Chapter 22
Pemberley
It was on the third full day at Pemberley that I felt recovered enough to take dinner with the family.
While I found breakfast easy—for it required only one hand to nibble toast and marmalade—dinner was a chore: my arm in its sling was practically useless, and my bandaged foot, stretched out under the table, was as likely as not to be trodden on by some heavy-footed oaf.
Sally, bless her, helped me change into a suitable gown—what a relief to feel elegant again, though I was careful to hide my unslippered foot, the one cloaked in less-than-stylish linen wrappings.
I was almost prepared to assault a society ball, but secretly hoped that Mr. Darcy’s kitchen produced better fare than the weak lemonade and thinly sliced bread served in Almack’s assembly rooms.
I was pleasantly surprised to find Colonel Fitzwilliam in the drawing room. “Miss Bennet, I am very pleased to see you recovered.”
I curtsied, though a little clumsily, bending only the one knee. “Colonel, we had not expected you for at least another week.”
“There was little that required my attention in York, where we took Wickham—in chains, of course.”
“He is to be tried for desertion?”
“And horse theft, a capital offence. Perhaps I should not gloat, but a court martial was already in progress when we arrived. Wickham’s offences were so serious, it was decided to try him immediately.”
“Then his fate, sir? I assume he is to be hanged.”
The colonel grimaced, looking away. “Indeed, ma’am. The sentence has already been carried out.”
The room quietened, broken only by the faint whistling of the wind against the shutters.
I felt relief mingled with a grim sort of pity—certainly Wickham had danced too close to the cliff’s edge: gambling, seduction, desertion, theft, abduction; and then, fallen off—literally.
In that moment, I knew Mr. Darcy would feel no satisfaction at his godson’s demise, only regret that Wickham, who had been given every opportunity, had wasted his life. The thought unsettled me.
Before I could speak again, the door opened and Mr. Darcy himself entered, looking every inch the master of Pemberley, though he paused, perhaps to gauge the tenor of the room.
His eyes sought mine, the barest flicker of concern passing over his features before he schooled himself into formality—certainly unwarranted, since I had been in his company for nigh on a month.
“Miss Elizabeth, I trust you are comfortable?” His voice was quieter than usual.
“Thank you, sir—I find myself much improved.” My reply was steadier than I felt.
He nodded, then turned to his nephew. “Richard, you have returned from York sooner than anticipated.”
The colonel inclined his head. “There was little more to be done.”
A meaningful glance passed between the men; they both understood what an early return meant. At that moment, Georgiana entered on Mrs. Bennet’s arm, followed by Darcy.
Dinner was announced, and we proceeded into the family dining room, with Darcy discreetly at my elbow. I could not help but notice his small gestures of consideration—a chair drawn back, a quiet word to the footman to arrange a cushion for my foot.
Mama, as she had done since Ambleside, took her seat at the head of the table, Mr. Darcy at the foot.
In consideration of my injury—also known as my anxious ankle—Georgiana sat opposite.
She had promised to refrain from letting her evening slippers roam under the table.
I was glad of it, for certainly there was no space for either Darcy’s long legs or those of the Colonel.
“I am not sure, Colonel, how you came to Sty Head? Mrs. Bennet said you discovered her and Mr. Darcy attempting to catch two rather spirited ponies, who apparently did not wish to give up their freedom.”
“By chance, Miss Elizabeth. We had tracked Wickham from Lambton to Ambleside, thence to Langdale.”
“Lambton? I do not recall it.”
“Of course, Lizzy, you were asleep,” said Georgiana. “Lambton is five miles from Pemberley, the nearest town. It has a lovely milliner’s, and there is a fancy baker who sells a rich, fruit-filled rout cake.”
“Please, Georgiana, may I finish my tale before you exclaim over the delights of Mrs. Merry’s Bakery?”
Georgiana took on a mock-serious tone—”But surely, Richard, I must speak of the queen cakes—and the seed cake, it is quite divine.”
“Where is my cousin? Whoever has stolen Georgiana away, and replaced her with such a tease? Fitz, whatever have you done with your demure sister?” Colonel Fitzwilliam looked dramatically around the table.
“If you please, Colonel,” I said, smiling at Georgiana, “I do adore seed cake, but would prefer to sample it myself, rather than accept Georgiana’s glowing testimonial—I am exceedingly difficult to please. As the saying goes: one man’s seed cake is another’s pomegranate pie.”
“Shall I continue, or do you wish to explore more culinary metaphors?”
“Continue, sir. I am sure Georgiana and I are well satisfied with Pemberley’s kitchen.”
“At Lambton, Wickham had spread the tale that he had an urgent message for Mr. Darcy, that he had come directly from the War Office in London. In uniform, and riding an army horse, no one doubted his word. Thus he learnt Mr. Darcy was travelling to Kendal, and from there to tour the Lakes.”
“You cannot have been far behind?”
“His horse was worn. Indeed, he was fortunate that it was a trained endurance animal, purchased by Colonel Forster who enjoyed long rides across the country. Wickham was, by chance, less than a day ahead at Lambton. Coming into Kendal, thence to Ambleside, he had been seen just two hours before we arrived.”
“Two hours—you were so close!”
“We lost track of him, until we met a lady walking out with a friend. She had seen a man of Wickham’s description, riding to Langdale.
She knew the pack-horse trail up Rosset Hill, and its connection to Wasdale by way of Sty Head.
Wickham was attempting to get ahead of your party; he had discovered you intended to travel to Buttermere, then down the Cumbrian coast to Furness. ”
“Perhaps I can finish the story, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy.
“Wickham came upon us by surprise, though whether he or our party were the more surprised, I do not know. He pulled a horse pistol from its holster, and forced Mrs. Bennet to unsaddle our ponies and set them free.” He looked up the table to Mrs. Bennet.
“I must apologise, Fanny, for not being able to protect you or Georgiana.”
“He would have shot you, George, if you had attempted anything,” said Mama with great emotion. “He was desperate. Please, there is nothing to apologise for. Oh, it was so hard for poor Georgiana, that I had to tie her hands so she couldn’t ride away.”
Georgiana took Mama’s hands in hers. “But, Mrs. Bennet, we were saved, were we not, by Lizzy! I shall always remember her flying down the mountain. I’m sure Wickham thought her blood-curdling screams were the Beast of Barrisdale come to snatch him away!”
The table’s mood lightened. Colonel Fitzwilliam set down his glass and regarded me with a wry smile. “Miss Elizabeth, you certainly have a talent for appearing at the most critical moment. Should I ask the War Office to engage your services?”
“No, sir. Were I to attempt to skewer the tyrant Napoleon by tumbling down Mont Blanc, I would certainly have too few legs and arms remaining after I collided with the man.” I smiled at Darcy.
“To ascend Mont Blanc, Mme Marie Paradis—the first woman to make the summit—was carried over the difficult parts. For myself, I was not physically carried to the summit of Scawfell Pike, but Fitzwilliam surely carried me as God carries us through the hardest times. He promised never to let me falter, and, like a true brother, he made sure of his promise, and I am glad for it.”
Darcy’s countenance had softened to an expression I could not decipher.
‘Oh, Lizzy,’ cried Lydia, ‘he is staring at you ever so intently. Whatever does it mean?’
‘I don’t know, Lyddie—but he is the best of brothers.’
* * *
We had been at Pemberley a full week when Mr. Pettigrew, the Darcys’ physician, declared that I could remove the sling for an hour or so each day. What joy! Now I could sit at dinner and not have Mama cut up my food, as though I were a young infant.
As we had been at home sufficiently long, Mr. Darcy thought it necessary to invite some of the neighbours to dinner: Mr. Wainwright, the vicar of Kympton, and his wife; and their neighbours, Mr. Rupert Crawley and his sister, Miss Marianne Crawley, children of Admiral and Mrs. Crawley—the Admiral’s infirmity precluding him from making visits.
The brother and sister were young people of fortune: Mr. Crawley was to inherit the estate which bordered Pemberley, and Miss Crawley had twenty thousand pounds.
“I should hope,” said Mr. Darcy, on the evening of the dinner, “that you, being younger”—speaking to Georgiana, Darcy, and myself—”will be pleased with the Crawleys’ company. Mrs. Bennet and I will be satisfied with the Wainwrights, particularly as Mrs. Wainwright is very proud of her garden.”
I was disappointed that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been obliged to leave for Town—his cheerful conversation would be missed.
Though Georgiana and I always had plenty to talk of, Darcy had seemed a little withdrawn, and even my liveliness did not return him to that teasing, cheerful man who had accompanied me up Scawfell Pike.
Often, in my company, he was grave and silent, though he still attended to my every need.