If there was such a thing as talking Stone it would be indeed a subjective source of information. If the stone that populates the walls of Pemberley was ever to describe its entire history, it would be too long a story; for there are far too many winters that cracked its insides, too many summers to describe its maturity, and too many steps and touches to tell the story of its inhabitants.
If the outside walls of Pemberley were ever to describe a season of the year they would choose summer, for it was summer the one that brought the sun, the laughter, the running, and the wonders of childhood.
But if instead, the inside walls had the chance to speak they would certainly choose to describe winter, for winter brought the comfort, the warmth, the long nights of gathering around the fire, the nostalgic need for staying closer.
Indeed there are too many seasons to talk about, too many lonesome to speak of. Pemberley is far too magnificent for any living soul. Only its walls are adjusted enough, accustomed to their own extraordinary fate.
The truth is that the outside walls and the inner ones have always been in constant disagreement. The outside claims that the value of spotting the line that divides infinity with dawn is priceless. At Pemberley young spirited women have the chance to feel the power of a long perfect sunrise. The inside, on the other hand, claims that there is not such a thing as magnificent as the secrets of an old mazelike mansion, especially when new inhabitants arrive. The privilege of witnessing the curious eyes of a young woman discovering its corners is priceless.
Of course, there are times when neither of them are enough to satisfy the burning curiosity of an ambitious lady, and that is probably what will never stop amazing the muted, yet curious stones of Pemberley, for they have witnessed loneliness in the living souls that invade the house day by day.
They have witnessed the innocent, yet nostalgic sound of Georgiana's piano conquering the cold stone all the way through the walls, the floors, and the furniture. They loved the sound, the feeling, but they know it was nothing but the call for somebody, someone powerful enough to replace its greatness. If the stones of Pemberley have ever learned anything, it is that human nature revolves around the urge of satisfying a need, and most of the time it is just a need for nothing else than love.
They have also experienced the angst that pacing brings, like the worried steps of young Darcy, pacing in the drawing room at first for the worries that her beloved little sister brought, but later for the uncomfortable and desperate need of seeing certain pair of eyes at least once more. Needless to say, the walls of Pemberley are familiar with the sound of pacing.
Actually they are familiar with lots of things and very little amused by them. But, if there is one thing that the outside walls and the inside ones will always be equally amused by is one particular type of human behaviour, one that is popular thanks to two of its inhabitants, one that does not require the grace of Georgiana's piano or the wonders of dawn.
It is one that always begins with the bitter bites of loneliness. It does not matter if it is just a few days of separation or a few weeks, it is just the same. After years of marriage, the small steps of Lizzie's pacing always capture the attention of the inner walls. She paces impatiently, and the cold walls know that the waiting is coming to an end, for Lizzie's pacing increases only when her loneliness is about to end, instead of being the other way around. Her eyes stare at the window, trying to distract herself with the painted colours of the sun hiding at the end of the lake. Her hair refuses to stay still, dancing over her skin as she walks through the room, gazing at the clock once in a while, and still holding the book she can't concentrate on.
It is a rather weird behaviour, the inner walls think. It is completely understandable the first months after marriage; it is still comprehensible after the first year of the newlyweds. But after years of marriage, such childish longing behaviour is nothing but amusing. The way her dress tangles between her legs makes it harder for her to walk in circles. She gazes through the window once again. Walking, that's what she needs. She carelessly drops the book that accompanied her these last days and heads for the painted sunset.
She walks her way down the stairs, her hands caressing the wall. The old stone feels the privilege of her fingertips. She smiles as she reaches the door to the gardens, but just when she is about to step outside, abandoning the warmth of the inner walls, her ears capture the familiar sound that still makes her chest rise. The horse that is running towards Pemberley carries a sound she can distinguish from any other horse she ever heard. Her smile turns into the excitement of laughter. Lizzie abandons the way to the gardens and her sedate, walking paces break into a hurried run. She runs across the floors that echo her steps across the mansion.
The inner walls admire her running but cannot understand it, just like the outside walls cannot understand her love of walking for hours through the grounds of Pemberley on warm afternoons.
She knows well her way through the floors and walls of the place. She crosses the home, as she always does, until she reaches the front entrance, where she stops for a second to certify what she already knows. Darcy does not give much time to patience anymore. He gets off his horse as quickly as he always does to compensate the seconds he has been away. He smiles at the sight of her figure already at the door. This is what the outside walls enjoy the most, the sight of her hair jumping along as she runs her way into his arms, which are always ready to catch her.
His embrace is often seen by the walls and yet it is an amusement. She smiles into his lips before losing herself to his touch. She lets herself be distracted by his arms lifting her off the floor. Through the intimacy of a whisper he begs her to forgive him for parting himself from her for that long. She whispers with a smile that she will not forgive him unless he makes up for the time lost in the wisest of ways. He caresses her skin with his and they stay close to each other for too long for the walls to count.
That is, indeed, what amuses the silent, yet wise stones of Pemberley most: the way two humans curse time when it means for them to wait for one another, but then manage to extend it for the sake of feeling even more when they are reunited. If the muted walls of Pemberley were ever to talk, they would definitely choose to describe these particular encounters between these two breathing souls, because if there ever was such a thing as talking stone it would be, indeed, a rare source of information.
A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read, Reviews are very appreciated!