Chapter 17
Keswick
The Chapel of St. Anne’s in Ambleside, described as damp and dilapidated, was being rebuilt, so on the coming Saturday, we decided to travel the few miles to Grasmere, taking rooms at the Red Lion for that evening and the next.
We attended morning service at St. Oswald’s Church—the interior was remarkably rustic, with rough-hewn oak rafters and a damp stone floor.
In the afternoon, Mama and I sat in the sun writing letters to the Philipses and Gardiners.
We had spent five days at Ambleside, and while there was still much to see in the surrounding district, it was decided to establish our headquarters at the Royal Oak in Keswick for the following week and plan excursions from there.
While both Mama and Georgiana were not averse to walking, they preferred the gentler paths, whereas I, with my mind set on attempting an assault on Scawfell Pike, wished for more active adventures.
There was no parlour at the Red Lion, so we sat at a table in the common room—quiet on a Sunday evening, though we were welcomed by the local labourers and farmers who gathered for some relaxation and good company.
“I think we could manage Catbells in an afternoon, if we set out from Keswick early,” I said, pointing to the map in my guidebook. “The views, it is said, are worth the climb. And after—perhaps a picnick by the lake?”
“Mrs. Bennet, would you object to scaling Catbells, on the western side of Derwent Water?” said Darcy. “I confess, my enthusiasm for hills is not quite as boundless as Miss Elizabeth’s.”
“A picnick sounds delightful,” agreed Mama. “Lizzy is set on climbing a great peak—I suppose Catbells will do for her. Perhaps then she will let us enjoy more gentle pleasures.”
“Ma’am, if you are not averse to riding, and perhaps a boating trip on Derwent Water, then Miss Elizabeth and I could make a plan. I see my father is content to relinquish all authority to us.”
Mama nodded, and went back to assisting Georgiana with her embroidery. Mr. Darcy laughed. “You would have me debate with Miss Elizabeth? I can assure you, Fitzwilliam, I am not so foolish!”
“My apologies, sir,” I said with mock seriousness, “I had not realised I was quite so fearsome. But I seem to be the only one here who wishes to explore the fells as they should be experienced. I think you would rather remain upon level ground—how very unadventurous.”
“I prefer my adventures to involve a horse beneath me, or perhaps a boat,” interrupted Darcy. “I find the prospect of trudging up a fell less appealing than gliding across the water.”
“And you think being drenched with water is an adventure? I am not sure that Mrs. Bennet has recovered from your helmsmanship on Windermere.”
“Nonsense, Lizzy,” cried Mama, “it was not Darcy’s fault that the weather turned. Mrs. Stanger, the innkeeper’s wife, tells me her rheumatism is not playing up, and we are due a week of good weather. I am perfectly content for another boating trip.”
“Oh, very well. Then perhaps one day for the lake, and one for the fells? I cannot relinquish my walks, Darcy, not when the countryside tempts me from every window.”
“And I cannot spend every day on foot,” said Darcy. “My legs will betray me by Thursday, and you will be obliged to carry me back.”
“Georgiana, if your brother were to collapse on the trail, do you think we could carry him?”
“Perhaps, Elizabeth, we could drag him—but I doubt he would make a pliant burden,” she replied brightly, not looking up from her work.
“Surely, Georgie, I am not so large as all that.”
“Only in pride…” I blushed.
Darcy smiled, a true smile from dimple to handsome dimple. “Touché.”
I was discomposed, and hurriedly turned back to the map. “Let us be practical. We have six full days, beginning tomorrow. I propose two walks—Catbells, and perhaps Latrigg, which is said to be less demanding. In exchange, you may choose two outings on horseback or by boat.”
Darcy was silent for a while, considering our possible excursions.
“I would like to ride to Borrowdale and then turn north, for we have already followed the southerly route. The scenery is reputed to be remarkable. As for the lake, perhaps a row to St. Herbert’s Island, though the round trip is above eight miles?
It would be an easier journey if we took a small cutter. ”
At my horrified objection, he threw up his hands in mock surrender. “We shall hire proper boatmen, Miss Elizabeth; they can steer and handle the sails. We could visit the floating island, then to Herbert Island, and return by Derwent Isle.”
This was so enjoyable, engaged in gentle banter with the gentleman—was this truly what it would have been like to have had a brother?
Or even sisters. Lydia would have pouted and tossed her head but would eventually compromise on the promise of a comfit or length of ribbon.
Mary, no doubt, would likely find a saying from Romans: ‘Let us therefore make every effort to do what leads to peace and to mutual edification.’
‘I agree to Borrowdale,’ said Kitty, ‘provided we stop at the Bowder Stone. I have always wished to see it.’
“Elizabeth, you are muttering again!”
Oh dear, I had not realised that Kitty had echoed my thoughts. “Certainly Borrowdale…” I looked away in embarrassment—had he called me Elizabeth? Again.
Darcy looked on with amusement. “Very well. And St. Herbert’s Island? Perhaps we shall find an asylum there.”
I swatted his arm. “For your penance, as we glide across the waters, I shall read aloud. Should I recite Southey or Wordsworth—whoever torments you the most?”
“I prefer Coleridge, if we are to endure the Lake Poets.” Darcy chuckled. “Now, two days remain. Do you wish to walk again?”
“I had hoped for a visit to the Castlerigg Stone Circle. It isn’t a difficult walk, and the history would please me.”
“And for me, perhaps a ride north, toward Bassenthwaite,” said Darcy. “The stables at the inn are well-stocked, and I would like to see what mettle their horses possess.”
Thus we were done, leaving the fifth day for a longer expedition along the shores of the lake. And the sixth, to be kept free for whatever we felt disposed to do.
“I suspect by then we shall be grateful for a day of rest,” said Darcy, taking my hand. “But I leave it open, in case you discover some new peak you are determined to conquer.”
I hadn’t noticed the familiarity. It felt so natural—I squeezed his hand in return. “You are generous, sir.”
“Did I not say he was the best of brothers, Elizabeth?” Georgiana looked up from her embroidery, her eyes widening as she noticed my fingers linked with Darcy’s. I looked down, realised the impropriety, and quickly pulled my hand free.
“He certainly is a good man, sweetling. But I shall never say so where he could hear, for his straw hat is already tight, and with a swelled head, it would perch atop like a bird’s nest in a tall tree.”
We were quiet for a few moments: Mama showing Georgiana how to sew a particularly difficult stitch; Mr. Darcy reading a London newspaper that was at least a week old; Darcy tracing the route to Kendal on the map; and I just sat, enjoying a contentment I rarely, if ever, had experienced before.
“Shall we take a walk?” suggested Mr. Darcy. “The night air is warm with a full moon.”
We gathered our shawls, and stepped out to find the moon shining across the quiet Grasmere waters. Beside me, I felt Papa take out his worn copy of Wordsworth. In a soft voice, he began the first few lines of the poem, A Night Thought:
Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;
Oft is she hid from mortal eye
Or dimly seen,
But when the clouds asunder fly
How bright her mien!
I took Mama’s hand. “Papa is with us,” I whispered.
“I know, I feel him walking with me. Oh, Lizzy! Do you think he will forgive me?”
“Forgive you? I do not understand.”
“When I met Mr. Bennet, he was the love of my life. But I am beginning to feel I could move on, and perhaps love another. Though not as your dear Papa, but love, nevertheless.”
I looked along the shore. George Darcy walked with his children. Georgiana holding his hand, her fair hair glowing silver in the moonlight. Fitzwilliam, broad-shouldered, even taller than his father.
Was I to be a sister to Georgiana? A true sister? Also a sister to Darcy? Something fluttered in my heart; truly, he would be the best of brothers.
* * *
How shall I ever be content with dreary Meryton!
Certainly, there can be no favourable comparison with Cumbria: the lakes, the fells, the beautiful woods, evenings spent in company with Mama, Georgiana, Mr. Darcy, and Fitzwilliam.
I fought to restrain myself, lest I began thinking I was indeed Georgiana’s sister; thus Darcy’s as well—so easy was his company.
What a delightful time: exploring the Vale of Keswick, which stretched from the head of Derwent Water to the foot of Bassenthwaite Lake; discovering the bird’s-eye view of the lake and surrounding mountains from Castle Head; enjoying the exceptionally fine view from Catbells, where I gazed in admiration over the country.
What a glorious place! Mama was obliged to drag me away, for I could scarce bear to descend once again and lose the splendid vista from the summit.
Yet, dare I say it, in company, the picnick on the shore of Derwent Water was everything special.
I lay back on the grass soaking up the sun, uncaring that my skirt was pulled up, showing my ankles—at least my thick woollen stockings I had purchased to ease the discomfort of my walking boots.
On the evening of our fifth day at the Royal Oak, having returned from our excursion to Bassenthwaite, Mr. Darcy found an express waiting for him.
“It is from Richard,” he declared, quickly scanning the letter. “He made quick time to Pemberley, thence to Meryton.” He paused, reading ahead. “He approached Colonel Forster to present the vowels and receipts held against Wickham, but found the man already taken into custody.”
“A strange turn,” said Darcy, “whatever had the man done?”
“Let me read on—for an officer, Richard takes long enough to get to the point.” There was silence for a while, before Mr. Darcy spoke again. “Mrs. Bennet, do you know a Mr. Denny, a lieutenant in the militia?”
“Certainly, sir,” she replied, “he often visited in the company of Mr. Wickham.”
“It seems he and Wickham had a falling out”—Mr. Darcy paused—”over a lady, no less. A Miss Mary King.”
“It was rumoured she had inherited ten thousand pounds,” I added. “Both Wickham and Denny abandoned their pursuit of Mama and me, and switched their attentions to her. Oh, the poor girl.”
“According to Richard, Mr. Denny won her suit, and their engagement was announced by her uncle who came down from Liverpool to give his blessing.”
“And Wickham? I gather he took losing the prize to Denny exceedingly ill.” I grasped Georgiana’s hand. She had gone pale—still suffering the shame of her near elopement.
“Very ill indeed. He accused Denny of all manner of things, claiming the lady was his, that he should have her, not Denny. As though she were nothing but a horse to be bought or sold at Tattersalls. That evening, he took to drinking heavily, growing more and more angry. When Denny came to celebrate his engagement with his fellow officers, Wickham lost all control and violently assaulted him. He was dragged away, only after doing Denny serious injury.”
“Well, the matter is settled then. He will be discharged and Richard can have him arrested for his debts, with no interference from the military. A good outcome, and we are rid of the man.” Darcy took a sip of wine and settled back in his chair, well-satisfied with the business.
“My apologies, there is another note, hurriedly written.” Mr. Darcy grimaced.
“Wickham has escaped! He broke through the roof of the shed in which he was held—unfortunately, he was not shackled. He stole a horse—the Colonel’s, no less—and fled during the night.
Also, it seems, he took a quantity of money and other items from the officers’ quarters. ”
“My God, sir! Has he been recaptured?” Darcy stood, taking the note from his father’s hand and quickly scanning it.
“He has gone to London, for that was where he was last seen on the turnpike, having ridden down the toll-keeper. Richard says he will pursue him, but Wickham has a half-day start and may turn off the main road at any time.”
“Still in uniform,” mused Mr. Darcy. “And now a deserter and a thief. When caught, he will hang, there is no other option. I cannot wish it upon him, for his father was a good man; and as a child, I was very fond of him. No doubt the poor blood came from his mother’s side.”
We were subdued when the party retired for the evening.
But, in truth, little had changed. Wickham had now fled to London, whereas before he had been in Meryton, both distant from the Lakes.
Doubtless, he left debts and possibly other young women who had succumbed to his charms—likely as not, now ruined.
We would learn the truth of it when we returned home to Hathaway House.
* * *