“But Mrs. Elizabeth, you are so involved with the household.” Miss Bingley had noticed the close familiarity that existed between Elizabeth and Georgiana, and was persuaded that the lady stood between her and gaining Miss Darcy’s favour. “Ah, I believe I understand,” she continued, “you are Miss Darcy’s assistant. Certainly an estate such as Pemberley—why, there must be over thirty indoor staff—would be too much for Miss Darcy to manage on her own. I could scarcely contemplate it myself, even though I was trained for the role at a leading private seminary. How thoughtful of Mr. Darcy to see to your comfort in such a practical way.”
Mr. Hurst had now ceased eating, for he had become aware that the table, previously gone quiet, was now as cold as the Derbyshire Peaks in winter. The chill was broken by a throaty laugh.
“Miss Bingley, you are such a treasure,” exclaimed Lady Catherine. “Do you think, Mrs. Elizabeth, that it is a very fine joke—that Georgiana Darcy cannot manage the household? That she, raised at Pemberley, the daughter of Lady Anne, my beloved sister, could not manage her birthright? That she requires more assistance than that offered by Mrs. Reynolds, Winthrop, and Baxter? How droll you are, Miss Bingley. Both Miss Darcy and Mrs. Elizabeth seem highly diverted.”
“Nevertheless, perhaps you have the right of it, Miss Bingley,” interposed Elizabeth, smiling sweetly. “I am indeed something of an assistant, though not to Miss Darcy who, I can truly say, is a very dear friend. No, we should not dissemble,for we are all her guests, and disguise of every sort is her abhorrence. In truth, I am the private secretary to the head partner of Child & Co. in London. Some might call it an honorary position, for as a gentlewoman—my father’s estate is in Hertfordshire—naturally, I am not in employment. Yet, I am indeed of service to the bank here at Pemberley, but of a private kind. Now, I suggest we all partake of this very fine ragout—likely, it is Mr. Hurst’s favourite, as he is well ahead of us at the table.”
Miss Bingley gave Elizabeth a sharp, shrewish look, certain that the lady was but a servant. She could not pursue the matter further at the table, and remained mostly silent for the remainder of the meal. Lady Catherine took up her accustomed role and led the conversation, which continued when the ladies retired to the drawing room. The men soon joined them and, after Miss Bingley had entertained them on the piano-forte, they all retired early.
* * *
Chapter 23
Lambton, October1813
They waited for the tide at the entrance to the Mersey River, then made passage to Liverpool, where theEarl of Moiramoored at the company dock. Darcy stood for a while. England! Eight months since he had left; yet, looking south across the estuary, he might still have been on the shores of Dublin Bay. The same brown and white cows grazed, oak and ash just beginning to colour with the hint of autumn approaching. Had he been away for most of the English spring, then a full summer in Ireland?
“Mr. Darcy, leaving us so soon?” Captain Skinner laughed. “I cannot blame you, for it was a mighty rough and long crossing!”
“A fearsome storm! I believe I felt every pitch and roll of the vessel. I am in your debt, sir, for bringing us safely to shore. Are such tempests usual in the Irish Sea?”
“Northerly winds often swell up in the North Atlantic, bringing their freezing rains and gales across the sea and the north of England. Be careful, sir, on the journey home, for the roads will be treacherously slippery.”
“Thank you again, Captain. Now, I must be off. ‘Tis a journey of seventy miles. As you say—the roads are likely to be thick with mud.”
A carriage was waiting at the dock, and Darcy and Croft were grateful to recline on the padded benches, though the ruttedroad and the poor suspension of the hired coach made the journey less than comfortable.
“We shall push on as far today as possible. Perhaps even the fifty miles to Macclesfield, if there are horses enough on the turnpike,” said Darcy, impatient to return to Pemberley—to see Georgiana, and thank Bennet for his excellent stewardship of the estate. To know that such a person had taken such effective control—and his wife, Elizabeth, such a good friend of Georgiana. Of course, the homecoming would likely be spoilt by the visitors in the house—Lady Catherine, cousin Anne, the Bingleys.
Had he really given Bingley an open invitation to visit Pemberley? Certainly it was ill-mannered to come without him being in residence—to impose on Georgiana, her not being out in society. He thought back to when he had attended Bingley—where?—Netherfield Park. Had he really considered that Miss Bingley would make a suitable mistress of Pemberley? Surely not! Could she run the household with practical skill and social grace; make calls on farmers’ wives, of lower rank but many of whom possessed significant wealth and influence; manage the household expenses? Of course, she could have organised dinner parties, perhaps even a ball. But her other duties—visiting the sick and needy, patroness of the village school? He shuddered. He recalled Lady Anne’s legacy—her refined, understated taste—in contrast to the pretentiousness shown by Miss Bingley in her redecoration of the public rooms at Netherfield.
From her letters, it appeared that Georgiana had benefited greatly from Mrs. Elizabeth Bennet’s company. That lady had taught Georgiana the social skills required of the hostess of a great estate. Mayhap he owed Lady Jersey some grudging respect, for it was she who had appointed Bennet—likely, she had a previous acquaintance with the man’s wife. Perhaps even they had been introduced to society higher than thatan accountant would normally enjoy, through their association with the countess.
He took out his book, rereading Scott’sThe Lady of the Lake. On opening the covers, his eyes glanced upon the inscription:For the Library of Fitzwilliam Darcy, may he follow the steps of James Fitz-James, your Friend, Bennet.
Indeed, he was coming home just as Fitz-James had—was he coming as a king to Pemberley, as Fitz-James had been revealed to be? If truth be told, his sojourn in Ireland had been ever lonely. It was through their letters—Georgiana’s and Bennet’s—that he had been able to endure the place. It was time, he realised, to marry. His sister needed a companion who would assist her coming out into society, who would love her as much as he himself did. And he would be coming home to his Ellen—his Lady of the Lake.
* * *
As they drove eastwards from Liverpool, debris from the storm had increasingly littered the road. In places, they were forced to the verge to allow oxen teams to pass, pulling trees that had fallen and blocked the route. On reaching Macclesfield, they found accommodation at theCastle,a most inapt appellation: the rooms were small, the building itself hidden away off a narrow, cobbled lane opposite the green by the church.
“Perhaps, sir,” said the innkeeper the next morning, “if you are bound for Bakewell, it might be prudent to go north to Horwich End, then take the Long Hill road to Buxton. Otherwise, you must cross Shining Tor, which is likely closed by ice and snow. ‘Twas blowing a gale up there only two days ago, and the rain is still falling. All the rivers have risen and are likely to continue to rise.”
“How much further is the detour?” asked Darcy. “I’ve an urgent need to get to Lambton, which is just beyond Bakewell.”
“Praps five miles, but quicker in this weather. You’ll need to climb the ridge by Combs Head, but it is an easy hill.”
They changed horses at the post-inn at Horwich End, were assured that the road over the pass by Combs Head was open, and after some two hours and a half came to Buxton. TheOld Sun Innprovided a simple meal and a change of horses, sufficient to take them through to Lambton, and then the lane to Pemberley, a further five miles from the town. More debris was scattered on the road: leaves, branches torn from trees. The River Wye at Bakewell was swollen, whole trees being swept under the arches of the bridge. The road was deeply rutted, water pouring from rivulets sprung from the hillsides, which hitherto had been dry.
Lambton had not escaped the destruction of the storm. One of the old oak trees by the cemetery had been uprooted. Strangely, there was no one nearby—the town appeared deserted. They turned into the High Street, which led by the green towards the river. Ahead was a great commotion, the whole village turned out. Laden carts, piled high with belongings and household furniture, were being led toward the church; others, empty, returning toward the river. The way forward was blocked. Darcy stepped down and walked towards the hubbub.
As he came closer, he saw that trees, washed down the river, had become stuck under the bridge. More debris followed, even a dead, bloated cow stuck fast, blocking the flow. It had formed a dam, threatening to flood the houses along the river bank, upstream of the bridge. At first, he had taken the scene to be one of confusion and disorder; yet, he saw there was purpose—everyone had some business, some task to carry out.
“Ma’am, the sheep in Silow’s field. They’re safe for now, but if the bridge were to break, they’d be washed away.”
“What do you suggest, Mr. Baggaley, for you are better acquainted with the land hereabouts than I?” Darcy recognised Baggaley, a freehold farmer, his land bordering Pemberley’s, but the woman was a stranger.
“If you’d agree, ma’am. We could herd the flock to higher ground—Pemberley land—they’d be safe there.”
