Your aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, came to Pemberley today.
Yes, she appeared as domineering and bullying as Miss Darcy had warned us—though, as lexicographer Robert Morrison says in his dictionary, she is apaper tiger:she uses her rank and consequence as a false pretext to overset people. My apologies for my impertinence, but my first meeting with her was to remove her from the study, where she sought to read our private correspondence. The study is now locked to prevent further intrusion.
No, there is a more serious issue which must be communicated to you. During that encounter, it became clear that Lady Catherine was suffering from some serious malady—likely measles, contracted at Rosings Park; her daughter, Miss Anne de Bourgh, is also afflicted. As it is a highly contagious disease, Pemberley was immediately quarantined as soon as her condition became known—no one is allowed to leave or to enter the estate. Those servants who have not previously suffered the measles have been isolated in the east wing. Lady Catherine’s maid, her coachmen, and her footmen are also quarantined.
Lady Catherine is confined to her bed; she is much fevered. We pray she recovers quickly. The illness has not settled in her lungs, yet she is an elderly woman, which goes against her. Whilst of robust constitution, she has lived mostly a sedentary life, and her body is ill-prepared to fight such a dreadful affliction. She is to be attended by the ladies of the house both night and day. Miss Anne does not have a fever; she remains cheerful, and we pray she will only be slightly affected.
This letter is likely the last for several weeks—mayhap a month in all—until no more cases of measles are discovered on the estate. We cannot risk sending letters if they might carry the pestilence with them. Of course, letters from yourself will be most welcome; Miss Darcy, in particular, enjoys your missives very much. Quite often, of an evening, she will relate amusing stories you have told her, and at a time such as this, they will greatly lighten her heart.
Included are several books newly purchased from Mr. Harwood’s. Naturally, they will be the last new volumes until the disease has run its course. Do not fret, sir, for the house continues as always under the steady hand of Mrs. Reynolds and Winthrop—pray with us that no more may succumb, and that your aunt, Lady Catherine, is spared the full ravages of the disease.
Miss Darcy, for her part, is resolute—her spirits remain high, and she busies herself with the care of her aunt, as well as the younger maids, who look to her for comfort and example. Even with the shadow of illness, Pemberley does not lose its sense of order or hope.
Should you have any counsel for the management of the household during this trial, do write it to me—for, as ever, your experience is valued. And if you possess any particular receipt or remedy for fevers, pray send it on when you are able. Wehave resorted to the usual cold compresses and barley water, but I am ever anxious lest we overlook some efficacious cure.
I am, your most humble servant,
Bennet.
* * *
Measles at Pemberley! Yet here he was, in the middle of nowhere, whilst the management of the quarantine was in Georgiana’s hands. Still, Darcy felt some comfort, for Mrs. Bennet seemed a highly competent woman and would certainly be assisting his sister; Baxter would oversee the tenants and the home farm; and, in Bennet, there was a steady hand. Surely there was little need for concern, for all was being done as he would have done it himself. Return? There was no reason, for he would then likely be quarantined himself—prolonging the quarantine of the estate needlessly and abandoning his responsibilities here in Ireland.
He penned an immediate reply, though he knew his frustration and anger at the situation would inevitably seep into his words. He trusted Bennet would understand his vexation.
From: F. Darcy, Thomastown
To: E. Bennet, Pemberley
Bennet,
I write this letter not as superintendent of the canal, but as a distant observer aware that a great calamity is happening at Pemberley, yet unable to intercede. Were it not for her illness, I would write to Lady Catherine demanding that she immediately leave Pemberley. She had no right to visit unannounced, without any invitation—such is her arrogant and overbearing manner. Yet she is my aunt—my mother’ssister—and certainly I wish her no ill. Forgive my unintended antanaclasis.
My cousin Anne is frail, possessing a weak heart. I am relieved she is less affected than Lady Catherine, for the latter would be devastated were Anne to succumb to the disease, as would all her family. I must agree that Lady Catherine is, as you put it, apaper tiger. She believes strongly in her superiority and attempts to dictate the lives of those around her. Yet it is the care of a mother hen, fussing over the villagers in Hunsford with a concern that often borders on bullying. Through her benevolence, however, none in the neighbourhood goes hungry, and the children are always well clothed going into winter.
I have no thoughts as to how you might better manage the estate, for everything seems to be done that can be, given the circumstances. While the main lanes onto the estate are easily guarded, there is also a packhorse trail running from Kympton to Lambton that passes through the grounds behind the stables. This should also be secured, for it is a common route, being much shorter than the road between the two towns. No doubt you have discovered Buchan’sDomestic Medicine, a text Lady Anne often referenced. Nevertheless, I shall have a more modern text sent from Heptinstall’s in London. I completely agree that letters should not leave the estate, lest they carry the infection.
If anything is needed from my end—provisions, instructions, or correspondence with the county authorities—you must send word by the most secure means, though how that is to be managed I do not know. I leave it to your discretion, Bennet, to judge what is truly necessary. I trust your judgement as I trust few others.
As usual, I am in your debt,
Darcy
* * *
How Darcy wished he were at Pemberley, but he had problems enough with the canal. He cursed the system that allocated work to contractors rather than to individual gangs of navvies. It was only through contractors that he could relay orders to the navvies actually performing the work. The gangers, who led a gang, were certainly knowledgeable enough to understand his direction—even if he was an Englishman. There were five-and-twenty contractors: some were responsible for specific jobs—bridge building, cutting, and puddling a certain length of canal—while others took on entire sections, completing all the work themselves. The largest contractor, Stevens, had over three hundred men working for him—a tenth of the total workforce; the smallest, Pat O’Neil, controlled only two puddlers. The smaller contractors were by far the better choice, for if the work was not done, then he could drum them off. But the larger contractors would immediately turn to the fine law of their contracts, threatening to stop work. It was an effective threat, for large numbers of skilled men were not easily replaced.
Thus, Darcy was in a dark mood when a horseman rode up to the house. He had, at that moment, just finished reading Bennet’s letter and was penning a reply. He felt all the injustice of his being stuck here—in an Irish bog—to complete a canal that should, by rights, have reached Mullingar years ago.
“Yer honour, Mr. Darcy, ye’ll need to hurry, sir, for there’s fierce trouble in Killucan,” cried the man. “’Tis the navvies, so it is—they’re after raising a terrible racket, and the whole place is near turned upside down. You’d best come at once, before things take a nasty turn.”
The half-mile to Killucan passed in a blur of pounding hooves, past the imposing rectory of St. Etchen’s Church, and then on to the village itself. A great crowd was milling aboutin front of the market house, their cries intermingled with the bellowing of cattle brought there for the annual market day.
Darcy spied Stevens, who was standing in the arcade beneath the house—hiding was a more apt description, for he was trapped by the shouting and gesticulating men. Darcy rode his powerful Irish hunter through the crowd, who scattered out of his way—such was his temper, he was unconcerned whether he rode them over.
“Mr. Stevens, control your men—if you do not, I’ll have the militia disperse them. I care not for their sorry tales. If they do not leave immediately, none will have further work on my canal!” Darcy stared Stevens in the eye. “And I’ll not warrant your safety when they find there’s no work, for the sowing’s done and the harvest is not till August.”
Standing near him, Darcy recognised a ganger, who spoke some English. He called him over, slipping easily into the vernacular: “Ah, Patrick Murphy, I’m surely glad to see you here. What’s after bringin’ the troubles?”
