Chapter 6 #2
To that end, I have agreed that Mrs Younge and Georgie should follow through with the plans to take a house in Ramsgate for the summer.
We all know how foul London’s air can grow in the hottest months, and I would not have Georgie suffer them here.
And yet, having seen her begin to bloom under Mrs Younge’s guidance, I would also not have her removed from society, as would happen were she to spend the months from June to August at Pemberley.
Therefore, Ramsgate it shall be! There is good society there, and I have heard tell of three other families of note who will be taking the sea waters.
I shall ride out tomorrow morning to inquire about a house for the two ladies.
My man of business has a short list of accommodations he deems suitable, and over the coming days, I shall make the decision.
I shall also inquire as to what events and activities will be available for two ladies at the seashore.
I have every faith that this will be a good experience for Georgie, and that it will be a summer she will not long forget.
As for me, I will be pleased to know that my dear sister is safe and happy, and I shall, for the first time in a long while, spend all summer in Derbyshire.
I missed the first planting, although my steward writes that it went well.
Still, I desire to be present for my tenants through the growing season and shall hopefully be at Pemberley for some of the harvest. We might even throw a harvest ball before I must depart again for the south.
For here is some news: Bingley has almost decided upon an estate!
We spent a great deal of time looking over details of properties at the office of the land estate agent I know, and settled on visiting three places in person.
Of those we have since toured two, both of which are adequate for Bingley’s needs, but neither of which has kindled in him the spark that a man requires to love a place.
One of these was in Yorkshire, and the second in Northamptonshire, and I believe the distance from London is what prevented my friend from a full commitment.
He loves the excitement of life in Town too much to wish to be far removed from it.
The third place we have not yet been able to see.
It lies only a half-day’s drive from London in Hertfordshire, near a market town called Meryton.
The agent for this property has been unavailable, and Bingley has decided to wait until October, when the man will be back in England, to see whether Netherfield might suit his needs.
I do find his waffling somewhat frustrating, but then, this is where he is to live, and he must be satisfied with his choice. But I am pleased this leaves me my summer to enjoy in peace and quiet at Pemberley.
Now, Richard, please explain anew: What is this about buttons?
Your cousin,
FD
August 25, 1811
Dear Will,
You had asked me about my duties here, and I have given some brief accounting of them, from training and commanding the battalion to ensure battle readiness, maintaining discipline, and assisting the colonel with any administrative duties he demands of me, but here is a new task that was thrust upon me only last week.
A cadre of the men, including Colonel Barrow’s secretary, had been sent to Fort St Catherine for a few days to assist with the deployment of some recently arrived equipment there.
After their departure, I was approached by a rather rough-looking fellow from one of the ships that arrived a day or two after its fellows in the convoy.
He had, this chap told me, the extra supplies, and did not know what to do with them.
Having no notion of what these extra supplies might be, I inquired as to the customary practice and was told that a major comes to claim them to transport for storage. That major, however, was not present when the ship came in, and the materials were now lying unclaimed on the dock.
Colonel Barrow had no knowledge of this either, but with so much work taking place all over the islands, not only here at the Dockyard, it is of little wonder that somebody requested the delivery of these materials.
We have now moved them into our own storage facilities.
Somebody will, I am certain, come to claim them in good time.
And so, you see, my duties now include storage management and liaison with sailors. Such is the life of a lieutenant colonel…
Richard put down his pen. The letters to his parents and cousins would go out on the next ship.
He folded the envelopes and reached into the drawer for his sealing wax.
A few moments over the flame brought two fat droplets of the red wax to the edge of each folded sheet, and then his ring embossed his seal upon the wax.
There was something satisfying about watching that heavy wax set, and he smiled at his efforts.
He looked out the window of his rooms to another perfect day and then cast a regretful glance at his red officer’s coat.
How fine it would be to enjoy the sultry summer weather in his shirt sleeves, or even—as the dock workers did down below where the waters lapped against the wharfs and moorings—with no shirt at all.
Perhaps later, when he was no longer needed in the fort itself, he would find one of the small beaches on the way to Somerset and take some moments to enjoy the sun on his bare skin.
For now, however, he was an officer, and an officer he must look.
He straightened his cravat and fixed the knot before pulling his crimson coat over the billowing sleeves of his white shirt.
A glance in the mirror was enough to satisfy him, and at last he took his sealed letters to be sent with the regular missives from the fort back to London.
The sun had long passed its zenith and was inching its way to the western horizon, although there would still be several hours of light left.
Richard placed his letters with the others going on the morrow’s ship and decided to start the walk into Somerset.
He might take a moment in the sun and still have time for an ale and a plate of crusty bread, strong cheese, and some good Bermuda onion pickle before dark.
Something in one of Darcy’s earlier letters had bothered him at the time, and although he had alluded to it in his just-finished missive, he found it bothered him all the more now.
He felt the need to stew over the matter whilst taking some food at the tavern in the village.
His cousin had written, so many months ago, that some of the strongest marriages were based on friendship rather than passion, suggesting that perhaps Richard look upon Emily with different eyes. Richard’s reply had been a bit harsh.
“I am surprised to hear advice from you on marriage, Will,” he had written in response, “for you are one to avoid all social connexions if at all possible, and to see the worst in any given new circumstance. How strange that the man who is determined to be displeased with everything and everyone is suddenly handing out advice on matrimony. I ought to laugh at you! For you know I have settled never to trust my heart to a woman again.”
And yet this was not the truth, for after that letter, the Dreams had begun.
He had not had this sort of dream in a long time, not since first he met Miss Ingalls.
These were the most improper dreams that ought to shame a man, dreams that disrupted sleep and twisted linens that subsequently needed changing the next morning.
No gentleman ought to have dreams like these, for he ought to have himself under better regulation.
And yet, the dreams had come regardless.
He dreamed of Emily approaching him at night and removing his shirt with her soft hands.
He dreamed of her pressing soft lips upon his forehead, then upon his cheeks and lips.
He dreamed of her doing things that a lady ought never even to know about, and he dreamed of himself reciprocating.
This shamed him and delighted him, but mostly, it confused him.
For Emily was a friend. Only a friend. She had no interest in him, and he had none in her, other than the intimate platonic arrangement they both enjoyed. She was too old—nearly twenty-seven now—to wed, and he had no interest whatsoever in the institution.
But the dreams did not stop, no matter how he scolded himself about them.
He stewed over this conundrum as he left the fort’s heavy stone walls, which were now almost complete, and continued along the pathway towards the village.
The track wound its way through fields and thickets, and even through a couple of small settlements, but it was Somerset with its tavern that he wanted.
He felt the need for the innkeeper's strong beer this evening.
Although it was still full daylight, shadows were starting to form between the buildings and trees as he walked.
Perhaps there would be a skiff later to return to the fort, filled with fellow soldiers paddling back up the shore on the way home.
His feet were no stranger to the distance, but after dark—and after a pint or two—he might be pleased to sit for a spell.
He wandered, lost in thought, oblivious to his environment.
Where the stone came from, he never could say for certain, but suddenly something hit him in the centre of his back, sending him reeling. What in the world…?
When he caught his balance and spun around, all he could see was a large pebble sitting in the centre of the path behind him. It had certainly not been there before, else he would have seen it and walked around it.