Chapter 19
Scawfell Pike
“Mr. Appleby, this is a surprise.” I had just stepped out of the inn at Wasdale Head. “You’re a long way from Ambleside.”
“Well, what have we here? One of my favourite ladies—well met, Miss Bennet.” He paused, looking at me with some discernment. “May I ask where you’re walking to, this fine morning?”
I laughed. “I think you can guess, sir. I shan’t be content with strolling to Sty Head, though I’m told the view is very fine from there.”
“Indeed it is. I came that way from Langdale over Rossett Gill. I am making a map of the route for my guidebook. Are you to attempt Great Gable? While it is steep, the way is not difficult. I myself have followed a sheep trail to the summit.”
“No, sir. If we had more time in the district, I would certainly make the climb. Mrs. Bennet, however, has declared she has climbed more mountains in the past few weeks than she ever wished for a lifetime.”
He smiled, then turned serious. “Oh dear, surely you do not intend to ascend Scawfell? I know you have a great love of the poets, Miss Bennet, but I implore you. Coleridge was a lucky man to have climbed the peak alone and returned unscathed. Surely you do not intend to do the same?”
“My apologies, Mr. Appleby. I may have led you on a little. Mr. Darcy is to accompany me.” I chuckled. “It seems that I am tolerable enough for such an expedition as this; though not sufficiently handsome to promenade in Ambleside.”
At that moment, Darcy ducked under the low frame of the doorway.
“Fie! Elizabeth, am I to suffer from that ill-advised comment for the remainder of our tour?” He extended his hand to Mr. Appleby.
“We met briefly in Ambleside in the company of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Then by Bridge House, where I made some unfortunate and completely untrue statements about a certain charming lady. I trust, sir, you will forgive me.”
Appleby harrumphed. “I should call you out, Mr. Darcy, but I see that you and Miss Bennet have come to an accommodation. On another more serious matter. The lady says you are to climb Scawfell. It is a steep climb, sir, not at all suitable for a woman. Indeed, the scree slope leading to Mickledore is exceedingly treacherous.”
“Mr. Appleby, I certainly agree with you,” said Darcy.
“But Miss Bennet is the most determined woman of my acquaintance. She intends to climb the mountain—Scawfell Pike—and will not be gainsaid. Rather than Coleridge’s Scawfell, she wishes to take the view from the highest point in the land—the Pike.
I give you leave, sir, to dissuade her—it would be a great relief to me and Mrs. Bennet. ”
I smirked. “If you will lend me your sack with our provisions, Darcy, then I shall be on my way. Mr. Appleby, I promised my friend—if he is such—that I would take a guide. Would you accompany me? Darcy, I believe, is afraid of sliding down the slopes—certainly, he is taller than either of us, so has further to fall; quite possibly, to his detriment.”
Of course we would scale the peak—this was the purpose of our excursion to the head of Wastwater.
Mrs. Bennet, Mr. George Darcy, and Georgiana intended to hire stout ponies that were accustomed to the rocky trails, and ride to Sty Head Tarn for a picnick, then join up with us on our descent from the peak.
It was a glorious day, with only a few clouds scurrying across a clear blue sky, and I could scarce wait to begin the ascent.
Mr. Appleby had agreed to accompany us, wishing to sketch the view from Scawfell Pike, and then return by Sty Head, following in reverse the route he had taken from Langdale.
“If you would be so kind, gentlemen, as to pretend my attire is all that is proper. I have, on the suggestion of the innkeeper’s wife, raised the hems on my walking dress so that it stays clear of the ground. No higher than a ball gown, but likely not suitable for refined society.”
“Of course, Miss Bennet,” said Appleby, “it is eminently practical. Nevertheless, it may be difficult to keep your hems dry when we cross Lingmell Beck, which is flowing quite strongly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Appleby. I shall do my best to keep my feet dry. Though I suspect my stockings will be well and truly sodden by the end of the day.” I skipped ahead; then realised I should conserve my energy.
For while the sheep trail we were following was not at all steep—more like the ascent of Oakham Mount—above me the Pikes of Scawfell and Mickledore loomed forbiddingly.
Could I really make such a climb? Had women truly the endurance necessary? Time would explain.
The beck was a tumbling torrent of white water swirling around black, slippery rocks. I had not thought to bring a staff with me, so each step was hazardous as I tested my boot on the wet stones. Darcy offered me his arm, which I gratefully accepted.
“Thank you, Fitzwilliam. If I manage to cross with only one wet foot, I will be well pleased.”
“If you let me carry you, then both feet will remain dry.”
“No, sir!” I squealed. He merely laughed, and shortly thereafter we were safely across the gill. ‘Lizzy, are brothers always so useful?’ whispered Kitty. ‘I never saw John Lucas be so kind to his sisters Charlotte and Maria.’
The path grew steeper, and more often than not, Mr. Appleby was forced to turn away from a sheep trail and make passage over the coarse grasses and heather until we found another trail leading upwards, always upwards.
My breath shortened; truly, I was panting like one of Mr. Stephenson’s steam engines. Had we been walking for only an hour? Surely not, for it felt as though I had climbed Loughrigg Fell and Catbells, one immediately after the other.
“Enough, Miss Bennet,” called Mr. Appleby. “My legs are not as young as yours. Let us rest here, and take the view over Wastwater. To the left are the fells of Illgill Head and Whin Rigg; below them are the Wasdale Screes.”
“What are screes?” I asked, as I sank onto the heather.
“They are loose pieces of stone, rocky debris, and broken rock fragments fallen from cliffs and crags. The pieces are very unstable and shift underfoot, sliding down the steep slopes when people walk across them.”
“Are we to climb such screes?” asked Darcy, who had filled his cup from a small stream and passed it to me. The water was ice-cold, but ever so refreshing.
“Thank you,” I said softly. He smiled, then refilled the cup and passed it to Mr. Appleby.
“Ah, nothing like chill mountain water!” Mr. Appleby took a long draught, then replied to Darcy.
“Indeed, sir. We must climb the Mickledore scree—very steep, but short, only fifty yards or so. There are also scree slopes below the cliffs that surround Scawfell Pike, but fortunately, we do not have to cross them.”
“Are they so dangerous?” I queried. “Surely if taken carefully, then they can be crossed quite safely.”
“Easily said, Miss Bennet. The rocks start sliding, and to keep balanced, your feet naturally follow them. After a very short while, you find yourself running down the slope, just to stop yourself falling and sliding. It is uncontrolled, and if you fall, then you can tumble all the way to the bottom.”
And we were to attempt to climb the scree slope below Mickledore—what folly!
Soon enough, we resumed our climb. Every step was now a hardship, one foot placed just beyond the other.
We rarely spoke, conserving our breath, yet the view surrounding us was magnificent, and as we ascended higher, more of the country spread out below.
It was breathtaking, except I no longer had breath enough to spare.
Yet, for all the burning in my lungs as I breathed in the cold mountain air, my skirts wrapped about my legs hindering every step, I would not have traded this experience for all the silks of the Orient.
“A piece of cheese, Elizabeth, Mr. Appleby?” Darcy pulled a small wrapped package from his satchel. “I believe we have come to the scree slope. It looks exceedingly steep, and sustenance now will assist us to the summit.”
“Very wise, sir. Miss Bennet, if you look to the north, you can see the old pack-horse trail —Hollow Stones—coming from Lingmell Col. That is where we shall meet your party returning from Sty Head. See how it skirts just below the scree slopes off Pikes Crag.”
As we began the ascent of the scree, Darcy offered me his hand, but the stones slid so much underfoot that, reluctantly, I released it, lest the both of us tumbled down the slope.
I felt my eyes moisten; my legs ached; my skirt continually draped the rocks ahead, forcing me to lift it out of the way of my boots—progress was exhausting.
I slipped, falling forward onto my knees, the rocks cutting sharply through the layers of clothing: the woollen dress, linen petticoat, cotton chemise, and stockings.
When had I last grazed my knees? ‘Oh, Lizzy,’ cried Lydia, ‘surely we must return?—this is no longer any fun. No fun at all!’
“Elizabeth, are you well?” Darcy stood just behind me. Likely, he hoped to catch me if I fell. “You are muttering—certainly, it is madness to continue up this slope.”
I felt his presence, leaning against him. “Fitzwilliam, you must promise me, you must promise…”
“Elizabeth?”
“Promise me you will not let me surrender; that I will conquer this accursed fell. Please! Promise me!”
Mr. Appleby had stopped a little ways ahead. He looked down at me with such compassion. “We shall take a short break. Darcy, perhaps a little spirits for Miss Bennet from the bottle you carry. At the very least, it will dull the soreness and pain.”