Bennet.
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Chapter 19
Pemberley, July 1813
From: F. Darcy, Royal Canal Co.
To: E. Bennet, Child & Co.
Bennet,
Finally, lock number five and twenty is complete. Footy’s Bridge, just to the west of the lock, is nearly finished, which is of great benefit to the farmers near Knocksimon and Heathstown, providing them with a shorter route to the market at Killucan. As usual, I have provided more detailed reports with the accounts.
Over the past months, Bennet, we have corresponded so regularly that I have come to rely on your counsel and good opinion. While I have visited many of the local gentry, there are none with whom I have developed a true friendship, likely because I am an Englishman intruding upon—some would say stealing—their land. Often, I hear them strongly regret the 1800 Act of Union, which they believe stole their identity. Naturally, I decline to engage in such debate, for my sole purpose is to complete the canal and return to the Derbyshire Peaks as soon as I may.
Sitting at my table in Thomastown, where I have been trapped these past tedious months, I have reflected on my upbringing, there being little else to occupy my mind, apart from the excellent volumes you have sent me. Perhaps, raised as gentry yourself, you may have some understanding of where I find myself. As an only son, I was spoilt by myparents, who, though good themselves—my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable—allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing. Yet, here in Ireland, it is difficult to be selfish, when the only feelings I need to accommodate are my own—surely, selfishness requires a dialogue between two people, likely more. Overbearing? Have you ever dealt with a recalcitrant Scotsman or the slagging of an Irish navvy? Being called aBuck Eejit,which I now take as a compliment, is far better than being called aGobshite.
I have learnt many lessons—properly humbled by the humblest of people. The rural poor, living in houses with sod rooves, sod walls, and dirt floors, have only ever shown me the greatest kindness. Once, my horse threw a shoe and I was forced to walk six miles back to Thomastown, all the while in an Irish downpour, trudging along a lane which was no better than a creek itself, flowing with water running off the sodden fields. I was found—my horse likely as disconsolate as I—standing, dripping, beneath a rather spindly alder by a man whose house stood nearby. He pulled me inside, where the smoke from the fire curled beneath the rafters with no chimney to escape, yet the room was warm and more friendly than any I have been in before. His wife took a few precious leaves from her cracked jar on the mantel and brewed tea on a hearth fired with the same peat sods that made up the walls. The tea was weak, the leaves used over too many times. Neither spoke English, only their home language,Gaeilge. I’ve learnt a few words—enough to thank her. Pressing a few shillings into her husband’s hand, I left the warmth of their generosity to trudge back along the lane, where Mrs. Donnellon had a bowl of coddle waiting for me, and a glass of warm mulled cider. I had sent Croft to Dublin—he has become my third hand—so I was forced to change my clothes myself. Would that thehaut tonsee me now!
I am greatly enjoying Low’sDomesticated Animals of the British Isles—it is a hefty tome; how amazing is the depth of Low’s knowledge. Being in the same country, I am particularly interested in the native breeds of Ireland, divided, as they are, into those of the mountains, moors, and bogs, and those of the richer plains. The mountain breeds approach the character of the ancient White Forest Breed in a sufficiently near degree to indicate a common descent with the cattle of the mountains of Scotland and Wales, and the higher hills of Devon. There is not space enough to write all my thoughts, and I look forward with great anticipation to talking over such matters with you when I return to Pemberley. Please, you must allow me some time on my return to make your acquaintance in person, for our interest in books and literature bespeaks a great commonality of mind.
Your most faithful friend,
Darcy.
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Chapter 20
Pemberley, August 1813
From: F. Darcy, Royal Canal Co.
To: E. Bennet, Child & Co.
Bennet,
We held a great celebration when the canal reached the aqueduct over the Riverstown River—just three miles remain to Mullingar. I have moved into a fine house, Millmount House, on the outskirts of the town, adjacent to Saunders Bridge, which carries the Ardmore Road over the canal. To the north, masons are already building the harbour at Ballinderry, some quarter mile nearer the town. You must raise a toast for me, for I can see we are near completion, and well within the estimates. Mr. Rennie has left to assist with the drainage of the Lincolnshire fens. Though he was difficult to work with, I shall miss his steady hand.
You may recall that several months ago, I asked for your assistance with respect to taking the canal through Mr. Pakenham’s estate, with the alternative being to follow the line to the north, passing through Mr. Rochford’s land. The latter was very keen, but the expense of digging the extra distance made the prospect unappealing. Your suggestion that I should tell Pakenham that Mr. Rennie was surveying the alternative route, and that we were negotiating with Rochford, proved an excellent stratagem, for it became apparent that he too was in need of funds, and quickly offered a fair price for his land along the original line of the canal. I believe, Bennet, that youhave learnt much in your time with Child & Co., and I sorely wish you were able to negotiate leases and the like for me at Pemberley—also, perhaps, to deal with the parish vestry, who are reluctant to spend money on maintaining the lanes and bridges in the parish. A false economy, as I have pointed out on many an occasion.
If I may step outside the bounds of propriety for a moment, I would ask your opinion. If I tread too close to matters which you would rather not discuss, then I am well content that you should decline to advise me—or, more likely, as the Irish would say: Gread leat!—get away with you!
I once believed that marriage was a binding union that honoured family, rank, and social standing—that to marry below my sphere, to take as my wife a woman of inferior connections, would be not only to struggle against my better judgement, but to condemn me in the eyes of society. Yet this cannot be so. My dearest mother, the daughter of an earl, married a man of wealth, but decidedly beneath her in rank and connections. Yet theirs was a felicitous marriage—she elevated him in society, and he taught her the benefits of being mistress of an estate where so many depended for their well-being upon her generosity and benevolence.
I do not know the minds of women, yet I know you are cognisant of such—Georgiana speaks ofMrs. Bennetwith such approbation. I am a single man of good fortune, and have discovered that I am in want of a wife. Yet I have no understanding of what awomanwould want in a husband. Of course, marriage provides property—a house, possessions, all the accoutrements required for living comfortably—but surely there is more? A man requires an heir, but that child needs to be raised to become a good man—neither indolent nor gamester, neither rake nor cloistered monk. That requires more than governesses and tutors—he must have had the benefit of a goodmother. My mother died when I was but fifteen years old, attending Eton, surrounded by young men whose ideal woman was buxom and, likely, free with her charms. As for myself, I withdrew, for my father was beset with sorrow, and I had no female relatives from whom I could learn—learn how a woman sees the world. My father was an only child, so there were no aunts from his side. My mother’s family were so high in society that a man’s or woman’s feelings had nothing at all to do with marriage. It was solely concerned with property, connections, and fortune. I find myself revolted by the thought that I am only suitable as a husband to a woman—notwithstanding a pleasing countenance and good dowry—seeking only the very same: property, connections, and fortune.
My apologies, Bennet, I have vastly exceeded your brief. I shall ponder my situation as I complete my reading of Low’sDomesticated Animals. Perhaps I shall turn to some of Byron’s poetry, though he seems to have succumbed to melancholia.
I am your obliged and most humble servant,
Darcy.
Post Scriptum:
I had not realised how many of the labourers would leave to return to the farms for the harvest. The villages hereabout have already celebrated the Gaelic festival of Lughnasadh, which marks the beginning of the harvest season. Work has slowed significantly, and even offering an extra shilling a day does not tempt them. I discovered the men feel duty bound to bring in the crops—cutting oats, wheat, and barley, and digging potatoes. Otherwise, the village folk would go hungry. Apparently, nothing can be done. With the harvest likely to extend to the end of September, yet another month or two is added to my exile. While Ireland was described by Edward duBois asGod's Own Country, I have become exceedingly weary of this heaven.
