent. He could have been carved from stone, the way his expression became unreadable and he looked unerringly at a spot above and to the right of Mrs. Hay’s head.

Nearly one and a half hours later, Mrs. Hay left. Elizabeth walked her to the front door, not entirely trusting the woman to see herself out.

Before leaving, Mrs. Hay advised her, “You will find few supporters here.”

When the footman shut the door behind Mrs. Hay, Elizabeth expected to feel relieved at the woman’s absence. However, the feeling did not come. She thought Mrs. Hay’s parting words were not a warning so much as a promise.

Elizabeth returned to the sitting room only to find it empty. A housemaid informed her Fitzwilliam had left to dress for dinner and Elizabeth sought out Mrs. Reynolds so that she might do the same.

~*~

Dinner was a hushed affair. There were many perfectly reasonable explanations for the quiet: Fitzwilliam was hardly of a chatty nature, they were both exhausted from travel, and the meal Pemberley’s chef prepared was more than delicious enough to account for their attentions to their plates.

However, it seemed to Elizabeth to be the type of quiet that was stretched near to bursting with all that was not being said.

Near the end of the meal, Fitzwilliam considered her with a seriousness of purpose. She could see him fidget restlessly, hands clenching and unclenching.

Whatever weighty comment he had intended to say stayed in his throat. Instead, he asked, “And have you decided what to do with the garden?”

“I had a very good look at all the plants with the gardener and discussed his plans for the changing seasons.” She searched for something else that she might say to extend the conversation. “I asked that he procure syringas, but I am thinking better of it. The garden is quite lovely as it is.”

“You have lost your fondness for syringas in less than half a day?” It was not asked in the teasing tone that she had come to expect from him. He was discomposed and she could hear it in his voice.

“It was a silly thing, a lark born of little more than an appreciation for Cowper’s poetry. We only ever had them at Longbourn because I was besotted with their mention in his lines.”

“But you do not wish to have them here.”

“I have come to appreciate that they might not be…” She hunted for a phrasing, unused to mincing her words, “…befitting.”

She knew in an instant that it was the wrong word.

Elizabeth then had a long uninterrupted silence to contemplate the disappointment her inability to gain the good opinion of even a single one of Fitzwilliam’s neighbors must have caused him. She could not be insensible to the respect with which he cherished Pemberley and the consequence of his family. Nor could she be insensible to her own inadequacy as the lady of his house.

“Do you regret marrying me?” He asked.

The question took Elizabeth by such complete surprise that she kicked her leg against the table, jostling the surface and everything on it. “Regret? Good heavens! What put that notion in your head?”

“You need not be delicate out of consideration for my feelings,” He said. “I must have the truth.”

“I know of no other truth you can have; I love you.”

“I have no doubt of that.” His expression softened and twisted, the movements as synchronized as they were inscrutable. “But it is an unreasonable burden to place on love that it must preclude all other difficulties a marriage might offer. I had assumed you would want for nothing as lady of Pemberley, but I can see that you are unhappy.”

“What? No! You are the one who is unhappy. I too have eyes and can see that I have disappointed you, I have exposed you to derision, I—”

“Enough! I will not hear anymore of this wholly inaccurate misconception of my feelings.”

The very conviction with which he made the statement gave Elizabeth pause. “But, you asked me to nurture Mrs. Hay’s good opinion and by her word, your neighbors’. I have failed in that, there is no other interpretation.”

“I do not imagine that I could think less of Mrs. Hay’s good opinion. It is rarely bestowed and even then only on the most fusty, tedious souls England has to offer. If she does turn all the neighbors against us—which seems an unlikely occurrence—then we will prevail on Charles and Jane to leave Netherfield for a house closer to us and keep only each other’s company until we die of old age. I might prefer that actually.” He said all this in a tone of simple fact, never wavering until he asked, “Then, you are not unhappy to be settled here?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I am not unhappy. I am, perhaps, not as much myself as I should like to be. Not as certain here as I was in the familiarity of Hertfordshire. But never doubt that I am certain about you.”

Between one breath and the next, Elizabeth’s tumultuous thoughts all suddenly tumbled into place and she realized that they had misunderstood each other. Fitzwilliam had read her anxiety as regret and she in her turn had seen his worry as disappointment. She watched a similar realization light in Fitzwilliam’s eyes. His posture calmed and a smile found its way onto his lips.

“We are fools,” Fitzwilliam said.

“Indeed.” Elizabeth savored the easy joy of knowing each other’s hearts. “But we are fools in love and there is something to be said for that.”

That evening when all the disquiets of the day had been spoken and in the speaking lost most of their power to intimidate, Elizabeth lay awake in her new room, in her new bed. Even the stars in the heavens visible through Pemberley’s windows seemed in slightly different places, causing Elizabeth to wonder how many nights she would sleep there before she was accustomed to the assemblage of their lights. She thought with anticipation about all the possibilities those days held, laughing from the pure joy of it. Her laughter woke Fitzwilliam from his sleep and as he pulled her from the window, she only laughed more.