“Stevens has but settled half his owing,” Murphy replied, “claiming he waits upon the company to hand o’er the remainder. Yet by my count, he’s keeping it close for his own reasons. Yer Pemberley Pennies be as sound as any coin, and all the farmers round these parts take ’em without a word. But Stevens, he’d fain pay us in notes, though not a soul here will have aught to do with such paper.”
Darcy cursed, a real Irish curse, which had the nearest men chuckling. “This is what we’ll do, Patrick. Tell the men to stop their hollering, and line up good and proper at Thomastown. There, I’ll exchange their notes for my Pennies, plus an extra threepence for each man if he causes no more trouble. I’ll see that Stevens is run off, for I’ve paid him good and proper, and now he’s due a visit to the magistrate. No doubt he’s taken my coin and is melting it down for the metal.”
Darcy rode back to Thomastown, where he instructed his two militia guards to bring the money chest from the strongroom, fix bayonets, and load their muskets. A long line formed outside the house, where Darcy had placed a table and chair. The chest was kept inside the taproom, with the back door barred and the shutters on the windows well secured.
As they gave Darcy the notes drawn against Stevens, he noted their names, exchanged the notes for silver and copper coins, together with the promised threepence. Some three hours later, the work was finished. Many of the navvies had returned to Killucan, but the townsfolk made them unwelcome, so they made their way in twos and threes further afield; some chose to wait until the taproom of Thomastown House was reopened, others walked the few miles to Cunningham’s Inn, just a few paces west of Heathers Bridge where the 22nd lock was being dug. All would be well-scuttered come evening, but, on the morrow, they would each be digging twenty tons of soil without raising so much as a sweat.
His room felt barren; his thoughts were of Pemberley, now isolated from the world. He prayed that Lady Catherine would recover quickly, for though she was often overbearing and rude, she was his last remaining link to his mother. Her brother, the earl, had never been close to his sisters, whereas Catherine and Anne had always been close confidantes, and grew closer still when Lady Anne birthed Darcy, and Lady Catherine, her daughter, Anne.
The door opened, and a girl, no more than seventeen, her hair a wild, chestnut tumble about her shoulders, came in. She paused, fixing her eyes upon him with a boldness to which he was wholly unaccustomed.
“Beggin’ yer pardon. Is mise Caitríona, Biddy’s own sister, her bein’ away for the night. I’ve brought ye a bit o’ fresh-bakedbread and some coddle, but I’m wonderin’ if it’s not bread ye’re truly after…”
Darcy, startled, rose at once, his dignity affronted and yet his curiosity piqued. “I believe you are mistaken, ma’am,” he replied, though his voice betrayed an uncertainty he had seldom felt.
She smiled, a mischievous curl of the lips that seemed to mock his restraint. “And if I am not mistaken? If I see a loneliness in you, sir, that bread cannot mend?”
Her words hung between them. Darcy, so often master of his composure, felt a discomfort quite distinct from the cold of the Irish wind whistling past his window. He looked away, yet could not help but notice the sway of her hips as she moved closer to him, placing the tray on his table.
“I assure you, Iníon Caitríona,” he said, his voice low, “I require only solitude.”
“Aye, you shall have it, so you shall,” she answered, though her gaze lingered, promising that solitude, if he wished it, might prove an elusive thing indeed.
* * *
Darcy felt a weariness overtake him—not of body, though indeed he was exceedingly fatigued, but of spirit. Here, in Ireland, he laboured, building a monument to the creativity of man, creating a navigable river that ignored hills and valleys and spanned lands hitherto crossed only by slow carriages and cumbersome wagons. He found he scarcely cared, for he knew that he would be but a footnote to Ireland’s long history. Indeed, would his name be lost? Likely, only the names of the engineers would endure—Richard Evans, John Rennie, to name but a few—just as their erections would survive through the centuries to come.
He took a bottle of peated whiskey from the cupboard and poured a measure into his cup. It was a smoky, earthy alternative to the smooth, unpeated Irish whiskeys which he found too sweet. He looked at his letter to Bennet, still unsealed.
Post scriptum:
I had scarcely written the above when I was called to quell a riot in Killucan. Some hundred navvies were about to pull down the market house, stone by stone, to lay their hands on the contractor, Stevens, who was attempting to swindle them of half their wages. Rather than paying them the Pemberley Pennies he had received from me, he only gave them half, the remainder in a paper note against his name—which likely is worthless, since none of the shopkeepers and the like will accept them.
I cannot afford to lose a hundred good workers, so I sent them back to Thomastown and exchanged their notes for my pennies. ‘Tis likely I’ll never see the true value from Stevens. Instead, I’ll run him off, and settle the contract with the gangers themselves.
I sought my room as a safe haven, but was accosted by a young woman who brought my dinner. She brazenly suggested I was lonely—and that she was the cure for it. She was a fine girl, I must admit, with long chestnut tresses… I do not know you, Bennet, and mayhap this evening I have drunk too much whiskey, but have you ever been thus tempted? There was a woman with whom I had a fleeting acquaintance. She also had chestnut hair, but pinned up as should any respectable woman. When I perceived Caitríona—for that was the young Irish lass’s name—my thoughts recalled that woman. Is it strange, Bennet, that I could not sully her memory, even though we were never introduced?
I have returned the bottle to the cupboard, for I am become maudlin. Too much spirits never settles well with me. I can hear the navvies celebrating still in the taproom; yet they, like me, will attend their duties in the morning, and dig a few more chains of this accursed canal.
F.D.
* * *
Chapter 16
Pemberley, June 1813
Several days passed, and Lady Catherine’s fever continued unabated. Georgiana, Mrs. Younge, and Elizabeth sat with her in turn, attempting to feed her a little fluid—barley water and broth, if she would have it.
The staff isolated in the east wing were not kept idle. Mrs. Reynolds had instructed an under-housekeeper, who was also quarantined, to have them clean everything from the attics to the cellars. Drapes, which had hung for ten years or more, were brought down for shaking to remove dust; carpets were beaten; the woodwork polished; and sconces, lamps, and window panes cleaned of every speck of dust and grime. The work of the house, as always, carried on.
On the fourth day, Elizabeth was sitting in Lady Catherine’s chamber, quietly reviewing the accounts, when the lady suddenly spoke.
“Some water, if you will, but not that starchy barley water, which is over-sweetened. Most insipid.”
Elizabeth poured a cup of plain water, which was kept by the bedside, primarily to dampen cloths for the fever. Lady Catherine seemed remarkably lucid; certainly, the fever had almost completely gone.
“Have you a headache, my lady?” Elizabeth asked. “I can ring for a fresh pot of willow bark tea, if you would like it.”
