Chapter 16 #3
I was assisted onto the pony, which was indeed extremely docile, just as Mama’s was.
We had occasionally ridden at Longbourn, but only to visit the more distant tenants or to inspect the boundary fences.
Indeed, these ponies were smaller than we were accustomed to; for often as not, at home, we rode the same horses used for pulling the carts and ploughs.
The Galloways were sure-footed and often found their way along the rutted lanes and stream crossings more easily than the tall beasts that the Darcys rode.
Yet, I felt a frisson of envy, watching Mr. George Darcy, Georgiana, and Darcy riding with a confidence and pride that bespoke generations of horsemanship and connection to the land.
We turned onto the road, leaving the hotel behind—and, truth be told, sufficiently early to miss Lady and Miss Augustus, who kept to town hours.
After a mile, a road to the left crossed the Pelter Bridge leading to Langdale, going around the base of Loughrigg Fell.
To the right stood Rydal Hall. Not desirous of seeing yet another grand house, we continued on past Rydal Water and the slate quarry at Whitemoss.
It was not long before Grasmere came into view, the lake reflecting the grey clouds overhead, with similarly grey herons stalking one of its small islands.
Georgiana rode up beside me, her cheeks bright with excitement.
“Is it not the loveliest place you ever saw, Elizabeth? Do you think we shall see Wordsworth? I’m sure he lives nearby. ”
I doubted the poet would be out so early, or so inclined to greet strangers. As we descended toward the village, the road wound between stone walls tufted with ferns and harebells. The Swan at Grasmere looked inviting, smoke curling from its chimney. Darcy drew up his horse.
“We shall rest here a while, if it pleases you all. I have arranged for breakfast to be laid in the dining room. The next stage is rather steeper, and it is best to be fortified before attempting Dunmail Raise.”
This was met with general approval. As we dismounted, I caught Darcy’s eye; he looked pleased, perhaps at the success of his planning, or perhaps simply at the prospect of sharing such a morning with our party.
I felt a flutter—certainly he was a handsome man.
But it was merely hunger, I supposed, and joined Georgiana and the others at the breakfast table.
Hanging on the wall was a view beyond Grasmere, the artist capturing the broken rocks of Helm Crag.
Following the meal, we strolled a small distance along the shore, Mrs. Bennet on Mr. George Darcy’s arm, Georgiana running ahead, leaving me walking with Darcy.
“Wordsworth described the Crag as an astrologer and old woman,” said Darcy, abruptly breaking the silence. “I myself see it as a lion and a lamb.”
I glanced up to him; he was staring ahead towards the distant hills. Taking my eye off the path, I inadvertently stumbled.
“Perhaps, sir,” I said, a little hesitantly, “could you assist me, for the path is a little uneven?”
Immediately, he offered his arm. I leant on it, perhaps a little too closely, but the ground was covered with stones and grassy tufts, the footing certainly irregular.
We walked on—there was a contentment I had never known before.
Likely I felt the same as Dorothy Wordsworth writing about her beloved home:
Peaceful our valley, fair and green,
And beautiful her cottages,
Each in its nook, its sheltered hold,
Or underneath its tuft of trees.
* * *
I reluctantly admitted that travelling by horseback was certainly easier and quicker than if we had walked.
Leaving Grasmere, we ascended Dunmail Raise and continued through all the lovely places my guidebook described, until we came to Keswick a little after noon, where we turned in at the Royal Oak.
Keswick itself was a small market town, delightfully situated near the foot of Derwent Water.
We took luncheon while resting the horses—if not ourselves—before walking about the town.
Its principal trade was in the woollen manufactories, but there were also several manufactories of black-lead pencils made from the mineral plumbago mined at Seathwaite in nearby Borrowdale.
‘Oh, Lizzy,’ exclaimed Kitty, pulling me towards a workshop where black-lead pencils were manufactured. ‘Please, please, please! Oh, I do want a pencil with the lead cut so narrow it leaves just a thin line.’
“Miss Elizabeth, are you feeling well?” Darcy came to stand by my side.
“Oh, I am perfectly well. It is just that I occasionally mumble to myself.” I paused, colouring. “Though I suppose that is often taken as a sign of imminent insanity.”
“I shall warn you of it, if it were to become too frequent a habit.” He looked at the board showing a large pencil hanging above the shop. “Do you have a particular style of pencil in mind? I myself do not draw, so would be unable to offer any guidance.”
“Oh, Kitty wishes a very fine edge—my other pencils are a little coarse.”
“Kitty? Is she a friend in Hertfordshire?”
Now my ears pinked; a flush of colour crept up my neck. Whatever should I say? Kitty being a friend was as good an explanation as any other.
“Indeed, sir. I also wish to purchase some for myself; though the fineness of the lead often compromises its strength.”
“Then let us ask the craftsman himself, for I’m sure he is familiar with your problem.”
Darcy opened the door and escorted me into the workshop.
Inside, several men and women were stooped over their benches.
The building backed onto the River Greta, driving a small water wheel linked by leather belts to circular saws and polishing lathes.
A craggy, white-bearded man wearing a leather apron approached.
“Ma’am, sir, would ye be seekin’ aught?”
Darcy glanced at me, as if inviting me to speak first.
“Yes, sir,” I said, smiling as I stepped forward. “My sister—my friend—wishes to purchase a pencil with the finest possible lead, but I am told such pencils are apt to snap. Is there a way to have one both fine and strong?”
The craftsman’s face crinkled with amusement. “Aye, that’s oft asked, missus. The best black lead’s cut at Seathwaite, but th’ finer ye whittle it, th’ likelier it is to snap, as ye’ve noticed. Mind, if ye pick one set in cedar an’ handle it gentle-like, it’ll likely outlast t’others.”
“How do you shape the lead so thinly? Is it done by hand?” I asked, looking about the shop.
He nodded, glancing towards a workbench where a woman with deft fingers was trimming a slender stick of black lead.
“Aye, miss, that it be. Every bit’s cleft and sawn, and polished by hand, as is right. Then we set the lead ‘twixt two slips o’ cedar, and bind it firm wi’ glue. The choicest leads we keep back for artists and for ladies’ own hand, mind.”
I watched the woman at her work—the precision required, the patience in her movements. It was a busy place, the scent of wood shavings and soot hanging in the air. Kitty laughed. Such pencils—such drawings!
Darcy addressed the craftsman. “Would you be so good as to choose a selection for us? Some sturdy, some fine? The lady is an excellent artist—I would have you choose only the highest quality.”
“Aye, sir. Ah’ll get thee a box ready, right sharp.”
Kitty beamed, and I could not help but smile in return. It seemed a small thing, but the promise of new pencils lifted my spirits.
“Oh, thank you, Fitzwilliam.” I squeezed his arm, leaning happily against his coat.
“There is nothing to thank me for, Elizabeth,” he said. “It is my pleasure.”
Had he called me Elizabeth? I flushed—oh dear, just as I had called him Fitzwilliam.
Likely both of us forgetting I was merely an honorary sister to Georgiana—a casual acquaintance, not a true sister to Darcy.
It seemed, at that moment, something ever so special, and I found myself wondering what it would be like to belong so naturally in another’s family.
Kitty fluttered out into the sunlight ahead of us, the new pencils clutched in her hand like a prize. ‘Oh Lizzy, how clever you are! I should have been far too shy to ask alone,’ she said, skipping along the cobbled street. I laughed and followed, Darcy beside me.
We took a different route on the return to Ambleside, passing close by the plumbago mine near Borrowdale. We were told it had been flooded; the government shutting the mine to keep the price of black-lead high and to prevent theft. It was worth over ten shillings a pound—truly black gold.
Disappointed at not being able to see the raw mineral, we continued on through the valley of Langstrath, where all was wilderness and uncultivated desolation.
We climbed to the top of Langdale Stake—I could not deny that my legs were grateful for having a strong Galloway pony beneath me.
At the top of the Stake, we came upon a grand exhibition of the high summits of Bow Fell, Hanging Knotts, Scawfell Pike, and Great Gable.
I looked longingly at the Pike. It was then that I set my heart on climbing it; the highest peak in England.
We then descended to Langdale Head, making our way past Dungeon Gill, then across the Pelter Bridge to rejoin the road a mile north of Ambleside.
“Hey ho!” cried a voice we had come to know too well. Lady Augustus and her daughter drove abreast of us as we walked our horses slowly down the road. “We heard you had gone to Keswick, and made there in our chaise. Enquiring at the Oak, you had already departed.”
“We returned by way of Borrowdale,” replied Mr. Darcy. “Once into the hills, only cart tracks are passable, certainly not suitable for a chaise. It is only a mile to the Salutation Hotel—shall we meet again for dinner?”
* * *