The first option follows the current line through the bog, then passes through the estate of Mr. Pakenham, who demands an exorbitant purchase price for the land. To wait for thecourt to settle the dispute would protract completion by many months. The alternative is to follow the line to the north, which passes through Mr. Rochford’s land. He is in need of funds and would readily sell, but the deviation would significantly add to our costs. We are at an impasse. While you are under no obligation to advise me, I would welcome any guidance you might have.
Thank you for the books. I read Walter Scott’s poem well into the night, yet awoke refreshed—more so than I have ever felt since coming to this country. His work is excellent, and it certainly corrects any deficiencies found inMarmion. I look forward to readingThe Swiss Family Robinson, which must be akin to Defoe’sRobinson Crusoe—a book I enjoyed greatly, though it is some years since I last read it. I trust your taste implicitly and, if I may, ask you to send me more books of this sort. Please charge any future purchases to the Darcy account, as I intend to add all the volumes you send to the Pemberley library as a remembrance of my time in Ireland and our shared literary experience.
I am humbled that you resolved the boundary dispute so swiftly, when my father and I failed to do so over many years. Bennet, if you were mine to govern, I would have you remain at Pemberley even after the canal is finished—there occupied resolving disputes and stocking the library—and never return to London.
All comfort and satisfaction are sincerely wished you,
Darcy.
* * *
Elizabeth received two letters in the morning post: a parcel from Mr. Darcy and a letter from the bank’s agent in Derby. She put the latter aside to be read in the privacy of her room; Darcy’sparcel, as she had come to expect, contained letters for her and Georgiana, as well as the accounts and estimates of future costs for the remaining locks, aqueducts, bridges, and drainage works, together with the cutting and puddling of the canal. She could not be more pleased that he so appreciated the books she had selected, and with his praise for her resolution of the boundary dispute. Yet all she had done was to read the leases, which quite clearly stated where the boundary lay—though expressed in almost indecipherable language.
It was a good joke that he should askBennetto stay on, when she would certainly return to London once the canal was completed. Yet, she felt a certain longing to remain. She could not imagine visiting Pemberley as a mere guest of Georgiana, having lost the easy familiarity which she now enjoyed. Not as mistress—for that was Georgiana’s role—but certainly a respected member of the household.
Georgiana’s footsteps sounded in the passage, light and unhurried. Elizabeth turned as the younger woman entered, her face bright with anticipation. “Is there news from William?” she enquired, glancing at the letters on the table.
“There is,” Elizabeth replied. “Letters for both of us, and, it seems, a most detailed account of the works. I daresay he has outdone himself in thoroughness.”
Georgiana laughed. “He does so miss the business of the estate. I suspect he writes as if every stone and wooden peg is a matter of urgent consequence.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It is the mark of a good steward, I suppose,” she said warmly. “Or perhaps simply the mark of a Darcy.”
They shared a companionable silence, broken only by the distant lowing of cows being led to the dairy.
Georgiana suddenly sprang up. “Elizabeth, you said William enjoyed the books you sent. Could we go into Lambton to the bookseller’s and select several more to send him? Let’s go now, while the sun is shining—I fear the weather may turn this afternoon.”
Elizabeth glanced at the canal accounts and the letter from the bank’s agent. She shrugged; certainly, they could be read later—there was no urgency. “What a delightful idea,” she said. “I will take the accounts to the study; if you could call for the carriage, not the phaeton. Indeed, clouds are gathering over the peaks and rain may arrive sooner rather than later.”
Lambton was all of a bustle when they arrived, and in preparation for the morrow’s market day, shopkeepers tended to window displays, swept the pavement, or stood gossiping at their thresholds. The bookseller’s shop, with its bell that tinkled above the door, was a haven of order and comfort. Inside, the familiar scent of paper and leather embraced them.
Mr. Harwood, the proprietor, greeted them with a deferential bow. “Mrs. Elizabeth, Miss Darcy—what a pleasure. I have just received a new shipment from London, if you would care to peruse the selections.”
Georgiana’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you, Mr. Harwood. We are seeking something to please my brother—he will be some months at his business, and I know he is in want of distraction.”
Elizabeth smiled at the bookseller’s knowing look. “Perhaps something on antiquities, or the latest scientific treatise. Or, for his lighter moments, a volume of poetry—mayhap the latest edition from France. I believe they are not under the embargo.”
“Indeed, madam, I have just such volumes,” said Mr. Harwood, returning with a small stack of books. They sorted through the volumes—Elizabeth pausing over a new edition ofCorinne, ou l'Italieby Madame de Staël, Georgiana reading aloud an aphorism from a volume of Johnson. “Oh Elizabeth,this is ever so clever—Your manuscript is both good and original; but the part that is good is not original, and the part that is original is not good.I am fortunate indeed I am not the subject of his wit.”
By the time they left, the sky had darkened with the promise of rain. Elizabeth glanced at Georgiana, her cheeks flushed from the outing, and thought—not for the first time—that Pemberley was as dear to her now as anything she had ever called home. She thought of London—of the noise, the crowds, every night filled with social obligations—and found it had lost much of its allure. What had Johnson said?When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.She knew with a visceral certainty that Johnson was wrong.
* * *
Elizabeth returned to the study to update her journal both with Darcy’s latest progress on the canal and to read the correspondence from the bank’s agent. She stopped abruptly at the threshold. Seated at the desk was a tall, large woman with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome but now appeared only imperious. She was dressed in an ostentatious, heavy silk morning dress.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” exclaimed Elizabeth with some asperity, “the documents on the desk are private. They are confidential to the estate and Mr. Darcy.”
Abruptly, the woman looked up, peering shortsightedly at Elizabeth through rheumy eyes. “The impertinence! Do you not know who I am? Of course I may sit in Darcy’s study, for I am his aunt and closest relative.” She paused, looking at Elizabeth with great condescension. “So you must be the companion. Now be off, for I am much engaged.”
“And you are, ma’am?” said Elizabeth, walking further into the room. “I know not who you are, nor why you are at Pemberley. Please explain yourself before I request a footman to ask you to leave, for you have no place in this office.”
The lady’s countenance coloured; a dark, downward shift in expression framed her florid jowls. Her nostrils flared. “How dare you! I am Lady Catherine de Bourgh—Darcy’s aunt, sister to his mother Lady Anne and his uncle Lord Matlock. What are you to Pemberley—nothing! A mere servant! I shall have you dismissed instantly.”
The lady was trembling with rage. Elizabeth had never before seen a woman raised to such temper with so little cause. Darcy’s aunt. Georgiana had spoken of her, but only briefly; she had inferred the lady was somewhat of a termagant. Clearly, Georgiana had spoken only the half of it. Elizabeth was in a quandary. For Georgiana’s sake, Lady Catherine should at least be treated with deference; yet, in her role as representative of Child & Co., appointed by Lady Jersey—a countess in her own right—Elizabeth felt the necessity of exerting her authority. Indeed, Lady Catherine had no right to be snooping into Mr. Darcy’s affairs.
The lady slumped back into the chair, overcome by a severe hacking cough, her eyes watering as she pulled a handkerchief, already sodden, from her sleeve and put it to her nose.
“Ma’am, you are unwell,” cried Elizabeth, immediately realising that Lady Catherine’s face was coloured more than one would expect from temper alone.
