Mr. Darcy slowed to a walk as he approached the door to the portrait-gallery. It would not do to burst in on Elizabeth and her relatives. He waved away the footman stationed at the door. He opened the door oh so slowly, he knew it creaked if opened too quickly. He peeked in. He could see Elizabeth, an older woman, her aunt, he presumed, and Mrs. Reynolds, at the far end of the room, where the newest portraits, the youngsters, his cousin, Fitzwilliam, called them, hung. They were looking at his portrait, he didn't know if they were admiring it (Mrs. Reynolds would be, he smiled to himself) but at least Elizabeth wasn't recoiling in horror from it.
Now that he was thinking, rather than reacting, Mr. Darcy thought about how he should greet Elizabeth. He knew that in the ordinary course Mrs. Reynolds was close to finishing the house portion of the tour, soon she would be handing the tourists over to the gardener. To meet Elizabeth while she was strolling in the garden would be best.
Mr. Darcy gently closed the door and turned, coming face to face with his sister. He shushed her and then whispered "Arrange for tea to be served on the terrace in …" he thought about the timing "… in half an hour. I'll introduce you to her then." He looked down at his clothes, covered in road dust. "That'll give us time to clean up and change."
Georgiana nodded at him and turned away. He reached out and grabbed her arm. It was a warm day, a very warm day. His guests were probably hot. He certainly was. "Lemonade. Make sure there's lemonade," he hissed.
Georgiana nodded and smiled at him; a bright smile that she would perfect as she aged, as most women do; a smile that communicated that 'I am not as clueless as you seem to think I am.' Mr. Darcy was oblivious, as most men are and would always be.
-}{-
Coming to Pemberley had been a mistake, a terrible, horrible mistake. Oh, how Elizabeth regretted giving into her aunt's entreaties.
She had nothing against the place itself: the house and grounds were every bit as delightful as Miss Bingley had declared. Her aunt and uncle, and she herself, had voiced the whole gamut of compliments: remarkable … handsome … delightful … beautiful … admirable … well proportioned … elegant. Only someone as studied in the complimentary arts, such as her cousin, Mr. Collins, could surpass them.
No, it was the opera that was playing in her head that would be driving her to Bedlam.
She closed her eyes and heard:
On the left her mother and Aunt Phillips wailing "You could have had all of this, and you said no."
On the right Miss Bingley and her sister exulting "You could have had all of this, and you said no."
In the centre Mr. and Mrs. Collins singing a counterpoint duet: Charlotte singing "I told you he admired you"; Mr. Collins singing "You'll never get another offer"; and then together them singing "and you said no."
All accompanied by Mary pounding away on an out of tune pianoforte.
And then Mary struck a great chord and as the notes died away all looked to her.
It was time for her aria: 'Of all of this I might have been mistress! And I said no!'
Which she sang over and over again until she fell into a puddle of tears and fabric on the great lawn of Pemberley.
Elizabeth opened her eyes as she heard: "Miss Bennet, I'm so glad you could come."
She saw Mr. Darcy coming towards her, a gentle smile on his face.
When she swayed, he took her hand, tucked it under his arm, and turned them towards her aunt and uncle.
She heard him say "Won't you introduce me to your friends? Then we can enjoy some lemonade on the terrace. And there's someone there I'd like to introduce to you." He patted her hand as he spoke.
Elizabeth thought that Mr. Darcy was speaking rather too quickly but she felt helpless to interrupt him so she just floated alongside him.
-}{-
Sitting at a table on the terrace, shaded by a large umbrella, the prospect of Pemberley's park in front of her, a large glass of lemonade before her, so cold condensation was forming on the outside, how did they do that, it being so warm out, Elizabeth should not have felt so content.
She was still angry at Mr. Darcy. She was. To be sure he had acquitted himself in the matter of Wickham. The final bit of proof of that miscreant's deceit had fallen into place upon her finding Miss Darcy to be very shy rather than very proud. Mr. Darcy's guilt with respect to Jane and Mr. Bingley might be mitigated by virtue of him sending his friend to see her sister; might be, mind you, if those two ought to be lovers ever came back together, as she felt they must.
She was angry at Mr. Darcy. She definitely was. She certainly was. He had insulted her. He had belittled her. He had disparaged her family. She most emphatically was angry at Mr. Darcy. So why was she smiling at him?
Mr. Darcy was seated to her right. He was talking to her uncle. From what she could make out, they were speaking of fishing and it seemed as if an invitation to come fish at Pemberley had been extended and accepted. Every once and awhile he glanced at her, as if to say 'See, I'm not so bad, am I', and each and every time, her treacherous lips smiled back at him with approval.
To avoid the enticing Mr. Darcy Elizabeth looked to her left but there was no respite there. Her aunt was regaling Miss Darcy and Mrs. Annesley with stories of her growing up in Lambton and the times she had encountered the Darcy parents.
Try as she might Elizabeth could not call up the heat of the anger that she felt should be there, shouldn't it? Had she, against her will, against her reason, and even against her character, forgiven his trespasses against her? And if anger was absent, what was this strange feeling that had taken its place?
Elizabeth lifted her glass and then put it down without drinking. Her eyes got wide. Mr. Darcy was a Mage. The Mage of Pemberley. He had enchanted her. She was enchanted; with Pemberley at least. But with him? Perhaps the lemonade was a potion. A l_; no, no, she beat that word down, that word that could not even be thought, let alone said out loud. No, the lemonade was a potion of 'perfect indifference' as Jane would have it.
She laughed to herself. She laughed at herself. Who was she fooling?
Elizabeth waited until Mr. Darcy looked at her again. When he did, she raised her glass in salute.
Then she took a long drink of the lemonade.
