A Witch Comes to Pemberley – Chapter 2

“Mrs. Reynolds,” Darcy said, and there was warmth in his voice now—subtle, but unmistakable. “Allow me to present Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, Miss Bingley, and Miss Bennet.”

The housekeeper was a handsome woman of perhaps fifty, upright and composed, with the sort of face that invited confidences and brooked no nonsense in equal measure. Her curtsey was as crisp as fresh linen.

“You are all most welcome to Pemberley,” Mrs. Reynolds said, and her smile was genuine as she turned to Jane. “Mrs. Bingley, I hope your journey was not too taxing. The roads this time of year can be unforgiving.”

“We managed very well, thank you,” Jane said. “Your master’s directions were most precise.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze moved to Caroline, who received a polite nod, and then to Elizabeth—and stopped.

The smile faltered; her hand rose, by instinct, to touch the keys at her waist. For the space of three heartbeats, she stared—not the appraisal of a servant measuring a guest, but the involuntary start of someone who has seen a face before in some other place.

Then she blinked; composure returned like a door closing softly. “Miss Bennet,” she said evenly. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth managed, finding the exchange odd.

They entered a hall that smelled of beeswax and lavender surrounded by stone and the accumulated quiet of centuries. The floor was boldly flagged; a great stair rose at the far end in a sweep of pale treads and carved banisters.

“Miss Bennet?” Mrs. Reynolds was at her elbow, watching with an expression that might have been concern or merely excellent housekeeping. “If you are not fatigued, the gallery is very near. Tea will be served presently.”

“I am not at all fatigued,” Elizabeth said, which was true—she was something else entirely.

The gallery was long and cool, its walls lined with Darcys in oil and ink. Bingley wandered happily from frame to frame, offering commentary. “Look at that fellow—magnificent whiskers! And this lady—do you suppose she was fond of cards? She has the look of someone who counts trumps.”

Caroline paused before a dark-eyed gentleman in Elizabethan dress, tilted her head, and pronounced, “Holbein, undoubtedly.”

Mrs. Reynolds’s brow lifted the smallest degree. “That is Mr. Darcy’s great-uncle, Miss Bingley. By a very good local hand.”

“Ah,” Caroline said, recovering with admirable speed. “The local schools were quite accomplished.”

A great deerhound padded through as if he owned the place, which, in his fashion, he did. He nosed delicately at Caroline’s skirt; she performed a sidestep to avoid contact.

“He has excellent taste,” Bingley said.

Darcy, dry: “He likes baked ham.”

Elizabeth trailed behind, drawn less by the grand canvases than by the quieter pieces: a girl reading by a window, a boy with a wooden sword, a pair of spaniels asleep on a cushion. These felt less like display and more like presence.

Mrs. Reynolds stopped beside a modest blackened frame. “Here,” she said, and stepped aside.

The portrait was charcoal, softened by age into grays and brown shadows. A young woman looked out—dark-haired, intelligent, her chin tilted in quiet defiance. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder; a sprig tucked near her ear had been rendered with such attention that Elizabeth could make out the prickle of tiny thorns.

And the smile—

Elizabeth’s breath caught. It was her smile. The tilt Jane teased, the one her mother despaired of. The exact curve.

“Who—” Elizabeth’s voice was rough. She swallowed. “Who is this?”

“We do not know her name for certain,” Mrs. Reynolds said softly. “The drawing is very old. It was found in the chapel when renovations were made, with no inscription. The house has always called her the Healer of Pember Lee.”

“Healer?” Elizabeth’s hand rose—unbidden—to the hollow below her collarbone. She forced it down again.

“It is said she aided the tenants in difficult births,” Mrs. Reynolds replied. “The people loved her.”

“What happened to her?” Elizabeth asked, though she was not sure she wished to hear.

Mrs. Reynolds hesitated, as if measuring how much of an old sorrow to set upon a stranger. “She was… lost,” she said at last.

Darcy had crossed without Elizabeth noticing and now stood at her shoulder. He looked from Elizabeth to the portrait and back; his fingers tightened imperceptibly on his gloves.

“The likeness is—remarkable,” he said.

Caroline came to study the drawing. “I see no resemblance,” she announced. “The brow is entirely different.”

“The smile,” Jane murmured, wonder in her voice. “Lizzy, it is your smile exactly.”

Bingley peered over her shoulder. “By Jove—so it is! Do you suppose you have Derbyshire relations, Lizzy? Some old family connection?”

“None that I know,” Elizabeth said, though the words felt unsteady.

A footman appeared at the gallery door and bowed. “Your chambers are prepared, sir. Cook says tea will follow.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said. He looked once more at the charcoal face, then stepped back. “We shall not detain the household’s order.”

The party began to move toward the corridor. Mrs. Reynolds lingered a breath behind the others to say, in her ordinary, capable tone, “We will speak when you are settled, Miss Bennet. Ring, and I shall come.”

Elizabeth glanced back at the drawing. The woman’s impossible smile held. Outside, the light shifted behind gray clouds, altering the shadows. That was all.

“Lizzy?” Jane’s gentle voice. Elizabeth turned and followed her sister out, the deerhound falling into step with the tolerant resignation of an old courtier.

“It appears we have a sentinel, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth observed, as the dog caught up to her and walked stride for stride. “Does he have a name?”

“Lord Houndsmere,” he stated over his shoulder. As he turned back, he added: “My sister named him.”

“However do you call him?” Caroline asked.

Before Mr. Darcy could answer, Elizabeth took pity on the man and reached out a hand that the dog readily leaned into. She patted him with confidence. “That’s easy, Caroline, he’s Sir. Aren’t you, handsome? The best Sir?”

The dog licked her hand and trotted around her in a circle. The party stopped and the stormy remnants of grief left their host’s face. “I have called him Houndsmere but he has never approved of my authority. I have a feeling he will do your bidding, Miss Bennet.”

The party seemed stalled, but the demands of travel began to wear on Mrs. Bingley who shifted her weight and reached for her husband. The movement caught Mr. Darcy’s attention.

“I must beg your pardon,” Mr. Darcy said then, recollecting himself. “There are matters which require my attention before tea. Mrs. Reynolds, be so good as to show our guests to their rooms.” He bowed to them all, his glance resting a heartbeat longer on Elizabeth, and withdrew. Mrs. Reynolds curtsied and, with composed kindness, led the party upstairs.