The Pemberley Chronicles

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  “And is my uncle going into this business too?” she asked.

  “No, he is interested in the established trade; that is what he knows best,” Darcy replied. “Fitzwilliam is to become a partner in the trading company along with Bingley and myself. The rest of his investments are his own.” Elizabeth sighed; she could hardly believe the transformation in Fitzwilliam, from a very unassuming, if pleasing young man to the enthusiastic, energetic, no less pleasing, but very different person who had appeared at Pemberley that evening. She confessed to being rather confused. Darcy understood the reason for her bewilderment. In three years, the comfortable, easygoing Fitzwilliam had changed, and Elizabeth, who had liked his former persona, was anxious lest she should lose touch with the new one, by failing to keep up with him.

  “Do not be anxious, Lizzie; he is by far a stronger, better character now, more self-reliant and confident of his views, but his essential nature and disposition remain unchanged. There has always been a basic goodness of heart, a sense of justice in Fitzwilliam. Unfortunately, without the means to follow his inclinations, he was unable to do anything about it. I have heard him complain about the injustices of one system or the other, but he had to be discreet as long as he depended upon the munificence of his relatives, or was employed by the Crown. Remember, my dear, that his father and our mutual aunt—Lady Catherine, who are his principal benefactors—are such arch conservatives that the slightest hint of radicalism on his part could have meant a severe reprimand or even a reduction of his allowance,” he explained. Elizabeth recalled a conversation with Fitzwilliam during a walk in the woods at Rosings, some years ago, in which, among other matters, he had confessed to her the privations suffered by younger sons of titled families. He had especially bemoaned the loss of independence. “And do you mean that he is now better able to follow his heart in matters of marriage as well as politics?” she asked. Darcy answered without any hesitation, “Undoubtedly. I cannot believe there would be any constraint upon him on that score, except in matters of character and disposition.”

  “And Lady Catherine would not pursue him as vigorously as she might have, had he been dependent upon her good opinion and generosity?”

  Darcy knew she was teasing and followed suit, “There is no knowing how assiduously Lady Catherine may prosecute her cause in the case of Fitzwilliam; he is a particular favourite of hers.”

  “As you were,” she interposed, smiling.

  “Indeed, so there is no means by which one can predict her actions; but one thing can be said with absolute certainty: Fitzwilliam’s fortune is now considerably more than anything they can take away from him. And, unlike theirs,” he went on, “his assets have an ever-increasing value, based as they are upon trade and commerce, the fastest growing enterprise on earth. That being so, he is free to make whatever choices and decisions he wishes. One can only hope and pray that they will be the right ones, for him.”

  “And surely, my dear, you intend to see that they are?” she asked, a teasing little note creeping into her voice. Darcy put his arms around her and, as if to signal the end of the conversation, snuffed out the candle on her dressing table before saying, “Dearest Elizabeth, have I not learned my lesson? Never again will I interfere in the personal affairs of a friend. I still suffer when I recall how much pain I caused two people we both love dearly, by my intolerable arrogance.” Elizabeth hushed him; she would hear no more. She well knew how much he regretted causing the hurt and sorrow that had flowed from his well-meaning but insensitive intervention in the lives of Bingley and Jane. But that was a long time ago, and as things had turned out, he had been completely forgiven.

  J

  A day or two later, after Fitzwilliam had moved his things and settled in at Pemberley, he was consulting Darcy about the purchase of a property. He had put aside a reasonable sum of money, including the proceeds of the sale of some assets left to him by his mother, to buy himself a home. “Darcy, I am not looking to purchase some grand mansion or manor. A good, solid house with a decent sized farm and some acres of woodland is all I crave,” he said, as they sat in front of the fire.

  Elizabeth was reading but could hear the conversation. “I have no interest in being a landlord, I have neither the time nor the inclination to manage a large estate, nor do I intend to maintain a large establishment with dozens of servants. If there are tenant farmers, we shall have to work out an arrangement whereby they will, for the most part, manage their own businesses. I would, of course, require some labour on the farm, for which I shall pay a fair price, but apart from that, it’s going to be the simple life for me.” Darcy, though he was a little surprised, did not discourage him. His advice was practical and carefully considered, “Well, with the collapsing prices of farm land, you should have little difficulty. Where are you intending to settle? Are you still determined to be a neighbour of ours?” he asked. Fitzwilliam laughed, “I would very much like it, if I could remain within riding distance of yourselves and Mr and Mrs Gardiner, not just because I love Pemberley, but because we intend to do business together.”

  Elizabeth put her book away. “And do you intend to be an active partner in the Company?” she asked.

  Fitzwilliam laughed. “As active as my partners want me to be,” he said. “I have interests in the Colonies, and Mr Gardiner is anxious to establish some contacts with enterprises there. These are matters for discussion.” Darcy nodded and agreed but did not pursue the matter. He was still amazed at his cousin’s enthusiasm.

  When Elizabeth revealed that they were considering giving a dinner party to welcome him home, Fitzwilliam was equally keen. “Will you have dancing afterwards?” he asked, his eyes sparkling, to which Darcy, who was not the keenest of dancers, replied, “If you wish to dance, Fitzwilliam, and you can persuade the ladies to join you, we shall certainly have dancing.”

  Everyone in the neighbourhood who knew Colonel Fitzwilliam and some who did not came to dinner at Pemberley the following Saturday: Charles and Jane Bingley, all the Gardiners, the entire Camden clan, Rosamund and her husband, Kitty and Mr Jenkins, who had recently returned from Wales, as well as some young people from the village. Georgiana and Mrs Annesley were returning from London, and Dr Grantley was expected from Oxford. It was a large party, and both Elizabeth and Mrs Reynolds were keen to ensure it was a success.

  The dinner was a triumph, with a carefully selected menu and delectable dishes to suit every taste. Afterwards, there was the usual clamour for entertainment and particularly—music. Fitzwilliam had always been keen on music. Elizabeth recalled his enthusiastic support of her efforts at Rosings, all those years ago. She obliged with a song or two, and so did Kitty, accompanying her husband, whose fine Welsh voice was much admired. Georgiana, now a far more confident performer than she had been when Elizabeth first saw her play, made light work of a difficult composition, and Caroline, whose voice had been enhanced with training, sang a beautiful English lyric and had everyone applauding.

  While she was being vastly praised for the sweetness of her voice and the excellence of her phrasing, Caroline was collecting the sheets of music into her folio, when Colonel Fitzwilliam joined them and invited her to sing with him the duet they had sung some three years ago, before his departure for the colonies. The music was found, and though Elizabeth could not recall it very well, she was persuaded to accompany them. The song was so delightfully rendered it held everyone in the room spellbound, with even the footmen reluctant to bring in the coffee, lest they break the spell. When it was over, there was such a burst of applause that young Caroline blushed as Fitzwilliam most gallantly kissed her hand.

  Caroline, now a very ladylike young person, curtseyed to return the compliment and bowed deeply, before retreating to the back of the room, where she clung a little uncertainly to her cousin Jane’s hand. Only then did she realise that she was trembling. Jane squeezed her hand and held it, “That was beautiful, Caroline, simply beautiful,” she whispered, and Mr Bingley leaned across his wife to endorse her
words of praise.

  Mrs Gardiner and Elizabeth exchanged glances, but neither said a word. Elizabeth wanted to know how Fitzwilliam had recalled the words after three and a half years. “However did you recall it so well?” she asked, after congratulating him on the performance. To her surprise, he told how he had not been able to forget the melody for months after he had left England and in a moment of great nostalgia had written to Mr Gardiner requesting that he purchase a copy and send it to him in Ceylon, where he was stationed at the time. There being none available, Caroline had made him a copy in her own hand, which was despatched by the next mail.

  “It brought me so much pleasure, just seeing the words and being able to sing them so far from England. Since then, it has become my favourite party piece,” he declared.

  “And could you always find a willing partner to sing it with you?” Elizabeth asked, a little wickedly.

  “Oh yes,” he said, “but never one who matched the original for perfect harmony and sweetness of tone. As you can see by her performance tonight, Miss Gardiner has a most enchanting voice.”

  Elizabeth agreed. “Indeed, she has,” she said, as they joined the other guests. And enchanted you certainly seem to be, she thought to herself. She was rather glad young Caroline had not heard this last, extravagant compliment, for Elizabeth had heard more than his words, in the gentle inflections of his voice, and a tiny grain of anxiety began to insinuate itself into a corner of her mind. However, it was such a happy occasion that she determined to push it out of her thoughts.

  The following morning, Darcy and Elizabeth had come down to a late breakfast, to find that Fitzwilliam had risen early and ridden over to Lambton with Bingley. Jane, who was enjoying a solitary cup of tea, since most of the other guests had left either the previous night or very early in the morning, knew only that Fitzwilliam, on hearing that Bingley was taking his usual morning ride, had persuaded him to ride to Lambton. “I cannot be certain, Lizzie, but I did hear some mention of a farm near Matlock,” she said. Elizabeth raised her eyebrows and said nothing more. Darcy seemed to know something but was disinclined to discuss it.

  When it was close to midday and they had not returned, Jane, whose anxiety was probably because her baby was due in a month, seemed to become concerned about her husband. Darcy left the room and was about to go out, when they heard the horses. Soon afterwards, Fitzwilliam burst into the morning room, with an obviously exhausted Bingley bringing up the rear. “Where have you been? Jane has been most anxious,” said Elizabeth, betraying her irritation a little. Fitzwilliam, immediately contrite, went over and apologised profusely to Jane. He had never intended to keep her husband away so long, he said, but there was this farm, in the dales below Matlock, beside the Derwent. Mr Gardiner had told him about it last night, and he absolutely had to see it. Since it was such a fine morning, he had decided to go at once.

  “Bingley, I am sorry, it was thoughtless of me, but it was just the most perfect place. Darcy, you must see it and tell me what you think.”

  “Would it make any difference if I disagreed with you?” Darcy asked, not hiding his amusement.

  “Darcy, of course it would.” Fitzwilliam was indignant. “You know I value your opinion above all things. I may not always change my mind on account of it, but I certainly take it seriously.”

  “Bingley, what is this farm like?” asked Darcy, more inclined to trust his brother-in-law’s opinion in the face of his cousin’s enthusiasm.

  Bingley shrugged. “It is certainly a very pretty farm, exceedingly pretty with an excellent view of the heights and meadows sweeping all the way to the river. The house is small but seems comfortable, and the garden’s pretty,” and that was about all he was going to say, since Mrs Reynolds had sent in fresh food and tea and Bingley was very hungry.

  When they had finished, Jane and Bingley decided they would leave almost at once, in order to be home before dark. Their carriage was sent for, and after fond farewells, they drove away. Darcy, still uneasy about the speed with which Fitzwilliam was throwing himself into everything, tried to caution him. He chose reassurance rather than a warning. “You know you can stay here for as long as you need to, Fitzwilliam. You do not have to rush into anything.”

  His cousin was grateful but insisted that he had no time to waste.

  “Of course, I know that, Darcy, and it’s very good of you and Elizabeth, but I must settle somewhere, the sooner the better. I feel I want a place of my own before I can start my work, and this place is very promising, you’ll see.”

  “What does Mr Gardiner think?”

  “He says it is very good value; there are no real disadvantages. It is half a mile from Matlock—you could walk to the village and close enough to Chatsworth to make it interesting. I like it well enough already, but Mr Gardiner says I should think carefully and make up my own mind.”

  “He’s right, of course,” said Darcy and then, on a sudden impulse, “Fitzwilliam, you can tell me to mind my own business if you wish, but I have to ask you. Is there any particular reason for making such haste? You are not secretly engaged to someone . . . ?” He was not even permitted to complete his sentence.

  “Engaged? Of course not! Darcy, whatever made you think that? No, there is no other reason except I am thirty-three years old and feel I’ve spent half my life doing very little. I did not have the means, even if I had the inclination. Now, I have both, and there is so much to be done, Darcy, I want to start forthwith.” There was no mistaking his sincerity, as he went on, “I see how happy you are with Elizabeth and Bingley with Jane; even little Georgiana seems to have more purpose to her life than I have. I just want to get mine in order, and to do that, I must have a place of my own. I’ve never had one.”

  Darcy apologised for having pried into his cousin’s personal life, but Fitzwilliam was most magnanimous. “I know you meant well, and believe me, if there had been a lady, Elizabeth and you would have been the first to know.” Having settled the matter of a lady, he returned to the question of the farm, and Darcy decided that they would go on the morrow, if only to set his own mind at rest. He felt responsible even though Fitzwilliam was older than himself. He had always come to him for advice, and Darcy could not refuse him now.

  And so to Matlock they went, this time, in the carriage because Elizabeth expressed a desire to go, too. They drove first to the Gardiners’ and discovered that Mrs Gardiner and the girls were coming as well. They went in two carriages since the Gardiners had decided to drive into Matlock, afterwards. Elizabeth joked that they were a party large enough for a picnic and had she known in advance, she would have packed a picnic basket, seeing it was such a fine day.

  Although the village of Matlock lay not far from the northern boundaries of Pemberley, Elizabeth had not been there since her marriage to Darcy. She had happy memories of the Peak district, so beloved of her Aunt Gardiner, from their holiday in Derbyshire three summers past, and recalled with vivid pleasure all of her feelings—of confusion, happiness, and delight, which she had experienced at her unexpected meeting with Mr Darcy at Pemberley. She had confessed, much later, to her aunt that the journey back to the inn had been a mere blur, during which the strange behaviour of her own heart had dominated her thoughts and prevented any appreciation of the dramatic untamed landscape of the Peaks. Mrs Gardiner had teased her then with the assurance that once she was settled at Pemberley, why the Peaks would be no further to visit than the environs of the Pemberley Estate.

  Elizabeth smiled to herself at the coincidence in their lives that at this moment had brought them all together in this place. Unlike the rather severe beauty of the Peak, whose stony summit seemed to glower down upon the deep valleys and wooded gorges below, the dales were sunny, welcoming, and friendly places. They had visited Dove Dale, too, and Elizabeth recalled the delight of standing on the path that ran beside the river Dove and looking up at the heights, thickly wooded, green, gold, and ashen, on the lower slopes rising to the sheer, hard edges of steep hills, shimmeri
ng in the sunlight.

  The road curled its way through the dales, and then a mile shy of Matlock, it branched out towards the ridge of hills that rises to the summit of High Tor. Gently dipping into a wide curving valley, suddenly, the road petered out in a patchwork of green meadows and brown stubble falling away towards the river in the distance. At the high end of the valley, where the woods trailed down from the hills towards the most appealing natural hollow, filled with wild daisies and rampant mint, was the house. It stood four square, its welcoming, well-proportioned frontage facing the neat front lawn.

  They climbed out of the carriages and stood there looking at the scene, until the excited voice of Emily broke in, “Oh look Mama, there’s a dog,” as a retriever came racing out of the bushes at the far end of the valley. A man followed the dog out and, seeing the visitors, came towards them. Colonel Fitzwilliam, Darcy, and Mr Gardiner went to meet him. He appeared to be the caretaker; they wanted to ask some questions and apply to see inside the house. Meanwhile, Elizabeth, Mrs Gardiner, Emily, and Caroline walked up the gravelled path and up a shallow flight of steps to the porch, which protected the entrance to the house.

  The gentlemen had disappeared behind the house to look at the important features—stables, outhouses, and barns—while the ladies, obviously pleased with what they saw, were eager to see inside. Mr Gardiner walked with the man towards the outer edge of the meadow which sloped rather steeply towards the river, whose gentle curve seemed to cradle the small valley, before it flowed more swiftly down to the gorge beyond. Across a low stone bridge lay the home farm’s fields, worked at present by two families, who had served the previous owner until his death in the war. It turned out that the property had been sold once during the war; the owner’s widow had left the area and returned to her native Scotland, when the rush was on to purchase every farm in sight. With the collapse of prices in the rural recession, it was for sale again. Mr Gardiner discovered that the two tenant families had no desire to leave; they had nowhere to go to and, if the new owner let them stay on, would provide labour for the home farm. By the time he joined the others, Mr Gardiner had decided that this was a property well worth considering.