Chapter 23
They waited for the tide at the entrance to the Mersey River, then made passage to Liverpool, where the Earl of Moira moored at the company dock.
Darcy stood for a while. England! Eight months since he had left; yet, looking south across the estuary, he might still have been on the shores of Dublin Bay.
The same brown and white cows grazed, oak and ash just beginning to colour with the hint of autumn approaching.
Had he been away for most of the English spring, then a full summer in Ireland?
“Mr. Darcy, leaving us so soon?” Captain Skinner laughed. “I cannot blame you, for it was a mighty rough and long crossing!”
“A fearsome storm! I believe I felt every pitch and roll of the vessel. I am in your debt, sir, for bringing us safely to shore. Are such tempests usual in the Irish Sea?”
“Northerly winds often swell up in the North Atlantic, bringing their freezing rains and gales across the sea and the north of England. Be careful, sir, on the journey home, for the roads will be treacherously slippery.”
“Thank you again, Captain. Now, I must be off. ‘Tis a journey of seventy miles. As you say—the roads are likely to be thick with mud.”
A carriage was waiting at the dock, and Darcy and Croft were grateful to recline on the padded benches, though the rutted road and the poor suspension of the hired coach made the journey less than comfortable.
“We shall push on as far today as possible. Perhaps even the fifty miles to Macclesfield, if there are horses enough on the turnpike,” said Darcy, impatient to return to Pemberley—to see Georgiana, and thank Bennet for his excellent stewardship of the estate.
To know that such a person had taken such effective control—and his wife, Elizabeth, such a good friend of Georgiana.
Of course, the homecoming would likely be spoilt by the visitors in the house—Lady Catherine, cousin Anne, the Bingleys.
Had he really given Bingley an open invitation to visit Pemberley?
Certainly it was ill-mannered to come without him being in residence—to impose on Georgiana, her not being out in society.
He thought back to when he had attended Bingley—where?
—Netherfield Park. Had he really considered that Miss Bingley would make a suitable mistress of Pemberley?
Surely not! Could she run the household with practical skill and social grace; make calls on farmers’ wives, of lower rank but many of whom possessed significant wealth and influence; manage the household expenses?
Of course, she could have organised dinner parties, perhaps even a ball.
But her other duties—visiting the sick and needy, patroness of the village school?
He shuddered. He recalled Lady Anne’s legacy—her refined, understated taste—in contrast to the pretentiousness shown by Miss Bingley in her redecoration of the public rooms at Netherfield.
From her letters, it appeared that Georgiana had benefited greatly from Mrs. Elizabeth Bennet’s company.
That lady had taught Georgiana the social skills required of the hostess of a great estate.
Mayhap he owed Lady Jersey some grudging respect, for it was she who had appointed Bennet—likely, she had a previous acquaintance with the man’s wife.
Perhaps even they had been introduced to society higher than that an accountant would normally enjoy, through their association with the countess.
He took out his book, rereading Scott’s The Lady of the Lake. On opening the covers, his eyes glanced upon the inscription: For the Library of Fitzwilliam Darcy, may he follow the steps of James Fitz-James, your Friend, Bennet.
Indeed, he was coming home just as Fitz-James had—was he coming as a king to Pemberley, as Fitz-James had been revealed to be?
If truth be told, his sojourn in Ireland had been ever lonely.
It was through their letters—Georgiana’s and Bennet’s—that he had been able to endure the place.
It was time, he realised, to marry. His sister needed a companion who would assist her coming out into society, who would love her as much as he himself did.
And he would be coming home to his Ellen—his Lady of the Lake.
* * *
As they drove eastwards from Liverpool, debris from the storm had increasingly littered the road.
In places, they were forced to the verge to allow oxen teams to pass, pulling trees that had fallen and blocked the route.
On reaching Macclesfield, they found accommodation at the Castle, a most inapt appellation: the rooms were small, the building itself hidden away off a narrow, cobbled lane opposite the green by the church.
“Perhaps, sir,” said the innkeeper the next morning, “if you are bound for Bakewell, it might be prudent to go north to Horwich End, then take the Long Hill road to Buxton.
Otherwise, you must cross Shining Tor, which is likely closed by ice and snow.
‘Twas blowing a gale up there only two days ago, and the rain is still falling. All the rivers have risen and are likely to continue to rise.”
“How much further is the detour?” asked Darcy. “I’ve an urgent need to get to Lambton, which is just beyond Bakewell.”
“Praps five miles, but quicker in this weather. You’ll need to climb the ridge by Combs Head, but it is an easy hill.”
They changed horses at the post-inn at Horwich End, were assured that the road over the pass by Combs Head was open, and after some two hours and a half came to Buxton.
The Old Sun Inn provided a simple meal and a change of horses, sufficient to take them through to Lambton, and then the lane to Pemberley, a further five miles from the town.
More debris was scattered on the road: leaves, branches torn from trees.
The River Wye at Bakewell was swollen, whole trees being swept under the arches of the bridge.
The road was deeply rutted, water pouring from rivulets sprung from the hillsides, which hitherto had been dry.
Lambton had not escaped the destruction of the storm.
One of the old oak trees by the cemetery had been uprooted.
Strangely, there was no one nearby—the town appeared deserted.
They turned into the High Street, which led by the green towards the river.
Ahead was a great commotion, the whole village turned out.
Laden carts, piled high with belongings and household furniture, were being led toward the church; others, empty, returning toward the river.
The way forward was blocked. Darcy stepped down and walked towards the hubbub.
As he came closer, he saw that trees, washed down the river, had become stuck under the bridge.
More debris followed, even a dead, bloated cow stuck fast, blocking the flow.
It had formed a dam, threatening to flood the houses along the river bank, upstream of the bridge.
At first, he had taken the scene to be one of confusion and disorder; yet, he saw there was purpose—everyone had some business, some task to carry out.
“Ma’am, the sheep in Silow’s field. They’re safe for now, but if the bridge were to break, they’d be washed away.”
“What do you suggest, Mr. Baggaley, for you are better acquainted with the land hereabouts than I?” Darcy recognised Baggaley, a freehold farmer, his land bordering Pemberley’s, but the woman was a stranger.
“If you’d agree, ma’am. We could herd the flock to higher ground—Pemberley land—they’d be safe there.”
Darcy stepped forward—but as he made to move, the woman responded with a weary sigh.
“There is no need to ask, Mr. Baggaley—send some of the younger boys to move the flock. No! You should accompany them, for Silow’s field is near the river and certainly waterlogged.
Keep an eye on them, for they may do something foolish and be swept away.
‘Twould be better to lose a sheep than one of the children.”
The man turned and ran down toward the river, calling for two young boys to come with him. The woman placed her hands on her hips, surveying the scene. She wore a matron’s cap, damp with the drizzle still falling; her woollen spencer was sodden, as was her brown woollen skirt.
“Ma’am, who is in charge here?” Darcy’s long strides caught up with her; she turned, a look of surprise crossing her face.
“Mr. Darcy!” She paused, looking at him with some relief. “Oh, you are so very, very welcome. Come, follow me and I will explain our desperate need.”
Lifting her skirts out of the mire, she strode quickly towards the bridge.
“As you can see, trees and other debris have caught under the arch. It is too dangerous to attempt to free them, for they can only be pulled upstream and the current is too strong. The river is dammed and overflowing its banks. The houses there are already waterlogged and likely to be further flooded—we have organised carts to carry the owners’ belongings to the church.
But that, perhaps, is the least of our worries. ”
Darcy took in the scene. Some water was flowing under the two arches, but the remainder was trapped. The bridge was old, built of stone and timber. If the pressure became too great, it would collapse.
“I see you have discerned the problem. If the bridge were to collapse, the built-up water would flood and wash away everything below it, for many miles downstream: fences, houses, livestock, people…” Her eyes moistened; angrily, she brushed her incipient tears away.
“No, sir. We cannot allow that to happen. But there is a solution, if only we have enough strong men to complete the task.”
“Further upstream,” she continued, “the river bank has been eroded by an old flood, but now built up over time. Beyond the bank is a shallow channel, yet not deep enough to carry the full load of the river, but sufficient, if it were dug deeper, to divert the flood and prevent the pressure building up on the bridge.”