Chapter 19 #2
I never had a taste for brandy—it burned my throat as I sipped from Darcy’s flask.
Oh, Lizzy Bennet, whatever are you doing?
But it cleared my head. Angrily I turned; anger at the mountain; anger at myself for almost succumbing to my fears and pain.
We crested the scree slope, then climbed an even steeper rock-filled cleft.
I crawled on my hands and knees, my skirts pulled up around my waist. For decency’s sake, both gentlemen clambered ahead. If I fell—it was a long way down.
We had defeated Mickledore! I stood in the saddle between the twin peaks of Scawfell to the south and Scawfell Pike to the north.
I sat, with as little grace as possible, onto the short tufted grass.
I had no energy left for elegance nor any form of decorum.
The wind blew hard across the ridge, loosening my hair which now fell free below my bonnet.
“You are remarkable, Elizabeth,” said Darcy, sitting beside me.
“No sir. It is you and Mr. Appleby who are remarkable. You tolerated a weak, dare I say, pathetically weak woman, and dragged her to the top of the world. That, sir, is the feat poets should write about—it is not I, Fitzwilliam, who has conquered this mountain, it is you and Mr. Appleby.”
“When you have taken your rest, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Appleby, after rather too short a time for my liking, “we must move on to the summit. There are clouds looming from the north that look rather ominous; we wouldn’t wish to be caught in the rain, or mist.” He took out his watch.
“Just three hours—well done, very well done, indeed!”
I forced myself upright. Surely the summit was not far; yet the mountain was not done with me. The final stretch was a jumble of boulders, each one waiting to twist my ankle.
“Careful, Miss Bennet,” Appleby cautioned, as we moved away from the shelter afforded by the crags surrounding the ridge. “These rocks are treacherous, and the wind is sharper here.”
Darcy offered me a steadying hand. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” I murmured, trying not to lean against him.
I scarcely noticed the ache in my knees or the cold seeping through my torn gloves.
The world narrowed; the wind tugged at my bonnet, snatching loose strands of hair and whipping them about my face.
There was no marked route to follow; certainly no sheep were silly enough to ascend so high.
“We have veered a little to the west,” said Mr. Appleby, “but our location affords an excellent view of Great Gable, Derwent Water in the distance, and further, Blencathra and Skiddaw.”
“Is that Sty Head Tarn?” asked Darcy. “Georgiana, Mrs. Bennet, and my father should be taking luncheon at this time. They were headed up the valley along Lingmell Beck.”
“I can see a figure by the tarn,” I said, squinting at a small black dot. “But I cannot see the horses.”
“Take my telescope, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Appleby. “Your eyes are better than mine. Come, place it on my shoulder to steady it.”
I focused the instrument. “Yes, ‘tis certainly Mrs. Bennet. But where are the others?”
“On the hill, Elizabeth,” cried Darcy, pointing to the left. “Look to the slopes of Great Gable.”
I shifted my view. “I see them. Perhaps two hundred yards up the hill. Surely, it is Mr. Darcy. Wait! Two ponies staring down at him.”
“Fitzwilliam, take the glass. I pointed toward the eastern slope of Great Gable. “There, two ponies without saddles—whatever can have happened.” I handed the telescope to him. Two of the ponies had been unsaddled, let free onto the hillside.
“I cannot explain it,” said Darcy. “Where is Georgiana?”
* * *
Movement caught my eye—a flash of red below us.
Carefully, I edged down the slope to find a better view.
A rider came around the spur that dropped down to Lingmell Col.
His coat was faded, cut in the style of the military.
His horse was skewbald—white with chestnut patches.
Behind him trailed a woman riding sidesaddle; she wore a blue habit, a matching bonnet—her horse tied to the rider in front with a long leading string.
“Fitzwilliam, you must come, now! Georgiana is being led away.”
Darcy slid down the slope, abruptly pulled up, and placed the telescope to his eye. “My God,” he muttered. “It is Georgiana, but who is that man?”
Of course, we knew who he was. Wickham, riding the distinctive gelding that belonged to Colonel Forster. Wickham had not gone to ground in Derbyshire, but come to the Lakes!
“Poor, poor Georgiana!”
The gods can be cruel, for all of a sudden, a mist came rolling in, the temperature plummeting.
I looked back to the summit, now shrouded.
Perhaps, if the descent were fast enough, we could, in some way, stop Wickham as he passed below the crags, at the base of the scree, before our path was hidden by the mist.
I had come so close, almost to the summit.
I felt tears moisten my eyes—but not tears for me, tears for Georgiana, abducted—no doubt for a ransom—by such a despicable man.
Yet, if I left now, the summit of Scawfell Pike, the highest peak in England, would be forever behind me.
To be the first woman to climb Scawfell Pike—that would be something indeed!
‘Does not Proverbs say—Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall?’ Mary gently admonished me.
Kitty and Lydia took my hands. Before I knew what I was about, I began skipping from stone to stone down the slope, the mist swirling around, casting everything in a chilling grey.
“Elizabeth! Whatever are you doing?” Darcy shouted, panic in his voice. “Please, we must wait for Mr. Appleby, or surely you will be lost in the mist!”
But there was only one way to go—down. It was a long way.
I followed the spur between Pikes Crag and Dropping Crag, having seen them marked on the map in my guidebook.
I heard stones sliding behind me—Darcy, with his long legs and the freedom of his trousers, was following.
It was a dance—skipping, a few steps to the side, a turn, skipping once more.
If I were not fearing for Georgiana, I could have enjoyed the thrill of it; and the terror, like nothing I had experienced before.
I came to a narrow defile between two rocky bastions.
It was narrow, barely allowing me to squeeze through.
Then I came free, below the clouds and mist, directly above the scree slope which sprawled from the base of the cliffs to the Hollow Stones trail.
I had arrived in time—but for what, I knew not.
Wickham sat on his horse staring up at me, one hundred feet below—as the crow flies, no more than two hundred.
He urged the beast on, but rocks loosened by my unsure footing fell onto the path ahead.
The animal was worn out, exhausted after being driven too hard across the country—three hundred miles from London in less than a week.
Then, scaling the steep valley walls from Langdale, following the old packhorse trail.
It stood trembling, its tail twitching erratically, head held low to the ground.
Wickham dismounted, pulled on the reins attempting to force the animal ahead.
It snapped at him, tossing its head, refusing to move.
Darcy came up beside me, staring at the scene below. A scree slope, surely too dangerous for any man to attempt. But Georgiana was my sister! How could I leave her to endure that man alone? ‘Go, Lizzy, we are with you!’ My sisters’ cry overcame my paralysis.
During winter, the pond at Netherfield often iced over—I had learnt to skate as a child. Both Lydia and Kitty were excellent skaters. Together, we slid down the slope—skipping, tripping, our legs running faster and faster, my skirts pulled up as high as possible. I could not have flown any swifter.
Wickham was staring—certainly not at my ankles, nor my tangled hair flowing freely behind me—my bonnet long since blown away.
Of course, I had no plan for stopping, but in the event, none was needed.
Indeed, the gods must have been having a great day.
I tumbled—the rocks upon which I had been sliding thinned out, tufts of coarse grass and bare soil poking through.
You cannot slide on fescue and sedge grasses; at least, no ice skater can.
I plunged into Wickham, much like a cannonball into the side of a sturdy oak ship of the line.
But Wickham was mere flesh and bone, and the impact threw him across the path, and down the far slope.
I came to an abrupt halt. Papa smiled at me—’Mr. Newton, my dear, his Laws of Mechanicks; when a smaller body collides with a larger one. ’
In novels, the hero, after besting the villain, nonchalantly dusts himself off, then unties the damsel tied to the villain’s horse, who immediately falls into his arms in passionate embrace.
Oh, such lies! I wept—tears pouring down my cheeks; my foot was twisted beneath me; my hands and arms abraded by the rough ground.
“Elizabeth? Are you alright?” Georgiana’s gentle hands brushed hair from my face. I squinted up at her.
“Wickham…”
“Rolled down the hill. But, please hold yourself still. Fitzwilliam is coming—a little more sedately than you, dearest. But, I must admit, that was the most brilliant descent I have ever seen. Oh, it was magnificent! And you were screaming, Lizzy, all the way down the slope. If you had not collided with him, Wickham would have fled in sheer terror!”
* * *