Chapter 20
From: F. Darcy, Royal Canal Co.
To: E. Bennet, Child & Co.
Bennet,
We held a great celebration when the canal reached the aqueduct over the Riverstown River—just three miles remain to Mullingar.
I have moved into a fine house, Millmount House, on the outskirts of the town, adjacent to Saunders Bridge, which carries the Ardmore Road over the canal.
To the north, masons are already building the harbour at Ballinderry, some quarter mile nearer the town.
You must raise a toast for me, for I can see we are near completion, and well within the estimates.
Mr. Rennie has left to assist with the drainage of the Lincolnshire fens.
Though he was difficult to work with, I shall miss his steady hand.
You may recall that several months ago, I asked for your assistance with respect to taking the canal through Mr. Pakenham’s estate, with the alternative being to follow the line to the north, passing through Mr. Rochford’s land.
The latter was very keen, but the expense of digging the extra distance made the prospect unappealing.
Your suggestion that I should tell Pakenham that Mr. Rennie was surveying the alternative route, and that we were negotiating with Rochford, proved an excellent stratagem, for it became apparent that he too was in need of funds, and quickly offered a fair price for his land along the original line of the canal.
I believe, Bennet, that you have learnt much in your time with Child & Co.
, and I sorely wish you were able to negotiate leases and the like for me at Pemberley—also, perhaps, to deal with the parish vestry, who are reluctant to spend money on maintaining the lanes and bridges in the parish.
A false economy, as I have pointed out on many an occasion.
If I may step outside the bounds of propriety for a moment, I would ask your opinion. If I tread too close to matters which you would rather not discuss, then I am well content that you should decline to advise me—or, more likely, as the Irish would say: Gread leat!—get away with you!
I once believed that marriage was a binding union that honoured family, rank, and social standing—that to marry below my sphere, to take as my wife a woman of inferior connections, would be not only to struggle against my better judgement, but to condemn me in the eyes of society.
Yet this cannot be so. My dearest mother, the daughter of an earl, married a man of wealth, but decidedly beneath her in rank and connections.
Yet theirs was a felicitous marriage—she elevated him in society, and he taught her the benefits of being mistress of an estate where so many depended for their well-being upon her generosity and benevolence.
I do not know the minds of women, yet I know you are cognisant of such—Georgiana speaks of Mrs. Bennet with such approbation.
I am a single man of good fortune, and have discovered that I am in want of a wife.
Yet I have no understanding of what a woman would want in a husband.
Of course, marriage provides property—a house, possessions, all the accoutrements required for living comfortably—but surely there is more?
A man requires an heir, but that child needs to be raised to become a good man—neither indolent nor gamester, neither rake nor cloistered monk.
That requires more than governesses and tutors—he must have had the benefit of a good mother.
My mother died when I was but fifteen years old, attending Eton, surrounded by young men whose ideal woman was buxom and, likely, free with her charms. As for myself, I withdrew, for my father was beset with sorrow, and I had no female relatives from whom I could learn—learn how a woman sees the world.
My father was an only child, so there were no aunts from his side.
My mother’s family were so high in society that a man’s or woman’s feelings had nothing at all to do with marriage.
It was solely concerned with property, connections, and fortune.
I find myself revolted by the thought that I am only suitable as a husband to a woman—notwithstanding a pleasing countenance and good dowry—seeking only the very same: property, connections, and fortune.
My apologies, Bennet, I have vastly exceeded your brief. I shall ponder my situation as I complete my reading of Low’s Domesticated Animals. Perhaps I shall turn to some of Byron’s poetry, though he seems to have succumbed to melancholia.
I am your obliged and most humble servant,
Darcy.
Post Scriptum:
I had not realised how many of the labourers would leave to return to the farms for the harvest. The villages hereabout have already celebrated the Gaelic festival of Lughnasadh, which marks the beginning of the harvest season.
Work has slowed significantly, and even offering an extra shilling a day does not tempt them.
I discovered the men feel duty bound to bring in the crops—cutting oats, wheat, and barley, and digging potatoes.
Otherwise, the village folk would go hungry.
Apparently, nothing can be done. With the harvest likely to extend to the end of September, yet another month or two is added to my exile.
While Ireland was described by Edward du Bois as God's Own Country, I have become exceedingly weary of this heaven.
F.D.
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