Death Comes to Pemberley

1

At eleven in the morning of Friday 14th October 1803 Elizabeth Darcy sat at the table in her sitting room on the first floor of Pemberley House. The room was not large but the proportions were particularly pleasing and the two windows gave a view of the river. This was the room Elizabeth had chosen for her own use, to be fitted out entirely as she wished, furniture, curtains, carpets and pictures selected from the riches of Pemberley and disposed as she desired. Darcy himself had supervised the work and the pleasure in her husband’s face when Elizabeth had taken possession, and the care taken by everyone to comply with her wishes, had made her realise, more even than had the more ostentatious glories of the house, the privileges that adhered to Mrs Darcy of Pemberley.

The room which gave her almost as much delight as the sitting room was Pemberley’s splendid library. It was the work of generations and now her husband had the interest and joy of adding to its riches. The library at Longbourn was Mr Bennet’s domain and even Elizabeth, his favourite child, entered it only by invitation. The library at Pemberley was as freely open to her as it was to Darcy, and with his tactful and loving encouragement she had read more widely and with greater enjoyment and comprehension in the last six years than in all the past fifteen, augmenting an education which, she now understood, had never been other than rudimentary. Dinner parties at Pemberley could not be more different from those she had sat through at Meryton when the same group of people spread the same gossip and exchanged the same views, enlivened only when Sir William Lucas recalled at length yet another fascinating detail of his investiture at the Court of St James. Now it was always with regret that she would catch the eyes of the ladies and leave the gentlemen to their masculine affairs. It had been a revelation to Elizabeth that there were men who valued intelligence in a woman.

It was the day before Lady Anne’s ball. For the last hour she and the housekeeper, Mrs Reynolds, had been checking that the preparations so far were in order and that everything was going ahead smoothly, and now Elizabeth was alone. The first ball had taken place when Darcy was a year old. It was held to celebrate the birthday of his mother and, except for the period of mourning when her husband died, the ball had taken place every year until Lady Anne’s own death. Held on the first Saturday after the October full moon, it usually fell due within days of Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s wedding anniversary, but this they always planned to spend quietly with the Bingleys, who had married on the same day, feeling that the occasion was too intimate and precious to be celebrated with public revelry and, at Elizabeth’s wish, the autumn ball was still named for Lady Anne. It was regarded by the county as the most important social event of the year. Mr Darcy had voiced his concern that it might not be a propitious year in which to hold the ball, with the expected war with France already declared and the growing fear in the south of the country where invasion by Bonaparte was daily expected. The harvest too had been poor, with all that meant to country life. A number of gentlemen, raising worried eyes from their account books, were inclined to agree that there should be no ball this year, but were met with such outrage from their wives and the certainty of at least two months of domestic discomfort that they finally agreed that nothing was more conducive to good morale than a little harmless entertainment, and that Paris would rejoice exceedingly and take new heart were that benighted city to learn that the Pemberley ball had been cancelled.

The entertainment and seasonal diversions of country living are neither as numerous nor enticing as to make the social obligations of a great house a matter of indifference to those neighbours qualified to benefit from them, and Mr Darcy’s marriage, once the wonder of his choice had worn off, at least promised that he would be more frequently at home than formerly and encouraged the hope that this new wife would recognise her responsibilities. On Elizabeth and Darcy’s return from their wedding journey, which had taken them as far as Italy, there were the customary formal visits to be sat through and the usual congratulations and small talk to be endured with as much grace as they could manage. Darcy, aware from childhood that Pemberley could always bestow more benefits than it could receive, endured these meetings with creditable equanimity and Elizabeth found in them a secret source of entertainment as her neighbours strove to satisfy curiosity while maintaining their reputation for good breeding. The visitors had a double pleasure: to enjoy their prescribed half-hour in the grace and comfort of Mrs Darcy’s drawing room before later engaging with their neighbours in reaching a verdict on the dress, agreeableness and suitability of the bride and the couple’s chance of domestic felicity. Within a month a consensus had been reached: the gentlemen were impressed by Elizabeth’s beauty and wit, and their wives by her elegance, amiability and the quality of the refreshments. It was agreed that Pemberley, despite the unfortunate antecedents of its new mistress, now had every promise of taking its rightful place in the social life of the county as it had done in the days of Lady Anne Darcy.

Elizabeth was too much of a realist not to know that these antecedents had not been forgotten and that no new families could move into the district without being regaled with the wonder of Mr Darcy’s choice of bride. He was known as a proud man for whom family tradition and reputation were of the first importance and whose own father had increased the family’s social standing by marrying the daughter of an earl. It had seemed that no woman was good enough to become Mrs Fitzwilliam Darcy, yet he had chosen the second daughter of a gentleman whose estate, encumbered with an entail which would cut out his children, was little bigger than the Pemberley pleasure gardens, a young woman whose personal fortune was rumoured to be only five hundred pounds, with two sisters unmarried and a mother of such loud-mouthed vulgarity that she was unfit for respectable society. Worse still, one of the younger girls had married George Wickham, the disgraced son of old Mr Darcy’s steward, under circumstances which decency dictated could only be spoken of in whispers, and had thus saddled Mr Darcy and his family with a man he so despised that the name Wickham was never mentioned at Pemberley and the couple were excluded entirely from the house. Admittedly Elizabeth was herself respectable and it was finally accepted even by the doubters that she was pretty enough and had fine eyes, but the marriage was still a wonder and one that was particularly resented by a number of young ladies who, on their mothers’ advice, had refused several reasonable offers to keep themselves available for the glittering prize and were even now nearing the dangerous age of thirty with no prospect in sight. In all this Elizabeth was able to comfort herself by recalling the response she had given to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when that outraged sister of Lady Anne had pointed out the disadvantages which would accrue to Elizabeth if she were presumptuous enough to become Mrs Darcy. “These are heavy misfortunes, but the wife of Mr Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.”

The first ball at which Elizabeth had stood as hostess with her husband at the top of the staircase to greet the ascending guests had in prospect been somewhat of an ordeal, but she had survived the occasion triumphantly. She was fond of dancing and could now say that the ball gave her as much pleasure as it did her guests. Lady Anne had meticulously set out in her elegant handwriting her plans for the occasion, and her notebook, with its fine leather cover stamped with the Darcy crest, was still in use and that morning had been laid open before Elizabeth and Mrs Reynolds. The guest list was still fundamentally the same but the names of Darcy’s and Elizabeth’s friends had been added, including her aunt and uncle, the Gardiners, while Bingley and Jane came as a matter of course and this year, as last, would be bringing their house guest, Henry Alveston, a young lawyer who, handsome, clever and lively, was as welcome at Pemberley as he was at Highmarten.

Elizabeth had no worries about the success of the ball. All the preparations, she knew, had been made. Logs in sufficient quantity had been cut to ensure that the fires would be kept up, particularly in the ballroom. The pastry cook would wait until the morning to prepare the delicate tarts and savouries which were so enjoyed by the ladies, while birds and animals had been slaughtered and hung to provide the more substantial meal which the men would expect. Wine had already been brought up from the cellars and almonds had been grated to provide the popular white soup in sufficient quantities. The negus, which would greatly improve its flavour and potency and contribute considerably to the gaiety of the occasion, would be added at the last moment. The flowers and plants had been chosen from the hothouses ready to be placed in buckets in the conservatory for Elizabeth and Georgiana, Darcy’s sister, to supervise their arrangement tomorrow afternoon; and Thomas Bidwell, from his cottage in the woodland, would even now be seated in the pantry polishing the dozens of candlesticks which would be required for the ballroom, the conservatory and the small sitting room reserved for the female guests. Bidwell had been head coachman to the late Mr Darcy, as his father had been to the Darcys before him. Now rheumatism in both his knees and his back made it impossible for him to work with the horses, but his hands were still strong and he spent every evening of the week before the ball polishing the silver, helping to dust the extra chairs required for the chaperones and making himself indispensible. Tomorrow the carriages of the landowners and the hired chaises of the humbler guests would bowl up the drive to disgorge the chattering passengers, their muslin gowns and glittering headdresses cloaked against the autumn chill, eager again for the remembered pleasures of Lady Anne’s ball.

In all the preparations Mrs Reynolds had been Elizabeth’s reliable helpmeet. Elizabeth and she had first met when, with her aunt and uncle, she had visited Pemberley and had been received and shown round by the housekeeper, who had known Mr Darcy since he was a boy and had been so profuse in his praise, both as a master and as a man, that Elizabeth had for the first time wondered whether her prejudice against him had done him an injustice. She had never spoken of the past to Mrs Reynolds, but she and the housekeeper had become friends and Mrs Reynolds, with tactful support, had been invaluable to Elizabeth, who had recognised even before her first arrival at Pemberley as a bride that being mistress of such a house, responsible for the well-being of so many employees, would be very different from her mother’s task of running Longbourn. But her kindness and interest in the lives of her servants made them confident that this new mistress had their welfare at heart and all was easier than she had expected, in fact less onerous than managing Longbourn since the servants at Pemberley, the majority of long service, had been trained by Mrs Reynolds and Stoughton, the butler, in the tradition that the family were never to be inconvenienced and were entitled to expect immaculate service.

Elizabeth missed little of her previous life, but it was to the servants at Longbourn that her thoughts most frequently turned: Hill the housekeeper, who had been privy to all their secrets, including Lydia’s notorious elopement, Wright the cook, who was uncomplaining about Mrs Bennet’s somewhat unreasonable demands, and the two maids who combined their duties with acting as ladies’ maids to Jane and herself, arranging their hair before the assembly balls. They had become part of the family in a way the servants at Pemberley could never be, but she knew that it was Pemberley, the house and the Darcys, which bound family, staff and tenants together in a common loyalty. Many of them were the children and grandchildren of previous servants, and the house and its history were in their blood. And she knew, too, that it was the birth of the two fine and healthy boys upstairs in the nursery – Fitzwilliam, who was nearly five and Charles, who was just two – which had been her final triumph, an assurance that the family and its heritage would endure to provide work for them and for their children and grandchildren and that there would continue to be Darcys at Pemberley.

Nearly six years earlier Mrs Reynolds, conferring over the guest list, menu and flowers for Elizabeth’s first dinner party, had said, “It was a happy day for us all, madam, when Mr Darcy brought home his bride. It was the dearest wish of my mistress that she would live to see her son married. Alas, it was not to be. I knew how anxious she was, both for his own sake and for Pemberley, that he should be happily settled.”

Elizabeth’s curiosity had overcome discretion. She had occupied herself by moving papers on her desk without looking up, saying lightly, “But not perhaps with this wife. Was it not settled by Lady Anne Darcy and her sister that a match should be made between Mr Darcy and Miss de Bourgh?”

“I am not saying, madam, that Lady Catherine might not have had such a plan in mind. She brought Miss de Bourgh to Pemberley often enough when Mr Darcy was known to be here. But it would never have been. Miss de Bourgh, poor lady, was always sickly and Lady Anne placed great store on good health in a bride. We did hear that Lady Catherine was hoping Miss de Bourgh’s other cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, would make an offer, but nothing came of it.”

Recalling her mind to the present, Elizabeth slipped Lady Anne’s notebook into a drawer and then, reluctant to leave the peace and solitude which she could not now hope to enjoy until the ball was safely over, walked over to one of the two windows which gave a view of the long curving drive to the house and the river, fringed by the famous Pemberley wood. This had been planted under the direction of a notable landscape gardener some generations earlier. Each tree at the edge, perfect in form and hung with the warm golden flags of autumn, stood a little apart from the others as if to emphasise its singular beauty, and the planting then became denser as the eyes were cunningly drawn towards the rich loam-smelling solitude of the interior. There was a second and larger wood to the north-west in which the trees and bushes had been allowed to grow naturally and which had been a playground and secret refuge from the nursery for Darcy as a boy. His great-grandfather who, on inheriting the estate, became a recluse, had built a cottage there in which he had shot himself, and the wood – referred to as the woodland to distinguish it from the arboretum – had induced a superstitious fear in the servants and tenants of Pemberley and was seldom visited. A narrow lane ran through it to a second entrance to Pemberley, but this was used mainly by tradesmen and the guests to the ball would sweep up the main drive, their vehicles and horses accommodated in the stables and their coachmen entertained in the kitchens while the ball was in progress.

Lingering at the window and putting aside the concerns of the day, Elizabeth let her eyes rest on the familiar and calming but ever-changing beauty. The sun was shining from a sky of translucent blue in which only a few frail clouds dissolved like wisps of smoke. Elizabeth knew from the short walk which she and her husband usually took at the beginning of the day that the winter sunshine was deceptive, and a chilling breeze, for which she was ill prepared, had driven them quickly home. Now she saw that the wind had strengthened. The surface of the river was creased with small waves which spent themselves among the grasses and shrubs bordering the stream, their broken shadows trembling on the agitated water.

She saw that two people were braving the morning chill; Georgiana and Colonel Fitzwilliam had been walking beside the river and now were turning towards the greensward and the stone steps leading to the house. Colonel Fitzwilliam was in uniform, his red tunic a vivid splash of colour against the soft blue of Georgiana’s pelisse. They were walking a little distanced but, she thought, companionably, occasionally pausing as Georgiana clutched at her hat which was in danger of being swept away by the wind. As they approached, Elizabeth drew back from the window, anxious that they should not feel that they were being spied upon, and returned to her desk. There were letters to be written, invitations to be replied to, and decisions to be made on whether any of the cottagers were in poverty or grief and would welcome a visit conveying her sympathy or practical help.

She had hardly taken up her pen when there was a gentle knock on the door and the reappearance of Mrs Reynolds. “I’m sorry to disturb you madam, but Colonel Fitzwilliam has just come in from a walk and has asked whether you can spare him some minutes, if it is not too inconvenient.”

Elizabeth said, “I’m free now, if he would like to come up.”

Elizabeth thought she knew what he might have to communicate and it would be an anxiety which she would have been glad to be spared. Darcy had few close relations and from boyhood his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam, had been a frequent visitor to Pemberley. During his early military career he had appeared less often but during the last eighteen months his visits had become shorter but more frequent and Elizabeth had noticed that there had been a difference, subtle but unmistakable, in his behaviour to Georgiana – he smiled more often when she was present and showed a greater readiness than previously to sit by her when he could and engage her in conversation. Since his visit last year for Lady Anne’s ball there had been a material change in his life. His elder brother, who had been heir to the earldom, had died abroad and he had now inherited the title of Viscount Hartlep and was the acknowledged heir. He preferred not to use his present title, particularly when among friends, deciding to wait until he succeeded before assuming his new name and the many responsibilities it would bring, and he was still generally known as Colonel Fitzwilliam.

He would, of course, be looking to marry, especially now when England was at war with France and he might be killed in action without leaving an heir. Although Elizabeth had never concerned herself with the family tree, she knew that there was no close male relative and that if the colonel died without leaving a male child the earldom would lapse. She wondered, and not for the first time, whether he was seeking a wife at Pemberley and, if so, how Darcy would react. It must surely be agreeable to him that his sister should one day become a countess and her husband a member of the House of Lords and a legislator of his country. All that was a reason for justifiable family pride, but would Georgiana share it? She was now a mature woman and no longer subject to guardianship, but Elizabeth knew that it would grieve Georgiana greatly if she contemplated marriage with a man of whom her brother could not approve; and there was the complication of Henry Alveston. Elizabeth had seen enough to make her sure that he was in love, or on the verge of love, but what of Georgiana? Of one thing Elizabeth was certain, Georgiana Darcy would never marry without love, or without that strong attraction, affection and respect which a woman could assure herself would deepen into love. Would not that have been enough for Elizabeth herself if Colonel Fitzwilliam had proposed while he was visiting his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, at Rosings? The thought that she might unwittingly have lost Darcy and her present happiness to grasp at an offer from his cousin was even more humiliating than the memory of her partiality for the infamous George Wickham and she thrust it resolutely aside.

The colonel had arrived at Pemberley the previous evening in time for dinner, but apart from greeting him they had been little together. Now, as he quietly knocked and entered and at her invitation took the proffered chair opposite her beside the fire, it seemed to her that she saw him clearly for the first time. He was five years Darcy’s senior, but when they had first met in the drawing room at Rosings his cheerful good humour and attractive liveliness had emphasised his cousin’s taciturnity and he had seemed the younger. But all that was over. He now had a maturity and a seriousness which made him seem older than she knew him to be. Some of this must, she thought, have been due to his army service and the great responsibilities he bore as a commander of men, while the change in his status had brought with it not only a greater gravity but, she thought, a more visible family pride and indeed a trace of arrogance, which were less attractive.

He did not immediately speak and there was a silence during which she made up her mind that, as he had asked for a meeting, it was for him to speak first. He seemed to be concerned how best to proceed but did not appear either embarrassed or ill at ease. Finally, leaning towards her, he spoke. “I am confident, my dear cousin, that with your keen eye and your interest in the lives and concerns of other people you will not be entirely ignorant of what I am about to say. As you know, I have been privileged since the death of my aunt Lady Anne Darcy to be joined with Darcy as guardian of his sister and I think I can say that I have carried out my duties with a deep sense of my responsibilities and a fraternal affection for my ward which has never wavered. It has now deepened into the love which a man should feel for the woman he hopes to marry and it is my dearest wish that Georgiana should consent to be my wife. I have made no formal application to Darcy but he is not without perception and I am not without hope that my proposal will have his approval and consent.”

Elizabeth thought it wiser not to point out that, since Georgiana had reached her majority, no consent was now necessary. She said, “And Georgiana?”

“Until I have Darcy’s approval I cannot feel justified in speaking. At present I acknowledge that Georgiana has said nothing to give me grounds for active hope. Her attitude to me as always is one of friendship, trust and, I believe, affection. I hope that trust and affection may grow into love if I am patient. It is my belief that, for a woman, love more often comes after marriage than before it and, indeed, it seems to me both natural and right that it should. I have, after all, known her since her birth. I acknowledge that the age difference might present a problem, but I am only five years older than Darcy and I cannot see it as an impediment.”

Elizabeth felt she was on dangerous ground. She said, “Age may be no impediment, but an existing partiality may well be.”

“You are thinking of Henry Alveston? I know that Georgiana likes him but I see nothing to suggest a deeper attachment. He is an agreeable, clever and excellent young man. I hear nothing but good of him. And he may well have hopes. Naturally he must look to marry money.”

Elizabeth turned away. He added quickly, “I intend no imputation of avarice or insincerity, but with his responsibilities, his admirable resolve to revive the family fortune and his energetic efforts to restore the estate and one of the most beautiful houses in England, he cannot afford to marry a poor woman. It would condemn them both to unhappiness, even penury.”

Elizabeth was silent. She was thinking again of that first meeting at Rosings, of their talking together after dinner, the music and the laughter and his frequent visits to the parsonage, his attentions to her which had been too obvious to escape notice. On the evening of the dinner party Lady Catherine had certainly seen enough to worry her. Nothing escaped her sharp inquisitive eye. Elizabeth remembered how she had called out, “What is it you are talking of? I must have a share in the conversation.” Elizabeth knew that she had begun to wonder whether this man was one with whom she could be happy, but the hope, if it had been strong enough to be called a hope, had died when a little later they had met, perhaps by accident, perhaps by design on his part, when she had been walking alone in the grounds of Rosings and he had turned to accompany her back to the vicarage. He had been deploring his poverty and she had teased him by asking what disadvantages this poverty brought to the younger son of an earl. He had replied that the younger sons “cannot marry where they like”. At the time she had wondered whether the remark had held a warning and the suspicion had caused her some embarrassment which she had attempted to hide by turning the conversation into a pleasantry. But the memory of the incident had been far from pleasant. She had not needed Colonel Fitzwilliam’s warning to remind her of what a girl with four unmarried sisters and no fortune could expect in marriage. Was he saying that it was safe for a fortunate young man to enjoy the company of such a woman, even to flirt with discretion, but prudence dictated that she must not be led to hope for more? The warning might have been necessary but it had not been well done. If he had never entertained the thought of her it would have been kinder had he been less openly assiduous in his attentions.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was aware of her silence. He said, “I may hope for your approval?”

She turned to him and said firmly, “Colonel, I can have no part in this. It must be for Georgiana to decide where her happiness may best lie. I can only say that if she does agree to marry you I would fully share my husband’s pleasure in such a union. But this is not a matter I could influence. It must be for Georgiana.”

“I thought she may have spoken to you?”

“She has not confided in me and it would not be proper for me to raise this matter with her until, or if, she chooses to do so.”

This seemed for a moment to satisfy him, but then, as if under a compulsion, he returned to the man he suspected could be his rival. “Alveston is a handsome and agreeable young man and he speaks well. Time and greater maturity will no doubt moderate a certain overconfidence and a tendency to show less respect for his elders than is proper at his age and which is regrettable in one so able. I doubt not that he is a welcome guest at Highmarten but I find it surprising that he is able to visit Mr and Mrs Bingley so frequently. Successful lawyers are usually not so prodigal with their time.”

Elizabeth made no reply and he perhaps thought that the criticism, both actual and implied, had been injudicious. He added, “But then he is usually in Derbyshire on Saturday or Sunday or when the courts are not sitting. I assume he studies whenever he is at leisure.”

Elizabeth said, “My sister says that she has never had a guest who spent so much time at work in the library.”

Again there was a pause and then, to her surprise and discomfort, he said, “I take it that George Wickham is still not received at Pemberley?”

“No, never. Neither Mr Darcy nor I have seen him or been in touch since he was at Longbourn after his marriage to Lydia.”

There was another and longer silence after which Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “It was unfortunate that Wickham was made so much of when a boy. He was brought up with Darcy as if they were brothers. In childhood it was probably beneficial to both; indeed, given the late Mr Darcy’s affection for his steward, after the latter’s death it was a natural beneficence to take some responsibility for his child. But for a boy of Wickham’s temperament – mercenary, ambitious, inclined to envy – it was dangerous for him to enjoy a privilege which, once boyhood was over, he could not share. They went to different colleges at university and he did not, of course, take part in Darcy’s tour of Europe. Changes in his status and expectations were perhaps made too drastically and too suddenly. I have reason to believe that Lady Anne Darcy saw the danger.”

Elizabeth said, “Wickham could not have expected to share the grand tour.”

“I have no knowledge of what he did expect except that it was always greater than his deserts.”

Elizabeth said, “The early favours shown may have been to an extent imprudent and it is always easy to question the judgement of others in matters of which we may be imperfectly informed.”

The colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. He said, “But there could be no excuse for Wickham’s betrayal of trust in his attempted seduction of Miss Darcy. This was an infamy which no difference in birth or upbringing could excuse. As a fellow guardian of Miss Darcy I was, of course, informed of the disgraceful affair by Darcy, but it is a matter which I have put out of my mind. I never speak of it to Darcy and I apologise for speaking of it now. Wickham has distinguished himself in the Irish campaign and is now something of a national hero, but that cannot wipe out the past although it may provide him with opportunities for a more respectable and successful life in the future. I gather that he has, unwisely I believe, left the army but is still friends with such military companions as Mr. Denny, who you will recall first introduced in my Meryton. But I should not have mentioned his name in your presence.”

Elizabeth made no reply and, after a brief pause, he got to his feet, bowed and was gone. She was aware that the conversation had given satisfaction to neither. Colonel Fitzwilliam had not received the wholehearted approval and assurance of her support for which he had hoped and Elizabeth feared that if he failed to win Georgiana the humiliation and embarrassment would wreck a friendship which had lasted since boyhood and which she knew her husband held dear. She had no doubt that Darcy would approve of Colonel Fitzwilliam as a husband for Georgiana. What he hoped above all for his sister was safety, and she would be safe; even the difference in age would probably be seen as an advantage. In time Georgiana would be a countess and money would never be a worry to the fortunate man who married her. She wished that the question could be settled one way or another. Perhaps events would come to a head tomorrow at the ball – a ball with its opportunities for sitting out together, for whispered confidences as the dancers went down, was well known for bringing events, happy or unhappy, to a conclusion. She only hoped that all concerned should be satisfied, then smiled at the presumption that this could ever be possible.

Elizabeth was gratified by the change in Georgiana since Darcy and she had married. At first Georgiana had been surprised, almost shocked, to hear her brother being teased by his wife, and how often he teased in return and they laughed together. There had been little laughter at Pemberley before Elizabeth’s arrival, and under Elizabeth’s tactful and gentle encouragement Georgiana had lost some of her Darcy shyness. She was now confident in taking her place when they entertained, more ready to venture her opinions at the dinner table. As Elizabeth grew in understanding of her sister, she suspected that under the shyness and reserve Georgiana had another Darcy characteristic: a strong will of her own. But how far did Darcy recognise this? Within part of his mind was not Georgiana still the vulnerable fifteen year old, a child needing his safe watchful love if she were to escape disaster? It was not that he distrusted his sister’s honour or her virtue – such a thought for him would be close to blasphemy – but how far did he trust her judgement? And for Georgiana, Darcy, since their father’s death, had been head of the family, the wise and dependable elder brother with something of the authority of a father, a brother greatly loved and never feared, since love cannot live with fear, but held in awe. Georgiana would not marry without love, but neither would she marry without his approval. And what if it came to a choice between Colonel Fitzwilliam, his cousin and childhood friend, heir to an earldom, a gallant soldier who had known Georgiana all her life, and this handsome and agreeable young lawyer who admittedly was making his name but of whom they knew very little? He would inherit a barony, and an ancient one, and Georgiana would have a house which, when Alveston had made his money and restored it, would be one of the most beautiful in England. But Darcy had his share of family pride and there could be no doubt which candidate offered the greater security and the more glittering future.

The colonel’s visit had destroyed her peace, leaving her worried and a little distressed. He was right in saying he should not have mentioned Wickham’s name. Darcy himself had had no contact with him since they met at the church when Lydia was married, a marriage which could never have taken place without his lavish expenditure of money. She was confident that this secret had never been divulged to Colonel Fitzwilliam, but he had, of course, known of the marriage and he must have suspected the truth. Was he, she wondered, attempting to reassure himself that Wickham had no part in their life at Pemberley and that Darcy had bought Wickham’s silence to ensure that the world would never be able to say that Miss Darcy of Pemberley had a sullied reputation? The colonel’s visit had made her restless and she began pacing to and fro, trying to calm fears which she hoped were irrational and to regain some of her former composure.

Luncheon with only four of them at the table was brief. Darcy had an appointment with his steward and had returned to his study to wait for him. Elizabeth had arranged to meet Georgiana in the conservatory where they would inspect the blooms and green boughs the head gardener had brought from the hothouses. Lady Anne had liked many colours and complicated arrangements but Elizabeth preferred to use only two colours with the green and to arrange them in a variety of vases, large and small, so that every room contained sweet-smelling flowers. Tomorrow the colours would be pink and white, and Elizabeth and Georgiana worked and consulted among the pungent scent of long-stemmed roses and geraniums. The hot, humid atmosphere of the conservatory was oppressive and she had a sudden wish to breathe fresh air and feel the wind on her cheeks. Was it perhaps the unease occasioned by Georgiana’s presence and the colonel’s confidence which lay like a burden on the day?

Suddenly Mrs Reynolds was with them. She said, “Dear madam, Mr and Mrs Bingley’s coach is coming up the drive. If you hurry you will be at the door to receive them.”

Elizabeth gave a cry of delight and, with Georgiana following, ran to the front door. Stoughton was already there to open it just as the carriage drew slowly to a stop. Elizabeth ran out into the cool breath of the rising wind. Her beloved Jane had arrived and for a moment all her unease was subsumed in the happiness of their meeting.

2

The Bingleys were not long at Netherfield after their marriage. Bingley was the most tolerant and good-natured of men but Jane realised that being in such close proximity to her mother would not contribute to her husband’s comfort or her peace of mind. She had a naturally affectionate nature and her loyalty and love for her family were strong, but Bingley’s happiness came first. Both had been anxious to settle close to Pemberley and when their lease at Netherfield ended, they stayed for a short time in London with Mrs Hurst, Bingley’s sister, and then moved with some relief to Pemberley, a convenient centre from which to search for a permanent home. In this Darcy took an active part. Darcy and Bingley had been to the same school but the difference in age, although of only a couple of years, meant that they saw little of each other in boyhood. It was at Oxford that they became friends. Darcy – proud, reserved and already ill at ease in company – found relief in Bingley’s generous good nature, easy sociability and cheerful assumption that life would always be good to him, and Bingley had such faith in Darcy’s superior wisdom and intelligence that he was reluctant to take any action on matters of importance without his friend’s approbation.

Darcy had advised Bingley to buy rather than build, and as Jane was already carrying their first child, it seemed desirable to find a home urgently, and one into which they could move with the minimum of inconvenience. It was Darcy, active on his friend’s behalf, who found Highmarten, and both Jane and her husband were delighted with it at first sight. It was a handsome modern house built on rising ground with a wide attractive view from all its windows, commodious enough for family life and with well laid-out gardens and a manor large enough for Bingley to hold shooting parties without inviting unfavourable comparison with Pemberley. Dr McFee, who for years had looked after the Darcy family and the Pemberley household, had visited and pronounced the situation healthy and the water pure, and the formalities were quickly settled. Little was required except the purchase of furniture and redecoration, and Jane, with Elizabeth’s help, had much pleasure in moving from room to room, deciding on the colour of wallpaper, paint and curtains. Within two months of finding the property, the Bingleys were installed and the two sisters’ happiness in their marriages was complete.

The two families saw each other frequently and there were few weeks in which a carriage did not travel between Highmarten and Pemberley. Jane would very rarely be parted from her children for more than a night – the four-year-old twins, Elizabeth and Maria, and young Charles Edward, now nearly two – but knew that they could be safely left in the experienced and competent hands of Mrs Metcalf, the nurse who had cared for her husband when a baby, and she was happy to spend two nights at Pemberley for the ball without the problems inevitable in transferring three children and their nurse for so short a visit. She had, as always, come without her maid, but Elizabeth’s capable young maid, Belton, was happy to look after both sisters. The Bingleys’ coach and coachman were consigned to the care of Wilkinson, Darcy’s coachman, and after the customary bustle of greeting, Elizabeth and Jane, arm in arm, climbed the stairs to the room always assigned to Jane on her visits, with Bingley’s dressing room next door. Belton had already taken charge of Jane’s trunk and was hanging up her evening dress and the gown she would wear for the ball and would be with them in an hour to help them change and to dress their hair. The sisters, who had shared a bedroom at Longbourn, had been particularly close companions since childhood and there was no matter on which Elizabeth could not speak to Jane, knowing that she would be totally reliable in keeping a confidence and that any advice she gave would come from her goodness and loving heart.

As soon as they had spoken to Belton they went as usual to the nursery to give Charles the expected hug and sweetmeat, to play with Fitzwilliam and listen to his reading – he was soon to leave the nursery for the schoolroom and a tutor – and to settle down for a brief but comfortable chat with Mrs Donovan. She and Mrs Metcalf had fifty years’ experience between them and the two benevolent despots had early established a close alliance, defensive and offensive, and ruled supreme in their nurseries, beloved by their charges and trusted by the parents, although Elizabeth suspected that Mrs Donovan thought the only function of a mother was to produce a new baby for the nursery as soon as the youngest had outgrown his first caps. Jane gave news about the progress of Charles Edward and the twins and their regime at Highmarten was discussed and approved by Mrs Donovan, not surprisingly since it was the same as hers. There was then only an hour before it was time to dress for dinner so they made their way to Elizabeth’s room for the comfortable exchange of small items of news on which the happiness of domestic life so largely depended.

It would have been a relief to Elizabeth to have confided to Jane about a more important concern, the colonel’s intended proposal to Georgiana. But although he had not enjoined secrecy, he must surely have expected that she would first talk to her husband, and Elizabeth felt that Jane’s delicate sense of honour would be offended, as would be her own, if her sister were given the news before Elizabeth had had a chance to speak to Darcy. But she was anxious to talk about Henry Alveston and was glad when Jane herself introduced his name by saying, “It is good of you to again include Mr Alveston in your invitation. I know how much it means to him to come to Pemberley.”

Elizabeth said, “He is a delightful guest and we are both glad to see him. He is well mannered, intelligent, lively and good looking, and is therefore a paradigm of a young man. Remind me how he became intimate with you. Did not Mr Bingley meet him at your lawyer’s office in London?”

“Yes, eighteen months ago, when Charles was visiting Mr Peck to discuss some investments. Mr Alveston had been called to the office with a view to his representing one of Mr Peck’s clients in court and, as both visitors arrived early, they met in the waiting room and later Mr Peck introduced them. Charles was greatly taken with the young man and they had dinner together afterwards when Mr Alveston confided his plan to restore the family fortune and the estate in Surrey, which his family has held since 1600 and to which, as an only son, he feels a strong obligation and attachment. They met again at Charles’s club and it was then that Charles, struck by the young man’s look of exhaustion, issued an invitation in both our names for him to spend a few days at Highmarten; Mr Alveston has since become a regular and welcome visitor whenever he can get away from court. We understand that Mr Alveston’s father, Lord Alveston, is eighty and in poor health and for some years has been unable to provide the energy and leadership which the estate requires, but the barony is one of the oldest in the country and the family is well respected. Charles learned from Mr Peck, and indeed from others, how much Mr Alveston is admired in the Middle Temple, and both of us have become fond of him. He is a hero to young Charles Edward and a great favourite with the twins who always receive his visits with frisks of delight.”

To be good with her children was a sure path to Jane’s heart and Elizabeth could well understand the attraction of Highmarten for Alveston. The life of an overworked bachelor in London could offer little comfort and Alveston obviously found in Mrs Bingley’s beauty, her kindness and gentle voice, and in the cheerful domesticity of her home, a welcome contrast to the raucous competition and social demands of the capital. Alveston, like Darcy, had early assumed the burden of expectations and responsibility. His resolve to restore the family fortune was admirable, and the Old Bailey, its challenges and successes, were probably a prototype of a more personal struggle.

There was a silence, then Jane said, “I hope that neither you, my dear sister, nor Mr Darcy is made uneasy by his presence here. I must confess that, watching his and Georgiana’s obvious pleasure in each other’s company, I thought it possible that Mr Alveston might be falling in love, and if that would distress Mr Darcy or Georgiana we shall, of course, ensure that the visits cease. But he is an estimable young man and if I am right in my suspicion and Georgiana returns his partiality, I have every confidence that they could be happy together, but Mr Darcy may have other plans for his sister and, if so, it may be both wise and kind that Mr Alveston should no longer come to Pemberley. I have noticed during recent visits that there is a change in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s attitude to his cousin, a greater willingness to talk with her and to be at her side. It would be a brilliant match and she would adorn it, but I do wonder how happy she would be in that vast northern castle. I saw a picture of it last week in a book in our library. It looks like a granite fortress with the North Sea almost breaking against its walls. And it is so far from Pemberley. Surely Georgiana would be unhappy to be so distant from her brother and the house she loves so well.”

Elizabeth said, “I suspect that with both Mr Darcy and Georgiana, Pemberley comes first. I remember when I visited with my aunt and uncle, and Mr Darcy asked me what I thought of the house, my obvious delight in it pleased him. If I had been less than genuinely enthusiastic I don’t think he would have married me.”

Jane laughed. “Oh, I think he would, my dear. But perhaps we should not discuss this matter further. Gossip about the feelings of others when we cannot fully understand them, and they may not understand them themselves, can be a cause of distress. Perhaps I was wrong to mention the colonel’s name. I know, my dear Elizabeth, how much you love Georgiana and, living with you as her sister, she has grown into a more assured as well as a beautiful young woman. If she has indeed two suitors the choice must of course be hers, but I cannot imagine she would consent to marry against her brother’s wishes.”

Elizabeth said, “The matter may come to a head after the ball, but I own that it is an anxiety to me. I have grown to love Georgiana dearly. But let us put it aside for now. We have the family dinner to look forward to. I must not spoil it for either of us or our guests by worries which may be groundless.”

They said no more, but Elizabeth knew that for Jane there could be no problem. She believed firmly that two attractive young people who obviously enjoyed each other’s company might very naturally fall in love and that love should result in a happy marriage. And here there could be no difficulty about money: Georgiana was rich and Mr Alveston rising in his profession. But money weighed little with Jane; provided there was sufficient for a family to live in comfort, what matter which partner it was who brought money to the union? And the fact, which to others would be paramount, that the colonel now was a viscount and that his wife would in time become a countess while Mr Alveston would be only a baron, would weigh nothing with Jane. Elizabeth resolved that she would attempt not to dwell on possible difficulties but that, after the ball, she must soon find an early opportunity to talk to her husband. Both had been so busy that she had hardly set eyes on him since morning. She would not be justified in speculating to him about Mr Alveston’s feelings unless Mr Alveston or Georgiana raised the matter, but he should be told as soon as possible of the colonel’s intention to speak of his hope that Georgiana would consent to be his wife. She wondered why the thought of such an alliance, brilliant as it was, gave her an unease which she could not reason away, and tried to put this uncomfortable feeling aside. Belton had arrived and it was time for Jane and herself to get ready for dinner.

3

On the eve of the ball, dinner was served at the customary and fashionable hour of six thirty but when the numbers were few it was usual for it to be held in a small room adjacent to the formal dining room, where up to eight could sit in comfort at the round table. In past years the larger room had been necessary because the Gardiners, and occasionally Bingley’s sisters, had been guests at Pemberley for the ball, but Mr Gardiner never found it easy to leave his business, nor his wife to be parted from her children. What they both liked best was a summer visit when Mr Gardiner could enjoy the fishing and his wife enjoyed nothing better than to explore the grounds with Elizabeth in a single-horse phaeton. The friendship between the two women was long-standing and close and Elizabeth had always valued her aunt’s advice. There were matters on which she would have been glad of it now.

Although the dinner was informal, the party naturally moved together to enter the dining room in pairs. The colonel at once offered his arm to Elizabeth, Darcy moved to Jane’s side and Bingley, with a little show of gallantry, offered his arm to Georgiana. Seeing Alveston walking alone behind the last pair, Elizabeth wished she had arranged things better, but it was always difficult to find a suitable unescorted lady at short notice and convention had not before mattered at these pre-ball dinners. The empty chair was between Georgiana and Bingley, and when Alveston took it, Elizabeth detected his transitory smile of pleasure.

As they seated themselves the colonel said, “So Mrs Hopkins is not with us again this year. Isn’t this the second time she has missed the ball? Does your sister not enjoy dancing, or has the Reverend Theodore theological objections to a ball?”

Elizabeth said, “Mary has never been fond of dancing and has asked to be excused, but her husband has certainly no objection to her taking part. He told me on the last occasion when they dined here that in his view no ball at Pemberley attended by friends and acquaintances of the family could have a deleterious effect on either morals or manners.”

Bingley whispered to Georgiana, “Which shows that he has never imbibed Pemberley white soup.”

The remark was overheard and provoked smiles and some laughter. But this light-heartedness was not to last. There was an absence of the usual eager talk across the table, and a languor from which even Bingley’s good-humoured volubility seemed unable to rouse them. Elizabeth tried not to glance too frequently at the colonel, but when she did she was aware how often his eyes were fixed on the couple opposite. It seemed to Elizabeth that Georgiana, in her simple dress of white muslin with a chaplet of pearls in her dark hair, had never appeared more lovely, but there was in the colonel’s gaze a look more speculative than admiring. Certainly the young couple behaved impeccably, Alveston showing Georgiana no more attention than was natural, and Georgiana turning to address her remarks equally between Alveston and Bingley, like a young girl dutifully following social convention at her first dinner party. There was one moment, which she hoped the colonel had not detected. Alveston was mixing Georgiana’s water and wine and, for a few seconds, their hands touched and Elizabeth saw the faint flush grow and fade on Georgiana’s cheeks.

Seeing Alveston in his formal evening clothes, Elizabeth was struck again by his extraordinary good looks. He was surely not unaware that he could not enter a room without every woman present turning her eyes towards him. His strong mid-brown hair was tied back simply at the nape of his neck. His eyes were a darker brown under straight brows, his face had an openness and strength which saved him from any imputation of being too handsome, and he moved with a confident and easy grace. As she knew, he was usually a lively and entertaining guest, but tonight even he seemed afflicted by the general air of unease. Perhaps, she thought, everyone was tired. Bingley and Jane had come only eighteen miles but had been delayed by the high wind, and for Darcy and herself the day before the ball was always unusually busy.

The atmosphere was not helped by the tempest outside. From time to time the wind howled in the chimney, the fire hissed and spluttered like a living thing and occasionally a burning log would break free, bursting into spectacular flames and casting a momentary red flush over the faces of the diners so that they looked as if they were in a fever. The servants came and went on silent feet, but it was a relief to Elizabeth when the meal at last came to an end and she was able to catch Jane’s eye and move with her and Georgiana across the hall into the music room.

4

While the dinner was being served in the small dining room, Thomas Bidwell was in the butler’s pantry cleaning the silver. This had been his job for the last four years since the pain in his back and knees had made driving impossible, and it was one in which he took pride, particularly on the night before Lady Anne’s ball. Of the seven large candelabra which would be ranged the length of the supper table, five had already been cleaned and the last two would be finished tonight. The job was tedious, time-consuming and surprisingly tiring, and his back, arms and hands would all ache by the time he had finished. But it wasn’t a job for the maids or for the lads. Stoughton, the butler, was ultimately responsible, but he was busy choosing the wines and overseeing the preparation of the ballroom, and regarded it as his responsibility to inspect the silver once cleaned, not to clean even the most valuable pieces himself. For the week preceding the ball it was expected that Bidwell would spend most days, and often far into the night, seated aproned at the pantry table with the Darcy family silver ranged before him – knives, forks, spoons, the candelabra, silver plates on which the food would be served, the dishes for the fruit. Even as he polished he could picture the candelabra with their tall candles throwing light on bejewelled hair, heated faces and the trembling blossoms in the flower vases.

He never worried about leaving his family alone in the woodland cottage, nor were they ever frightened there. It had lain desolate and neglected for years until Darcy’s father had restored it and made it suitable for use by one of the staff. But although it was larger than a servant could expect and offered peace and privacy, few were prepared to live there. It had been built by Mr Darcy’s great-grandfather, a recluse who lived his life mostly alone, accompanied only by his dog, Soldier. In that cottage he had even cooked his own simple meals, read and sat contemplating the strong trunks and tangled bushes of the wood which were his bulwark against the world. Then, when George Darcy was sixty, Soldier became ill, helpless and in pain. It was Bidwell’s grandfather, then a boy helping with the horses, who had gone to the cottage with fresh milk and found his master dead. Darcy had shot both Soldier and himself.

Bidwell’s parents had lived in the cottage before him. They had been unworried by its history, and so was he. The reputation that the woodland was haunted arose from a more recent tragedy which occurred soon after the present Mr Darcy’s grandfather succeeded to the estate. A young man, an only son who worked as an under-gardener at Pemberley, had been found guilty of poaching deer on the estate of a local magistrate, Sir Selwyn Hardcastle. Poaching was not usually a capital offence and most magistrates dealt with it sympathetically when times were hard and there was much hunger, but stealing from a deer park was punishable by death and Sir Selwyn’s father had been adamant that the full penalty should be exacted. Mr Darcy had made a strong plea for leniency in which Sir Selwyn refused to join. Within a week of the boy’s execution his mother had hanged herself. Mr Darcy had at least done his best, but it was believed that the dead woman had held him chiefly responsible. She had cursed the Darcy family, and the superstition took hold that her ghost, wailing in grief, could be glimpsed wandering among the trees by those unwise enough to visit the woodland after dark, and that this avenging apparition always presaged a death on the estate.

Bidwell had no patience with this foolishness but the previous week the news had reached him that two of the housemaids, Betsy and Joan, had been whispering in the servants’ hall that they had seen the ghost when venturing into the woodland as a dare. He had warned them against speaking such nonsense which, had it reached the ears of Mrs Reynolds, might have had serious consequences for the girls. Although his daughter, Louisa, no longer worked at Pemberley, being needed at home to help nurse her sick brother, he wondered if somehow the story had reached her ears. Certainly she and her mother had become more meticulous than ever about locking the cottage door at night and, when returning late from Pemberley, he had been instructed to give a signal by knocking three times loudly and four times more quietly before inserting his key.

The cottage was reputed to be unlucky but only in recent years had ill luck touched the Bidwells. He still remembered, as keenly as if it were yesterday, the desolation of that moment when, for the last time, he had taken off the impressive livery of Mr Darcy of Pemberley’s head coachman and said goodbye to his beloved horses. And now for the past year his only son, his hopes for the future, had been slowly and painfully dying.

If that were not enough, his elder daughter, the child from whom he and his wife had never expected trouble, was causing anxiety. Things had always gone well with Sarah. She had married the son of the innkeeper at the King’s Arms in Lambton, an ambitious young man who had moved to Birmingham and established a chandlery with a bequest from his grandfather. The business was flourishing, but Sarah had become depressed and overworked. There was a fourth baby due in just over four years of marriage and the strain of motherhood and helping in the shop had brought a despairing letter asking for help from her sister Louisa. His wife had handed him Sarah’s letter without comment but he knew that she shared his concern that their sensible, cheerful, buxom Sarah had come to such a pass. He had handed the letter back after reading it, merely saying, “Louisa will be sadly missed by Will. They’ve always been close. And can you spare her?”

“I’ll have to. Sarah wouldn’t have written if she wasn’t desperate. It’s not like our Sarah.”

So Louisa had spent the five months before the birth in Birmingham helping to care for the other three children and had remained for a further three months while Sarah recovered. She had recently returned home, bringing the baby, Georgie, with her, both to relieve her sister and so that her mother and brother could see him before Will died. But Bidwell himself had never been happy about the arrangement. He had been almost as anxious as his wife to see their new grandson, but a cottage where a dying man was being nursed was hardly suitable for the care of a baby. Will was too ill to take much more than a cursory interest in the new arrival and the child’s crying at night worried and disturbed him. And Bidwell could see that Louisa was not happy. She was restless and, despite the autumnal chill, she seemed to prefer walking in the woodland, the baby in her arms, than to be at home with her mother and Will. She had even, as if by design, been absent when the rector, the elderly and scholarly Reverend Percival Oliphant, made one of his frequent visits to Will, which was strange because she had always liked the rector, who had taken an interest in her from her childhood, lending her books and offering to include her in his Latin class with his small group of private pupils. Bidwell had refused the invitation – it would only give Louisa ideas above her station – but still, it had been made. Of course, a girl was often anxious and nervous as her wedding approached, but now that Louisa was at home why did not Joseph Billings visit the cottage regularly as he used to do? They hardly saw him. He wondered whether the care of the baby had brought home both to Louisa and to Joseph the responsibilities and risks of the married state and caused them to reconsider. He hoped not. Joseph was ambitious and serious, and some thought, at thirty-four, too old for Louisa, but the girl seemed fond of him. They would be settled in Highmarten within seventeen miles of himself and Martha and would be part of a comfortable household with an indulgent mistress, a generous master, their future secured, their lives stretching ahead, predictable, safe, respectable. With all that before her, what use to a young woman were learning and Latin?

Perhaps all would right itself when Georgie was back with his mother. Louisa would be travelling with him tomorrow and it had been arranged that she and the baby were to go by chaise to the King’s Arms at Lambton, from where they would travel post to Birmingham where Sarah’s husband, Michael Simpkins, would meet them to drive home in his trap and Louisa would return to Pemberley by post the same day. Life would be easier for his wife and Will when the baby had been taken home, but when he returned to the cottage on Sunday after helping to put the house to rights after the ball, it would be strange not to see Georgie’s chubby hands held out in welcome.

These troubled thoughts had not prevented him from continuing with his work but, almost imperceptibly, he had slackened his pace and for the first time had let himself wonder whether the silver cleaning had become too tiring for him to undertake alone. But that would be a humiliating defeat. Resolutely pulling the last candelabrum towards him, he took up a fresh polishing cloth and, easing his aching limbs in the chair, bent again to his task.

5

In the music room the gentlemen did not keep them waiting long and the atmosphere lightened as the company settled themselves comfortably on the sofa and chairs. The pianoforte was opened by Darcy and the candles on the instrument were lit. As soon as they had seated themselves, Darcy turned to Georgiana and, almost formally as if she were a guest, said that it would be a pleasure for them all if she would play and sing. She got up with a glance at Henry Alveston and he followed her to the instrument. Turning to the party she said, “As we have a tenor with us, I thought it would be pleasant to have some duets.”

“Yes!” cried Bingley enthusiastically. “A very good idea. Let us hear you both. Jane and I were trying last week to sing duets together, were we not, my love? But I won’t suggest that we repeat the experiment tonight. I was a disaster, was I not, Jane?”

His wife laughed. “No, you did very well. But I’m afraid I have neglected practising since Charles Edward was born. We will not inflict our musical efforts on our friends while we have in Miss Georgiana a more talented musician than you or I can ever hope to be.”

Elizabeth tried to give herself over to the music but her eyes and her thoughts were with the couple at the piano. After the first two songs a third was entreated and there was a pause as Georgiana picked up a new score and showed it to Alveston. He turned the pages and seemed to be pointing to passages which he thought might be difficult, or perhaps where he was uncertain how to pronounce the Italian. She looked up at him, and then played a few bars with her right hand and he smiled his acquiescence. Both of them seemed unaware of the waiting audience. It was a moment of intimacy which enclosed them in their private world, yet reached out to a moment when self was forgotten in their common love of music. Watching the candlelight on the two rapt faces, their smiles as the problem was solved and Georgiana settled herself to play, Elizabeth felt that this was no fleeting attraction based on physical proximity, not even in a shared love of music. Surely they were in love, or perhaps on the verge of love, that enchanting period of mutual discovery, expectation and hope.

It was an enchantment she had never known. It still surprised her that between Darcy’s first insulting proposal and his second successful and penitent request for her love, they had only been together in private for less than half an hour: the time when she and the Gardiners were visiting Pemberley and he unexpectedly returned and they walked together in the gardens, and the following day when he rode over to the Lambton inn where she was staying to discover her in tears, holding Jane’s letter with news of Lydia’s elopement. He had quickly left within minutes and she had thought never to see him again. If this were fiction, could even the most brilliant novelist contrive to make credible so short a period in which pride had been subdued and prejudice overcome? And later, when Darcy and Bingley returned to Netherfield and Darcy was her accepted lover, the courtship, so far from being a period of joy, had been one of the most anxious and embarrassing of her life as she sought to divert his attention from her mother’s loud and exuberant congratulations which had almost gone as far as thanking him for his great condescension in applying for her daughter’s hand. Neither Jane nor Bingley had suffered in the same way. The good-natured and love-obsessed Bingley either did not notice or tolerated his future mother-in-law’s vulgarity. And would she herself have married Darcy had he been a penniless curate or a struggling attorney? It was difficult to envisage Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley as either, but honesty compelled an answer. Elizabeth knew that she was not formed for the sad contrivances of poverty.

The wind was still rising and the two voices were accompanied by the moaning and howling in the chimney and the fitful blazing of the fire, so that the tumult outside seemed nature’s descant to the beauty of the two blending voices and a fitting accompaniment to the turmoil in her own mind. She had never before been worried by a high wind and would relish the security and comfort of sitting indoors while it raged ineffectively through the Pemberley woodland. But now it seemed a malignant force, seeking every chimney, every cranny, to gain entrance. She was not imaginative and she tried to put the morbid imaginings from her, but there persisted an emotion which she had never known before. She thought, Here we sit at the beginning of a new century, citizens of the most civilised country in Europe, surrounded by the splendour of its craftsmanship, its art and the books which enshrine its literature, while outside there is another world which wealth and education and privilege can keep from us, a world in which men are as violent and destructive as is the animal world. Perhaps even the most fortunate of us will not be able to ignore it and keep it at bay for ever.

She tried to restore tranquillity in the blending of the two voices, but was glad when the music ended and it was time to pull on the bell-rope and order the tea.

The tea tray was brought in by Billings, one of the footmen. She knew that he was destined to leave Pemberley in the spring when, if all went well, he could hope to succeed the Bingleys’ butler when the old man at last retired. It was a rise in importance and status, made the more welcome to him as he had become engaged to Thomas Bidwell’s daughter Louisa the Easter before last and she would accompany him to Highmarten as chief parlourmaid. Elizabeth, in her first months at Pemberley, had been surprised at the family’s involvement in the life of their servants. On Darcy’s and her rare visits to London they stayed in their townhouse or with Bingley’s sister, Mrs Hurst, and her husband, who lived in some grandeur. In that world the servants lived lives so apart from the family that it was apparent how rarely Mrs Hurst even knew the names of those who served her. But although Mr and Mrs Darcy were carefully protected from domestic problems, there were events – marriages, betrothals, changes of job, illness or retirement – which rose above the ceaseless life of activity which ensured the smooth running of the house, and it was important both to Darcy and Elizabeth that these rites of passage, part of that still largely secret life on which their comfort so much depended, should be recognised and celebrated.

Now Billings put down the tea tray in front of Elizabeth with a kind of deliberate grace, as if to demonstrate to Jane how worthy he was of the honour in store. It was, thought Elizabeth, to be a comfortable situation both for him and his new wife. As her father had prophesied, the Bingleys were generous employers, easy-going, undemanding and particular only in the care of each other and their children.

Hardly had Billings left when Colonel Fitzwilliam got up from his seat and walked over to Elizabeth. “Will you forgive me, Mrs Darcy, if I now take my nightly exercise? I have it in mind to ride Talbot beside the river. I’m sorry to break up so happy a family meeting but I sleep ill without fresh air before bed.”

Elizabeth assured him that no excuses were necessary. He raised her hand briefly to his lips, a gesture that was unusual in him, and made for the door.

Henry Alveston was sitting with Georgiana on the sofa. Looking up, he said, “Moonlight on the river is magical, Colonel, although perhaps best seen in company. But you and Talbot will have a rough ride of it. I do not envy you battling against this wind.”

The colonel turned at the door and looked at him. His voice was cold. “Then we must be grateful that you are not required to accompany me.” With a farewell bow to the company he was gone.

There was a moment of silence in which the colonel’s parting words and the singularity of his night ride were in every mind, but in which embarrassment inhibited comment. Only Henry Alveston seemed unconcerned although, glancing at his face, Elizabeth had no doubt that the implied criticism had not been lost on him.

It was Bingley who broke the silence. “Some more music, if you please, Miss Georgiana, if you are not too tired. But please finish your tea first. We must not impose on your kindness. What about those Irish folksongs which you played when we dined here last summer? No need to sing, the music itself is enough, you must save your voice. I remember that we even had some dancing, did we not? But then the Gardiners were here, and Mr and Mrs Hurst, so we had five couples, and Mary was here to play for us.”

Georgiana returned to the pianoforte with Alveston standing turning the pages, and for a time the lively tunes had their effect. Then, when the music ended, they made desultory conversation, exchanging views which had been expressed many times before and family news, none of which was new. Half an hour later, Georgiana made the first move and said her goodnights, and when she had pulled the bell-rope to summon her maid, Alveston lit and handed her a candle and escorted her to the door. After she had left, it seemed to Elizabeth that the rest of the party were all tired but lacked the energy actually to get up and say their goodnights. It was Jane who next made a move and, looking at her husband, murmured that it was time for bed. Elizabeth, grateful, soon followed her example. A footman was summoned to bring in and light the night candles, those on the pianoforte were blown out, and they were making their way to the door when Darcy, who was standing by the window, gave a sudden exclamation.

“My God! What does that fool of a coachman think he’s doing? He’ll have the whole chaise over! This is madness. And who on earth are they? Elizabeth, is anyone else expected tonight?”

“No one.”

Elizabeth and the rest of the company crowded to the window and there in the distance saw a chaise, lurching and swaying down the woodland road towards the house, its two sidelights blazing like small flames. Imagination provided what was too distant to be seen – the manes of the horses tossed by the wind, their wild eyes and straining shoulders, the postilion heaving at the reins. It was too distant for the wheels to be heard and it seemed to Elizabeth that she was seeing a spectral coach of legend flying soundlessly through the moonlit night, the dreaded harbinger of death.

Darcy said, “Bingley, stay here with the ladies and I’ll see what this is about.”

But his words were lost in a renewed howling of the wind in the chimney and the company followed him out of the music room, down the main staircase and into the hall. Stoughton and Mrs Reynolds were already there. At a gesture from Darcy, Stoughton opened the door. The wind rushed in immediately, a cold, irresistible force seeming to take possession of the whole house, extinguishing in one blow all the candles except those in the high chandelier.

The coach was still coming at speed, rocking round the corner at the end of the woodland road to approach the house. Elizabeth thought that it would surely rattle past the door. But now she could hear the shouts of the coachman and see him struggling with the reins. The horses were pulled to a halt and stood there, restless and neighing. Immediately, and before he could dismount, the coach door was opened and in the shaft of light from Pemberley they saw a woman almost falling out and shrieking into the wind. With her hat hanging by its ribbons round her neck and her loose hair blowing about her face, she seemed like some wild creature of the night, or a mad woman escaped from captivity. For a moment Elizabeth stood rooted, incapable of action or thought. And then she recognised that this wild shrieking apparition was Lydia and ran forward to help. But Lydia pushed her aside and, still screaming, thrust herself into Jane’s arms, nearly toppling her. Bingley stepped forward to assist his wife and together they half-carried Lydia to the door. She was still howling and struggling as if unaware of who was supporting her, but once inside, protected from the wind, they could hear her harsh broken words.

“Wickham’s dead! Denny has shot him! Why don’t you find him? They’re up there in the woodland. Why don’t you do something? Oh God, I know he’s dead!”

And then the sobs became moans and she slumped in Jane’s and Bingley’s arms as together they urged her gently towards the nearest chair.