Arriving in Derbyshire #3
Pudding, having been consulted and found disinclined to walk, was restored to her basket and carried between Kitty and Lydia with all the dignity due to a creature of her seniority.
As they left the Hardings’ house and turned along the lane, Mrs Harding pointed out the various conveniences of Lambton.
“The butcher is there, behind the green door, and honest in his measures. The baker on the corner is less liberal with his loaves, but his bread is the best. The apothecary’s wife is a very worthy woman, and will be most attentive if ever your dear mother should be indisposed.
The milliner is a little inclined to gossip, but she has a good eye for ribbons, and the girls of the town would not know how to trim their bonnets without her. ”
Lydia and Kitty exchanged a quick, hopeful look at this intelligence. The mention of bonnets did more to enliven them than any description of scenery could have done.
Mr Harding, driving a little ahead, gestured towards a line of distant woods that crowned a rise of ground beyond the town.
“Beyond those trees lie the lands of Pemberley,” he said for the benefit of those walking behind. “It is not so near that you will be overrun with grand company, but near enough that you will hear its name often enough. Finest estate in the county, and well managed, from all accounts.”
The name struck Elizabeth’s ear a second time, and with the same curious effect as before. It was still no more than a word, yet it seemed to belong to this rougher, grander country in a way nothing from Hertfordshire could quite claim.
Soon the cottages of Lambton fell behind them and the lane grew narrower, bordered on one side by a low stone wall and on the other by a hedge that would be green in a few weeks’ time. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint promise of growing things.
At last Mr Harding drew up and brought the gig to a halt.
“There,” he said, turning and pointing with his whip. “There is your new home, Mrs Bennet.”
The cottage stood a little back from the lane, at the end of a short path edged with rough grass.
It was built of pale grey Derbyshire stone, weathered in places to a soft silver hue, with a dark slate roof that dipped slightly in the middle, though it looked sound enough.
Five small-paned windows looked down from the upper floor, two more flanked the front door below.
A narrow border of earth before the house held the remnants of last year’s planting, with one or two early shoots of green just venturing through, and behind the roofline the tops of fruit trees were visible, their branches bare but swelling at the tips.
There was nothing grand in its appearance, yet it had a look of solidity and quiet welcome that touched Elizabeth’s heart.
Mrs Bennet stared at it, her hand pressed hard against her mouth. For a moment Elizabeth feared she would refuse to go a step further. Then her mother’s shoulders sagged and she said, in a small, tired voice, “It is not Longbourn.”
“No,” Mrs Gardiner replied, taking her hand. “It is not Longbourn. But it is a place that is yours by choice, not by charity. There is comfort in that.”
Mrs Harding, who had come up with the walkers, laid her hand over Mrs Bennet’s other one. “It has stood empty too long,” she said. “It has been waiting for a lively family. Houses do not like to be silent.”
The gate proved a little stiff, but Mr Harding soon persuaded it to open.
As the door was lifted on its latch, Pudding seized her moment.
With a quiet, determined effort she pushed her head against the basket lid, slipped free, and trotted up the path.
Without so much as a pause upon the threshold, she walked into the cottage with the unhurried assurance of one who claimed it at once as her own.
Kitty gasped, half laughing. Lydia called after her. Elizabeth could not help smiling.
“If Pudding approves,” she said, “we must take courage.”
They followed her inside.
The little entrance opened into a parlour on the left and a kitchen on the right.
The parlour was already warmed by a fire laid and lit an hour earlier by one of the Hardings’ servants.
The scrubbed floor held two small rugs. The furniture was plain and sturdy: a sofa that had seen some years of use, two armchairs, a round table, a sideboard.
The curtains were clean. A vase of early primroses stood upon the mantelpiece, filling the room with a faint, sweet scent.
Elizabeth looked at the empty space near the window and thought how soon her mother’s tea caddy and sewing box would stand there, giving the room something of Longbourn’s look.
Mrs Bennet looked about her with anxious eyes. Her hand tightened upon Elizabeth’s arm.
“There is no tea laid out,” she whispered in a voice that trembled. “No familiar things at all. I feel as if I had stepped into a stranger’s life.”
“That will not be the case for long,” Mrs Gardiner said gently. “When your own tea caddy is upon that table, and your workbox beside it, you will begin to feel more at home, I hope.”
They climbed the narrow staircase to the bedchambers.
The landing was close, yet not oppressive.
Two larger rooms faced the front; another looked over the little orchard; and two smaller chambers were tucked under the eaves.
Each held a simple bed, chest of drawers, and washstand.
Fresh linen had been laid smoothly upon the mattresses, and small sachets of lavender, provided by Mrs Harding, hung from the bedsteads to sweeten the air.
Jane and Elizabeth exchanged a glance. The rooms were small, yet there were enough of them.
“This shall be Mama’s,” Jane said at once, pausing in the larger chamber that overlooked the orchard. “It is quiet, and the morning light will not trouble her.”
Elizabeth nodded. “She will like to see the trees. It shall be hers alone.”
They moved on to the front rooms.
“We should share here,” Elizabeth continued, looking about the better of the two. “There will be room for both our trunks, and we can be nearest to Mama if she should need us in the night.”
Jane agreed at once, with a look of relief that the matter was settled so easily.
Lydia and Kitty were in raptures over the front room under the eaves, which had a small window looking out towards Lambton.
“We shall have this one,” Lydia declared. “I shall lie in bed and look at the lights and pretend we are in town.”
“As if Derbyshire were Bond Street,” Mary observed, but there was no sting in the remark. Her eye had already gone to the smaller back room under the slope of the roof.
“I shall take this chamber,” she said, standing in the doorway. “It is narrow, but there is space for a shelf for my books. I shall not disturb anyone if I sit up late.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then it is settled. Mama below the stairs, Jane and I here, Kitty and Lydia under the eaves, and Mary in the back room. No one need sleep in an attic unless she chooses.”
Mary’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Then I choose it.”
When they descended again, she followed Mrs Harding to the kitchen and surveyed its compact range, its shelves and dresser, with a thoughtful air.
“It is not large,” Mrs Harding said, “but everything is to hand. One of our maids, Nora, has agreed to come for a week or two. When you have hired someone, she can show her how the oven behaves, and share a few receipts for bread and puddings. You will find it easier than you think.”
“We are ignorant of such matters,” Mary admitted. “But we shall learn. We must.”
“That is all that is required,” Mrs Harding replied. “The rest will come.”
In the course of that afternoon several small tokens of neighbourly civility arrived at the door.
The baker sent a loaf and a parcel of little cakes, “with Mr Harding’s compliments.
” The apothecary’s wife brought a posy of dried lavender and some simple drops she recommended for Mrs Bennet’s rest. A card was delivered from Mrs Grant, expressing pleasure at the arrival of new neighbours and the hope of calling when they were more settled.
There was no crowding, no staring. The kindness that reached them seemed practical and unassuming.
By the time the light began to fail, the Hardings and the Gardiners prepared to withdraw.
“We will return in the morning,” Mrs Harding promised, as she kissed Jane and Elizabeth in turn. “You must not attempt too much tonight. Eat a little, sleep as well as you can, and in a few days this will not seem so strange.”
Mr Harding pressed Mrs Bennet’s hand and repeated his conviction that she did him more honour in occupying the cottage than he could ever hope to repay.
Mr Gardiner assured Elizabeth that he would see to any outstanding matters in the town early the next day.
Mrs Gardiner embraced them all once more, lingering a little over each.
Then they were gone, and the cottage was quiet.
Nora had already prepared a simple supper of bread, cold ham and cheese. They ate it at the small parlour table, not speaking much, but none refused. Even Mrs Bennet managed a few mouthfuls, encouraged by Jane’s gentle insistence and the steadying presence of her daughters around her.
When the plates had been cleared away and the candles trimmed, Mary arranged her books upon a narrow shelf that had been fixed beside the hearth and set her father’s Bible in the centre.
Lydia and Kitty carried up their bandboxes and began, with much subdued giggling, to dispute over the placing of a shared looking-glass.
Jane and Elizabeth hung two familiar prints upon the parlour wall and spread their own shawls over the backs of the chairs, softening the plain lines of the furniture.
Mrs Bennet sat in the armchair nearest the fire, her eyes half closed, her fingers still loosely curled around her handkerchief.
The strain of the past days had worn her almost to nothing.
Yet her breathing was quieter than it had been at Longbourn before, and every now and then she looked about her with an expression that was not quite despair.
Pudding had chosen her place without hesitation.
She was curled on the small rug before the hearth, paws tucked beneath her, tail wrapped neatly around her body, her eyes half shut in perfect contentment.
The flicker of the flames shone upon her whiskers.
Now and then she gave a slow blink, as if to approve the fire, the room, and her own good sense in accompanying them north.
When at last the others began to speak of candles and bedtimes, Elizabeth slipped to the door and lifted the latch.
Cool air flowed in at once, tinged with the scent of damp stone and distant fields.
The sky was a deep, clear blue, shading towards black at the horizon, pricked here and there with first stars.
The outline of the hills rose dark against it.
From somewhere below came the faintest glimmer of Lambton’s lights.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, her hand resting against the rough stone, and drew a long breath.
The sorrow of leaving Longbourn was still within her. She suspected it always would be, in some degree. Yet here, on this little threshold, with the quiet night about her and a modest firelit room at her back, she felt something she had not expected to feel so soon.
They were together. They were under a roof that welcomed them.
Elizabeth closed the door softly and turned back into the cottage that was, astonishingly, theirs.