In the Arms of Mr. Darcy

by Sharon Lathan

  Therefore, her second fount of joy was in being able to continue serving the Darcy family. Proudly, she proclaimed the Hanford association with the esteemed Darcy landowners. She considered it a miracle and the greatest of honors to be granted the chance to not only maintain that connection but to do it in such a personal way.

  Mrs. Hanford had contentedly raised six children and was blessed with a dozen grandchildren, so knew that caring for the Darcy baby would be a delight. Mrs. Hanford loved all children, her gift one of easy affinity with youngsters of all ages. Yet, one can’t deny that some children are easier to love and tolerate than others! Alexander was a handsome child physically, but his temperament was so carefree and amiable that falling in love with him as an individual was impossible to resist.

  Her only unexpected consequence to her employment as nanny was the travel. It had never entered her mind that caring for their son and heir meant she would be accompanying them wherever they went! Of course, many aristocratic families did not travel so extensively with their children, a reality Mrs. Hanford knew to be so even if she did believe to be sad, so if Mr. and Mrs. Darcy had gone on their journeys while leaving Alexander in her care at Pemberley, she would not have been shocked. However, their devotion to Alexander was pronounced and just another of the numerous reasons she respected them and was gratified to be a peripheral part of their family.

  When Mrs. Darcy had first asked for her learned opinion on how best to travel with an infant, she was utterly at a loss as to what to say. Finally, she pulled herself together, stammering that she did not possess a “learned opinion” as she had never traveled far with her children, summer or winter.

  “That may be so, Mrs. Hanford,” Mrs. Darcy said, “but I still trust your instincts in the matter. We have some two months to plan our trip and I am confident that your expertise with infants in general will aid in securing a safe, smooth journey for my son.” Then she leaned forward and affectionately squeezed Mrs. Hanford’s hand, smiling sincerely. “I am just glad that you will be there to assist us. Between all of us I know it will be well.”

  And it was then that she fully comprehended that her future would entail more than simply the happiness of helping to raise the future Master of Pemberley and any other children the Darcys were blessed with. So far, she had been fortunate to see the lush landscapes of several counties, breathe the air and walk the fields of Kent and Hertfordshire, gaze upon the tall buildings of London, revel in the finery and jewels of the social elite, explore the wonders of grand parks and busy city streets, and so much more that she had filled two journals already. Now she was ascending the magnificent heights of the Peaks, those famous mountains and moors that were glimpses on the distant horizon all her life but never seen up close. Her exuberance was indeed bubbling, and she felt far more than ten years younger.

  The tiny village of Edale was unremarkable. Their carriage rumbled along the road that wound through the narrow gorge created by the Noe, passing the huts known as booths that housed the boothmen, those hardy souls who lived in the rustic dwelling places while tending the wandering livestock that fed off the moor grasses. Edale itself was a collection of stone buildings scattered without symmetrical planning, the bare necessities provided to the local residents and not much else. Naturally there was a pub, but the ramshackle construction was dubious at best, even Darcy’s thirst for a cool ale not strong enough to brave the possibility of the place crumbling down when the door slammed behind him! The seventeenth century church sat on a lovely grassy knoll, but was plain and boasted no historical significance, so they chose not to investigate.

  They detoured on the road leading to Hayfield, halting at Edale Cross. The medieval stone cross erected some seven-hundred years prior by the Abbots of Basingwerk Abbey to mark the southern boundary of their land was eroded and chipped in places, but astoundingly intact. Re-erected in 1810, the ancient marker was now a local monument and historical artifact proudly preserved and tended to. The cultural significance was intriguing to Darcy and Lizzy, and the Edale Cross area was also a good place to pause for refreshments and casually stroll with the baby.

  But they tarried for only a short hiatus, both of them anxious to commence the real point of the day’s outing: attaining the plateau of Kinder Scout. They decided on the trails leading from Edale. It was a longer route but a bit less strenuous. Nevertheless, many of the trail portions were steep and nearly invisible amid the thick peat and stones. Hardy folks frequently braved the challenge in order to view the breathtaking vistas from the two thousand foot moor, and Darcy and Lizzy were two such people. Or at least they intended to try.

  Leaving a well-fed and sleeping Alexander behind in the care of Mrs. Hanford, Mr. Anders, and Watson, they set out on their adventure. By the end, as the sun was setting to the west and the dimness of twilight illuminated the avenue leading to Chelmbridge, Lizzy was leaning onto her husband’s shoulder drowsily holding her eyes open by sheer willpower. But her incredible stamina and walking skills had prevailed, to Darcy’s pride and satisfaction. They reached the highest point of Kinder Scout, traversed the craggy heathland, and stood upon the edge of Kinder Downfall with the spray of the waterfall misting their sweaty brows.

  Lizzy was not ashamed to admit that she required her strong spouse’s assistance over the harsher climbs upon occasion. But for the most part, she accomplished the deed on her own steam and was as proud of herself as Darcy was of her. If she fell asleep less than half an hour after entering the house, without a full meal, and only budged for the subsequent ten hours to dazedly nestle Alexander to her breast, it was worth it. She did not complain about the soreness to her legs or the painful blister on one toe, the memories burned into her brain of the spectacular tableau visualized erasing any discomfort. They did, however, opt to stay at the estate the next day. Or rather Darcy insisted, claiming his own fatigue and desire to fish in the river, go for a horse ride, and picnic on the shaded lawns as the excuse. Lizzy did not believe the fatigue pretext, but a day of rest was a pleasant enough prospect, so she did not argue.

  For their final day, they again packed up the landau for what was planned to be a two-part jaunt—the morning for a visit to the grandest of the Peak’s caverns, the bizarrely named Devil’s Arse, and the afternoon a leisurely drive through the woodlands and moors where the Dark Peak and White Peak merged, and then on to the ancient Roman town of Buxton, now primarily known for her thermal springs and Poole’s Cavern.

  During the short drive, Mrs. Hanford asked a question that, naturally, launched Darcy into teaching mode.

  “Is it true, sir, that thieves live within the depths of the cavern?”

  “Indeed, that is what the rumors hold,” he answered, smiling at her frightened expression.

  Lizzy knew the stories, but the nanny did not, so listened spellbound as Darcy enlightened her. Alexander also seemed to be riveted to the tale, staring at his father from Lizzy’s lap.

  “It is doubtful that bands of brigands call the inner caves their home in this progressive age,” he assured her. “However, in centuries past, it was primarily the baser elements who braved the dark recesses of the Devil’s Arse. Some say that it was they who caused such a name to be.”

  “How do you mean?” she asked, leaning forward unconsciously.

  Darcy shrugged. “The name, if you will pardon me, Mrs. Hanford, was given due to the unusual noises that would escape from the mouth. Noises that resembled, forgive me, the passing of wind. Flatulence, you see. Some claim the noises are caused by ghosts who haunt the depths. Others believe the cavern extends to Hades, hence the ‘devil’ part of the name and why the subterranean river is called the Styx, and that the sounds are of demons. Still others think, more logically, that it may be the echoes from people, the thieving gangs, living below. Of course, the first two are nonsense, so I rather believe the legends of bandits is more probable, or perhaps some scientific explanation yet to be understood.”

  “So, there is no doubt that thieves dwelt t
here, at some time?”

  “No. Enough evidence exists, especially the wealth of stories. According to legend, and the tales of Samuel Rid, somewhere in the mid-1500s the notorious knave Cock Lorel met with the current King of the Gypsies, whoever that was, at his hideaway in Devil’s Arse. Together they devised a secret language that only rogues would understand.” He shrugged again. “Probably that is a romantic myth, but the language, thieves’ cant or rogues’ cant depending upon the source, is verified. More likely it is a compilation of slang words from dozens of underworld guilds. The colorful argot is a common feature of numerous Elizabethan literature and plays. I have a collection of books from the Era, including Life by Bampfylde Moore Carew, who claimed to be King of the Beggars.”

  “There’s a title to wear proudly,” Lizzy interjected with a laugh.

  “Truly,” Darcy agreed with a smile. “You are welcome to read them, Mrs. Hanford, as well as anything else in the library, as you know.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Today I can promise that we shall see no thieves. We will, however, observe the troglodytes. The cave dwellers, that is. These are normal citizens who chose to live within the upper reaches of the cave. As you shall see, it is quite large. They build small houses under the rock, a whole miniature village, in fact, with barns for their livestock and workshops to ply their trade. Living quite happily and secure, one would imagine.”

  “How odd,” the nanny declared, obviously baffled by the concept.

  “I would tend to agree with you, madam. It is not how I would choose to live. But they have done so for centuries, perhaps at one time living in harmony with the thieves!” He laughed, and they joined in. “Now they continue the ancient tradition of making rope for the local mines. The moist atmosphere of the cavern aids the process. Rather ingenious, actually. The poet Charles Cotton wrote in his ‘Wonders of the Peake,’

  Now to the cave we come, wherein is found,

  A new strange thing, a village underground:

  Houses and barns for men and beasts behoof,

  With walls distinct, under one solid roof.

  “Cotton was a devoted Derbyshire gentleman and his poems express his great love for our fair county. I have several compilations of his writings if you appreciate poetry.”

  Peak Cliff cavern, previously glimpsed from the crest above where Peveril Castle proudly guarded, was easily reached. The gently sloping, picturesque tree and brush-lined pathway leading to the cave followed the river and was a pleasant walk. Dozens of cottages nestled within the trees, residents going about the business of normal life and impervious to the tourists treading past in endless streams. A last curve in the road revealed the massive opening, the effect dazzling to behold.

  The yawning portal, entirely natural as this cavern had rarely been used for mining, was a rounded, gaping hole resembling an unpillared arch, easily a hundred feet across and sixty feet high. It cut perpendicularly into the vertical cliff of solid limestone that rose nearly three hundred feet to the bluff above. The floor was predominately level on the right side, swept clean of debris by the people who called this gulf their home, and tapered downward on the leftward side into uneven terraces. The lowest point was where the Peakshole River flowed. The mouth was so wide that one could see a great distance into the interior, the magnitude of just how enormous the cavern was readily discernable. The farthest reaches faded to grey and then inky black as the blaze of day no longer penetrated, but the immediate area was well lighted.

  A cluster of small huts covered the area to the right. The flat terraces provided the working surface, the area cluttered with industrious workers and yards of rope strung across the tall posts and wound around big spools. For a fee that they were happy to pay, a local man gave them a tour of the village and demonstrated the art of rope making. Darcy, of course, was especially fascinated.

  Alexander and Mrs. Hanford were left outside, sheltered under canopies set up for visitors, while their guide led a small group of adventurous souls deeper into the residential portion of the cave, known as “the vestibule.” They passed women and playing children, the activities and mood strangely normal despite the tonnage of solid rock overhead. It was eerie.

  They were handed lights and instructed to stay close. The vestibule cavern narrowed toward the back into a low tunnel that required Darcy and several others to stoop in order to pass through, but was fortunately short, before opening into the first of the two largest inner chambers. The Great Cavern, also referred to as Bell House due to its general shape, was dry and cool. The walls were difficult to discern in the dim light, but the floor was littered with loose rocks and fascinating calcifications that glowed in the lamplight hung from the ceiling. Flitches of Bacon, the guide called them, and as absurd as the moniker was, they did rather resemble wavy strips of bacon.

  A long walk brought them to a broad river, the fancifully named Styx. Ferrying across the river in tiny boats that required the passenger to lie flat was the only way to reach the next chamber. Darcy had taken the trip once before, during his sojourn with Mr. Logan and his Cambridge friends, so he knew it to be safe if mildly scary. He hesitated, glancing to Lizzy to gauge her opinion. That she was nervous was obvious, but she was not to be deterred.

  “I have come this far, William, and I won’t turn back.” Her voice quavered slightly, but she lifted her chin and bravely stepped into the boat. Darcy chuckled, his heart swelling with pride at her tenacity.

  The chamber across the river was larger and far more interesting. Here the walls and ceiling were impossible to see, the breadth of the cave known to be over two hundred feet although one only had the impression of vast space. They cautiously explored, holding tightly to their lights and, in the case of Darcy and Lizzy, tightly to each other. Their feet veered instinctively toward the extremity of the vacuity where the echoing splash of water hinted strongly to what they would see.

  Another underground stream, this one shallow, flowed and was fed by an incessant rain of droplets from crevices in the rock high above. It was this natural aperture from whence the cavern’s name derived: Roger Rain’s House. The combination of moisture in the air, damp rock, nonexistent sunlight, and still air created an environment that was bordering on cold.

  Traversing the remaining rock hollows accessible meant crossing the running rivulet numerous times, but the water was shallow. The deeper caves descended gradually as they bored into the earth and were smaller. They were filled with stalactites in all sizes, some enormous and reaching completely to the ground to form natural pillars. Most were intact but many were broken or dislocated from their original placement on the ceiling. There were other oddities such as a huge pile of sand carried in and deposited by the river, the marine exuviae embedded into the strata of the limestone walls, and the three arches so perfectly carved into one rock wall that they appeared hand hewn.

  But the crescendo was the spontaneous chorus that broke out. Disembodied voices burst forth from the unseen upper heights of the chasm, lifted in a song that reverberated against the walls. It was beautiful and creepy, pleasurable and astonishing. The mystery was quickly solved once the voices faded, a group of singers descending down a makeshift stairway to stand visible on a sort of chancel where they accepted applause and praise.

  Returning to the surface was a relief, even though the enterprise had been thrilling. Both Lizzy and Darcy blinked in the sun that seemed far brighter than it had an hour previously and sucked in huge lungfuls of air.

  Lizzy’s mien was the common one of impish enthusiasm that Darcy knew meant she had thoroughly enjoyed herself. He had as well, his expression controlled but the wide smile and shimmering eyes revealed his delight in the escapade. Still, Lizzy’s first words upon crossing the arched portal echoed his sentiments, “I do not believe I have ever been so happy to see the sun.”

  They paused on the threshold, gazing back into the abyss. Mrs. Hanford saw them and rose with a still sleeping Alexander in her arms, walking to join them
.

  Darcy nodded. “I know what you mean. I love adventure, but cave exploration is definitely not on my list of possible hobbies. That takes a special breed of man. But now I have a greater appreciation for the rapidly increasing number of men who are embracing the activity.”

  “Think how amazing it must be to happen upon a subterranean wonder, knowing that you are the first human eyes to ever behold it. That would be quite exhilarating.”

  Darcy laughed softly, nudging her hand with his. “You are too busy as a wife and mother to dash off and discover caves, my dear.”

  She laughed, turning to take Alexander into her arms. “Have no fear. I am abundantly content to care for my husband and son. That is plenty of adventure for me.” She kissed the infant’s forehead, curly locks tickling her nose, and looked up at her husband with a teasing grin. She opened her mouth to speak, most likely planning a humorous jibe, but the words were never uttered.

  A loud cracking sound pierced the air, echoing through the ravine.

  Everyone froze, reflexively gazing upward to where the noise originated. A chunk of rock protruding from the face of limestone near the edge of the towering cliff was suddenly and inexplicably breaking away. The clap of severing stone mixed with the high-pitched scrape of rock upon rock and the crunch of crumbling gravel. Time seemed to stop as they stared transfixed at the five-foot boulder directly above their heads that, with a final reverberating boom, disengaged. It started sliding down the flat face, the motion painfully slow in the paralyzed time, but gained speed quickly. The rock’s weight and rain of dirt, plants, and gravel caused it to twist in the air, toppling over as the jagged projectile plummeted down the three hundred foot escarpment.