Nell did locate one small room downwind from the knacker’s, but it was cheap and they could not quibble with the amenities.
“What’s that smell?” asked little Sue, curling her nose.
“It’s the knacker. What d’yer think?” Nell answered impatiently. “We don’t got money fer no inn.”
“The knacker?” Sue repeated, peering round the corner. “Isn’t that where the dead animals go—”
Nell grabbed her by the nape of the neck and slammed the door, refusing to answer further. Sally and Sue exchanged sidelong looks and Nell shook her head at their sensibilities.
“It won’t be no bother till come summer,” she assured them.
Nell found ways to make what little resources she had profitable. Work was plenty if one’s sensibilities were not easily bruised. Mothers were taken to the straw regularly, and when they were not, there were plenty of dead in want of lying out. Be it bringing in the newly arrived or washing the dearly departed, nothing was beneath her. Truth be known, she had far fewer qualms over ushering out the dead—they were at last at peace. She saw it far more unkind to smack the bottom of an infant to force his first breath of life, knowing as she did what lay ahead for him.
Times were hard and getting harder.
Sally forgave her mother for taking leave; she was a weak soul and had her reasons. But what Sally could not forgive was that her mother took her brother with her. Her inconsolability knew no bounds, but she could not fault him. He, good son, had done as their mother bid. Perhaps, she told herself, she would have done the same. It was but the work of ten days for her to find them gone and realise they were not to return. The recognition of that injurious truth made her wail long after the fact. She wailed until she was sick.
“Hush, girl,” Nell told her. “Yer’ll soon ferget.”
She hushed, but she did not forget. It was promised to her that the years would fade her recollections. They did not. Time was not a friend. Her brother’s face remained so bright in her memory that it eventually was indistinguishable from the halo that surrounded it. Indeed, these intervening years inflated her regard for him from childish adoration to unadulterated veneration.
33
The Weir
There were no hillsides in Derbyshire lovelier than those within the ten-mile perimeter surrounding Pemberley. And in that no countryside, in his estimation, was half so beautiful as Derbyshire; Darcy saw his home as Eden on earth.
He fancied that he had crossed every dale, picked his way through every wood, and forded every crossing of every brook at some point in his life—either on foot or upon horseback. Even the lake had not escaped his forays. He had whiled away many a youthful afternoon lazing in the sun with one eye in serious contemplation of the cork bobbing suggestively at the end of his fishing line. But it was his particular pleasure to mount Blackjack and descend the half-mile eminence upon which Pemberley house stood, skirt the lake, and cross the valley. By giving the big horse a bit of his heel, they easily took the steep hill that bore the ruins of an ancient hunting tower. It was not the prettiest of peaks, for it was bereft of trees—no more than a craggy escarpment—but of spectacularly good vantage. There he would dismount and allow his horse to graze the upland slope whilst he purveyed all the land and people under his charge. Such a preference of vistas was neither for the purpose of humility or ego—it was merely a reminder of who he was.
He had shown Pemberley’s fairest prospects to Elizabeth within the first days of their marriage. He recalled those excursions most particularly—and not merely because they often ended in pleasures connubial in nature (those recollections he kept pocketed in a separate, more exalted, region of his mind). His other memories were not so satisfying, for they involved his feeble attempt to contain his unadulterated pride and his eagerness in sharing Pemberley’s beauty with her. He would have preferred to have remained more composed. He feared that his countenance must have veritably beamed with boyish pride whilst he led her about. To her credit, she had seemed genuinely pleased—not with the grandiosity of it all—but with the natural loveliness of the park. She was most particularly taken with the watercourse as it cascaded and pooled into weirs before the bank surrendered to a profusion of willows. Hence, that had been a favoured destination when they rode.
The weirs had never piqued his particular fancy. True, when the season had been unusually wet, the waterfalls were pleasing. They had been designed with that in mind, but then little within Pemberley’s park was put in place without thought to its overall beauty. But the weirs’ essential duty was not decoration—they were merely a means to regulate the water. The discernment inherent to his sensibilities did not override the pragmatism necessary for the orderly operation of an estate the size of Pemberley. Hence, it was seldom that he allowed even the delicate lily pads adorning the still backwaters to beguile him. To Elizabeth, however, it was as if the weirs were situated so prettily for no other reason than her pleasure.
It would be the first outing they had embarked upon since the one that had begun with the most romantic of intentions and ended so abruptly. This time fortune shone. It was dissimilar in all ways. Elizabeth had no doubt that she was fit to ride. It was pertinent to her enjoyment of their day to know that her husband could not, in all good conscience, issue any reservations on the venture. She smiled to herself when she bethought the tactfully impish conversation they had had in that regard.
It was an exceptionally handsome day to ride. Elizabeth was so excited to be in the saddle and happy to fit into her habit that she all but skipped down the lane to the stables. Darcy had preceded her, for it was necessary to select an alternate mount for her. Boots was nearing her time to foal. Elizabeth was well aware of the alteration in which horse she would ride. However, her good humour was compromised when she recognised the horse saddled and waiting for her. It was the brown mare, Lady—a horse nearly as ancient as the hunting tower. Lady was the very horse Darcy had thought suitable to put her on when she first began to ride. She found the horse too indolent even as a beginner and was most unamused to see that his opinion of her proficiency had progressed so little.
“This horse was not to my liking when first we rode, Mr. Darcy,” she said pointedly.
He ignored the complaint and legged her up. It was quite apparent to Elizabeth that there were no wiles her husband would not employ in order to have his will be done. But as they set out, she saw it to be too fine a day to remain in ill-humour.
Darcy allowed Blackjack to have his head and, because it was the direction most often taken, the big horse lumbered up the steep incline to the ruins. So steep was the rise, even Blackjack became lathered by the time they reached the ridge. Had Blackjack been less indefatigable, Lady would still not have kept up. So slow was the horse’s progress, Elizabeth considered dismounting and pulling the mare up the hill herself. By the time they made the peak, Darcy had already stopt and dismounted. Elizabeth did dismount, but would not allow Darcy’s solicitous loosening of Lady’s girth.
“Lady should be retired to the pasture from which you obtained her. Be certain that when Boots has foaled, you will not be so undoubtful of your winning,” said she.
An expression overspread his countenance that bespoke his competitive spirit was not chastened by her censure. Indeed, he did not attempt to conceal his satisfaction, nor did he hesitate to fib.
“I am sure I was quite unaware we were competing,” said he.
With that, she made a move as if to switch him with her crop—and then thought better of it. She knew he would not step aside or attempt evasion in any manner. It was not in his nature to capitulate to even so small a thing as his wife’s teasing swat. Instead, she watched as he walked to the edge of the precipice and rested one boot upon a protruding boulder. His right hand still held his crop, it settling on his thigh as he absentmindedly flicked the leather strap against the top of his boot. Such was a true indication that he
was lost in thought. Even then he stood remarkably erect, his shoulders seemingly incapable of any pose other than majestic. It was a sight that elicited a sigh from his wife of a humbler origin.
For her, imposing peaks, broad shoulders, and the odour of oiled leather was a potent aphrodisiac. Indeed, her own breath became so short that she was glad they were atop this peak where the breeze kept her husband from hearing her. She chastened herself for such inclinations by reminding herself that she was no hoyden, but a sedate married woman. It would be insupportable to disturb so blissful a sight. Yet her breath did not obey her admonitions. With every slap of his crop against his boot, her breath became more fevered and she began to reconsider what she would and would not disturb. Al fresco conjugal rites were not out of the question. Upon infrequent occasion in times past, they had engaged in discreet disportment. She went so far as to take a step in his direction. She meant to press her bosom against his broad back and wrap her arms about his waist. But atop this hill with absolutely no arboreal veil, even she could not entertain such a notion.
Yet her sensual thoughts refused to be subdued. But her tack altered.
She walked purposely to her mare, grasped the reins, and did not wait for Darcy to leg her up. By sheer will (and with an audible groan), she grasped the pommel and heaved herself onto the saddle. He was still lost to his thoughts and only realised that she had mounted when he heard the scuffling of Lady’s hooves. He stood and looked at Elizabeth quizzically. She spoke not, but gave her horse a decisive kick. Lady had barely responded ere he beckoned his horse. As she had a clear advantage, rather than striding towards Blackjack, he put his fingers to his lips and whistled. The horse started at the sound and looked in his master’s direction. Forsaking the grass, he cantered towards Darcy, who then grasped the reins and leapt atop him with remarkable agility. Not waiting to take a bearing on her lead, he encouraged Blackjack with a small clicking noise and a nudge in the flanks. Instinct overtook Blackjack and he commenced the chase.
This race was not, however, hotly contested, for the pursuer was no less in want of capture than was the pursued (Elizabeth saw that the sole benefit of having so ancient an animal beneath her). Indeed, beneath the brow of the hill lay a meandering stream. The downhill being far less bothersome than the uphill (and with the promise of a cool drink), Lady made good time. Elizabeth drew to a stop beside the stream and once again loosed her horse. The day was not oppressively hot, but it was warm and the exercise did little to alleviate her ardour. She walked towards the edge of the pool that had accumulated below the weir. She took off her gloves as she strode towards it and dropped them carelessly to the ground. She made great work of not noticing that Darcy arrived almost as quickly as had she. She did observe that he did not immediately alight, but watched her intently. She abruptly sat upon the river bank and commenced tugging at her boots.
“What do you propose to do?” said Darcy—it was not truly a question.
“I propose to cool my feet,” said she.
“I must advise you that beck is spring-fed—the water can be quite cold.”
If he thought such an admonition would deter her, she was quite certain he would soon learn better, for her feet were already bare and she had begun to tentatively wade into the clear water.
“It is deceptively deep,” he added.
“Certainly not. It is so clear that I can see the river stones lining the bottom.”
“Beware of the moss.”
This he said as he dismounted. He sat down, pulling off his gloves and dropping them into the upturned crown of his hat, which he then sat neatly next to his feet. Although he doffed his jacket, unbuttoned his waistcoat, and tugged loose his neckcloth, he did not seem inclined to pull off his boots after her example.
“Pray, join me. This water is quite refreshing.”
“I will do no such thing,” he said somewhat gruffly. “Splashing about is the work of children.”
At that she threw her head back and laughed—then deliberately kicked water in his direction. It fell far short of its mark, however, and she was certain she detected a smile encroaching upon his sober countenance.
“Come,” she inveigled, “there is no one about.”
“Elizabeth, that there is no one about to witness an act of frivolity does not render it any less objectionable.”
She sniffed at his obstinacy, but he did not hear her for the babbling of the water. Recent rains had caused the water to cascade over the top of the weir with more force than usual, but the swirling water felt good against the calves of her legs. She attempted to venture deeper, but had difficulty keeping the tail of her dress above the water.
“Mind not to venture too far—there is a drop-off when you near the spring.”
“You have swum here!” she accused.
“In my youth,” he sniffed.
As she was nearly midstream and the water was not yet at her knees, she was inclined to believe him oversolicitous. “I can see the bottom—look, there is a fish! A carp!”
Her squeal of delight disintegrated into one of dismay with the utmost rapidity when the slick moss of which he had warned her caused her to lose her footing. She abandoned gripping her skirt and fell flat on her rump with a rude splash, but had no time for indignation before she immediately slid off the ledge upon which she stood. She fell directly into the spring that disappeared beneath the overhanging limbs of several willows. She came to the surface sputtering and shrieking but found quite expeditiously that she had only to put her feet down and realise that she was not, indeed, drowning. Once she had reinstated her footing, she could hear her husband’s laughter. Was her dignity not abused enough by such an unladylike plunge, it was to her husband’s amusement. Fie upon him! Could he not be gentlemanly enough to offer her his hand?
All this happened in less time than the telling and she slogged her way to a limb that protruded from the water. A sizable turtle sat quietly sunning itself there until her approach sent him scrambling beneath the water’s surface. She drew herself from the water quite under her own power ignoring the displaced reptile—it would just have to fend for itself as did she—moreover, it was a far better swimmer.
“That looks to be a snapping turtle,” Darcy warned.
Instinctively, she looked to see where it had gone before recollecting herself. With great deliberation and compleat lack of notice of her husband, she endeavoured to re-pin her hair before unbuttoning her spencer, wringing it of water, and draping it across two small branches to dry. Belatedly, she saw her bonnet floating in a gentle circle mid-most of the pond and gave an inward shrug. It looked to be a compleat loss. Then she commenced to wring what water she could from various sections of her skirt. At least her boots were safe on dry ground. She glanced in their direction, wondering how she was going to manage to get back to the other side. It was then that she realised that her husband no longer sat where he had. It escaped her notice, however, that several items of his apparel lay in an orderly fashion where he had been sitting. This oversight came about because her attention was compromised by a slapping sound against the water behind her, which gave her a start. She pulled her toes from the water, fearing that the turtle had come back to reclaim his perch.
Thereupon, a tug substantial enough to unseat her was inflicted upon her person, the perpetrator of this outrage being her heretofore neglectful husband. She, however, was not immediately aware of the identity of her tormentor, for she was compleatly upended. The water was not all that deep, but it was sizable enough for another thorough dunking.
Well aware she had not been dunked by means of vengeful wildlife when she surfaced, she faced another dilemma. Although in that spot the water came no higher than chest-high at its deepest, that was by his measure, not hers. Hence, her endeavours to exact the same indignity upon her husband were largely unfruitful. In order to dunk him she had to both rise above and overpower him—neither of which she
was equipped to do. Indeed, even had she not worn stays, her skirt and petticoat were substantial impediments. They did manage to thrash about long enough for both to tire—Darcy trying to float whilst his wife clung to his neck.
“You shall drown us both,” he said, spitting water.
“But you know I cannot swim…” she insisted, wrapping her legs about his.
“Behold, that turtle has returned!” he exclaimed.
“Where? Where?!” she looked about frantically.
He pinched her thigh twice causing her to cry out and flail at the unseen menace before she realised that Darcy was the perpetrator.
“What effrontery!” she declared, desperately treading water.
He reached out and took hold of her, but not without a tickle.
“Belay that! I shall drown!” she exclaimed.
At last, he regained some semblance of his formal self, took her hand, and swam, leading her to the bank. But it was not the bank where their footwear lay. He drew her effortlessly through the water to the shadowed recess of the bower near the deepest part of the pond. It looked a place where a turtle just might lie in wait; hence, she was a bit hesitant.
“Come,” said he. It was all he needed to say.
She allowed him to draw her into the shadows. It was even cooler there where the sun had not reached. That chill did nothing, however, to abate the increasing fever in those recesses particular to a woman. Indeed, the water was not cold. All she could feel was his fingertips clasping hers, drawing her into the dusky alcove. The stillness of the spot and the dappled light filtering through the boughs lent the setting a tantalizing, seductive air. She did not for a moment wonder what were his intentions—had they been other than erotic, she would have been decidedly disappointed.
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