Chapter Five

Rosemary had not been to Pemberley for years, not since her grandfather's nephew, George Darcy, was alive. He had been a fine man, very handsome, and she had enjoyed her visits as she had been close to all her Willoughby relatives. She had not been of an age or disposition to pay much mind to the grounds or the house, but now she leaned forward eagerly as they went over the last incline and looked down.

Pemberley spread out before them, lit up by the last remnants of sunlight, the woods sprawling out through the valley. It was not at all what she had expected, and seemed subtly different from her memories. There had been follies about, very picturesque and dramatic, that she had played on and about; but they were gone. Also it seemed the woods and stream were rather more prominent than she recalled.

Rosemary glanced at her husband, and smiled. She knew that he loved Pemberley, with characteristic single-mindedness — there were no halves with him. He spoke of it with the same passion that another man might speak of the object of his desire, a beautiful mistress or beloved wife. He stared down, his lips slightly parted and his eyes smiling brilliantly although his expression remained severe. Rosemary turned back to the sight before her, as the carriage rattled on. It was almost too lovely, too — she had no words, too much. It did not seem quite earthly. She had preferred it with the small idiosyncrasies, the follies and statues and all those little touches that had spoken of variance and imperfection. This Pemberley was so perfectly blended between nature and artifice, she could find no flaw, and so beautiful she could almost not bear it. She felt a pale, tired imitation of herself, utterly incapable of managing the overwhelming presence and beauty that was Pemberley. And yet — beautiful and sublime — she was almost transported at the same time, into a sort of peculiar joy and pleasure.

It was all very strange. Rosemary cast her strange mood off, and looked at her husband. He was happier than she had ever seen him.

'Welcome home,' he said easily, helping her out of the carriage.

Rosemary looked up at the house and swallowed. It was a fine, soaring building, not as grand and splendid as she had expected — as Darcy could afford to make it — and again she felt that blend of awe and anxiety.

'It is lovely, beyond words,' she said sincerely, looking around.

There was no great pomp, the servants went about their duties quietly and efficiently, but she could not miss the contentment pervading the place, nor the pleasure lighting up Mrs Reynolds's face when she set eyes on her master.

'She has yet to realise I am no longer four,' Darcy had said ruefully, and that was apparent immediately by the distinctly maternal manner she took with him, fussing over the weather, his clothing, whether or not he had eaten properly — Rosemary could hardly keep from laughing at it, they were so utterly delightful together.

Later that evening, Rosemary said idly, 'What happened to the follies?'

Darcy glanced up from his book. He looked very peaceful, no longer as volatile as he had been in London. She missed that, a little. It had reminded her of James. He had been a gentleman as well, of far more recent affluence, of course. His estate had shown the signs of that, the buildings had been modern, there had been eccentric additions and variations;—he had cut down a small stand of trees on a whim. One never knew what would happen next with him. She had always been a steadying influence on him, but Darcy needed no steadying. One need only look at Pemberley to see that. She felt rather melancholy as her husband replied, 'I tore them down.'

'Whatever for? Did not your father like them?'

'Yes,' he said, laughing a little, 'but I do not feel obliged to agree with my father on every matter. I thought they were rather pretentious, actually.'

'Fitzwilliam!'

'Father did not build them, it was some ancestor five or six generations back,' Darcy said hurriedly. 'I would not speak of my father in such a manner, I am certain he would not mind my changing things a little. They were very out of place at Pemberley, fashion without purpose.'

'Yes, I suppose so.' Rosemary did not dare say she felt as out of place in the wild, perfect beauty of Pemberley as one of those dear, whimsical follies, fashionable and purposeless. She shivered. What would James think? She had not thought of him so often for five years at least.

She settled into life at Pemberley easily enough, far more easily than she had expected. It was so orderly, she found her ways easily assimilated into the greater way of things at Pemberley. She liked the colour yellow and promptly found her favourite room decorated in that shade, courtesy of Mrs Reynolds (with Darcy as co-conspirator, naturally). They did so much to accomodate her that she was determined to return the favour, to be an exemplary mistress of Pemberley and wife to Darcy, in every possible respect.

They had been at Pemberley two months, living contentedly and peacefully. Rosemary did not see her husband a great deal — she had had no idea he took such a great personal interest in affairs of the estate, but free of the passionate, possessive sort of love that might have placed a greater claim on his time, she did not mind terribly, fond of him as she was. There was much to do, and discover. Morever he was so still and quiet that she often failed to notice him when he was present.

It was particularly embarrassing when she happened across a fine painting of a darkly handsome woman with a small boy on her lap. He was a startlingly beautiful child, and the painter had been very talented, catching even the smallest details, the nervous grasp of the boy's small fingers on his mother's dress, the slightly haughty tilt of her chin. 'A Madonna?' Rosemary said aloud, and was startled by a sudden laugh. She stifled a shriek and glanced over her shoulder.

'Oh, Fitzwilliam,' she said in relief, 'it is only you.'

'Yes,' he said, with a crooked smile, 'only I. I beg your pardon, I should not have laughed.'

Rosemary turned back to the painting, caught by the little boy's intense dark eyes as he stared out of the frame. She shivered a little. 'It is a lovely painting,' she remarked. 'A mother and son, I am certain. Why should it not be a Madonna?'

'Well,' he said, biting down on his lip, 'because it is my mother and I.'

'Oh!' She blushed fiercely, and looked more carefully at it. Yes, she had seen that detached, introspective expression on her husband's face often enough; and the woman looked a great deal like him. She had thought, perhaps, that the model for it was a relation of some sort, certainly with those dark good looks one of the Fitzwilliam clan. 'Rather presumptuous of me, then.'

'You did not know, it is quite all right.' He looked intently at her. Rosemary sighed, thinking that it was difficult enough to be watched by one Fitzwilliam, three was rather excessive. 'Are you well, my dear?'

She started and glanced up. 'Of course,' she said instantly. 'Why did you think not?'

'You have been ill every morning this week, and yesterday you nearly fainted, in the middle of the day.'

'Oh, I think that I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. Do you remember that dinner at Lady Meredith's? I remember thinking that the partridges were done very ill.'

'There were no partridges, Rosemary,' he said gently.

'Oh, well, whatever it was then, I don't recall.' Her gaze was irresistibly drawn to the painting once more. 'Is that the only picture you have of your mother?'

'My uncle has the others.'

Rosemary glanced up at the wall. Another dark, strikingly handsome lady looked down. 'Who is this? She looks rather like.'

'My grandmother, Lady Alexandra. Her mother, your great-grandmother, was a Fitzwilliam.'

'Oh, I had thought she was the fair-haired one in Georgiana's room.'

'That is my other great-grandmother, for whom she and my father were named.'

'Oh, I see.' She glanced down at the letter in his hand. 'Is there something you wish to speak to me about?'

'Ah, nothing in particular.' He smiled uncertainly and took his leave of her. The next day, as her maid was dressing her, the girl tentatively asked,

'Your ladyship, have you noticed . . .?' She gestured at the stays, which had in the last few weeks grown quite uncomfortable.

'Have I noticed what, Amelia?'

'You are — you have — you are not quite so slender, my lady, as when you first came.'

Rosemary laughed at this. 'Too many dinner parties, I'm afraid. I shall have to take greater care.'

The French girl actually stamped her foot and muttered something too rapid for Rosemary to catch.

'I beg your pardon?'

'The English are very silly,' Amélie pronounced, and pulled the stays tighter with a vengeful jerk. Rosemary squeaked.

'Perhaps I should speak to Mrs Reynolds,' said Rosemary.

'Oh, what about?' Darcy cut his meat neatly into small squares. She watched with some interest. Every day at every dinner he cut his food in exactly the same way. He was without a doubt a creature of habit.

'I have been ill again, surely not all the food I've eaten at other people's houses can be bad. It must be our own.'

'Ah — ' said Darcy quickly, 'Perhaps it isn't the food and you are ill? You could tell her your, er, symptoms, and she might be able to help. She has a great deal of, er, practical experience with this sort of thing.'

Rosemary sighed. 'You are probably right. If it isn't the food, I wouldn't want to offend her.'

'Indeed not.' With a distinctly relieved expression, he applied himself to his food once more.

'I am sorry I am such terrible company, Fitzwilliam. I do not care for being ill.'

He bit his lip down, but she thought she caught the hint of a dimple in his cheek, and she gave him a sharp look. 'It must be dreadful,' he said hastily. 'I remember when Mother — well, Mrs Reynolds can tell you about that.'

'About what?' She looked at him curiously, and he shook his head.

'She would know more about it than I, really. Tell her about everything, she is very sensible.' His face was now very composed, but she knew him well enough to recognise what he had once ruefully called his 'Lady Catherine grimace.' It was his usual way when he did not dare show his true feelings. He was acting very strangely these days, almost giddy. Most unlike himself. Perhaps he was not well either?