“His Highness wish to know why com-mi-dor lady-wife do not walk on shore,” said the interpreter. “Is she fear for her safety?”
“Oh – no,” said Georgiana, looking directly toward the prince and hoping that the shaking of her head carried the same meaning in his culture as it did in hers. “We have been given to understand from previous ports that it is not acceptable for a foreign woman to go ashore.”
When this had been translated to him, the prince gave her a little bow, and spoke again, which was ultimately translated to, “Is not here. Lady-wife is welcome on shore.”
Thus, Georgiana went up with her husband on the deck to see the prince off, rather than hiding away in the cabin, and the next day rode in the barge with Matthew to the shore. Once again, she found her nose assaulted with strange, tropical smells, some reminiscent of Batavia but others completely different. Again, as well, she found the sensation of walking to be difficult after so long aboard the ship, and yet she was intensely glad to be on solid land for a little while.
They walked down along the beach and then into the village, a trim-looking place with its tiled roofs curving into strange little points, and beautiful gardens to be found outside what Matthew said was the temple, the air there filled with even richer, stranger scents. Georgiana’s progress was not unobserved; the seamen from the Caroline paid her little mind, and those from the Lyra hardly more, but the islanders in their silk robes and sandals watched her presence closely. They stopped and pretended to return to whatever they had been about, whenever Georgiana looked back at them, but she felt what an object of curiosity she was to them.
Following this, she went ashore every morning with her sketchbook, accompanied either by Matthew or Bowden, and soon enough the other ladies of the ship. They continued to be treated with curiosity, but also with every politeness, and this politeness extended to Georgiana’s being invited to dine on shore. There she found herself overwhelmed by an event with so much conviviality and yet so little communication. Most of the men were happy enough to eat their fill and toast with the local liquor, but Georgiana stayed with tea as much as she was able, and was glad they had sat her with Matthew, so that at least she could share her thoughts and observations with him.
Still, if Georgiana found dining with hosts she could not understand overwhelming, she enjoyed her time ashore, and the celebratory tenor that seemed to have overtaken the whole ship’s company. One day, a vast set of paper lanterns arrived, a gift for the ship in honour of “The Good English King,” and the ship was illuminated with them that evening, which Matthew supplemented with blue lights on the yard-arms and a few rockets for the sky. Georgiana stood beside him and watched the lanterns swaying in the breeze, the hundreds of villagers lined up along the shore, and felt this was a magical time, a time she would never forget. A time she would tell her still-growing child about, when the crews of two English ships and the residents of an island on the other side of the world had existed in happy friendship.
Georgiana was to make something of a friend of her own, as well. While she was sitting in the shade of a grove of cocoanut trees with the other ladies from the ship, drinking from one of the fruits of the trees, one of the islanders approached her, followed by a lady in very fine embroidered robes and flowing hair of glossy black. Georgiana was somewhat familiar with the islander – she had seen him at the dinners and elsewhere on shore – and he endeavoured to indicate what seemed a desire to introduce the lady to her. Georgiana took the lady to be a woman of some rank by the richness of her clothes and sandals, curtsied to her, and made to shake her hand. This prompted the woman to shrink back in fear behind the man who had introduced her, and Georgiana blushed at such an apparent faux pas as she had just made.
The man seemed to explain the gesture, however, and the woman emerged from behind him, smiling faintly to Georgiana. Timidly, she approached, and held out her hand as Georgiana had done, and Georgiana just barely grasped the tips of the woman’s fingers, not wishing to intimidate her. The other Englishwomen curtsied, and Georgiana, wishing to prolong the encounter but not sure how to do so without being able to speak, motioned to Moll to hand over her sketchbook. All that was contained within was a source of great entertainment to the lady, who gazed intensely at those places foreign to her, and gave a little cry of delight upon first seeing scenes from her own island. She seemed to like particularly a sketch of the Caroline at anchor within the bay, and was exceedingly happy when Georgiana tore it from her sketchbook and indicated it should be a gift.
When finally it came time to leave, they could not do so without the Lewchewans giving them every affectionate farewell that could be given. They crowded on board the decks of the Caroline and the Lyra, shaking hands and expressing such English words as they had learnt, they rowed alongside the ship in their canoes and waved exuberantly. As the ship began her first movements out to sea, Georgiana found herself more sad than she would have expected. There was such goodness in these people, such benevolence, and she realised she held a true regard for them, but would likely never see them again.
Chapter 12
Andrew Ramsey’s career had necessarily grounded him heavily in natural science and mathematics, for it was impossible to sail and navigate a ship of any size without a goodly amount of knowledge in both. Upon learning the house at Longbourn was not in possession of a barometer, he had reacted with a sort of puzzled horror, and immediately ordered one from London.
It was a fine piece – Mrs. Bennet had thought it so fine she wished it to be placed in the entrance-hall and said she was sure Lady Lucas did not have one – and Andrew had expressed himself pleased with its accuracy. He was the only person in the house who looked at it for scientific rather than aesthetic purposes, however, and Catherine became aware one morning that he was looking at it even more frequently than usual.
“What is the matter with the barometer?” she asked, when he had once again done so and returned to the parlour, where the Ramseys and Bennets had been sitting.
“It is not what is the matter with the barometer, but rather what is wrong with the weather. Sir,” he said to Mr. Bennet, “I do not like what I see, and I think we would do well to attempt to bring in as much of the harvest as is possible immediately.”
Mr. Bennet received this with sufficient deference to the urgency of the tone in which it was uttered, and ordered horses saddled for himself and his son-in-law. The horses were brought around to the drive, and Catherine watched the two men ride off, seeking to warn the tenants of the coming danger. She was not sure what she hoped for. A storm of sufficient size would be devastating to what crops could not be got in, and therefore to the estate, yet she did not wish for Andrew to be wrong, to have been found to be crying wolf.
Andrew was not wrong. A severe frost struck two days later, and it was followed by a storm of sleet and snow, as bad as any storm Catherine could ever recall in Hertfordshire. During the storm, Mr. Bennet expressed his gratitude to his son-in-law, and when it had finally passed, many of the tenant farmers came to the kitchen to pass on even deeper gratitude. There had not been enough time to save the entirety of the harvest, but those few days had afforded them all enough to avoid ruin.
In the evening following this, Catherine retired with her husband to the room they shared, and gazed thoughtfully at him, saying, “You are now both a naval hero and an agricultural one.”
He scoffed at her praise. “I am hardly a hero in either realm, merely a man attempting to do the best I am able to do.”
“You must give yourself more credit. If you had not been here, how much more of the harvest would have been lost? Those men who came to the kitchen today will be able to feed their families this winter because of you.”
“That I am glad of,” said he, “although I must say at present I am also glad our income comes from the funds, and not the land.”
“I am very glad of that as well,” Catherine said, “and now you must come over and kiss me, for I find it terribly attractive wh
en a man saves a harvest.”
Chapter 13
Wheat was coming in for Pemberley’s harvest – not nearly so much as in previous years, but enough that with the current prices, most farmers would not do so badly as they had feared. The difficulty of it was that much of it was wet, and so the farmers were endeavouring to dry it in whatever manner they could; there was many a barn within which smoke could be seen, for it had proven most effective thus far. It was a strange sight, one that could not but strike a moment’s fear in the heart of any farmer or estate owner, for usually the sight of smoke coming from a barn was a precursor of horrors. On Pemberley’s land, though, the fires producing the smoke had been kept small and were closely watched, so that every barn remained safe.
This was the scene that the ladies of Pemberley who had taken to riding together espied when they went out, which they had begun to do on every day the weather was fine enough for it: Anne on Buttercup, Marguerite on Spartan, and Elizabeth on Flora, whose sweet gait and even sweeter temper had won over her new mistress much more quickly than Elizabeth had expected.
They were passing Smith’s farm, now, and he could be seen inside his barn, an active overseer of the men shovelling about his wheat to further aid it in drying, despite the presence of his bailiff. He was not so absorbed in this, however, that he did not notice the ladies and doff his hat to them. This was followed by his exiting the barn and bidding them all good day. He asked after their health but seemed most particularly interested in the health of Miss de Bourgh, and Elizabeth noted Anne’s blush in response to such inquiries before they all rode on.
They returned to the stable yard to find the grooms not so prompt as they usually were in assisting the ladies down from their mounts, for their attention seemed to be focused upon a horse that was being led in circles around the yard. After Elizabeth’s half-boots had thudded down upon the cobbles and she had given Flora an affectionate pat, she turned her attention to the horse they were all watching. It was Kingfisher, and the cause of everyone’s attention was clear – walking upon the cobblestones seemed to be most painful for the poor animal.
This was affirmed when Darcy came striding into the yard, had a brief conference with Marshall, then walked over to the horse and claimed its lead line from the groom. He walked the horse on a loose lead, watching its feet as he did so, and did not even manage half a circle around the yard before he halted, shaking his head and rubbing the horse’s neck, murmuring something into its ear.
“Do not make him suffer any longer,” Darcy told Marshall. “Give him one of the foaling stalls and let him rest. Let us hope this passes.”
This statement was followed by an extensive apology from Marshall, which culminated in an offer to release the groom that had been responsible for the horse’s present state. This was firmly declined by Darcy, who said it had been an accident and no one should be dismissed over it.
Only after all of this did he notice Elizabeth standing there across the yard, and he walked over to her. In her early acquaintance with him, Elizabeth would have taken her husband’s present countenance to be one of taciturn reserve. Now, however, she sensed immediately that although he was attempting to be stoic, he was in truth very upset, and she took up his arm and murmured, “what is the matter?”
“Poor old King – when we had the frost, he was turned out in a pasture that had not entirely thawed. The far side was still covered in frost, and it seems he grazed there.”
“And that has caused him to be lame?”
“We fear so. There is a disorder of the hoof called founder, which can be caused by such things.”
“Oh, Darcy, I am so sorry. I hope he shall heal.”
“I hope so, too,” he said, although in a tone that indicated he was not so hopeful.
+++
In the course of that horrible summer, it had always been Darcy who had been active in seeking solutions, who had endeavoured to give his tenants reasons to hope, who had seemed to fight the weather with every force of will he possessed. That storm had seemed to defeat him, however, and even though the price of wheat should give his tenants a better chance to make their rents, he knew full well what it meant for the cost of bread and those who survived on it. Now, the injury to Kingfisher seemed to have taken any last bit of fighting spirit that remained in him. He hardly spoke at dinner that evening, and nothing Elizabeth did seemed capable of raising his spirits.
They were to dine with the Sinclairs the next evening, and his countenance was so morose over the preceding day that Elizabeth offered him the option of claiming illness and allowing Edward to escort the ladies there. He insisted on going, however, and Elizabeth determined that this once, she would not begrudge him at all if he wished to stand at the edge of the drawing-room and avoid conversation for the whole of the night, and if he did, she would call for their carriage as early as could be politely done.
At present, however, the gentlemen were still in the dining-room, leaving Elizabeth to the enjoyments of conversing with Mrs. Sinclair and Marguerite. Elizabeth had been right, that she and Marguerite should form a friendship if offered enough time in company with each other, and her burgeoning friendships with Marguerite and Anne were the brightest points in her life, at present. While her friendship with Anne had taken effort, though, gaining Marguerite’s affections had been easy: the Frenchwoman’s proficiency in the English language grew slowly, yet her lack therein was not enough to mask a deep wit, and that same lack of proficiency perhaps enabled the frankness and candour Marguerite frequently expressed.
These qualities were once again displayed when the gentlemen began making their entrance into the drawing-room. Mr. Smith almost immediately singled out Miss de Bourgh for conversation, a manoeuvre prompted by an inviting glance from Anne. Elizabeth observed them closely, and felt certain that whatever they were speaking of, it was not an innocuous topic like farming, for there was something that seemed very nearly flirtatious in Anne’s manner.
Marguerite, her attention on the same conversation, murmured: “Those two – they are in love.”
“I have wondered over that myself,” Elizabeth murmured in reply. “You truly think so? Do you believe it is mutual? She seems to indicate a great deal of regard for him, but I cannot tell whether he returns it.”
“I think he does,” said Marguerite. “He is like your husband, I think. Stolid – no, no – sto – stoic, and yet he burns for you.”
Elizabeth had not expected such a delightfully succinct expression of her husband’s love to follow Marguerite’s stumbling beginning, and she flushed a little as she glanced over to Darcy. True to her prediction, he was standing at the edge of the room, and she sighed, wishing to take him home and do whatever she could to soothe him.
The thought of home, unfortunately, was a reminder that all was not well, there. Yes, Jane improved, but now there was the lameness of Darcy’s horse, and of course poor little George. The thought struck Elizabeth that if something was the matter with him, he would never be attending any dinner parties, even to stand at the edge of the drawing-room like his father, and this thought was so disconcerting that when the tea things were brought in, prompting a rearrangement of the various clusters of conversations within the room, Elizabeth went to stand quietly beside George’s father. If she could have sought his embrace or even merely held his hand, she surely would have.
These things she did when they were finally returned to the privacy of their own apartments. Neither of them spoke of what troubled them, but they laid there silently embracing within the master’s bed, equally giving and deriving comfort.
+++
Elizabeth’s worries over George had reached the point that when Dr. Alderman came to check on Jane the next day and was again summarily dismissed by his patient, Elizabeth asked that he look at the twins. She explained her particular concerns over George, but when she had done so and he had observed them both and examined their limbs – a process that had caused James, not George, to cry – he said he did not
see cause for alarm, as yet, and that she ought to be patient.
Patience had never been a particular virtue of Elizabeth’s, however, and after the physician had left, she proposed to Marguerite and Anne that they have another ride, seeking a distraction. They agreed to it readily – so readily Elizabeth realised they might have been hoping to go out sooner but for her fruitless sojourn with the physician.
Soon enough, however, their three mounts were saddled and the ladies were trotting amiably along Pemberley’s grounds. Elizabeth wondered what sort of picture they presented – she, finally, had graduated to a mount that became her station, in the reasonably tall stature, pretty head, and even prettier gait of Flora, but she followed Marguerite, who did manage Spartan well in her return to the saddle after so many years, and Anne, whose health now suggested she should be well beyond Buttercup, although she seemed happy enough with the pony.
Thus they trotted along, each mount more than a hand taller than the one that preceded it, until Elizabeth noticed Anne was taking them along the lane that led to Stonebridge Farm. This was often Anne’s preferred route, but now, given Marguerite’s statement from the night before, Elizabeth thought it was intentional.
“This is the path to Mr. Smith’s house,” said Marguerite. “We should call on him, I think. Perhaps Elizabeth and I can give him little – little nudge, to confess himself to Anne.”
Anne slowed Buttercup to a walk and turned back to look at them, the countenance that had historically been so pale now entirely overspread with pink. “Wha – what do you mean by confess himself?”
“I think he is in love with you,” said Marguerite. “But he will not say it.”
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