Darcy stepped forward—but as he made to move, the woman responded with a weary sigh. “There is no need to ask, Mr. Baggaley—send some of the younger boys to move the flock. No! You should accompany them, for Silow’s field is near the river and certainly waterlogged. Keep an eye on them, for they may do something foolish and be swept away. ‘Twould be better to lose a sheep than one of the children.”
The man turned and ran down toward the river, calling for two young boys to come with him. The woman placed her hands on her hips, surveying the scene. She wore a matron’s cap, damp with the drizzle still falling; her woollen spencer was sodden, as was her brown woollen skirt.
“Ma’am, who is in charge here?” Darcy’s long strides caught up with her; she turned, a look of surprise crossing her face.
“Mr. Darcy!” She paused, looking at him with some relief. “Oh, you are so very, very welcome. Come, follow me and I will explain our desperate need.”
Lifting her skirts out of the mire, she strode quickly towards the bridge. “As you can see, trees and other debris have caught under the arch. It is too dangerous to attempt to free them, for they can only be pulled upstream and the current is too strong. The river is dammed and overflowing its banks. The houses there are already waterlogged and likely to be further flooded—we have organised carts to carry the owners’ belongings to the church. But that, perhaps, is the least of our worries.”
Darcy took in the scene. Some water was flowing under the two arches, but the remainder was trapped. The bridge was old, built of stone and timber. If the pressure became too great, it would collapse.
“I see you have discerned the problem. If the bridge were to collapse, the built-up water would flood and wash away everything below it, for many miles downstream: fences, houses, livestock, people…” Her eyes moistened; angrily, she brushed her incipient tears away. “No, sir. We cannot allow that to happen. But there is a solution, if only we have enough strong men to complete the task.”
“Further upstream,” she continued, “the river bank has been eroded by an old flood, but now built up over time. Beyond the bank is a shallow channel, yet not deep enough to carry the full load of the river, but sufficient, if it were dug deeper, to divert the flood and prevent the pressure building up on the bridge.”
“You wish me to dig a canal, ma’am. Indeed, it has been my occupation these past eight months.” Darcy laughed. He had thought to leave digging ditches behind in Ireland. Yet, his first day back in Derbyshire, he would, rather than being the supervisor, be a navvy himself.
“Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley, together with the younger men from the village, are already clearing the channel. But I fear they are not sure how it should best be dug. You understand levels, and how to dig land efficiently. Do you think, Mr. Darcy, you could supervise them? Perhaps put your broad shoulders to a pick or shovel. Do not let the men over-exhaust themselves. Lady Catherine has organised vittles and ale in the assembly hall. Whenever a man stumbles, ‘twould be best if he refreshed himself.”
Darcy could see a group of men attacking the field using brute strength, if nothing else. He saw that the line they hadtaken would cut through a rock shelf, which, with the tools they had—and no gunpowder—would block their way. He turned back to the woman, but she had already moved on, certain he would do as she had asked him. He had not expected deference… Yet, as he walked to the diggings, crossing the bridge against which the dammed waters pressed, his thoughts were confused. Did he know her? She knew who he was—knew that he had been away supervising the construction of a canal. A puzzle to solve later, perhaps. He hailed Hurst, who stopped and stared at him.
“My God, Darcy! Come to help? For I’m cruelly fatigued—never swung a pick in my life before!”
Darcy clapped Hurst on the shoulder with a brief, sympathetic smile. “You’ll find the work less daunting if guided by a plan. Let me see where you’ve begun.”
He strode to the edge of the field where a ragged line of men, boots caked with mud, laboured with shovels and picks. Bingley, sleeves rolled above his elbows, leaned on his spade, red-cheeked and puffing, but grinning when he spotted Darcy.
“Never thought to find you at the business end of a ditch, Darcy!” he called out. “We’re making a sorry mess of it, I fear.”
Darcy eyed the shallow furrow they had managed—already collecting water, but sloping too gently, and where the path bent, a rocky outcrop protruded. He crouched, running his hand over the damp earth, then stood and beckoned the men to gather round.
“See here,” he said, tapping the ground just above the rocky shelf. “If we dig straight through, we’ll break every tool we own and get nowhere. The channel must veer south, following the natural hollow. That way, the gradient will allow the water to run, and the bank will hold.”
There was some muttering, but Bingley nodded, and a few of the older villagers—farmers, accustomed to reading the land—peered at the slope and murmured agreement.
“Let’s set a line of stakes,” Darcy continued. “Two men to mark the route, the rest to clear brush and begin digging where the earth is softest. When you tire, rest. If you blister, wrap your hands. Steady work will see us through faster than a rush.”
The men dispersed to their tasks, and Darcy took up a spade, falling naturally into the rhythm of the labour, just as the navvies had on the Royal Canal. The river, only yards away, roared and foamed, a constant threat at his back. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and bruised grass, and every so often, a cry would go up from the bridge as another piece of debris slammed into the growing dam.
As the hours passed, the channel grew deeper, and the heap of wet soil beside it rose steadily. Darcy moved up and down the line, offering advice, lending a hand where the digging was hardest. At times, he caught sight of the woman—her name still unknown—directing the efforts on the far bank, her presence a steady anchor amid the chaos.
Once, she crossed to him, her skirts clotted with mud, a streak of earth across her cheek. “You have done more in the past hour than we managed all morning,” she said, her voice low but fierce with gratitude. “Thank you.”
He shook his head, wiping sweat from his brow. “It is not I, but all of us together. There is no time for thanks—not yet.”
She smiled, a brief flash, before striding away again, lending her strength where it was needed most. He watched her retreat—speaking to a child who hurried away towards the assembly hall. Shortly thereafter, he saw a young woman, her hair pinned up in a simple bun, hurry towards them, carrying a basket. Georgiana!
“William,” she cried. “Oh, Elizabeth told me you had returned, but I could not find you.” She paused, looking at the great trench the men had dug. “I have some pies and ale—Aunt Catherine said they were fresh from the baker’s oven, and Mr. Talbot, the innkeeper, has tapped a fresh barrel.”
Darcy called the men over. “We’ve pies and ale. It’s time we all took a break—perhaps only twenty or so yards to go.”
He took his sister in a warm embrace. “So good to be returned from Ireland—though, truth be told, I had my fill of digging trenches over there. But we are almost done—mayhap the bridge will hold after all. You said Lady Catherine is here—surely she wished to preserve the dignity of her rank—how so is she assisting with the food and drink?”
Georgiana smirked. “William, there is so much to tell. Why, she and Elizabeth are now the best of friends—indeed, it is all Elizabeth’s doing. But let us leave that for later, for I think your labour is still very much required. And I must return to the assembly hall, for most of the village have been working all day clearing debris and the like. They’ll have good appetites and will be looking forward to the hot broth that Mrs. Reynolds and Cook have prepared.”
She embraced him once more, then hurried back over the bridge toward the town. Quite by chance, the woman—to whom, it seemed to Darcy, everyone deferred—was walking at that moment down the street. Georgiana threw her arms about her, hugging her closely, then skipped away towards the assembly hall. The woman glanced up, caught him staring at her. She nodded, then turned to ask an old man to assist the even older widow Cartwright pull her recalcitrant goat away from the river bank, where it had wandered after escaping its pen, washed away by the flood.
The drizzle finally ceased. The afternoon light waned, clouds shifting and thinning as the wind carried the last of the storm eastward. At last, with a great shout, the channel was opened to the river, and water rushed through, swirling and biting at the fresh-cut banks. The level behind the bridge began to drop, inch by inch.
