The Pemberley Papers

The Pemberley Papers

The Pemberley Papers

Chapter One.

It has been twenty years since I last visited Pemberley. There have been so many distractions: the travails of a certain Miss Wodehouse in Highbury, a sojourn in Bath with Miss Anne Elliott and then of course the tedious business of my own demise. But here in the ether, I will not call it Paradise, there is so little in the form of entertainment – my fellow shades are so unutterably virtuous, that I feel I must break out of this perpetual harmony. So I have resolved to break my own rule of finishing the story on the wedding night and revisit the scene of my greatest creation.

The house is as magnificent as ever. I have never enjoyed writing about architecture, I find people much more interesting, but if you want a detailed description of Pemberley’s pediments and pillars, its grottoes and follies, I suggest you consult one of the many guides to the picturesque country of Derbyshire that seem to have been published in my absence. Suffice to say that the silver is gleaming, the candles burn true, and there are no drafts to disturb the comfort of the family eating breakfast in the South Parlour.

At one end of the table is my old friend Eliza Bennett or as I must now call her, Mrs Darcy. For a woman approaching forty she is tolerably elegant. There are a few strands of grey in the brown hair, but the eyes are still extremely fine, and she appears still to have a waist , although it is hard to assess her true proportions as she is wearing a morning dress with the extravagant sleeves that seem to be the latest fashion. I would have expected my Lizzie to scorn such excesses, but then I must remember that she is no longer the penniless daughter of a country squire but the mistress of one of the greatest houses in the country. The eyes still sparkle though, and she is quietly reading a letter as she sips her tea, not chattering mindlessly like so many women of middle years.

Sitting opposite her his face concealed by his copy of the Times, is her husband Fitzwilliam Darcy. As he lowers the paper, I feel quite nervous. What have twenty years done to that proud profile. Will he be red nosed and bibulous like that old gossip Mr Weston, or bald and sallow like the miserable Mr. Wodehouse? Thankfully he is neither. His hair remains attached to his scalp in tolerable quantities, and has not migrated to his nostrils or ears. His figure is still trim, and the broadcloth coat houses a pair of shoulders that still have authority.

But what of the characters that have sprung up in my absence? A quick glance around the breakfast table reveals one, two, three, four, five girls descending in age from eighteen to eight. But where are the sons? Are they away at school? Or can it be that Elizabeth Darcy has failed to produce an heir to Pemberley? Judging by the number of daughters it is not for want of trying. Surely such august figures as the Darcys are not condemned to repeat a plot that I used myself to such great effect? But given that all these girls must have handsome dowries they will have no trouble in attracting eligible suitors. And where pray is the jeopardy in that.?

I had quite forgotten how much noise young women make en masse. Up here ,what conversations there are, tend to conducted in the measured tones of a tea party at Rosings. There are no piglet -like squeals, or parrot like shrieks. Both of these noises are very much in evidence this morning , so much so that it is hard to make out what exactly is being said. I must play close attention. Darcy is reading a letter in what looks like a familiar hand.

“ So I have decided to leave behind the melancholy associations of Hertfordshire and have taken Parnham Park on a long let. I have heard so much about the beauties of Derbyshire from my late husband. I hope that it will give you the chance to make the acquaintance of my son George who is currently finishing his studies at Cambridge. I feel sure that you will have some interest in the young man who may one day play an important part in the future of Pemberley. I look forward to seeing you again after all these years and to meeting your wife and all your daughters, affectionately yours Emma Knightley.”

I knew I recognised that hand. Those looping g’s and graceful s’s belong to another of my creations Emma Wodehouse. Imagine my surprise to find her inserting herself into this story. It never occurred to me that Elizabeth would not produce a quiver of sons, so I had forgotten or perhaps I never knew the connection between the Darcys and the Knightleys which meant that Pemberley would be inherited by George Knightley in the event of Darcy dying without male issue. An intriguing complication and one which has the added benefit, for me at least, of bringing Emma to Derbyshire.

But it seems that Elizabeth is not pleased. The fine eyes are flashing. “ All your daughters!. As if they are a litter of puppies. I do not care for her tone, Darcy.”

Darcy looks back at her gravely. “ From what I remember Mrs Knightley is handsome and clever with a very ready wit. I found her amusing, and devoted to her husband.”

“ Are you surprised that she was devoted to the owner of Donwell Priory, a house that you have told me rivals this one? ” replies the mistress of Pemberley.

“Lizzie! I expect you to show more compassion towards a poor widow.”

“ A widow yes. But not a poor one. She is rich in her possession of a son, who as she so delicately hints at in her letter, will one day inherit all this.” Elizabeth gestures towards the green hills visible from the windows.

“ Not for some time, I hope,” says Darcy.

Elizabeth hears something in her husband’s voice which makes her walk around to where he is sitting and putting her hands on his shoulders she kisses the top of his head, followed when her husband leans back by a kiss on the lips.

“ Forgive me Darcy. I just can’t bear to think of it.”

The daughters are watching this exchange with varying degrees of interest. One with short hair like a boy looks away in horror when her parents kiss, but her older sister smiles approvingly.

“ It would be very convenient if Amelia married this George Knightley wouldn’t it,” This observation is made by the short haired girl. There is then a piercing squeal as Amelia kicks her under the table.

“ Girls!” The hubbub subsides when Elizabeth raises her voice.

“ There is no question of Amelia marrying George just because of the entail. I would rather she married a penniless curate than some pampered mother’s boy who by an accident of birth has become the heir to not one but two vast estates. “

“ I don’t mind marrying him, Mama,” says one of the younger daughters. “ I think I should quite like to be mistress of Pemberley and Donwell Abbey, even if there is no title.”

“I am sure that George Knighley is perfectly loathsome, but even he doesn’t deserve you, Amy,” says the short haired girl .

“ There is no need to be such a sourpuss Jane, just because you are going to be a pinch faced old spinster for the rest of your life,” retorts Amy, who I am beginning to dislike.

“ Run along girls, I want to talk to your mother,” says Darcy.

“ But I haven’t finished my breakfast,” protests Amy.

“ No Duke will want to marry a greedy pig like you, “ says another sister.

“ How many times have I told you girls, that titles are the ultimate vulgarity? There have been Darcys in Derbyshire since before the Conquest which is more than can be said for most Dukes or Marquesses who owe their title to a pretty ancestor catching the eye of a monarch. To be a Darcy of Pemberley is to be part of one of the most distinguished families in England. Now go away all of you. ”

The girls file out reluctantly. They have heard their father’s speech about the nobility of the Darcy name many times before. They are much more interested in knowing what he really thinks of George Knightley and t the entail. They cluster around the parlour door they have just closed hoping to hear the truth. But Elizabeth who knows the habits of families with five daughters takes her husband’s arm and leads him out of earshot.

“ So what is it you would like to speak to me about, Mr. Darcy?”

“ As always I want to congratulate you on your beauty, brilliance and exemplary behaviour in all things, “ says her husband.

“ I accept your congratulations, is there anything else?”

“ Well, I did wonder if Jane might be right.”

“ Right about what?” ‘ says Elizabeth who knows perfectly well.

“ The convenience of a match between Amelia and George Knightley.”

Elizabeth laughs, “ By that logic I would now be Mrs Collins, presiding over Longbourn after twenty years servitude in the Parsonage at Rosings.”

“ True. But your esteemed cousin is a buffoon. George Knightley is not.”

“ How do you know?”

“ I’ve met him and found him quite agreeable.”

“ You never told me you’d met him.”

“ I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

Eliza steps away from him, her cheeks flushing red.

“ Well? Is he the son you have always wanted?”

Darcy takes hold of Elizabeth’s hand and pulls her into an embrace.

“ That remark is precisely why I didn’t tell you.”

Elizabeth buries her face into his shoulder.

“ I so wanted to give you a son of your own.”

“Darling Lizzie, you have given me everything I have ever wanted.”

“ Are you sure?”

“ Quite sure.

I look away at this juncture as there is a certain amount of embracing which I find surprising in a married couple of so many years standing. But then mercifully, the conversation continues.

“Think of it this way Lizzie, if George and Amelia were to marry, you will never have to suffer the indignity of being supplanted by a daughter in law that you detest.”

Elizabeth laughs, “ True. But it would be no consolation for losing you.”

“ And that is why I am depending on you to be kind to Emma Knightley. I believe that she was broken hearted when her husband was killed.”

“ How did he die?”

“ In a riding accident. He took a fence too fast and broke his neck.”

Elizabeth considers this and her ready imagination allows her to feel some sympathy for Emma Knightley.

“I will write and invite them to stay for Amelia’s dance.”

“ A very generous overture Lizzie. And I am sure that it will have the desired effect of showing Mrs Knightley your command of the county.”

“ That is unkind.”

“ But true nevertheless.”

“ Really Darcy I don’t know what has got into you this morning. It is my job to tease you, and here you are goading me like a gadfly.”

“ I beg your pardon for behaving out of character.”

“ You are forgiven. But I must leave you now and pacify Mrs Jenkins, who has taken issue with the arrangements for the ball. She is not happy with the sugar sculptures I ordered in London.”

“ Would you have married me if you had known about the necessity to pacify Mrs Jenkins when introducing any innovation to Pemberley?

‘ Definitely not, “Elizabeth answers as she hurries off to meet the housekeeper. Darcy picks up his paper. A paragraph later Elizabeth hurries in and picks up the letter that she was reading earlier and stuffs it into her pocket. There is something about the way she does this that makes Darcy raise an eyebrow.

‘ Interesting letter?”

Elizabeth flushes,

“ Not really. It’s from Charlotte Collins, complaining about the damp at Longbourn.” With that she rushes out of the room. Darcy’s eyebrow is still raised. He noticed as did I, that the letter Elizabeth was reading was postmarked London, not Hampshire. He is clearly disturbed by his wife’s falsehood, but I have to say I am relieved. A clandestine correspondence by a married woman adds an element of intrigue to a plot that was beginning to look only too familiar.

Elizabeth walks with the quick light step that I have always admired, along the corridors lined with portraits of her husband’s ancestors to the Housekeeper’s room. There she does her best to placate Mrs Jenkins who has taken umbrage about the sending to London for sugar work – ‘ a great and unnecessary expense, Ma’am. The kitchens here are more than capable of producing such things.” I sense Elizabeth’s impatience but I admire the way that she manages to control herself while the conversation reaches its inevitable conclusion. The creation of the Pemberley pastry chef will take centre stage while the metropolitan usurpers will be relegated to less prominent positions.

Elizabeth heads to the small sitting room which has become her own private sanctum. Other pens than mine can describe the chintzes and the muslins, I am more interested in the number of books lining the shelves. Eliza has inherited her father’s library but she has also added a good number of novels and she has discarded most of the sermons of which her younger sister Mary was so fond. She sits down and takes out the letter.

It is not, from Charlotte Collins. That estimable lady does write to Elizabeth most regularly, and quite often complains about the arrangements at the house where Elizabeth grew up. This annoys Elizabeth but she understands that it is the price of maintaining a friendship where there is such inequality of position. Charlotte will never quite forget that her husband was Elizabeth’s rejected suitor and so she feels entitled to remind her friend of just how far she has come by marrying Mr. Darcy.

So who is the letter from? The first peculiarity is that the letter Elizabeth is so eager to read has been enclosed inside another one. This suggests that it has been forwarded from a poste restante address. The enclosure is addressed to Miss E. de Burgh.

As Elizabeth opens the letter I see immediately that it is not a billet doux but something far more substantial. It appears to be from a publishing house, one with which I am quite familiar as it happens, setting out the terms under which they are prepared to publish Miss de Burgh’s manuscript, A Meditation on the Rights of Daughters.

I could not be more surprised. Can it really be that Lizzie Bennett, the pricker of pomposity has become a pamphleteer? The girl I knew would have shuddered at the thought of something so trenchant. But as I read the letter I understand that she has written about something very close to her heart – the inequity of estates being entailed on heirs male. She appears to be calling for legislation to end this practice. How can it be, she writes, that an eighteen year old girl can become the Queen of England, but a thirty five year old woman cannot inherit her father’s estate? It takes me a moment to appreciate that the eighteen year old girl is the daughter of the Duke of Kent , Princess Victoria, who was not in evidence when I was alive. It appears that she is the Heir presumptive to the throne , and will become Queen any minute now as the current King who I remember as the Duke of Clarence is in poor health.

There is so much to take in. I understand why Lizzie has kept this from Darcy. She may have changed in the last twenty years, but I am quite sure he has not. The man I knew would not be pleased to find that his wife expressing political opinions publicly. He would find it at the very least indecorous, indeed he might use a stronger word, and I have to say I am in agreement. My heroine was written to adorn drawing rooms, not to enter into the vulgarity of Westminster. Alas, I have been away too long. Without my guiding hand, it appears that Elizabeth Darcy née Bennett has developed a mind of her own.

There is one small crumb of comfort though. Despite her newfound seriousness, Elizabeth has not entirely lost her sense of humour. Borrowing the name of the heiress of Rosings, the daughter of her nemesis Lady Catherine de Burgh, as her nom de plume, shows that there is still mischief in Mrs Darcy.

TO BE CONTINUED