by Maria Grace
Darcy stopped the curricle near the house. A boy ran up to take charge of the horses and Darcy helped her down.
A stout matron in a plain, serviceable cap and drab dress greeted them at the door. She had plump, rosy cheeks and walked with a soft rolling motion that must have lulled many a cranky baby to sleep. Just the sort of woman who belonged in a place named Thistledown.
“Good morning, Mr. Darcy,” she curtsied, eyes on Elizabeth.
“May I present Mrs. Steadman?”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Darcy. Come in, I will fetch the mister.” She shuffled through the vestibule toward the back of the house.
She paused at a half-open door, knocking sharply. “Mr. Steadman, you are wanted in the parlor.”
“Aye, missus.” The voice was low and coarse as unhewn timber.
She continued on, and they followed.
The house was clean and tidy, that was no surprise. It seemed everything on Pemberley was. Touches of warmth and family waited at every turn: a bunch of dried flowers tucked atop a door frame; a tin soldier balanced on a chair rail; a book of stories, left open on a chair. A family did more than just reside in these walls. They lived here and made it home.
The parlor greeted them with warmth and as much comfort as faded furniture and well-used cushions could offer. A row of dear little stools sat before the fireplace, no doubt for children learning their letters.
“Pray sit down.” Mrs. Steadman gestured toward the couch.
They sat and Mr. Steadman ambled in.
His coat was neat and his face and hair clean, but every inch of him cried ‘farmer’. He carried a love of the land and instinctive understanding of it with him, bearing it like a family crest on a coach. No wonder Darcy trusted him with the home farm.
He pulled a chair close to Darcy and sat down.
They immediately launched into a discussion regarding the state of fields and livestock. The drainage on the east field was worrisome. Next season, they needed to consider adding a new bull for breeding stock.
Mrs. Steadman pulled a tall stool close to Elizabeth. “You won’t get a word in edgewise when the Master and the mister get talking about the estate.”
Perhaps not, but it was pleasing to see Darcy so animated in a conversation.
“I am told you teach the dame school.”
“Indeed, I do. It came rather natural. When I was teaching my own youngsters, the other children were ever underfoot. You know how young ones is. So, I gathered them in and taught them, too. Next thing I know, they kept showing up expecting to learn, so I settled in to do it.” She looked out the window.
The way her expression softened, she was probably seeing the faces of children she taught, now grown with children of their own.
“I expect you will be wanting to take that on now, as Lady Anne did?”
Elizabeth gasped and her jaw dropped. Mr. Steadman stopped talking and everyone gazed at her.
The Mistress of Pemberley probably should not be staring slack jawed, but there was little to be done for it
“Ah … I … no, I see no need, unless of course you find yourself weary of it. Clearly, the children’s needs are being well met.”
Mrs. Steadman’s eyes lit. “I should very much like to continue on as I have been, madam.”
“Then that is what shall be done. Pray send word if you need aught for your efforts.”
Darcy blinked slowly at her—the equivalent of a vigorous nod in most men.
Mr. Steadman leaned back in his chair, arms folded comfortably over his chest. “When shall we expect the Pemberley Ball, sir? Will you be using the traditional date, or picking another?”
Mrs. Steadman clucked her tongue. “The children began asking if they would be invited the moment they learned Pemberley was to have a new mistress.”
Ball?
Darcy did not even blink. “We have not settled on all the details yet. Plans will be announced soon. Pray excuse us. We have many calls to pay today.”
Elizabeth and Darcy rose.
“Perhaps when things are better settled, we might discuss the children over tea?” Elizabeth settled her wrap around her shoulders.
“I would fancy that very much, madam.”
Darcy escorted her back to the curricle and helped her in. Bright sunshine had broken through the morning chill.
“You never mentioned a Pemberley Ball.” She folded the lap rug and set it aside.
“I had not given it much thought until she mentioned it. Until Father’s passing, we hosted a Christmastide Ball each year.”
“Do you think it is widely expected one will be held this year?”
“I do not know, but, upon hearing Mrs. Steadman, I think it quite possible.”
How could he say such a thing so calmly?
“I would not wish to be remembered for disappointing the entire village.”
“Caroline Bingley hosted the ball at Netherfield with but a fortnight to plan. I do not see why we cannot. The traditional date for Pemberley’s ball is the twenty eighth of December. Surely five weeks will be sufficient.” He urged the horses into motion.
“My mother often hosted events at Longbourn, but she never organized a ball, much less one including children. I have no experience, no idea of what must be done.”
“Mrs. Reynolds has records from every event ever given at Pemberley. Surely those will provide you with all the direction you should need to make it quite manageable.”
Of course he considered it manageable. It was what one did with something they had never orchestrated themselves.
“Do you truly understand the magnitude of such an event?”
“I know Caroline Bingley accomplished it. You are far more capable than she. I would not suggest such a thing if I thought you destined to fail.”
Of course he would not, yet …
“I suppose then, on December twenty eighth we shall have a ball. I shall speak to Mrs. Reynolds tonight.”
After a full day of calls and a quiet dinner, Elizabeth asked Georgiana to join her in Mrs. Reynolds’ office.
A cheery fire crackled in the little fireplace, warming the room to a cozy cheer. A neat stack of ledgers waited on the little table. Was it always piled with books?
Cook and Mrs. Reynolds rose and curtsied.
“I thought you might wish to hear Cook’s suggestions as well, Mrs. Darcy.” Mrs. Reynolds said.
“Of course. Thank you.”
How foolish not to have thought of that herself.
Georgiana stared at her as though she expected Elizabeth to say something wise or witty. Neither was likely to occur.
“Mr. Darcy and I have decided to reinstate the traditional Pemberley Christmas Ball this year.” Elizabeth lowered herself to the remaining chair. “As I understand, the event has not been held since his father’s passing.”
“Exactly so, madam.” Mrs. Reynolds tapped the stack of ledgers. “These are the plans from the balls and the Pemberley receipt books, as well. Notes have been made on all the menus regarding the success of each dish and the guests’ reactions, including the year a French chef was employed for the event.”
Georgiana tittered and covered her mouth. “I think I remember that year. I was far too young to attend even the children’s part of the ball, but I recall Father’s muttering and complaining about the fracas the man chef caused in the kitchen.”
“The Master did not see fit to continue his employ after the Christmastide season.” Cook grumbled and shifted in her seat. “I believe it was Lady Matlock’s suggestion he was hired in the first place.”
Something about the way Mrs. Reynolds’ lips wrinkled hinted that she had not approved the idea.
“Did Lady Matlock have considerable input into Pemberley events after the loss of Mrs. Darcy?”
“Oh yes, madam. She took it upon herself to oversee every last detail as if she were mistress herself. All her notes are here as well. You will see most clearly, her tastes were quite different to Lad
y Anne’s.”
“Aunt Matlock argued with my brother when he decided to cancel the ball.” Georgiana bit her lip, wide-eyed and a little pale.
“She was not pleased with the Master’s decision and tried vigorously to change his mind. One year, and only one year, he gave in to her persuasions.”
Georgiana gasped. “I participated with the children that year. It was rather awful.”
“Awful?” Elizabeth cocked her head and stared. “That is a very strong sentiment.”
Cook huffed and crossed her meaty arms over her ample chest. It was rumored she could heft half a hog over her shoulder and butcher it with her cleaver in less than a quarter of an hour. Whilst that was likely an exaggeration, the scullery maids never talked back to her.
“We seldom speak of that year.” Mrs. Reynolds looked aside. “The Master was laid up with a severe head cold. Lady Matlock took it upon herself to improve upon our traditional plans without disturbing his convalescence.”
“She changed the menus,” Georgiana whispered.
“Begging your pardon, Miss, and with all due respect to her ladyship,” Cook leveled a firm gaze at Elizabeth, “the Lady meddled with things she did not understand. There is a way Pemberley does things. Our people expect things to be a certain way, foods to have particular flavors, served in a traditional way. When they are not, there is … disappointment all around. And when disappointed people indulge in a great deal of punch …”
“Or they are very young and unlearned at keeping opinions to themselves …” Georgiana stared at her hands.
“The young Miss was left very distraught by the many complaints,” Cook muttered something under her breath.
“What kind of complaints?”
Georgiana squirmed in her chair. How very sensitive to criticism she seemed.
“There were no gingernuts and the children were most disappointed. A new receipt was used for the shortbread, and she insisted on a different paste for the minced pies. I told her, I did, that our people would not like the changes. But the Lady insisted they should be grateful for what they were given.” Cook pushed her glasses higher on her nose.
“I expect it had been many years since Lady Matlock had interacted with young ones. She did not plan well for their activities.” Mrs. Reynolds shrugged.
“I do not think she planned at all! She insisted we should sit quietly and observe the dancing and the card playing, with little else to do but bemoan the lack of gingernuts.” Georgiana dropped her chin into her palms with a huff.
“I see.” Elizabeth ran her pencil along her lower lip. “Am I then to understand new additions to the celebrations are not welcome?”
“I would not say that, no not at all. It makes Pemberley sound a bit … backwards … and that is hardly the impression the Master would have us give you,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Tradition is indeed important. But that is not to say new things are unwelcome. Changes and additions are quite enjoyable when they do not take the place of what people love and anticipate. Disappointment sours an evening.”
“I wonder … my mother never included children at a proper Christmas party. She thought it entirely unsuitable.”
Mrs. Reynolds, Cook and Georgiana gasped.
“You do not wish to include the children?” Mrs. Reynolds’ fingers tightened on the edge of the table.
“Oh, sister, you must forgive me for disagreeing, but I fear—”
“Pray, wait, you misunderstand. I would not want to disappoint the children. I do not suppose to exclude them. I was just considering—is the last Christmas Ball still well remembered?”
Mrs. Reynolds and Cook glanced at one another, an entire conversation passing between them in nods, raised eyebrows and creased foreheads.
“It is not something we commonly talk about,” Cook said.
“But we must still choose not to talk about it, so perhaps it is still fresh in memory. Pemberley events rarely go awry …” Mrs. Reynolds said.
“My concern is if we invite the children to the ball, we are inviting comparison to the previous event, already setting up talk and speculation. That cannot be a desirable thing.”
“What have you in mind?” Georgiana pulled back a little and gazed at her through narrowed eyes.
“I thought to do something different for the children, something entirely new. If they and their parents can anticipate a special event, perhaps then they will be less apt to dwell upon the past.”
“Something just for the children?” Mrs. Reynolds stroked her chin with her knuckle, eyes turned up toward the ceiling.
“A picnic on Christmas day. We might serve a cold supper on the lawn and have games for them to play: rounders, racing hoops, perhaps even a little archery, hoops and graces, buffy gruffy …”
“Oh, the boys would like footraces as well,” Georgiana said.
“We might make up plates and plates of biscuits, the children taking home with them what is not eaten here.” One of cook’s eyebrows rose while the other drew down over her eye, twitching slightly as though she were keeping count of something.
“Canopies may be erected in the garden, and tables and chairs to accommodate quite a number.” Mrs. Reynolds sorted through the ledgers until she came to one with a faded blue cover. She flipped it open and scanned through pages.
“I know it will be additional work for the staff, especially considering the ball. Do you think it might be too much?”
Mrs. Reynolds turned to a blank page and pulled her pencil from behind her ear. Mumbling to herself, she scribbled down a list. She studied it a moment, turning her head this way and that.
“I think it entirely doable. Particularly if it means we do not host a family ball.”
Elizabeth turned to Georgiana. “What do you think? Tell me honestly though. I should be very vexed to hear you say now that you like the notion only to discover in a month you hated the very mention of it.”
“We have never held a Christmas picnic, but that does not mean it is not a good idea. I rather like it.” Georgiana’s tone did not match her words, but perhaps it was a start.
“I am pleased to hear you say so. Perhaps you might take on the running of it.”
“Me!”
Did it hurt when her eyes bulged like that?
“Who better? Your memories of what you did not like will assist you to plan an event you would.”
Mama had her and Jane assist in planning tea parties and other small events when they were far younger. It should not be too much for a girl of Georgiana’s age to manage.
“I have never done such a thing before. I do not know.”
“You must learn how at some point. What better event to begin with, especially with Mrs. Annesley to assist you.”
Georgiana hunched and her brows drew together. Had it been Lydia, a tantrum would have immediately followed.
Had Georgiana never been asked to do anything before?
Mrs. Reynolds pulled another ledger from the stack and opened it. She handed it to Georgiana and pointed to the open page.
“Your lady mother held harvest picnics several times, always with the children included. Those are her notes. It should not be a difficult thing to start from those plans and adjust as we need.”
Georgiana traced the neat scrolls of her mother’s handwriting with her fingertip, her lips moving silently as she read. “With Mama’s help, I think, perhaps, I can.”
“Then it is a done thing. You shall plan the picnic instead of holding a family ball. How should we alter the menus, then?”
Mrs. Reynolds found the three most successful menus from previous balls and they scrutinized them long into the evening.
Elizabeth carried a candle and walked Georgiana to her room before retiring to her dressing room. The maid assigned to tend her appeared a moment later. How had she known? Perhaps Mrs. Reynolds sent word for her to be ready?
Darcy wanted to hire a proper French ladies’ maid, but a French maid was for women of high society, true ladies, not country m
aids pretending to the office.
No, she should not think of herself thus. Darcy, Jane, Mama, even Mrs. Reynolds had told her often enough.
But they did not understand. Pemberley was not Longbourn; so many more people depended upon her and her decisions here.
And Christmastide gatherings? There were so many more people to please and so many different conflicting opinions of the roles of traditions and new ideas.
How was she to satisfy them all?
The maid helped her out of her gown and took down her hair, plaiting it into a thick braid.
“Will there be anything else, madam?”
Elizabeth shook her head and the girl disappeared through the silent servants’ door.
Longbourn was not grand enough to have servants’ stairs. They came and went along the same paths as the family, not nearly so separated as those who served here. Elizabeth still did not recognize some of the scullions and stable boys. How odd, living among strangers in one’s own home.
Even now, as grand and lovely as it was, Pemberley still did not quite feel like home. She did not know every room, every passage as she did Longbourn. The stains on the upholstery and scars on the floorboards were not familiar friends, with stories to tell and reminisce of the days they had shared together. Everything was new and different, uncomfortable with her intrusions. As though getting to know her as much as she was trying to become acquainted with it.
New acquaintances were always difficult, especially in that period when one was not sure if they would become friends or just remain connections one acknowledged with a nod from across the street.
Despite all the people surrounding her, Pemberley was lonely.
She was not accustomed to being lonely.
She put out the candle and allowed her eyes to adjust to the moonlight. Just enough shone through the windows to allow her to make her way to the bedroom they shared.
Darcy snored softly, one arm thrown over his face, the other lay across her pillow.
She untied the belt of her dressing gown and slid under the counterpane. He shifted slightly, rolling toward her. She nestled her head into the hollow of his shoulder and his arm slid around her waist. Who would have thought this the way he would prefer to sleep?
