Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
As Mr Baker’s carriage, which had been sent to meet them in the village of Wyman’s Cove, bumped along the rough track leading towards their summer residence, Elizabeth wished the population of the area would burgeon so that more turnpike roads might be built in the vicinity.
However, the village itself was naught but a cluster of cottages constructed from yellowish-grey limestone, fishermen’s sheds, a tiny church, an assortment of crumbling rubble and ruins in outlying fields, and one large building that served as a hedge-tavern, meeting place, auction room, sundries shop, and lending library.
It also was the home of the deputy postmaster and his family.
The lane upon which they were being jostled was in horrid condition.
Elizabeth’s father was lax when it came to maintaining roads about Longbourn, and she wondered who was responsible for such things in Wyman’s Cove.
Perhaps it would be the wealthy gentleman who had inherited a summer villa from his uncle.
There came then a sudden recollection of walking with Mrs Hurst in Netherfield’s shrubbery and hearing Miss Bingley tease Mr Darcy about a portrait of his uncle, a judge. Mrs Hurst had gasped and hurried to intercept them while Elizabeth had reluctantly followed, hoping to soon return to Longbourn.
No! It could not be. Fate never would be so cruel, would it? There must be a dozen or more judges throughout the land.
Biting a fingernail, Miss Hughes sneaked a look at Miss Taylor, then quickly folded her hands upon her lap. “Miss Maria Lucas bites her nails, too.”
The maid clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Two wrongs do not make a right and think what might be lurking beneath those fingernails before putting them in your mouth. I saw you, gloveless, patting that filthy stray dog in the village.”
“It is not as though I might catch filthiness. And illness is caused by miasma, unhealthy smells, vapours, and close proximity to a sick person.” Miss Hughes’s lips quivered.
“That is what caused the illness that took, that took my—” Bursting into tears, shoulders heaving, she blubbered, “I want my mother and father back! And I want to go home to Greenlea.”
Miss Taylor, who had been on the rear-facing seat, came over, and she and Elizabeth embraced and soothed the girl while being buffeted from side to side as the carriage swayed its way towards the foggy Bristol Channel.
They passed over a narrow stone bridge spanning a stream lined with shady willows.
Farther afield was a misty pasture. Were those cows or sheep?
Perhaps the shapes were merely rock piles or boulders.
In the distance Elizabeth spotted the stone house, so isolated, save for the monstrosity farther along the headland.
The carriage then entered a lane edged by overgrown hedgerows that gave way to horse chestnut trees and green lawns.
By the time they came to a halt on the sweep in front of Cliff House, the grieving girl’s outburst had been subdued and her composure somewhat restored.
Head bowed, she still breathed erratically, and her red-rimmed eyes refused to even glance at her whereabouts.
Had she done so, she might have noticed that everything was enveloped in fog and the air had cooled considerably.
All was grey—the sky, the water, the countryside, even the Bakers’ rambling old stone farmhouse itself.
The front door opened, and a lady and gentleman, who Elizabeth supposed were the expected aunt and uncle, stepped out into the brume.
Both were strongly built and seemed to be around forty years of age.
Like their niece, they were clad in black, and the woman wore a mob cap.
While a footman assisted the three passengers from the coach, the couple remained where they stood, he with his hands behind his back, she wringing hers.
At the travellers’ approach, the woman rushed forwards, quickly kissing Miss Hughes’s cheek and embracing the girl, who stood stiffly, arms at her sides. “My dear niece, welcome to Cliff House.” Clasping Miss Hughes’s hands, she stepped back. “And just look at you now, all grown up!”
Elizabeth could not help but notice Miss Baker’s scarred face, but the pockmarks were not as pronounced as her brother’s nor as frightening as her friend had implied.
Over half of all smallpox survivors were left with reminders of the disease, and several of Longbourn’s domestics had far worse disfigurements, wearing them as proof of hard-won immunity.
Taking hold of his niece’s hand, Mr Baker bowed over it. “Dear Miss Hughes, Bridget, you are very welcome to our home. Your home now.” He then politely greeted Elizabeth and Miss Taylor.
After being shown to their rooms, Miss Taylor asked to be taken below stairs to acquaint herself with the household domestics and arrangements there.
Miss Baker happily obliged and accompanied the lady’s maid.
When she returned, Miss Hughes and Elizabeth were given a tour of the house.
The last stop was the sitting room, where the young ladies sat with the Bakers and were provided with refreshments.
After asking about their journey and chatting awhile, Mr Baker, seated in a cosy chair by the enormous hearth, nodded off.
When his sister rose to gently poke him, Miss Hughes leant in and whispered to Elizabeth, “I do not know these people. Although hospitable, they are complete strangers to me. How can I possibly stay here?”
“We have been very warmly welcomed and made most comfortable,” Elizabeth whispered back.
“Remember, while you adjust to your new home, Miss Taylor and I shall be here with you every step of the way.” Setting down her empty teacup, she patted the girl’s knee.
“Now, speaking of steps, what say you to a walk along the shoreline? I am restless and long to stretch my legs.”
Eager, it seemed, to escape her new home, Miss Hughes agreed. “Aunt and Uncle Baker, if you do not mind, Miss Bennet and I wish to take a stroll. How may we reach the beach?”
Her uncle stood. “I shall escort you to the clifftop and watch from above. I have no desire to trudge up and down those steps again, since I already did so this morning. Both of you must promise to hold tightly to the handrails and be careful.”
The wooden steps, steep and somewhat rickety, took several zigzag turns before leading the young ladies to a pebbly foreshore.
A cold fog still partially obscured the Channel as they ventured forth onto the muddier strand.
Glancing up towards Cliff House, Elizabeth wondered whether someone looking out of a window would be able to discern figures walking along the beach.
Or was she, too, enshrouded by brume? Barely more than a black, shadowy figure in the misty distance, Mr Baker gave a wave from atop the grassy coastal cliff, then turned away, towards his house.
With everything so dreary, Elizabeth supposed it was not an auspicious beginning to their stay in Wyman’s Cove.
The girl’s world was bleak enough. She deserved sunshine and, perhaps, a rainbow.
But what could one expect at the seaside?
Every day could not be bright, but she would be cheerful for the orphan’s sake.
“I think that this fog possesses a certain charm.”
“Charm?” Miss Hughes stared across the expanse towards an ill-defined horizon.
“I see no attraction at all, only a greyness that perfectly echoes the way I feel.” Her quavering sigh was barely audible above gently lapping waves and seabirds’ cries.
“This fog is as suffocating as smoke. And the air here reeks.” She turned back to the flight of wooden steps.
Elizabeth could do naught but follow. “Miss Hughes, wait.” The steps seemed to ascend forever, and she was relieved to see her friend stopping at the halfway point.
Miss Hughes impatiently pushed hair away from her face, damp due to mist and exertion.
Although there was hardly a breath of wind, strands of her flaxen locks had escaped the confines of her bonnet.
Panting and holding onto the wooden rail, she turned to Elizabeth.
“I do not wish to live here. We must return to Hertfordshire, and you will live at Greenlea with me as my companion.”
I will what? At no pains to conceal her vexation, Elizabeth spoke in an incredulous voice.
“You cannot seriously suggest that I should be your companion. First of all, I agreed to accompany you here as a friend. Secondly, paid companions are older, better educated, and more experienced than I am. Thirdly, I may have a paltry dowry and a pending piddling inheritance, but I am not destitute. Being a companion is a respectable occupation, but I am not in need of employment. So, I thank you but must decline.”
With a toss of her head, Miss Hughes stamped up the steps to the clifftop.
Hard on the girl’s heels, Elizabeth grabbed her sleeve. “Come now, dear. Sadness and anger are to be expected in your situation, but give the Bakers a chance. You have only just met them. They are a bachelor and a spinster who know nothing of raising a child.”
Freeing her arm, she gave Elizabeth a look of indignation.
“My apologies. That was poorly worded. I know you are not a child. But your aunt and uncle must be at sixes and sevens about how to console you while they, too, are grieving the loss of their sister. And now they must provide for a new and relatively unknown addition to their daily life. Through it all, they show no sign of resentment. The three of you must cleave together now, work your way through this difficulty, and form a new sort of family.”
Snuffling, the younger girl angrily wiped away a tear. “I still do not understand why I cannot remain at Greenlea. I could keep house for Jasper. And Miss Taylor would be with me, of course.”
“Your father must have had a good reason for wanting you here with your relations instead of there with your brother and his mentors.”