Chapter 11
I am not so much a believer in providence as I am a disciple of action. Luck, as they say, meets those made worthy of it through hard work.
Nevertheless, I felt an almost religious gratitude to discover that inside that humble house we had fallen under the care of a robust widow by the name of Mrs Hamilton.
“My word, sir—milady!” she gasped, turning her concern abruptly from me to Miss Elizabeth upon seeing her state.
“Abby,” she called above her head, “I need hot water!”
She then turned back to Miss Elizabeth and ushered her quickly up the stairs, telling us as she went to ‘mind the proddy mats’ and sit by the fire in the kitchen until she could see to us.
Having been left to fend for ourselves, we stripped off our filthy, wet coats at the door and leapt from one floor-board to the next to avoid stepping on the rag rugs that stood in our way.
A girl bustled into the kitchen, filled a pitcher from the kettle, and only paused to take under her arm the bag Carsten handed to her.
“The lady’s things,” he said, “if you would kindly take them to her.”
Carsten helped me remove my boots, placing them by the fire. He then offered me a dry shirt from my valise before he removed his own boots and coat. We sank into chairs pulled close to the hearth, and when Keller joined us, he, too, put his boots to dry and sat beside us in his shirtsleeves.
“How are the horses?” I asked wearily.
“Passable, sir. Tinder is a mite lame but not yet worrisome. I couldn’t properly brush them down, though.”
I looked at my watch for the first time since we had saddled my horse on the road. More than four hours had gone by.
Meanwhile, the maid had returned and disappeared out the back door, eventually struggling back into the kitchen with a full bucket.
Keller stood, put on his boots, and said, “Are there more buckets?”
“By the pump.”
“Fill the kettle, then,” he said, stepping out to fetch more water.
Carsten also stood. “Are there more kettles?” He took the bucket from her and finished filling the kettle on the low bench by the hearth, while she knelt down to root around in a cupboard.
“It has no lid,” she said, producing a battered tin pot.
“It will serve. Do you have another pitcher? Does your mistress have another basin?”
This was all so mundane as to make me feel I had fallen into a strange dream.
As I sat by the fire, chills overtook me as they sometimes do when warming up, and I wished I, too, had something to do, but a gentleman has his role, and it is not to pump water and fill kettles.
I submitted to the strange indignity of sitting idle and thought of the lady upstairs.
Was she warm? Had the clothes Carsten had helped her pull out of her trunk stayed dry under the oil cloth? Lord, might she at least be spared a cold , I thought, though the possibility was strong that she would fall ill from such prolonged and anxious exposure.
Suddenly, Mrs Hamilton was in the room. I stood, bowed, and introduced myself. “Fitzwilliam Darcy, ma’am. I am deeply in your debt. How is…she?”
I faltered for good reason, as was made clear in her reply.
“The missus is tucked up in bed, sir. Would you like to go to her while I make up a tray?”
I looked helplessly at Carsten, for I did not quite know what to say. Fortunately, he did.
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet is a lady of Mr Darcy’s acquaintance, ma’am. We met most opportunely after she had been stranded on the road from Hunsford.”
“Oh!” she said. “Well, in that case, sir, I can only offer you my room, for this is a small house as you see. For your men, I have a few bedrolls, since from time to time, I have travellers. This is the first house on the road from the south, you see, and I leave the candle burning.”
Wishing to distance myself from the epithet of lordling by taking her room and leaving her to fend for herself, I said, “A bedroll will do for me as well, ma’am.”
“The maid sleeps in the kitchen, sir, so I shall light a fire in the sittin’ room,” she said. “But you must be hungry. Abby!” she called to the girl she had running up and down the stairs, “take this tea up to the lady, and fetch more wood for the hearth!”
Keller, who had come in with another bucket of water, went to the woodshed, and Carsten went to the sitting room to light a fire there.
I was struck by how little was said, how common it must be for them to do what needs to be done, and also how natural their assistance was to Mrs Hamilton.
I supposed this was the reality for those who work for a living—it means little who does what when there is a job to be done.
The aroma of what the widow had begun to cook filled the air, and with my stomach grumbling, I searched my head for some way to contribute other than paying for what we took.
But there was nothing left to do save to sit at the table as she ladled stew into thick crockery bowls.
With this we had stale bread for dipping, hard cheese, pickles, and ale.
The maid came back down with Miss Elizabeth’s empty teacup on a tray, which Mrs Hamilton then prepared with the same fare.
“I am afraid the lady is used to much better,” she said with a sigh.
“It is delicious, and I expect she will thank you for it,” I said. Carsten and Keller added to this with compliments of their own, and she seemed to take heart.
“Well, she is a lovely person,” she said, “and has not turned her nose up at anything.”
I could only reflect that there was one thing she had turned her nose up at, but it did not bear thinking of, and so I changed the subject.
“Do you have any old rags or towels, ma’am? For the horses.”
“Of a surety, sir,” she said, picking up the tray and turning towards the door. “Abby can fetch them when she comes down with the bedrolls.”
It was nearly midnight before we had eaten, seen to the horses, washed as best we could, arranged our bedrolls beside a little fire, and blew out the candle in the window.
My back cried out when it met the floor, not from objection, but from extreme relief, and as sometimes happens, my mind went through a lightning review of the events of the day.
I do not know why, but I felt moved to talk. “Where on earth did you find that carpet bag?”
My valet knew this irrelevant question was addressed to him. “A hostelry is overrun with lost luggage, Mr Darcy,” he said quietly.
“Is it? I did not know.” I assumed he had paid for it, at least I hoped so.
Then again, Carsten was so resourceful on my behalf that he may have simply absconded with it for the sake of expediency.
I did not know which, but I did know he was exceptionally competent, and I was moved to say, “I do not know what I would have said if you had not come to my aid, Carsten.”
He knew me so well, he understood the circumstance to which I so randomly referred—Mrs Hamilton had assumed a lady and gentleman, travelling together as we were, would be married.
“I have found that there are times when the plain truth is best, sir.”
After another moment, I said, “I thank you both for what you have done today.”
Keller, who had listened to this meaningless exchange in silence, and who was by far the least awed by me of all my people, said with a wink, “Aye, and I’ll be enjoying that bottle of brandy you’ll be givin’ me for my troubles, sir.”
I chuckled at this, for he knew me well enough to assume this compensation, which was a given.
And then we fell silent and a haze of complacence fell over me.
The supreme blessing of shelter, warmth, and food then struck me, and I thought that perhaps I had not had sufficient reminders of their worth in my life.
I sent something like a prayer upward—not to the Almighty—but to the woman above me, that she be wrapped in comfort and sleep in peace.