“How can I own it, your ladyship? For if I dissemble, then you will undoubtedly think me capricious; and if I speak bluntly, then I am accused of impudence.”
“I am beginning to like you, Mrs. Bennet,” said Lady Catherine, a wry smile touching her lips. “You possess a refreshing candour, and are not intimidated by the superiority of rank. Tell me, have you met my nephew Darcy?”
“But the once, in London. Certainly, he is a proud man, yet of great integrity and honour. Otherwise, Child & Co. would not deal with him,” she replied, even now anxiously awaiting his response to the quarantine of Pemberley. He would be torn—his duty towards Pemberley and all those whose livelihoods depended upon it would demand his immediate return; yet there remained his duty to complete the canal. In many ways, they were the same charge—for if Pemberley were broken up, then decades, nay, centuries, of careful oversight allowing tenant families to prosper across generations would pass to new owners—likelynew money, not understanding the complex web of obligations existing between landowner and the people who worked the land.
“Would he and my daughter, Anne, suit, do you think?”
Lady Catherine’s question took Elizabeth by complete surprise. So indelicate, to speak of relationships between people she was scarcely acquainted with. “Ma’am, do you truly wish me to answer, for I hardly know your daughter.”
“But you correspond with Darcy, do you not?” Lady Catherine eyed her shrewdly. “Naturally, as agent of the bank—it would be highly improper for an unmarried woman to correspond with an unrelated man.”
“I do, your ladyship; but, as you say, only as agent of the bank.”
“For all your evasion, I suspect that you know more of his thoughts than I,” said Lady Catherine, pensively. “Please get to know my daughter, for she has very few friends. I think she would benefit greatly from your acquaintance. Now, I wish to rest. Perhaps, after I am rested, you could read some of Cowper’s poems. I am in need of thoughts celebrating rural peace and the beauty of the English countryside.”
* * *
Finally, perhaps a fortnight after Elizabeth had written of the measles quarantining Pemberley, a letter arrived from Mr. Darcy. He had penned his reply immediately upon receipt of her letter, yet its progress to England, and thence to Derbyshire, had been frustratingly slow. He could offer no further aid, save to mention the packhorse trail, already guarded following Mr. Wickham’s arrival at the house; and, with none of the staff showing symptoms of the disease, the medical text from London would most likely come too late to be of any practical benefit to Lady Catherine and Anne de Bourgh.
Oh, what a complex man! Elizabeth felt such compassion for him—for just as he learnt of disease at Pemberley, he was obliged to prevent a riot in Killucan, the nearest town to Thomastown. She found the town on the map Mr. Darcy had sent to Georgiana earlier. And after quelling the disturbance, to be importuned by a young Irish girl in his hotel! Elizabeth could scarcely blame him for being tempted. What gentleman would not be, so far from the comforts of society?
Yet, as she read, she felt some discomfort—should a man confess such thoughts of temptation to a lady, and to herself most particularly? Perhaps the whiskey had affected him more than he had realised. Yet he was brutally honest—an honesty she could respect, even though it unsettled her. Her thoughts wandered to the woman he mentioned, one whose chestnut hair so resembled Caitríona’s. Who might she be? Some elegant young lady, perhaps, encountered during the season. Elizabeth could only wish Mr. Darcy well, trusting that these recollections would lend him comfort in the lonely nights ahead.
Mr. Wickham blended into Pemberley as though he had been born to it—which Elizabeth supposed he had. She had not mentioned that the shares had been found, for she wished to have an opinion from the solicitors before she discussed thematter with him. Certainly, he enjoyed Georgiana’s company, but his attention was that of an elder brother. His sly glances toward Mrs. Younge, and her easy response, led Elizabeth to suspect that they genuinely felt affection for each other—that the only reason they did not marry was that Wickham’s fortune was too little, and she had no desire to enter service as a married woman. Elizabeth wondered whether he sought a position as a land agent or steward. He had made enquiries, but most positions required either training in law—as land agent—or sought local men, who knew the climate and the soil. There were few estates in Derbyshire, and none were looking for a steward, or even an under-steward.
Migration to Upper Canada, the Cape, or to New Holland were possibilities. He had written to the Colonial Office, which had replied that land grants in New South Wales, convict labour, and tools for agriculture were available, though he would need to pay for his own transport.
“Mr. Wickham, do you know the cost of passage from Liverpool to New South Wales?” asked Elizabeth, as they sat one evening in the family parlour, the long hours of daylight gracefully illuminating the room.
“There are only convict ships, and the rare mercantile. Cabin accommodation is essential, and each passenger must pay for their own food and amenities. For the six-month voyage to Sydney, ‘tis likely fifty pounds for each person—a little cheaper for a married couple.” Wickham glanced at Mrs. Younge, who nodded.
“You have the money, do you not? Your legacy from Mr. George Darcy was one thousand pounds,” said Elizabeth.
“That is true, but on reaching the colony, the cost of food is very expensive, and even a thousand pounds may be insufficient to cover the expense of setting up a farm—tools, horses, a cart,ploughs, seed. As a single man, I would take the risk. But married? I couldn’t put any woman in that position.”
The conversation moved on, but Elizabeth saw Mrs. Younge’s eyes moisten. Perhaps Mr. Wickham was too cautious. Yet, could she herself give up family, friends, and society to make a new life ten thousand miles away on the other side of the world? Truthfully, she doubted she had the courage. But already she had settled a plan to assist Mr. Wickham. To proceed, she only required confirmation from the solicitors as to the legal ownership of the Royal Canal shares.
* * *
“We should hold a party!” exclaimed Georgiana, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Elizabeth, it would be so wonderful, now that the quarantine is to be lifted. We will invite all the tenants, cottagers, and, of course, our neighbours. Do you think we should also invite the townsfolk from Lambton and Kympton?”
“What a perfectly inspired idea. Certainly, you can do whatever you wish. I believe the expenses of the estate will bear it,” replied Elizabeth. “We must speak to Mrs. Reynolds and to Winthrop. It’s fortunate indeed that harvest is still a month away, for the great barn stands empty. Certainly, it also wishes for some entertainment.”
“B—but William is still in Ireland—the canal is taking ever so long to complete.” Georgiana embraced Elizabeth. “Oh, if you were not here with me, I do not know how I would have managed.”
“As mistress of Pemberley, Georgiana, you will always succeed. Your mother would be very proud of you. Come, let us begin planning the grandest party that Pemberley has ever seen—perhaps the whole county!”
Some three weeks later, coloured lanterns were strung across the Pemberley lawn—laughter and music drifted from the great barn. Barrels of ale and cider had been tapped, as well as tureens of lemonade, ratafia, and negus. Elizabeth had persuaded Cook that three whole pigs and two bullocks should be roasted outside over open hearths and that the remainder of the feast consist of cold dishes, raised pies, tarts, and pasties. The kitchen had begun ordering in provisions the moment an excited Georgiana had called a conference of the senior staff to plan the entertainments.
“Georgiana, this is your night. You are, after all, mistress of the estate. People will follow your lead. Please enjoy yourself. I will see to any issues that may arise.” Georgiana and Elizabeth stood at the edge of the terrace, looking across the lawn, watching the tenants—cottagers and leaseholders alike—gather to gaze in wonder at the illuminations. With no more prompting, Georgiana moved among her guests, greeting each one with her cheerful smile—so very gracious, the mistress of Pemberley. The women curtseyed and the men bowed as she passed. Elizabeth felt tears come to her eyes—Pemberley was such a wonderful place.
As the first strains of a country reel began, Georgiana offered her hand to a little boy with patched trousers and a gap-toothed grin. “Shall we?” she asked, and together they joined the dance.
“Mrs. Bennet, a moment if you will.” Mrs. Reynolds came to stand beside her, looking across to the open doors of the great barn where Georgiana could be seen dancing with the young boy.
“Oh, she is so like her mother. I had forgotten such gaiety had ever existed at Pemberley—we had such wonderful times before the mistress passed away.”
Elizabeth turned to the housekeeper. “Do you ever take leave from your responsibilities, Mrs. Reynolds? Oh, forgive me, such a silly question… Now, is it Cook or one of the under-maids who is a trifle disguised?”
