Chapter 7 Departure
DEPARTURE
EMMA
The sun climbed above the hills, and I said my farewells outside Pemberley’s tall front entrance.
A coach waited, not iron barred but solidly built of heavy oak. It looked almost nautical, with narrow windows and brass locks on the doors. I suppose iron bars were little use against Blackcoats with muskets.
Mr. Knightley was overseeing the loading.
He had brought two mid-sized leather cases.
I had two travel chests, a large carrying case, and two hatboxes, and that was after ruthless sorting.
The rest would wait at Pemberley to be shipped later, or, if I found the amulet soon, I could collect it when I returned.
Mr. Darcy assessed our piled baggage with a careful eye, then went into the house and returned with a polished wooden box, narrow and long. He opened it to show Mr. Knightley a gun of burnished walnut and steel.
“A Baker rifle,” Mr. Darcy said. “I do not hunt with it—I found it unsportingly accurate—but your circumstances are different.” He pointed to a folded paper tucked by the powder horn and gleaming lead bullets.
“Loading instructions. It is more involved than a musket. You have pistols?” Mr. Knightley nodded.
Mr. Darcy turned to me. His attire was always perfect, but there were signs of extra care this morning—an involved fold for his neck cloth, and coattails so crisp I suspected he had not sat on them once.
“You have been very kind,” I said. For Mr. Darcy, that was sufficient. More would be maudlin.
He accepted that with a slight bow. “I owe you thanks as well. You brightened Pemberley through a dark time.” He spoke with extreme seriousness, and I remembered when Lizzy fell and I pleaded with him to turn back from the lake’s depths, both of us deep in the freezing water.
He assessed me, rather like how he examined our baggage, and I wondered if I would be offered a gun. Instead, he passed me a hand-sized notebook bound in mauve cloth—his mother’s journal where she had noted her experiments in managing her condition.
I pressed it back into his hand. “That belongs with you. Besides, I have read it twice. If I wish to fall asleep, I shall ask Mr. Knightley to recite the dangers of Surrey. I have heard that twice, too.”
“Take this, then,” Mr. Darcy said. From the notebook, he removed a plaited red lanyard that marked the page. “This was significant to my mother. A symbol of her marriage and binding. Perhaps it will be a talisman.”
Georgiana shooed him aside so she could embrace me. She whispered, “I will sing of you.”
Mary simply studied me, her spectacles shining amid her hanging brown locks. She folded her arms and said, “Be careful.”
Lucy curtsied. I laughed and pulled her in for a hug, then held her at a distance to admire her. “You are growing into a young lady. Will you come visit me in Surrey?”
That was a silly invitation amid a war, but Lucy only said, “Yes, madam. Once Mrs. Darcy can spare me.”
“That will be wonderful,” I said with a smile.
Nessy was brave, but her eyes filled, so I hugged her too. “We will see each other before long. Think of all your new friends at school.”
She stuck out her bottom lip. “They do not have magic.”
Then it was goodbye to the servants and staff, and questions about what box could be balanced atop what other. The driver and footman climbed to their seats, and Mr. Knightley presented his hand by the open door. “Miss Woodhouse.”
When I departed Hartfield for London, the darkness inside the coach had frozen me until Harriet gently helped me forward.
Now, I placed my gloved fingers in Mr. Knightley’s and stepped easily into the carriage, beginning our three-day, two-hundred-mile trek to find the amulet and win back my life.
Fifty feet down the road, Mr. Knightley asked, “May we make a stop? A family we helped escape Sussex is near Lambton. I would like to look in before leaving.”
I agreed, of course, so we passed through Lambton and followed a road into the uncleared forest that covered much of Pemberley’s land.
We arrived at a wattle-and-daub house, the house a little ill kept, the garden a disaster.
A man was inexpertly mowing the overgrown weeds with a scythe, his hat, coat, and waistcoat removed.
Mr. Knightley greeted him, then introduced us while his young daughter watched solemnly a few steps behind.
“I’m sorry to be in such a state,” the man said, wiping a handkerchief over his sweaty brow.
He was brown skinned, like many who had fled the south.
“Carpentry’s my trade.” He put his hands on his hips, breathing hard and surveying the half-cut weeds.
“I am developing a healthy respect for farmers, I can tell you that.”
“Are you going to sow it?” I asked. In places, the mown weeds were six inches tall. They would grow back in a week. “You will need to plow it, too.”
“I just thought to tidy it. Not right to have a house look shaggy. We’ll be gone afore it matters much.”
Mr. Knightley waved gallantly to the expanse of Pemberley. “Mr. Darcy was able to provide several unused homes. We placed four families that escaped the south. I have written letters to businesses in Sheffield inquiring about employment for the men.”
“You just scattered families through Pemberley?” I exclaimed.
Mr. Knightley nodded, suddenly wary. Rightfully so.
“Well, that is no good. What if they are here for a time? We must get them settled.” I smiled at the daughter, who was listening with an overly mature, intent focus. “Have you attended the school yet?”
Caught off guard, she bobbed a crooked curtsy. “No, ma’am.”
“It is just in Lambton. You can walk there easily. My friend Nessy attends, and she is about your age. She adores her lessons.” Well, she adored her friends at least, even if she was pleased when a class was unexpectedly canceled.
“Tell Momma about it,” the girl said. She took my hand and led me toward the side of the house.
I glimpsed the men’s surprised reactions.
Her father half-reached to stop his daughter, and concern creased Mr. Knightley’s face.
Was the mother ill? Old fears slipped into my thoughts, scratching away at my careful exercises and practice.
I clenched my free hand to suppress a reflexive check of my collar.
The corner of the house was a few quick steps. We rounded it and startled a thin woman with braided hair. She seemed to have been hiding. She gasped, “Madam,” and curtsied amid the knee-high ragwort, bowing her head.
“Please do not,” I protested. “I am only another guest of Pemberley. I was telling your daughter about the school…”
She straightened, and I saw the burn on her face. It was recent and partly healed, a pink streak as if a hot poker had been laid on her temple and eyebrow. She saw me notice—I was too slow to shift my gaze—and her hand covered it with an awkward, over-practiced gesture.
Her husband rushed past me and wrapped an arm around her waist, half hiding her against his side.
“Did that happen in the south?” I asked, as simply as I could. It would be worse to pretend I had not seen.
“The slavers had us for a time,” the husband said, his voice shaking with anger. That smoothed as he told his wife tenderly, “You are as beautiful as ever.”
The child piped up, “It’s true, Momma.”
The woman was handsome, with huge dark eyes and a sculpted face, although too thin. Food must have been scarce during their flight.
An impulse took me, and I removed my glove and offered my hand. After a moment, she stepped away from her husband and took it, her touch long-fingered and smooth.
Her injury seared my awareness, an echo of the original hurt, worse because it had been violent. That faded, muted by her partial healing. My sense of her health deepened, and I saw how the shiny skin would smooth and darken in the months ahead.
“Burns are slow to heal,” I said, “but it is not deep. I am sure it will fade. Your family is right. It does not diminish your beauty.” I smiled. Hesitantly, she smiled back. “These hills have good people. Do not hide yourself. They will welcome you.”
Through our touch, another sensation grew. Her husband, watching anxiously, filled her with warmth. Their love was a shining thing, and from the forest around us, I felt an answering stir, the tawny brown attention of an intrigued observer.
“Have you seen draca in these woods?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, brightening. “A handsome broccworm comes and goes. A proud thing.”
That was the draca I sensed, unbound, his binding latent and loose. I imagined his binding reaching to this woman and then, almost like I had tugged it, the end stretched to graze her shining love.
I leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Hold your husband close tonight, and see what happens in the morning.”
We departed. As we passed back through Lambton, I had the driver stop so I could speak with the mother of another girl who attended the school. When I climbed back in, I told Mr. Knightley, “She will visit them and explain about the school.”
“That is kind of them,” he said. He crossed his arms thoughtfully. “And of you.”
“They left so much behind. Letters to businesses are well and good, but they lost their home. I do not see why they cannot stay in Pemberley. Carpenters are always needed.” I watched the few streets of Lambton pass.
“They would be better here than in a big city like Sheffield. Here, everyone is a friend. Appearances are forgotten. A city is filled with strangers. You cannot imagine what it is like for a woman to be harmed that way. We are so judged by our faces.” Mr. Knightley did not answer, his complexion as brown as the oak panels, and I realized I had blundered.
“Of course, you do know what that is like.”
“I understood your point.” He watched me with peculiar attention. I wondered if I would get another lecture about projects. Instead, he asked, “Did you try to heal her?”
I looked at the trees passing the window. “Mr. Darcy is wrong about me and healing. I have the most useless gift. I feel what is wrong with people, but I cannot help. It was Lady Anne’s gift that healed Nessy. I have no skill like that.”
“That must frustrate you.”
“If I could imagine doing it, or even how it would happen, I would be frustrated. But I cannot. It feels as unimaginable to me as it would be to you. It is not frustrating. Just… disheartening.”
A little sad, I looked through the things I had brought to pass the time of our travel. The red lanyard from Lady Anne’s journal was loose in my reticule, so I tied it to the drawstring so it would not be lost.
“That couple will bind, though,” I said. “To the handsome broccworm. She will like that.”