Chapter 30
Ireland
The city was a lively hum, a patchwork of laughter and clattering hooves, the air sharp with the tang of peat smoke and sea mist rolling along the Liffey from Dublin Bay.
“Oh, look!” cried Georgiana. “A jaunting car! Please, Augustus, can we ride on one?”
“Anything to please my Duchess.” Lord Leinster stopped his coach and requested a footman to secure a jaunting car for their convenience.
He assisted Georgiana onto one side, while Darcy helped Elizabeth onto the other, before climbing up and sitting beside her.
The coach followed respectfully behind, as the car made its way along Merchants Quay, opposite the colonnades of the Four Courts building.
“At least there are no ruts to knock you off,” said Elizabeth, as she watched Dublin unfold before her.
The streets were narrower here than in London, the houses appeared taller—indeed, as Darcy had written in his letters, it was that city’s equal in architecture and elegance.
There was something about the place, a restless, easy confidence, as if the city had survived a hundred storms and would weather a hundred more.
Georgiana, now Duchess of Leinster, glowed with happiness, her gloved hand resting on her husband’s arm.
The Duke, a tall man with a ready, unstudied charm, pointed out the sights as they rolled past Trinity College—its grand, sun-bleached facade alive with students in black gowns—and the Senatorial Hall, now the Bank of Ireland.
“Do you wish to see the tapestries? They are said to rival those commissioned by the Duke of Malborough to celebrate his victories over Louis XIV. Come, let me show them to you.” The Duke handed down Georgiana, and they made their way into the building.
There was a hushed silence as the customers and staff alike, paused and bowed to the Duke and Duchess.
Nodding in acknowledgement, he moved quickly to view the hangings.
“Dublin has ever been a city of contradictions,” the Duke laughed, catching Darcy’s sceptical eye.
“It is both ancient and new, rebellious and loyal, English and yet never truly so. While mostly a Catholic country, these tapestries celebrate Protestant victories against an English Catholic King James II.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Rather a conundrum, Your Grace.”
“It is, Mrs. Darcy,” he agreed, “and one I have not yet solved.”
Darcy, who had seemed reserved since their arrival, relaxed in the company of his sister. “Dublin has more character than I expected,” he admitted, “though Croft did say it was livelier than London.”
Their tour wound on—past the statue of King William, past the elegant sweep of Merrion Square, where poets and politicians had lived cheek by jowl, and the Duke kept his house in town.
The Duke had arranged for a private barge, its polished wood gleaming, drawn by a team of sturdy horses along the towpath.
Elizabeth had never travelled by canal before.
She found it oddly peaceful, the gentle sway of the boat, the quiet splash of water against its sides.
The city faded, replaced by green banks dotted with wildflowers and the occasional ragged child waving at their slow passage.
Georgiana pressed close. “Is it not beautiful?” she whispered.
Elizabeth, watching the reflection of the sky ripple in the water, nodded. “I never imagined Ireland could be so gentle.”
The journey lasted several hours, the countryside rolling past in shades of emerald and gold. At intervals, they passed through locks, the process slow and faintly magical: gates swinging, water rising or falling, the boat lifting imperceptibly as if by some secret hand.
At last, the Duke pointed to the horizon, where a grand house waited amid a sweep of manicured parkland and ancient trees.
“Carton House,” he announced with pride.
“It has been in my family for generations. Now, it is home to my Duchess—and to any family she chooses to bring—you are always welcome.”
He laughed. “I have ordered another carriage to meet us, Darcy. A trifle more elegant than a farmer’s cart!”
* * *
The wedding of the Duke and Georgiana had been a small, private affair, with only his brother, Lord William FitzGerald, and his sisters, Lady Emily and Lady Isabella, attending from his family, along with Darcy, Elizabeth, and the Matlocks.
The couple had invited Elizabeth and Darcy to accompany them to Ireland.
Now, after a week at Carton House, they would continue their journey along the canal to Mullingar.
A private canal boat, Elizabeth decided, was the finest of all ways to travel.
There was a chamber to retire to, a dining room, and a well-equipped kitchen.
Truly, it was so much more enjoyable than a carriage rattling along Ireland’s ill-made roads.
The journey to Thomastown passed so peacefully that she could scarcely believe they had arrived.
Darcy handed her onto the quay—so little had changed since he had been living in the house set just back from the canal. The building looked prosperous; quieter, of course, since the navvies were now drinking in taverns and alehouses far to the west, beyond Mullingar.
A tall, broad man exited the building and stood, hands on hips, puzzled, staring at the fine gentleman and handsome lady who possessed enough wealth to afford their own private barge.
“Well, I never thought to see you again, Patrick Murphy,” said Darcy, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand. “Would’ve reckoned you and your gang would be well away from here.”
The man laughed. “Mr. Darcy! Ah, the top o’ the day to ye, sir! Back again to take your ease at Thomastown’s finest, is it? Faith, I’d have wagered you’d had your fill of the place by now.”
“Why are you here?” asked Darcy, as Elizabeth came up to stand beside him.
“’Tis this way, yer honour. Mrs. Donnellon was after seekin’ a man to mind the house, and meself was sittin’ in the taproom, a drop taken, I won’t lie, and I says to her, says I, sure I’d not begrudge the work, but an innkeeper, faith, he’s needin’ a fine wife to keep him straight and out o’ the drink. ”
At that moment, a young woman came up to him. “And what’s that you’re after sayin’, Patrick Murphy? That you wed me just for the taproom, is it? Away with you now, for you’ll find your bed cold and empty this night.”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, Mr. Darcy. Me Caitríona, she’s ne’er been one to hold her tongue.”
Elizabeth stepped forward and curtseyed. “So pleased to meet you, Mrs. Murphy… Mrs. Darcy. Why, we could almost be sisters—you have such lovely chestnut hair. Come, let the men talk of canals and the like. For myself, a cup of tea would be very welcome.”
Later that evening, Elizabeth and Darcy snuggled beneath the covers of the exceedingly comfortable bed on the canal boat. Politely, they had declined accommodation in the hotel, though they enjoyed a fine meal with the Murphys, who proved to be excellent and lively hosts.
“Fitzwilliam, do you think Patrick Murphy will sleep alone tonight?”
“No.” Darcy’s response was abrupt.
“She’s a very pretty lady, with chestnut hair, just like mine.”
Darcy harrumphed. “Elizabeth, as I told Bennet, there’s only one woman who has my heart, and everything else besides.”
Gently, Elizabeth kissed Darcy’s lips, then cuddled farther into his arms. “As you have mine, Fitzwilliam. Oh, I am the luckiest person in the world.”
* * *
* THE END *