Here is Pemberley; and I think you remember it well, don't you? It has not changed so much since you last saw it, I am sure. Still grand and a little imposing, to those who do not know it, but welcoming and mellow to the ones among us who do. Built in the old style, and beginning to be a little old-fashioned—but that is because of the new, modern manors going up all around it. The neighborhood of Derbyshire is becoming more and more crowded, in the year of our lord eighteen-hundred and thirty-five.

The style of these new dwellings is known as 'neo-classical'—but, as the lord of Pemberley is fond of remarking, there is nothing classical to be found in it at all. Mr. Darcy of Pemberley knows this because he is something of an aficionado when it comes to the not-so-neo classical style. The few improvements to his home in the past twenty years have all been done to resemble the Pantheon of Rome; in the garden by the lake there is a statue that many believe to be of Mr. Darcy himself, though in reality it depicts the Eros, the Greek god of love—Fitzwilliam Darcy would never dream of appearing anywhere, even by his own lake, in such a state of undress, and he has never, to anyone's knowledge, possessed such a splendid pair of wings.

The statue was a gift to his wife upon the occasion of their twentieth wedding anniversary, which occurred just over two years ago. It was something of a monumental present, but then, the Darcys' marriage has been something of a monumental thing in itself. Nobody expected it would last, or be so happy, except for the Darcys themselves, who have known it from the first.

Elizabeth Darcy—nee Bennet, as you recall—is fond of walking by the lake in the afternoon, to visit her statue, and if the weather is fine (and sometimes when it is not) to walk further into the neighborhood, to see the progress of the houses going up. She has always been a fine walker, but of course you remember. Here she is now, on a fine September day, looking very much the way you will remember her. Her curls are still dark and fine, her eyes are bright and lively, and it must be admitted that she is often mistaken for a much younger woman—nobody ever suspects that she has a twenty-one year old son, studying the law at Oxford, and four daughters besides.

Lizzy—as her husband calls her, still—walks down to give Eros a fond pat on the head, and then walks by the lake for a while. Through the trees she can see across the water to the house that is going up on the hill. On impulse, she decides that she will go and inquire as to its new tenants—the house will be done soon, and its inhabitants will be the closest neighbors to Pemberley. She hops a fence with surprising grace and takes a shortcut through the trees.

The builders at first don't see her among the bedlam of construction and so Lizzy has her thoughts to herself as she inspects the walls—pink stucco, which her husband will not admire. But it is a little pretty, set against the green of the woods, and she can see that there is going to be a sweet little garden, with roses and trailing vines. Mrs. Darcy has a deep appreciation for gardens of any sort, so she supposes that her new neighbors can not be but so bad.

"I say!" she shades her eyes and calls up to a man on the roof (which will come complete with elegant black wrought-iron balconies). "Can you tell me who this house belongs to?"

The man on the roof looks down and sees her there and jumps. "Oh, mum," he says, "You should not be there. If I was t'drop anything you would be hurt."

"Don't drop anything, then!" Lizzy laughs. "Sir—if I may enquire—who do you work for?"

"Why, Mr. Wimsey, a'coorse—Mr. Throckmorton Wimsey. It's t'be his house, when it's done."

"What a name!" cries Lizzy. "I have never heard the like. Tell me—do you know—is Mr. Throckmorton Wimsey a handsome man? I suppose he can't be, with a name like that, but one never knows."

"Why, I've never seen him, mum. Never clapped eyes on the fellow—wouldn't know him from Adam. Though, mum—if you will pardon me—I b'lieve he's a mite too young for you, not that you look very old. Mr. Wimsey is a young man, even if he is very rich. He made his fortune in tobacco, so I've heard."

Tobacco! Darcy will not like that. He says it is a stinking trade, unsavory and foul, but of course, no where near the outrageousness of the slave traders. Darcy has been very outspoken about them—he was very active in the bill of Abolition that went through the Parliament only last year. But Lizzy is not thinking of that now. Young—and rich!

"He had better not be handsome," she says darkly. "Or my four daughters will tear him to bits amongst themselves."

"Four daughters, eh?" asks the carpenter, looking interested. "I wouldn't mind them a-tearing me to bits, mum—if they look anything like you, that is. Respectfully meant, a'course."

"And very graciously appreciated," laughs Lizzy, bowing. "Tell me, are you a drinking sort of man, Mr…?"

"Eddyson," says the carpenter. "And mum, I don't touch the stuff."

"Very good. Do you gamble?"

"Why, not at all!"

"And would you consider yourself to be a man of uncertain scruples, Mr. Eddyson?"

"Why, no, mum!" he says, indignantly. "My scruples are certain as ever!"

"Then," Lizzy says certainly, "You may come right over and take away any one of my girls that you like. Tell me—would you like a pretty wife or a smart one? If you want pretty you may have Sophy but if you want a clever wife, then Tess is the one. Well, think on it, Mr. Eddyson—and tomorrow afternoon you may come and bid for her hand. I shall tell my husband Mr. Darcy to expect you."

Mr. Eddyson at first does not see the joke and is so dismayed that he drops his hammer. It falls, but Lizzy dodges it and waves him goodbye. She is still laughing at the memory of his stricken face as she makes her way home.