Chapter 18 #2
I swatted his arm; my eyes moistened. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I only wish to know the joy of standing at the top of the world, with the land spread out like a map below and the clouds close enough to touch. I want to know what it is to conquer something simply because it is there. And then, as all women must, I will return to society where a woman’s place is entertaining visitors in the drawing room and drinking tea from delicate porcelain—yet remembering the day when I stood, alive, on the highest peak in the land! ”
“But if you falter on the way up,” said Darcy, the corners of his eyes crinkling, “I shall not let you forget it.”
“And now, sir, back to the game.” I placed my hand upon his arm, distracted by his good humour. “You know I mean to win.”
He took my hand in his, his gaze piercing mine. “Of that, Elizabeth, I have no doubt.”
* * *
Another express from Colonel Fitzwilliam caught up with us at the Manor House at St. Bees, a delightful village on the Cumbrian coast.
“Wickham turned back from London,” said Mr. Darcy, scanning the letter. “Richard located Mrs. Younge running a boarding house in Seven Dials and, by some persuasion, she told him of Wickham’s movements.”
“Come far down in the world, has she not?” interrupted Darcy. “But even that impoverished slum is too good for the woman. We should have had her whipped, then transported to Van Diemen’s Land!”
Georgiana burst into tears. Mama took her in her embrace. “Do not fear, sweetling,” she said. “It is all in the past. Neither Mrs. Younge nor Wickham can hurt you now.” She looked at Mr. Darcy with some reproach.
“My apologies, Georgiana,” Mr. Darcy said, accepting the rebuke. “I had not meant to distress you. Perhaps, Fitzwilliam, you should read further.”
He handed the letter to Darcy, who immediately took it up. “Richard has recruited two of his best men—corporals with service in the Peninsula—who had joined the Bow Street Runners. They are tracking him north.”
“Does he say why Wickham is fleeing?” asked Mr. Darcy.
“Mrs. Younge says he owes money to the wrong sort of men. Those who accept either repayment in coin or, if that is not forthcoming, then in broken fingers or worse.”
Mama gently led Georgiana from the room.
There was too much tension, too much ill will between the Darcys and Wickham: a man who had squandered his fortune on drink and gambling; who had attempted the seduction of his godfather’s daughter—a young woman he had known, almost as a sister, since childhood. Could there be anyone more unworthy?
“So Mary King was his last chance,” I mused. “And for all his pleasing manners, he lost the opportunity to Denny. He must owe several thousand, at the very least.”
“He is travelling up the Great North Road,” Darcy continued reading.
“Richard is not far behind, but delayed, since they must make enquiries at the toll gates and inns, to ensure they are still on his trail. Perhaps Wickham intends to go to ground in Derbyshire, where he may have friends. Richard also sent an express to Pemberley, warning the household against admitting him.”
He scowled. “The deuce, this was sent over a week ago. It must have followed us all over the Lakes. Did we not give each inn our direction for the next?”
“I daresay you are correct, Fitzwilliam. But it is a persistent rider who found us, and I cannot fault his diligence. Nor repine at the cost.” Mr. Darcy stood.
“Let us find Mrs. Bennet and Georgiana, and take a walk along the strand. The tide is full out and the width of the sand from shore to the waterline is, I am led to believe, something to behold. Wickham is fleeing—he is of no concern.”
“And where there are tidal flats, there are cockles—though I have never eaten them. Do you think, Fitzwilliam, that you are fast enough to dig them for me? I’m told they burrow deeper in the sand once they are exposed to the surface.
” I took Darcy’s arm, leading him outside into the fresh, salt laden air.
This was my first trip to the seaside, and I was not about to let talk of a reprobate spoil it.
We joined Mr. Darcy escorting Mama and Georgiana down to the beach.
How was it that I had never seen such a glorious sight before?
Carefully, we crossed the shingles before stepping onto the sand.
The water’s edge was some four hundred yards away—a quarter of a mile at the very least!
And the waves! The painting of them I had seen in Mrs. Goulding’s parlour did them no justice: the crash, the roar, the white froth—what a wonderful spectacle.
‘Lizzy, where are my pencils? Do you see the people walking along the shore?—like tiny ants, so black against the sand and distant hills!’ Kitty was laughing.
Never had I experienced such a spectacle.
Mayhap, even Scawfell Pike would not compare to the great expanse of a roiling sea, beyond which stood Ireland, the land of the poet Thomas Moore.
As we returned to the inn, all thought of Wickham was banished by the exhilaration of standing on the beach, surrounded by the power of a roaring surf.
We entered the taproom, where a table had been reserved for our meal.
As we passed the innkeeper I heard him speak to Mr. Darcy as he directed us to the table.
“Tha’s got a bonnie fam’ly, sir. Thy little lass’s hair’s fair as thy missus’s, an’ t’owd lass’s nut-brown locks’d bring a tear t’an Irish maid’s eye, they would. ”
I had found my family, at least for the remainder of our time touring the Lakes. Papa was sitting by the hearth; he glanced up and caught my eye—’I have nothing to say, my dear. They deserve you. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to a more worthy family.’
* * *