Chapter 14 #2
I was not surprised, therefore, after our boat had been pushed into deep water by boatmen on the pier using long wooden poles, that Darcy took the helm, leaving the Colonel and the hired boatman to haul on the halyards, raising the great mainsail and small jib canvas.
The lake was not as smooth as I expected; its waves rising as much as the seemingly calm sea we had observed at Blackpool.
But the water was wonderfully clear, and we could distinguish the pebbles and sand at its bottom to a great depth, which in some parts was covered with a green, herbage-like grass.
With the mainsail hanging square to the vessel to catch the maximum push of the air, the cutter glided effortlessly southward down the expanse of the lake, until we approached the cluster of islands opposite Bowness.
The boatman spilled the wind from the sail, and we slackened our pace to coast near Belle Isle’s shores to admire the extraordinary Round House surrounded by the verdant woods.
“It was inspired by the Villa Vicenza in Rome,” said Mr. Darcy. “Built in ‘74, it is occupied by Mr. Curwen. He is not currently in residence, but there is a gravelled walk around the island, if you wish to explore further.”
“It looks a little out of place,” said Georgiana. “Surely, such an eccentric classical structure does not belong in the Cumbrian wilderness?”
Certainly, it was stunning, a cylindrical Roman pantheon topped with a great dome and fronted by giant Ionic columns. But I couldn’t support it. “Did not Wordsworth lament that an artificial appearance has been given to the whole, while infinite varieties of minute beauty have been destroyed?”
“No, you are wrong, Miss Elizabeth,” Colonel Fitzwilliam exclaimed. “I must defend its bold novelty. Nevertheless, I admit that Mr. Curwen shows little taste elsewhere: his boatmen wear flaming red jackets, enough to put even an infantryman to shame!”
“Surely you are merely jealous that His Majesty outfits you in scarlet, which fades over time.” I turned to Darcy, who was carefully steering the cutter through the small fleet of boats moored by the island.
“Can we not tarry, and allow the Colonel to swap jackets with a boatman? Then he might add a dash of colour to Horse Guards when he returns tomorrow.”
At that moment, we cleared the moorings, and our helmsman—in all innocence!
—swung the tiller, turning the bow towards the western shore.
The sails, which had been hanging loose, suddenly snapped taut as the wind caught them from the side.
The vessel heeled to one side, sending spray over the gunwale into the cockpit.
Darcy smirked at me, a slight smile curling his lips, the tiller pulled sharply on the opposite tack.
Droplets of water clung to my face. Impudently, I stuck out my tongue.
Or rather, it was Lydia. Myself, I was mortified that I should ever be accused of such unladylike behaviour.
* * *
We came up to a small jetty in a quiet wooded cove directly beneath the steep slopes of Claife Heights.
Having ascended a rocky eminence by a delightful path we came to the Summer House, from whence we enjoyed perhaps the grandest views possible of the lake—both of the north end with its magnificent mountains, and the soft repose to the south.
I took out my sketchbook, intending, perhaps, to capture the view for my diary; but, of course, Kitty could not resist taking my hand.
Once again, she drew in swift, confident lines: bold, projecting rocks intermingled with grass, wild flowers, shrubs, trees in the most picturesque forms; now rising almost perpendicularly, now projecting in sharp angles, yet every crevice teeming with vegetation; trees seeming to have forced their roots even into the solid rock, ferns of various kinds abounded and appeared to grow out of the stone, whilst grass, moss, creepers and low shrubs, of the most luxuriant growth, ornamented in the richest way possible every part.
It was truly a scene of great imagination and beauty.
Georgiana looked on in astonishment that, with so few strokes of Kitty’s pencil, the vista before us was displayed in such detail—requiring only vivid watercolours and soft pastels to bring it to life.
“Oh, I have never seen such skill,” she exclaimed. “Fitzwilliam, Richard, you must see the sketch Elizabeth has made—it is truly amazing.”
Darcy, who had laid blankets upon a grassy bank just outside the pavilion, came at her request. He stood for some time, gazing at my drawing.
Oh, it was so embarrassing for them to think that this was my skill, that I had such ability.
Kitty laughed. ‘You cannot deny it, Lizzy,’ she said, ‘I believe Darcy will admire you all the more for your skill with a pencil.’
Darcy admired me? What foolishness—I’m sure he thought of me as only a clumsy, impertinent girl of modest means and insignificant consequence.
Yet there was a part of me wishing to be admired: not for my fortune, nor for my looks—which were tolerable, I suppose, certainly not as beautiful as Jane’s—nor for Kitty’s skill.
I wished to be admired for who I truly was—yet even I did not know that person.
“It is nothing,” I mumbled, hurriedly closing the sketch book.
I looked to the blankets where the baskets had been unpacked by Mama and Mr. Darcy.
If it were merely a picnick then it was magnificent: cold roasted capon and sliced ham, pickled eggs and potted char, cherry tarts, and three bottles of country wine—gooseberry, blackberry, and my favourite, elderberry.
There was also a jug of good West Country perry.
We supped, toasted absent friends, wishing they were here, but secretly delighting in the intimacy of the present company.
We returned to the cutter a little late, at four in the afternoon, to find the wind had shifted, blowing directly from the north. This required us to tack repeatedly across the width of the lake to make our way back to the landing near Ambleside. What a to-do!
Darcy, who had once again taken the helm, would call out, “About ship!” and push the tiller hard over, forcing the bow of the boat directly into the eye of the wind.
The sails would suddenly go loose, flapping furiously and making such a noise that I thought my ears would shatter.
Colonel Fitzwilliam and the boatman would frantically haul in the jib sheets, forcing the jib-sail to the opposite side of the deck.
The wind would catch the canvas on the new side, the boat would plunge forward on a diagonal path toward the opposite shore, and the entire hull would heel heavily, sending cold lake spray over the bow.
What an exhilarating finish to our journey. Mama clutched the gunwale, holding fiercely to her bonnet. “Lizzy!” she cried, “if we survive this I’ll never go sailing again!”
But she was laughing—I believe she had never enjoyed herself so much before.
Mr. Darcy had moved a little closer to her, using his body to protect her from the spray.
With Darcy at the helm, and the Colonel on the sheets, Georgiana and I did the best we could to protect each other.
One particularly strong gust caught Georgiana unawares—her bonnet was torn from her grasp and was last seen floating southwards down the lake.
“Oh, no! My bonnet!” she cried, quite forlornly. “The ribbons! They matched my riding habit—I have no other.”
I took her hand in mine, leaving the other to clutch at my bonnet lest it too be swept away. “Sweetling, I saw a small millinery shop in Kendal—I suspect losing bonnets is a common occurrence. They are sure to sell ribbons of the right colour to match your habit.”
“B—but I have never dressed a bonnet. It seems awfully difficult.”
“Never dressed a bonnet? Well, Miss Darcy,” I said teasingly, “you now have a sister who knows someone who is a mistress of the art of dressing bonnets. On the morrow, we shall persuade our party to visit Kendal, purchase a new straw bonnet and ribbons, and then, on our return, retire to the parlour and dress your bonnet. I can assure you, it will look very fine, very fine indeed.”
‘Lydia,’ I whispered, ‘you must help me pull Georgiana’s new bonnet to pieces, and make it up with her blue ribbons.’ She giggled. ‘Oh, what fun!’
As the sun began its descent behind the western fells, the wind finally died away to a dead calm.
The boatman and Colonel Fitzwilliam took up the heavy wooden sweeps to row us the final half-mile.
Wearily, we reached the pier and clambered ashore.
In silence, we walked the short distance back to the hotel, grateful for the opportunity to stretch our legs after being cramped in the cutter for the past two hours.
* * *