They listened in silence to Miss Darcy’s few explanations and then seated themselves in the large leather chairs. Elizabeth, however, remained standing beside Miss Darcy, continuing to admire the books, to discover them one by one.
In one corner, she perceived a pianoforte, and Miss Darcy, following her glance, explained that she sometimes played there when her brother was not otherwise engaged.
“The instrument upon which I practise is in the music room; but this belonged to my mother, and is very dear to us both.”
“You possess many valuable volumes,” said Elizabeth.
“And some very frivolous ones as well,” replied Miss Darcy, smiling; and Elizabeth, observing her, wondered what the young lady might consider frivolous—perhaps some light tale of sentiment.
She then noticed the writing desk, surely the place where Mr Darcy conducted his affairs and wrote his letters. Placed near a tall window, it must, by day, be filled with light.
“It is very beautiful here,” said Elizabeth, allowing herself at last to sink into a chair.
To her satisfaction, the ladies soon entered into a discussion of the novels in fashion, and once more she wondered how Mr Darcy had selected his guests for the evening.
Looking about her, she imagined herself choosing books with eagerness, many at once, to carry to her room, or to read there during the long afternoons of winter.
“You refused a man, not a house,” Mrs Cooper had said; yet it seemed that, somewhere in her heart, she regretted the house.
She endeavoured to shake off the feeling, which appeared to her inconsistent with all she had believed herself to be, but the truth was otherwise. She regretted the pleasure she might have found in such a place—mostly in the library, but also in the restof the house; even if its master had wounded her, the house itself had delighted her.
“Is it very wrong that I should like Pemberley so much?” she whispered to Mrs Cooper, taking advantage of the lively disagreement among the other ladies concerning certain unhappy heroines.
“No, not at all,” replied Mrs Cooper, looking at her, and perhaps smiling a little, “for a house is not merely walls, but takes something of the spirit of those who inhabit it. And Pemberley is a living place, a house in which life is truly lived, not a museum.”
But the ladies’ cheerful conversation, in which Elizabeth had begun to join, was interrupted by Mr Darcy.
They all looked towards him in some surprise, secretly wishing to remain in the library and continue their conversation, but he spoke in a tone of perfect seriousness, “The rain has become a violent storm. It is impossible for you to depart this evening. It would be unsafe. I have therefore given orders that rooms be prepared for everyone. The gentlemen await you in the music room, where we may now continue as long as we please.”
The ladies rose and withdrew, discussing the matter as they went; it was an unusual circumstance, and they wondered how greatly the roads might be affected by the rain.
Elizabeth turned once more towards the library and its precious bookcases, as though she wished to carry its image with her, and when she turned back, she found herself alone with Mr Darcy. Through the open door, animated voices could still be heard. But neither of them moved, they stood looking at one another. She reflected before speaking, but at last resolved it was best to say what she thought.
“As you see, even when one travels by carriage, one may be obliged not to depart.”
She then passed him without another glance and followed the other ladies, who were already ascending the stairs to the music room.
Chapter 16
And though the evening continued, something of the composure Elizabeth had imposed upon herself began to fade. The library had astonished her, but saddened her as well. Since she had arrived in Derby, she had allowed herself to be carried away into forgetfulness; still, grief and anxiety did not long abandon her.
She looked for the colonel and, with discretion, led him towards a corner of the music room.
“Pray save me; this evening I cannot play,” she said; and the colonel, looking at her, perceived her sadness—or perhaps only felt it. He nodded, and she continued in the same low tone, “I shall explain in the morning.”
That was sufficient. The colonel spoke at once to Miss Darcy, and to his cousin, and shortly afterwards, the young lady of the house began to play.
She was indeed exceedingly accomplished, and that delicate music, so beautifully performed, helped to soothe Elizabeth’s spirits. She thought of her mother and her sisters, who had insisted that she should leave some days before that fatal tenth of August, of the dreadful days that followed, whenher family had been obliged to quit Longbourn, days she had passed away from them, first upon the road, and afterwards in Mrs Cooper’s house.
Enveloped in the music, she reflected with gratitude on her mother, who had proved to be their greatest support. She had always known her mother to be skilful in the management of their household, that she had achieved the remarkable task of maintaining Longbourn and its family upon an income far from ample, without allowing them ever to feel it. Then, in the days preceding her husband’s death, she had seemed incapable of undertaking anything, bearing her grief alone, supported only by her sister.
Yet immediately after the funeral, something had changed entirely. She had risen above sorrow and fear, displaying a firmness and strength that sustained them all and helped them go forward. “Even the way she had arranged their departure bore witness to it: two weeks before that day, Longbourn had been left almost empty, only the bedchambers and the dining parlour remaining in use, so that the house they had all loved might no longer resemble a home.
A few days before the tenth of August, she had compelled Elizabeth to depart; and then, with great seriousness, had invited Jane and Mary also to spend some time in London. They had refused. And from the day Elizabeth left, they had removed to Mrs Phillips’s house, where they had found invaluable support. An entire floor had been placed at their disposal, and many of their belongings had been conveyed there, while their father’s library, carefully packed, had been sent to the storage offered by Sir William. Elizabeth herself had chosen two large boxes of books to take with her; those from which she had learned almost daily, guided and encouraged by him.
“Pray go now,” her mother had said. “It is what your father would have wished.”
And then, on that last evening at Longbourn, her mother, seated in her father’s place, had spoken with restraint, but without softness, setting their lives in order with remarkable clarity.