Chapter 27
Dear Georgie,
Your two letters, both waiting for me in Darlington, were read with great joy and also relief that you and Fitzwilliam are thriving, and all is well at home.
Forgive the long wait for news from me. We have ambled along with far less determination than I expected, for I found I was not terribly interested in being driven like a bull to market by Sergeant Donaldson.
In short, I have led us off the intended trail more than once in search of what some farmer or another had told us was an ancient Roman ruin.
So far, what we discovered in these meanderings have been indeterminate piles of stones that might have been put there five—or five hundred—years ago.
Add to that the discovery that most common tables are quite crude and a smooth surface upon which to write a letter is not easily come by, I am just now able to jot down this note.
The scenery, as you may well imagine, has at times been almost too rich to take in.
I suppose this might be attributed to the vastness, which is this earth, apparent only upon an escape from civilisation.
There are also plenty of times when I am sick to death of rocks and hills, and the grass itself seems to mock me.
There is a great range in luxury and, to be frank, suffering.
I cannot describe to you the bliss of lying down beside a fire after a long march, or the profundity of gratitude I have felt upon the procurement of a bit of cream for our porridge.
It is strange to discover that in the experience of deprivation, I have come to recognise what true luxury and wealth are made of—that is, the simplest, most powerful privileges of having shelter and food and the company of friends.
But this discovery has only been made through the occasion of sitting under a bridge during a ferocious storm, sleeping damp, marching in wet boots, eating slightly mouldy bread and, after failing to find firewood dry enough to burn, discovering that our biscuits are inhabited by a colony of weevils and our cache of walnuts has gone rancid.
By what contrast, then, must be a day in which the weather is warm, the winds are benevolent, the food at a humble hostelry is hot and wholesome, or that our camp that night is sheltered in a glade full of wild honeysuckle, and our fire burns with a sort of merry unconcern.
We talk of our boyhoods, of other adventures we have had, and share stories we have heard of other, more exotic lands.
We talk of the road and of our plans for the next day, but never beyond, for we take nothing for granted.
And in this, Georgie, I think the secrets of contentment and of satisfaction are found.
We are open to what life gives us and grateful regardless of feast or famine.
Lest I begin to sound like a tired old philosopher, I should share that this adventure is not always so profound.
I have derived great enjoyment from watching the dance between Carsten and Donaldson as they strive to politely dominate one another and ultimately, lord over me without my knowing it.
Someone I admire very much once told me that it is wise to discover something to laugh at in all situations, and I believe her.
I cannot tell you how many times I have ceased to notice the pain in my feet or the rumbling of my belly because I am too busy being entertained by what is, in reality, simply human imperfection.
Tell Fitzwilliam that Donaldson has not yet made a good soldier of me, though I am improving, and there are days now even he might not outlast me on a forced march.
Now, dearest, I must ask you to continue to be well, to be happy, to make the best use of your purest of pure hearts, and to send me your love when you close your eyes at night, for this is what I do without fail in regard to you.
Meanwhile, we travel onwards roughly in the direction of Newcastle upon Tyne.
I closed this letter in the usual way, refraining—with great resolution—from begging her to send word of her friend, or better yet, sending me a fair copy of what letters she had received since I left Pemberley.
And in a state of light melancholy, I looked forward to reaching a city where we would stay at a decent inn close to the Fenham Barracks, where Donaldson’s nephew was stationed.
Once there, I thoroughly enjoyed a hot wash, a glass of wine, and a rare night in a clean bed, under a sturdy roof, with Trusty well-cared for in a stable full of hay.
This was also an occasion where our party temporarily broke apart.
Donaldson stayed at the barracks for two days, and Carsten went missing for many hours at a time as he went about replenishing our supplies and having our clothes and bedrolls properly laundered.
I did little more than lie flat and eat, wondering how my valet had the energy to be so productive.
Upon mentioning it, however, he admitted he had done nothing more rigorous than pay for services and that he had spent the rest of his time sitting idle by the river.
The disruption in our journey and the distance from one another had been a welcome break, and upon reuniting, I sensed a different form of familiarity between us.
Somehow, I was regarded less and less as an employer and increasingly as a friend.
This was a most welcome change, yet that same tender sadness I had experienced upon writing to Georgiana overtook me from time to time even as we travelled east, catching glimpses of the North Pennines, finding more continuous pieces of the ancient wall and the storied Roman fortifications, which had been my excuse for striking off into the wilderness.
After three very long days, which we had agreed to enduring because we were well rested and the weather had been ideal, we reached the Vercovicium.
There, we stayed at a farmhouse close to the ruin and spent three days exploring a place occupied by Roman soldiers for several hundred years.
We then ventured west towards an auxiliary fort on the ancient Roman road which took us into Cumbria and down into the valley of the River Irthing.
At this point I had seen as many ruins as I could digest. I had endured as many hard miles as I wished to suffer, and I had challenged myself sufficiently to the purpose for which I came.
I had proved to myself I was more than just a wealthy man.
I possessed a mental stamina and physical capacity to work and to endure, and were I to lose my fortune overnight, I knew with great assurance I would do well enough.
We forged ahead towards Carlisle over the next several days, where we had planned to stay at an inn and rest our long-suffering mule.
I hoped letters from Georgiana would await me there, and against my will, I then began to feel a touch grim.
Gradually, the journey had started to wear on my companions, too, and on a particularly fractious afternoon when we could not find a decent stretch of road that was not rendered treacherous by rocks or gullies, they again came to a halt to argue the most expeditious route to our destination.
Behind us loomed a great dark cloud, and ahead of us stretched an endlessly undulating and ill-defined path.
I had lost my sense of humour, and I stood at the periphery of their dispute, utterly forgotten until Carsten, in complete frustration at Sergeant Donaldson’s intractability, threw up his hands and cried, “Mr Darcy is tired, and if you would but raise your head, you would see a storm is bearing down on us!”
“I am no more tired now than I was yesterday,” I said sharply, thus reminding them of my presence, “nor am I afraid of getting wet. However, if I am forced to stand here listening to this argument much longer, I am afraid I might begin to whine.” Having caught their attention, I then exercised my inarguable right to decide and said, “There is a ruin or a wall on that rise. We shall go there and take what shelter we can.”
After a dinner of stale bread and hard cheese we had procured at the Housestead farm days earlier, we huddled in a damp corner of what might have been an ancient stone guard house under a dripping canvas, and it was then that I realised the source of my unshakeable melancholy, and the loss of my ability to laugh.
I was homesick, heartsick, and now, a different form of sick, for I felt the telltale signs I had a fever.