by Jane Odiwe
Mr Darcy laughed. "I always knew your abuse of me was by design, that you drew me in by pretending to be as unflattering and critical of me as you dared. You thought you could not win me by your form, wit, and fine eyes alone, so you resorted to pretending to dislike me in an effort to gain my attention."
"By design, how can you say so, you incorrigible, infuriating, provoking man? Indeed, Mr Darcy, no deception was necessary, I assure you." Elizabeth took his arm in hers before stating, "I hated you then as much as I love you now."
Fitzwilliam put his hand over hers. "Do you love me, Elizabeth?"
"You know I do, darling."
"Well, Mrs Darcy, I wish to hear it again."
"I love you," she whispered, pulling him toward the door and, looking up at him with a mischievous glint in her eye, added, "but only on days with a 'y' in them."
Almost everyone was seated at the breakfast table when the Darcys made an appearance. No one batted an eyelid at them; they were quite used to the couple being last to sit down, each privately assessing the reasons for their perpetual lateness. But this morning they were not the last to arrive for breakfast.
"Where is Miss Georgiana?" asked Mr Darcy as he helped himself from the platters of ham, eggs, and soft rolls upon the table.
Jane spoke. "She has gone out to the village to collect the post."
"There is no need for her to do that. One of the servants can go. I am not sure she should be wandering around on her own."
"It is but a short walk, Fitzwilliam," Elizabeth said. "She likes to go out walking by herself. I am sure she will be here in a moment."
At these words Georgiana came flying into the room clutching a handful of letters, her cheeks flushed by the exercise and with an air of animation and high spirits. "I have letters for you all!" she exclaimed. "Mrs Biddle in the village says she has never been so busy with so much correspondence. Mrs Gardiner, I think you have the most, seven letters in all."
"Oh, they will be from the children, I daresay," said Mrs Gardiner, "full of news of London."
The letters were handed out and a few minutes passed where silence reigned as the missives were read.
"Well, I never," said Mr Bingley at last. "I cannot quite believe it, but I have it in writing here that my sisters are leaving London and Mr Hurst behind, as I speak, to head north to the Lakes."
"Caroline is leaving London and all its entertainments to come up to the North?" asked Jane, who sounded as astonished at this piece of news as she looked disappointed.
"It seems Caroline has been finding society very dull of late. But listen to this... perhaps the inducement to travel lies in other directions. Not all society is so very tedious to my sister Caroline, it appears."
"Whatever do you mean, Charles?" asked Jane, whose heart was sinking at the prospect of spending any time with her sister-in-law.
Charles Bingley cleared his throat and read out loud.
"At one of Lady Metcalfe's drawing rooms, Louisa and I were introduced to a fellow by the name of Dalton. He is a painter, an advocate for the picturesque, of which he is a great exponent. Lord Dalton prefers not to be known by his title, and indeed, I have only just discovered that he has one, that he is not only of noble ancestry, but also that he is one of the richest men in Westmorland. This gentleman's work and his philosophy is all the rage in London, and he is feted wherever he goes. His talks on the simple pleasures of life in the Lakes, where he was born, have moved me to the extent that I shall not rest until I have experienced it for myself: nature in all its sublimity. As Dalton says, truth and refined taste can only grow from studying nature. To be at one with nature, to define and experience the picturesque can only be truly appreciated from close observance of the landscape. I am, therefore, following him to the Lakes and will reside in a cottage near Hawkside to live as simply as I can. Society holds no attraction for me anymore. Dearest Charles, I have cast off the shackles of a civilisation that no longer has any charms for me. I believe there will be several disciples following in his wake, but I do not think I exaggerate when I say that Lord Dalton and I have become particular friends. I shall write to let you know when Louisa and I arrive at Robin Cot, Hawkside."
During this speech Elizabeth had found it increasingly difficult not to laugh out loud, especially when she happened to catch Jane's eye from across the table. The thought that Caroline Bingley with all her pretensions to grandeur could swap the high life for a humbler existence in a cottage was extraordinarily comic. She could not resist saying, "Do you think there may be more than an appreciation of nature at work here, Mr Bingley? Is there some love in the case?"
"My goodness," said Bingley, "I am beginning to wonder."
"Has Miss Bingley always enjoyed such an appreciation of nature?" Elizabeth continued, ignoring the nudge of her husband's foot under the table.
"I can't say I ever noticed it before," Bingley muttered, scratching his head. "It doesn't make sense. I can no more see Caro in a cottage than I can myself. What the deuce has happened to her, do you suppose?"
"Love does many strange things, and the most unlikely pairings take place in springtime," answered Mrs Darcy, gazing into her husband's eyes with a wink and a smirk.
However, Mr Darcy was not to be diverted from Charles's conversation or from the perusal of his own letter, in which he had suddenly become most engrossed. "Good God!" he exclaimed in an agitated voice.
"My love, whatever is wrong?" cried Elizabeth, feeling quite alarmed at the flush spreading over her husband's face. Everyone's eyes turned toward him in concern.
"It seems this Dalton fellow has been creating havoc wherever he goes," he said, re-examining the letter he held in his hand. "My aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, informs me that she is taking a house further along the shore here at Winandermere on the recommendation of her friend Lady Metcalfe. She is bringing a party from London immediately, including not only the painter and poet, Lord Henry Dalton, but also her friends, Lord and Lady Metcalfe, Lord Featherstone, the Miss Winns, Mr and Mrs Collins, and one or two others I have never heard of before... literary types, poets, I believe. She claims that this Dalton fellow is not only a painter of the highest order, but that he is a great orator and has charmed London society as no other has done before him. Her soiree is postponed until they arrive as she is anxious for us all to meet him."
"And how many more will follow in their wake?" cried Elizabeth, quite unable to hide her disapprobation for the scheme. "I do not think I am ready for the whole of London to arrive in smart barouches clogging up the lanes and throwing balls and parties every night."
The table fell silent as each person reflected on their own misgivings.
"Well, I expect they will be far too busy running around the countryside with easels and writing books to do much entertaining," said Mr Darcy perusing the letter once more. "I confess, even my aunt seems to be given over with scribbling verses. Ah, here it is, she says... 'there are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of art and literature than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever had the benefit of Georgiana's masters or the luxury of time spent away from an ailing child, I should have been prolific. As it is, I must content myself with the fact that Lord Dalton says he has rarely witnessed such superb enjambment as he finds in my work.'"
"Forgive my ignorance," said Mrs Gardiner as both she and Mrs Butler looked on with a mixture of puzzlement and incredulity, "could you please enlighten me?"
"Enjambment comes from a French word meaning to put one's leg across or to step over," answered Elizabeth mischievously, "but, in this case, I imagine that Lady Catherine is referring to the running over of a sentence from one verse or couplet into another so that closely related words fall in different lines."
"Here we are," continued Mr Darcy, "my aunt has been kind enough to include one of her verses for illustration with the note that she has recited the very same before Lord Dalton's friends with the most flattering success.
"Not far from
Ambleside's banks and bay
An humble dwelling rose;
Around its walls the woodbine twin'd,
Encircled with the rose.
The purple violet at their feet,
Perfum'd the ambient air,
And those who view'd the lovely cot,
Thought it--a shield from care!
"There is more, but I am sure you get the picture."
"Oh, I like the part about the perfumed violets," cried Georgiana. "Fancy my aunt a poetess!"
For Elizabeth, now close to exploding with mirth for the image conjured in her mind of Lady Catherine reciting her poetry before an audience all trying to outdo one another with romantic idylls, tempests, and spontaneous lines addressed to nature, it was all too much. "Oh dear," she could not resist adding, "do you suppose we shall have to communicate in verse when we meet?"
"Lord, help us all," muttered Mr Darcy under his breath, but not so quietly that the whole company could not hear him. "Bingley, I hope you know the difference between an epic and an epigram, or I fear you'll be cut and snubbed by all of new Lake society! Mrs Bingley, be most careful when you are out walking this afternoon in case you feel a sonnet coming on, and Mrs Gardiner, Mrs Butler, beware the ballad and the ode!"
The tension was broken at last and everybody laughed.
Georgiana excused herself when she could to escape to her room in order that she could read her letters. It was no accident that she volunteered daily to fetch the post, disappearing before anyone else had risen, to go down to the village further along the shore. Her personal correspondence over the last fortnight had been a source of constant delight. She had kept her promise to Mr Butler and had written to him, but far from writing only once, she had corresponded whenever she could, letters to entertain with snippets of her daily routine accompanied by notes and drawings on the landscape, which by all accounts he was enjoying very much. To her enormous excitement, Tom had written back just as much telling her of his escapades in London. His patron, Lord Featherstone, was there for the season and, besides attending to the work Tom had to do, he had been invited to stay with the old bachelor who had taken him under his wing. Having no wife or children, Lord Featherstone enjoyed the young man's companionship and was invited everywhere with him.
Georgiana tore open her letters with impatience. Firstly, one from a friend in London was read, followed by one from Mrs Annesley, who was enjoying her stay in Weymouth with her sister. The third she saved until last and with a mixture of excitement and elation opened the seal with trembling fingers.
Dearest Georgiana,
I hope this letter finds you as well as I am. Thank you for your last--I loved the drawing of a sunset over Winandermere--it was so good I could smell the air moving over the water stirring the lake into ruffles of crimson sateen. How I wish I could be there to see such a sight with you, to sit at your side, each with a pencil in hand to draw the beauty around us.
London is filling up; there are more carriages arriving every day, and there is such a ceaseless bustle and hustle about the place that I long for the solitude you have. To be able to sit at the side of a lake with ne'er another soul in sight must be wonderful. Still, to see it all through your eyes is reward enough if I cannot have the real thing.
I hope you enjoy the enclosed. We made a visit to the Tower of London and I have drawn some of the wild beasts to be found there. I am not sure who is the more curious, and the animals have such a way of looking at you that I almost began to feel that I was the caged one. Do write and tell me what you think! I must away, as Lord Featherstone is calling me--I shall endeavour to find the time to write some more before I catch the last post.
Since writing the above, I have just heard some incredible news. It seems that my patron has been invited to the Lakes, to a house party. I know none of the particulars, but it is too much to hope that I shall also be asked to come. Lucky, lucky Featherstone!
I will write again as soon as I can with any more news.
Affectly yours,
Thomas Butler.
Georgiana was all hope. She had heard her brother mention Lord Featherstone's name at breakfast, and now she was filled with anticipation, trusting that Tom's patron could no more do without him in the Lakes than he could in London. If she could just have one glimpse of Thomas Butler that would be enough to satisfy, she told herself. Ever since they had arrived, despite all attempts to blot Tom out of her mind, she had been unsuccessful. His letters were her solace and pleasure. Mr Darcy had been quite right about Georgiana's romantic sensibility, but not with any reference to Mr Calladine, who had sent no missive of any kind. No, her thoughts and visions were all centred on Tom, whose countenance she espied on every distant hilltop vista and Lakeland scene.
Chapter 24
At the very start of April, as the daffodils danced on the quiet shoreline of Lake Winandermere, an untidy procession of coaches, carriages, tilburies, and phaetons noisily wound their way along the roads from Kendal to their various destinations, some toward the lake itself whilst others travelled on to more remote hideaways.
Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst looked out of their carriage window in expectation as they bowled along.
"How soon do you think we shall see him, Louisa?" said Miss Bingley, who could not speak Lord Dalton's name out loud for fear of raising her blushes higher. Caroline, who had never felt anything remotely like love for anyone in her life before, was completely smitten. Such a change had come over her that she hardly recognised herself. So softened by her notions of amour and romance had she become that even Louisa looked quite handsome today in her eyes, which was saying a lot, because apart from the sibling rivalry that prevented her from ever admitting anything in her sister's favour, she privately thought that Mrs Hurst was very fortunate to have caught herself a husband with a countenance that she considered would make a turbot appear attractive.
"You gave him our forwarding address, did you not, Caroline? I am sure he will find us if that is his desire," answered her sister with a look of discontent spreading over her face. In her opinion, there was little chance of Lord Dalton calling often, if at all, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She started to gesticulate through the window. "It all looks rather wild out there. Are you quite sure this is such a good idea? To turn down Lady Catherine's kind invitation so you can cavort in a cottage is not my idea of fun. What did you mean by it, Caro? Have you gone mad?"
"I confess, I think I am a little mad, dearest Louisa... mad in love, if you please. And I think when you hear me out, you will see that my reasons for choosing a sweet cot are very sane."
"There's nothing sane about wanting to stay in a tiny hovel a peasant wouldn't thank you for, with no servants to light the fires and no cook to wait on us. I do not know how you talked me into staying with you."
"Oh, Lulu, you know I must have a chaperone, especially one that likes to take herself off for long walks when a certain gentleman comes calling. It is so romantic! I can see it all! Just picture it: a cosy sofa by the fire and Henry on his knees before me. Louisa, this is my chance, you must know that."
Louisa knew nothing of the sort and privately thought that her sister had as much chance of winning over Lord Dalton as she had of winning the State Lottery, which she never did. The fact that he seemed similarly smitten with one of Lady Catherine's circle, the unassuming yet beautiful Miss Theodora Winn, was a truth that Caroline refused to acknowledge or admit.
Presently, the carriage stopped, the door opened, and the steps were let down. "You'll have to get out here," said the driver of the post chaise. "I can't get down that track; I'll never get back again."
"But how far is Robin Cot from here?" snapped Mrs Hurst who was less than impressed by the coachman's attitude.
"I can't say, ma'am, it depends who's doing the walking," he answered gruffly, observing their fine kid shoes. "Though by just looking I'd say fifteen minutes if the mud's baked, twenty-five if not. That's Robin Cot yonder."
The sisters
followed his pointing finger to the sight of a small dwelling, which could just be seen through a clump of trees on the brow of a hill in the distance. The narrow lane they must walk down was three inches deep in mud. Neither sister was equipped for such a jaunt nor did they relish the prospect of undertaking such a feat. They looked at one another in horror. "But you cannot leave us here," wailed Caroline, as she watched the driver climb back onto the box.
"Company rules, ma'am," he shouted, with a dismissive wave as he set off to leave them. "I'll arrange for your luggage to be brought up to the cottage, but you'll have to pay extra for a man to carry it all. Good-bye, ladies, I hope you enjoy your stay!"
As the sisters were struggling down the lane, each berating the other for anything and everything, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, accompanied by Mr and Mrs Collins, was calling at Bellingham Hall. Mr and Mrs Darcy and Miss Georgiana attended their guests in the Chinese drawing room. Elizabeth greeted her friend Charlotte with the liveliest pleasure and her husband as formally as his manners entailed. It was so good to see her old friend again, and though they had much to discuss, little could be accomplished with Lady Catherine in the room. There was nothing to be done but to listen to this formidable woman talk, which they all did without any intermission till the tea things came in, delivering her opinion on Winandermere, Lord Dalton's sublime painting, and her poetry writing in her usual decisive manner. If she paused for breath, Mr Collins supplied what was missing with much flattery in his usual grave tones punctuated with deferential bowing in Mr Darcy's direction.