Chapter 30 Searching for a Cure
SEARCHING FOR A CURE
“What’s your business, sir?” asked the militia soldier outside our carriage window.
I recognized a Derby accent. After seven days traveling with my aunt and uncle, I could distinguish northern dialects.
The soldier’s tone was brusque, but Mr. Gardiner was polite. “Touring, for pleasure. We will stay in Taddington.”
The soldier, a skinny, sandy-haired man in his late twenties, leaned through the open window. The top button of his jacket was undone, and he had a slovenly attitude I disliked.
His gaze lingered on me. I hardened my expression, imagining Lady Catherine sternly counting uneaten tarts, and he looked away.
“I am surprised to encounter a militia officer in the Peaks,” my aunt said. “Is there some threat?”
I knew enough insignia to see the man was no officer, but he did not correct her. “French spies, ma’am. Bonaparte’s men were spotted not far from here.”
“Here? We are in the center of England.” My aunt was offended, perhaps because she had grown up nearby.
“Probably lost their way,” my uncle said jovially.
“You’ll have to change your way,” the soldier said. His tongue protruded, working at a tooth. “We closed the west road. You got to go east.”
My uncle frowned. “That is inconvenient.”
“No!” I broke in. “East is good.” I squeezed past to leave the carriage, brushing by the surprised soldier. The Gardiners’ tykeworm, which traveled with us inside the coach, gamboled across the leaf-covered dirt at my feet.
It was almost noon, the sun at its peak for late March. The angle looked… right. I closed my eyes, summoning the impressions from the wyvern, and turned in place. The warmth of the sun spun, and the shape of the land turned around me. Not the land itself—the things living in the land. Draca.
For the first time, we were high enough. The horses had been toiling upward for hours.
I stopped and extended my arm so I would not lose my bearings, then opened my eyes. “Yes. We should go east.”
The soldier’s jaw hung, exposing crooked, brown teeth.
“Very good,” my uncle said, as if young ladies spun like compasses every day. “May we proceed, officer?” I climbed back in, impatient and ignoring their discussion of landmarks and distances.
The driver backed and turned the coach, then we set off, bouncing over a road rough with forest roots. The entire morning’s travel had been exceedingly bumpy.
My aunt and uncle exchanged a glance of the sort acquired by married couples after many years. I thought I knew the topic. Me.
“This is the closest we have been,” I said, a little defensively.
“How encouraging,” my aunt said. That was polite, considering I had sent us coursing wildly in the last three days.
We were north and west of Longbourn, farther from home than I had ever traveled. My uncle journaled our trip each evening. He estimated we had driven over two hundred miles. Some of that was wasted—side trips when I heard of large bodies of water.
This morning, I felt every one of those two hundred miles in my seat. The roads had been bad since yesterday.
When we departed Longbourn, I guessed my goal was the Lake District, simply because it was famously wet. That was far north, almost in Scotland. But at half that distance, we climbed into a mountainous area called the Peaks. And something changed. The hills and trees felt familiar.
“Traveling east will please Mrs. Gardiner,” my uncle said with a smile.
“Are we near your old home?” I asked her.
“We will pass close to where I grew up.” She was peering out the window.
The view was good, as the Gardiners were too sensible to insist on iron-barred coaches.
“Perhaps we can overnight in Lambton. I would love to see how it has changed.” She gave me a teasing smile. “If our guide permits a slight delay?”
“That would be wonderful, Aunt,” I replied, and swatted down my twinge of frustration. They had been extraordinarily patient.
The roads improved. My aunt began to name peaks and streams. When we stopped by a tiny church to rest the horses, she led us into the woods beside.
A mossy stone shape rose taller than me in the cool shade. It was a cross overlaid with a circle, a single massive rock carved with unfamiliar, weathered patterns. One arm was broken off.
My aunt ran a finger over the stone. “I used to walk here from Lambton. The church is old, but this cross is ancient. The Irish druids were first in these woods and built a shrine here. Then came the Scots. The Church was last.”
“The Bennets originated in Scotland,” I said.
“I had a Scottish grandmother. She brought us here for the old festivals. Samhain. Imbolc. And Là Bealltainn, as the Scots say. Beltane.” My aunt arched an eyebrow rakishly, and her husband chuckled.
“May Day, if you do not wish to offend the local parson. It is a shame we are too early. It is a month away.”
We resumed our travel, and my aunt reminisced. Her words hummed without requiring much attention. Between the warming afternoon and the smoother roads, it was very restful.
I stifled a huge yawn.
My aunt laughed. “Have my stories disturbed your nap?”
“No! I am enjoying them. But I am recovering after being shaken to pieces this morning.”
“It should be smooth to Lambton. The roads are good near Pemberley.”
I almost flew off the seat. “Pemberley?”
“The Darcys maintain the roads for miles around their estate,” my aunt said. “And Lambton is within the estate. Did you not know?”
I shook my head. My mouth opened, but nothing intelligible emerged.
“How near is Pemberley to Lambton?” asked my uncle.
“No more than five miles,” my aunt said. “It is a beautiful house.”
“I should like to see it,” my uncle replied. “What do you think, Lizzy? I recall you met the gentleman but did not like him. Still, you must have heard tales of Pemberley. Shall we go?”
I realized my aunt and uncle were waiting for an answer. I forced a breath. “You may go. I think I shall rest. After touring so many great houses, my eyes are full of fine carpets and satin curtains.” There. That was a sensible answer.
“Are you sure, Lizzy?” my aunt said. “If it were merely a grand house, I should not care myself. But the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country. And”—her smile grew teasing—“they have a lake!”
“A lake?” I echoed weakly.
My aunt found an inn and began an animated conversation with the owner. I stood outside, watching the tiny town square while the inn’s footman carried bags to our rooms.
Pemberley. I knew traveling in Derbyshire brought us closer. But nearness is a relative thing. Derbyshire is large. I had not expected to stumble into an inn so close I could walk there.
My heart was tripping in my chest. “Stop it,” I whispered.
Any meeting with Mr. Darcy was unthinkable. If the mutual mortification of a spurned proposal was not enough, I had utterly severed our association with my insults.
So, I would stay while the Gardiners visited. But what if the lake was the one I sought? That would be irritating. And strange, also.
My aunt arrived beside me. “You cannot imagine the memories I have! I was younger than you when I was last here. Let us take a stroll. My legs are sore after sitting so long.” We started down the street at a pace my aunt could manage.
Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed over everything, changed and unchanged: a door that was now painted red, a shop sign that had only faded. I smiled at her enthusiasm.
“This is new,” she said as we reached the corner.
There was a good-sized building with large, modern windows and a sign that read, Lancasterian System for Children. The door stood open, and I heard young voices singing.
We exchanged a look, then peeked inside.
A dozen children were seated at rows of desks. A neatly dressed young lady, the teacher or governess, stood in front, directing them through a song. It seemed to be a funny recitation of types of trees.
The teacher caught our eye and gestured to wait, then told the children to continue without her. They did so with giggles, then ardent volume.
“Is it a school?” my aunt asked as the teacher joined us.
“Yes. This is our third year since opening. As you see, the class has grown large.”
The students were dressed in simple farm clothes, some even homespun, though all looked freshly scrubbed.
A memory from months ago returned. A comment Mr. Darcy made during dinner at Netherfield.
“The Lancasterian System,” I said. “Is that not a program for educating”—I paused, not wishing to call them poor—“children of limited means?”
“Yes.” The woman laughed, not self-conscious at all. “We would take them all, poor or rich. But in practice, it is those who cannot afford other schooling who attend.”
“Do they succeed?” My aunt was fascinated.
“Wonderfully. Our education is most thorough. There was skepticism from the parents at first, either over the benefit of schooling, or because it took the children away from helping at home. But that has been overcome. We teach four days a week now, which seems a good balance.”
“You must have a generous benefactor,” I said and found I was tense, anticipating the answer.
“It is Mr. Darcy’s program. Young Mr. Darcy, of course.
After he became master of Pemberley, he purchased this building and began seeking instructors.
He visits often to assess our progress. I think he is a most remarkable man.
” She colored prettily. “I had the honor to be chosen for this position by Mr. Darcy himself.”
I snorted, and my aunt looked at me in surprise. But surely this woman should not be unashamedly admiring her employer? Especially when she was so… pleasantly dressed. And taller than me.
My aunt and I thanked her, and we headed back to the inn.
I remembered the dinner at Netherfield. I had said the little housemaid should learn to read, and Mr. Darcy mentioned educating the poor in the north. He gave no hint that he supported it himself, or that he had already opened a school.
“You are pensive,” observed my aunt.
I nodded. I was reviewing the astounding attacks I had thrown at Mr. Darcy over his selfish wealth.
On the way, we passed a skinny, sandy-haired man in slovenly working clothes. He ducked his head as we passed, but I felt I had seen him before.
As I climbed the stairs, I realized I might be worrying over nothing. I asked the chambermaid if the Darcys were at home.
She shook her head. “Afraid not, ma’am. Mr. Darcy has been away for some time, and his sister, too. We’d hear if they was back. There’s always a great fuss from the staff when they arrive, and orders for the kitchens.”
I bit my lip to hide my relief. I could visit the mysterious lake in safety. And, with guilty satisfaction, I discovered I had tremendous suppressed curiosity about Pemberley itself.
Over dinner, and with a proper air of indifference, I mentioned that I did not object to visiting Pemberley after all.