Chapter 25
I t took several days of travel away from London and its crowds to shake the profundity that had fallen over me upon the reading of that letter.
In the silence that had blossomed after the last word had been read, I had finally been equal to clearing the constriction in my throat in order to say, “That is an extraordinary letter. I am honoured you chose to share it with me.”
“Forgive me,” my sister said, wiping her cheeks and blowing her nose.
“For what? Being moved by her words? Your tears confirm what your friend has called the purity of your heart. I beg you, Georgiana, never become too hard.” I stood from the table, came around to where she sat, and placed my hand on her shoulder.
“Come, dearest,” I said, “let us think of going home now, shall we? You have had your Season and done so well, I am certain our mother is also wiping tears from her eyes just now, for you must have made her as proud of you as I am.”
With a look of wonder—for such was our loss, we never spoke of our mother—my sister stood, threaded her arms around my neck and gave me a strong hug, after which she rallied and went in search of her companion and to ask for her trunks to be brought up to her room.
With relief we left London, which was becoming hot and foul-smelling already, and as we headed into Derbyshire, I began to share with Georgiana my plans to abandon her at home while I went off on an expedition of pleasure.
In the process of doing so, I apologised to her for what struck me as a supremely selfish impulse.
“Selfish?” she asked in amazement. “But you must go! You do so little for yourself. I can think of nothing that would make me happier than to know you are at last doing what you truly wish to do. Even when you went to Hertfordshire last year, I knew you did so only because Mr Bingley had need of your advice about the estate he intended to lease. And upon returning, you were so unhappy as to cause me to resent him a little for having imposed upon you.” She paused, smiled, and then reached over to squeeze my arm. “Will you write to me?”
“I am certain Carsten will pack my ink and paper. I dread what else he may consider to be so critical we cannot leave it behind. Should I chronicle for you my progress and send off such packets as I may when we happen to pass through a village with a post office?”
“Like the sea captains when they come to some foreign port? I would dearly love to hear of your adventures,” she said with believable warmth.
“Perhaps I have misled you. I warn you, not every day will be romantic. There may be a few pages full of rants about what privations I have endured. I should spare you?—”
“But those would surely be the most interesting parts. I do not want to hear only the good bits you know, for it would feel like I have only heard half the story. What quest is ever full of ease and comfort? And if it were, would it not be very dull reading?”
“You sound like your friend just now. That is precisely the kind of thing Miss Elizabeth would say.”
Mrs Annesley, who generally did not interject her opinion when my sister and I were in conversation, said, “Mr Darcy is right, you know. You are becoming just as insightful as she.”
This simple assessment seemed to cap off a monumental passage in my sister’s life.
She had gone from a girl so covered in shame she could hardly speak without stammering, to a woman out in society, attempting to make some decisions for herself and being declared wise by her mentor.
My every concern for Georgiana fell into the ditches beside our coach as we travelled the long road home.
I was now free to depart into the unknown of my own life and to discover for myself if I was merely a product of privilege or a man worth knowing.
There is a sound in summer in the country that rises unceasingly from the ground.
Some people, such as Miss Bingley, do not care for the drone of insects and the cacophony of nature.
I myself find it almost religious in its intensity.
Like a choir in a cathedral, it expands the space in which life seems to erupt into its procreative imperative.
Birds are fledged and feathered but still cry for food, lambs half-grown bawl on the hillsides.
The horses stomp and snort at the gates of the paddocks, galloping away from the grooms in search of their freedom.
Even the crops, though not as abundant as in years past, seem to groan under the reckless pace of their growth and the weight of their developing bounty.
Why, I wondered, had I so seldom come home to this earthly heaven that is Pemberley in summer?
We rested for a full week alongside Fitzwilliam, who had come down three full notches to a more restful level. He laughed more often and dozed occasionally in the shade in the garden, and the dark circles under his eyes slowly began to fade.
He also enjoyed lording over my conferences with Donaldson and Carsten, applying his critical eye to what tarps we took, which pistols, what liniments and bindings.
This last was perhaps because he had so recently had to make use of such remedies, and having never been shot myself, I humbly refrained from rolling my eyes at him.
Mrs Reynolds was also employed to make us ready, though as Pemberley’s reigning housekeeper, she did not much like to supervise the baking of hardtack, drying beef in strips, or the brewing and casking of the weak barley ale Sergeant Donaldson claimed was essential for quenching a man’s thirst on a march.
Even harder for her was Carsten’s directive as to how the bedrolls should be constructed and bundled, for these had to be made in the village with supplies ordered from the sundries shop.
Her dignity on my behalf was offended, for in her opinion, I should absolutely not be sleeping rough.
She did not say this directly to me, but the way she held her mouth tightly closed on any occasion we met spoke loudly enough.
Had she known what Carsten was simultaneously procuring for me to wear—canvas trousers, undyed cotton shirts, two spotted neckcloths, a waistcoat of fustian and a coat of humble russet—she would have been appalled.
My boots, made up in haste by the local cobbler, were constructed of bull leather with double soles, and my ensemble was finished with a low top hat of brown wool.
Upon seeing me early on the morning of our departure on the polished marble steps of my mansion, Fitzwilliam had burst out laughing, exclaiming I looked like that fool, John Bull, so well satirised by Arbuthnot.
Trusty Snail had since arrived at Pemberley. He had been liberally fed and rested, reshod, and looked over. He had a new pack saddle made to fit over a new saddle blanket, and appeared to have had his tattered mane and tail neatly trimmed.
“You are looking in fine fettle,” I said as I patted his neck, “and you no longer appear to be shuffling like a snail.”
With that, what was left was to plant a smacking kiss on both of my sister’s cheeks, which surprised her, for I had not often been so demonstrative.
“You are the mistress of Pemberley now,” I said cheerfully. “See to it that Fitzwilliam swims in the lake every other day, and that the key to the brandy case is lost.”
“Promise to write to me?” she asked anxiously.
“Faithfully. I have left my itinerary with Parker. Any letters you send should be directed ahead so they are waiting for me.” She reached for her handkerchief, and in a lightly rallying tone, I said, “Wish me well, Georgie, and fear not. I have for company two nursemaids posing as companions and more supplies than we can use in a month.”
We struck off at last, perhaps an hour later than I wished. Fitzwilliam walked with us for several miles, assuaging his burning envy by abusing me as we went along.
“You are such an arse, Darcy.”
“If you say so,” I replied pleasantly. “Are you perhaps only annoyed that my sister has my permission to nag you to swim? I should mention that I heard Donaldson recommend it to you as the quickest way to break scar tissue. It is selfish of me, I own, but I would prefer a fair fight when I try to stab you with a foil upon my return.”
“What else? Am I to drink milk and take a low diet?”
“It is my fervent hope you do so, yes.”
He came to a stop and with great sincerity, he said, “I can only agree to your terms if you promise not to come to grief.”
I promised him. We shook hands, warmly wished each other well, then I turned towards the road. I was free. Utterly free!