Chapter Text
Elizabeth ascended a hill with her aunt and uncle Gardiner in their carriage, not with excitement, for she had seen several great houses by this point in their trip, but with curiosity. The maid at their inn spoke of the beauty of the grounds, just as her aunt had, so when they learned the family were away from home, she agreed to their plan to visit the following day. Now she looked around and was indeed impressed with the variety of ground, the rolling hills, the ancient wood. Then, abruptly, the house came into view across a valley: they had reached Pemberley.
It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and Elizabeth felt that if this were her home, she would never feel a need to travel like the Darcys were apparently doing.
When they reached the door and applied to view the house, the housekeeper arrived to give them their tour. Mrs Reynolds was warm and courteous, with clear pride in the house and her master shining through every description. Each room had a different splendid view; Elizabeth found herself spending far more time enjoying the prospects from the windows than the actual rooms of the house, elegant as they were. Before long her uncle inquired as to whether the master was away, and Elizabeth listened to the answer with mild curiosity.
"Miss Darcy has been away at Ramsgate this whole summer," Mrs Reynolds said, "and only two days ago Mr Darcy went off to surprise her there. This is always the way with him. Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. A more doting brother and guardian I have never seen; I am certain she will be delighted to be with him again."
Their attention was drawn to several miniature portraits suspended above the mantelpiece in the room they were in. "Does Mr Darcy have a brother as well?" asked Mrs Gardiner, seeing one more picture than expected.
Mrs Reynolds frowned for the first time since they arrived, her lips a grim line of disapproval. "That is Mr Wickham," she said, pointing, "the son of my late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. I have not seen him in some time; I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
"Indeed?" asked Elizabeth. She knew she ought not pry into family affairs, but wondered what could have earned the affable housekeeper's censure.
"My late master had him educated at Cambridge, and intended him for the church, but Mr Wickham chose a life of idleness instead. But that," said Mrs Reynolds, changing the subject and pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago."
"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face."
"Yes, very handsome," Elizabeth murmured, and blushed brightly when she realized she had said that aloud. Fortunately, no one else seemed to have heard, and she leaned in for a closer look at Mr Darcy's image. She had never assigned much significance to a man's appearance, knowing his character was the truly important part of him. That did not stop her from admiring this man. It was difficult to see the picture well, being so small, but she could discern his dark hair, even features, and broad shoulders. She thought he was wearing a small, enigmatic smile, and wished the portrait were clearer.
As if reading her thoughts, Mrs Reynolds spoke again: "In the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them."
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr Wickham's being among them, considering he was apparently not as close with the family as he had been previously.
Mrs Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mrs Gardiner.
"Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long."
Mr Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"
"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months, excepting this year, of course, for her companion, Mrs Yonge, thought the sea air would be a pleasant change."
"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
"Yes, sir; but I do not know when that will be. I do not know who is good enough for him."
Mr and Mrs Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth, impressed by this praise, could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old." This was praise, of all others most extraordinary. Elizabeth had heard of these great families and the way they disdained others beneath them, but Mr Darcy, it seemed, was different. Her interest in the house and even the grounds waned, while her desire to hear more of its master grew with every sentence Mrs Reynolds uttered. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master."
"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world." Elizabeth felt her heart flutter.
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs Gardiner.
"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor."
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain. Mr Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men."
"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt as they walked, "must be quite exaggerated."
Elizabeth wanted to agree, knew she ought to agree, and made some noise indicating acquiescence to her aunt. But secretly, she found herself believing. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character.
She entered the picture gallery eagerly and her eyes sought out the only portrait that could interest her. And there he was; Elizabeth did not need Mrs Reynolds pointing him out to remember Mr Darcy. She stood several minutes before the picture in earnest contemplation. Her heart sped up the longer she looked. If he was handsome in the miniature downstairs, here he was positively beautiful. She studied his smile that had caught her attention earlier, now that she had a better view. She could believe him being called proud, as Mrs Reynolds said earlier, but there was more to his expression than pride. There was a gentleness, too, perhaps even shyness. Intelligence, certainly. He looked as though he knew something she did not. She could not help smiling back at him.
The housekeeper's words drifted through her mind while she looked at him. Best landlord and master. Affable to the poor. Good-natured. Doting brother. She could see it all in his face. I do not know who is good enough for him. Her aunt had laughed at that, but Elizabeth felt a strange pang of jealousy, that someday he would find someone worthy and marry her, doubtless a woman who was beautiful, well-connected, kind and good, and with a large dowry. Perhaps he was being introduced to her at that very moment in Ramsgate. Elizabeth pushed those thoughts aside. She knew she would never have the opportunity to meet Mr Darcy, but she could ignore that fact right now and imagine he was smiling for her alone. She liked the way his eyes seemed to follow her wherever she was in the room.
"Lizzy, keep up," her aunt called, and with one final glance at the portrait she hurried down the hall to rejoin the group.
She could hardly focus on the tour of the grounds led by the gardener. Her head was full of Darcy. What was he like away from Pemberley? Was he a good dancer? Did he read the same books as her, and with the same feelings? It was easy to imagine him in all manner of scenes from his life: taking his sister shopping; giving informed opinions on the war; standing up to his knees in water to assist one of his farmers. She felt he would be serious most of the time—he had that look in his eyes even in the portrait that predated his inheriting Pemberley—but suspected a secret teasing side, too, that if she had the chance, she would draw out as often as possible.
She was still thinking of him as they drove back to Lambton, as they dined, as she lay in bed at the end of the day. She laughed at herself for her foolishness. Once she was away from Pemberley, she could see the entire place had enchanted her, which had surely coloured her impression of its owner. Still, she could not stop. She knew she would never meet him. She knew. Yet, what was the harm in pretending she might? In imagining him asking her to dance? In wondering whether he would be shy or bold in courtship?
Her trip to the Peaks with her aunt and uncle came to an end several days later. She returned home to Longbourn and life went on as it always had before. Yet Elizabeth felt different, somehow. She had done more than enjoy the sights and the company of her favourite relations; she had learned something about herself, about what kind of man she might like, and that felt significant. She knew she must marry someday, given the poverty she would be thrown into otherwise when her father inevitably passed, but had not given marriage much thought beyond the abstract. Now she knew she could not settle for just anyone. Mr Darcy seemed too perfect to be true, but learning about him gave her a sense of what was most important to her. Wealth still did not matter; it was kindness, generosity, responsibility. She would not accept any less.
When her mother announced that Netherfield was let at last to a young man of large fortune, she smiled ruefully. She doubted he, or anyone in his rumoured large party of friends, could possibly compare to the man who still featured in her dreams.