“That’s right.”
“Well we’re very glad to make your acquaintance,” said Darcy. “I am Fitzwilliam Darcy and this is my wife Elizabeth.”
“And you’re visiting Cornwall on some kind of holiday I take it?”
“Yes. We decided to be a little adventurous and go to different towns and stay at whichever inn we found appealing. We didn’t book ahead at all. And we haven’t had any problems. Until this evening.”
“Then you must come and lodge with me. Even if it’s only for just one night.”
“We really couldn’t impose.”
“I insist now that you’re firm friends with my sister. You’ll find my house down the street. It’s the big white house at the end. Just ask for John.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind,” said Lizzy.
They left the tavern and looked for the coachman. He was in some inn or other trying to find them accommodation so they went to find the big white house at the end of the street.
“We only know the lady as Agnes,” said Darcy. “It seems a little informal. And we only know the man we ask for as John.”
“Then we’ll just have to ask for John.”
They went, a little timidly, up the drive and Darcy knocked on the door.
“Yes, can I help you?” said a friendly looking man. He was tall with dark hair and his face reminded them of somebody but they could not place it. He spoke well though and put them at their ease at once.
“A lady sent us. She said to ask for John,” said Darcy.
“Lady?” said the man, his eyes twinkling a little.
“Yes. At the tavern. The one set back a little from the others. Agnes was her name.”
The man gave a hearty laugh.
“I’m John. Agnes is my wife. So, what can I do for you both?”
“We were looking for somewhere to stay,” said Darcy, “but every room in every inn has been taken.”
“And she said that perhaps you could stay at her house?”
“Yes, she did,” said Lizzy with a weak smile. “We really don’t like to impose.”
“We spoke to Mrs Wiggins,” added Darcy.
“Over at Jamaica Inn?” said John. “Well come in, you won’t find anywhere to stay now, not with everybody come down for the pilchards.”
John led them into the house. Darcy introduced himself and Lizzy.
“I am Fitzwilliam Darcy and this is my wife Elizabeth. We have come down from Pemberley, my estate in Derbyshire.”
John frowned as if trying to remember something; a name he had heard somewhere before maybe.
“Is anything the matter, Mr…?” said Lizzy.
“Sorry, no,” said John, “I was just trying to remember where I had heard the name Pemberley. It seems familiar.”
He held out his hand.
“Wickham. John Wickham.”
Darcy and Lizzy looked at each other.
“Wickham?” said Darcy. “We have a…er…friend called Wickham. Mr George Wickham. Do you know him?”
“Know him? He’s my brother.”
“Your brother? George Wickham is your brother?” said Lizzy, aghast.
“George Wickham?” said Darcy. “Rake, gambler, creditor, soldier, husband to Lydia, too much sparkle in his eyes, in his teeth and in his conversation? That George Wickham?”
“That’s him,” said John cheerfully.
“But how? You live here in Cornwall and he lives, well, all over.”
“I can’t really say how. We have family in Cornwall. I saved a little money and bought a tin mine. I met a Cornish lass and married her and here I am and here I stayed. George on the other hand wandered the country trying to make his fortune.”
“Yes,” said Darcy ruefully, “often at the expense of others.”
“What a small, small world it is.”
“Smaller than you think,” said John.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s here. And so’s his pretty young wife. They are lodging with us at present”
“Lydia? Here?” said Lizzy.
“Yes, she’s here. But how do you know Lydia Wickham?”
“She’s my sister.”
“Good heavens,” said John. “The world is yet smaller than I thought.”
“But what are they doing here?”
“George came and found me. He told me he had one or two small creditors pursuing him. When I questioned him further I discovered that he had run up gambling debts while living in the fashionable parts of London. He said he wanted to lie low for a little while.”
“Yes, that sounds like Wickham,” muttered Darcy.
John gave him an amused look.
“Sorry, Mr Wickham,” added Darcy hastily, “I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“I know my brother well enough, Mr Darcy. I know who his is and what he is. And I know the sort of life he leads. It’s been the same ever since he was a boy. Always getting into trouble, always coming to his older brother John to come to his aid and extricate him from his latest little difficulty.”
“Then you’ve always tried to look after him?” said Lizzy.
“One way or another. This time however was different. He came to me to hide out from his creditors. I told him he couldn’t keep running away and hiding out all the time. He asked me if I could consider paying off his debts for him. It would be an act of brotherly kindness, he said. Instead I put him to work in my tin mine. I hold back a portion of his wages every week and ensure he sends it to pay off his debt little by little. His gambling associates might make threats but they know that a little every week is better than nothing at all. In any event he has repaid over a third of what he owes these last months.”
“Then you’re a better man than I,” said Darcy. “He used to come to me for help as well. And I would simply reach for my pocket book.”
“Oh, don’t think badly of yourself on that account, Mr Darcy. I used to do the same. He’s a very charming man is my brother. He has a silver tongue and a persuasive manner, like one of those roguish characters in books. But this time my Agnes had a talk with me and suggested a better way might be to put him to work. So I did, in the tin mine.”
“And has he come to like hard work? Has it given him some kind of moral fibre?” said Darcy.
“George? I doubt it. He hates the work. You’ll see for yourselves, he’ll be back from his shift soon. He’ll certainly be surprised to see you. And so will his wife. She’ll be there now to take him some food for when he finishes work. Come, I’ll get you some refreshment and we’ll wait for them in the sitting room.”
Darcy and Lizzy followed him to the sitting room. They sat while he fetched some port.
“I just realised,” said John as he handed the glass to Lizzy, “your sister is my sister in law and my brother is your brother in law. It’s as though we’re related.”
“Yes, I suppose we are,” said Lizzy.
“Which means that I’m related by marriage to you, Mr Darcy, in stages as it were.”
“That’s right,” said Darcy with a grin. “And this is excellent port, Mr Wickham.”
They waited for half an hour until they heard the heavy tread of weary boots outside. They heard Wickham grumble to Lydia and ask her to fetch him a strong drink and heard her reply that she couldn’t find the decanter of port. He told her to look in the sitting room.
Lydia came into the sitting room. She saw the decanter on the table and was about to reach for it when she realised there were people sitting in the chairs. She looked up.
“Lizzy,” she squealed and ran to embrace her sister.
“Hello, Lydia.”
“And Mr Darcy,” she added. “But what are you doing here? Have you come on behalf of George’s creditors? He needs a little more time he says.”
John stood up.
“Don’t fret, Lydia,” he said kindly, “it’s nothing to do with George’s debts.”
“Fitzwilliam and I travelled to Cornwall on a little holiday together. It�
�s quite by chance that we came here. You see Mrs Wiggins advised us to visit Perranporth while we stayed at Jamaica Inn.”
“Who on earth is Mrs Wiggins?” said Lydia.
“Sorry, she’s Agnes’ sister.”
“I see,” said Lydia. “Please excuse me for one moment.”
She went out and spoke to Wickham. She told him to prepare for a surprise in the sitting room.
“Why?” they heard him grumble. “Has all the port gone?”
He came into the sitting room and saw Darcy and Lizzy. His mouth opened but no words emerged. Darcy stood and offered his hand. Still wordless, Wickham shook it and gave Lizzy a funny little bow.
“Have you come from my creditors? I’ve tried to tell them that I just need a little more time,” he said at last. “John, is this your doing?”
“We are here quite by chance,” said Darcy and explained everything to Wickham.
Wickham excused himself to wash and change from his dirty working clothes. When he came back some of his old sparkle had returned.
“So, Mr and Mrs Darcy holidaying in Cornwall and fetching up here by chance. What a very small world it is. And I suppose my dear brother has informed you of my little difficulties?”
“Yes,” said Lizzy, “he told us of your debts and that you had come here to evade your creditors.”
“Did he?” said Wickham.
“Yes,” said Darcy, “and he told us he put you to work for him in the tin mine.”
“That’s right,” said Wickham with a little sneer, “as a good and loving brother would.”
Agnes returned from the tavern.
“There,” she said to her husband, “I have prepared meals for my guests. I’ve left it in large metal pots so they can help themselves. I am finished at the tavern for the night.”
“What a splendid idea,” said Lizzy. “Set the food out in pots and let them take what they want. Do they ever complain?”
“They know better than to complain to Agnes Wickham,” said Agnes and they all laughed.
John then explained everything to his wife. She was as surprised as they at first but soon they were all laughing about the strange chain of coincidences which had brought two brothers and two sisters together.
“Well, I must go and prepare supper,” said Agnes.
“Splendid,” said Wickham. “Pour me another glass of port would you, John.”
“We don’t want to put you to any trouble,” said Lizzy.
“It’s no trouble, Mrs Darcy,” said Agnes. “I trust you’ll be staying this evening. Especially as you’re family. In any case there’s nowhere else for you to go and the storm is going to rise soon.”
“Do you think so?” said Wickham. “It was very calm on the way back from the mine. Hardly a breath of wind.”
“That’s the sign,” said Agnes. “You mark my words. It will be here before morning.”
A few miles to the south west, Mr and Mrs Bennet ate their supper in a little village near St Ives. Kitty read her book and Mary looked through the sketches she had made so far in Cornwall, making little alterations here and there.
“How is your supper, my dear?” said Mr Bennet.
“Middling, Mr Bennet,” said Mrs Bennet. “The meat is fair, the vegetables are overcooked and the potatoes are underdone.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, my dear.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Mr Bennet, it’s just one more cross I have to bear. Now, where did you say we are?”
“We are near St Ives. We should get there tomorrow. It’s a fair sized town so we may find Lizzy and Darcy there or we might at least speak to somebody who may have seen them.”
“I think we’re on a wild goose chase and will never find them. Why on earth you insisted we come to this place I do not know. It’s so untamed.”
“But it was your suggestion, my dear.”
“But I knew you wanted to come. A few days ago, when Mr Collins had finished delivering his sermon about the profitable son…”
“Prodigal, my dear. It was the prodigal son.”
“Don’t interrupt me, Mr Bennet, please. When he had finished his sermon about the man and his son and then said he might return in a few days to deliver another sermon, this time about the five wise maidens who trimmed their lamps, I saw you roll your eyes. And just because I thought it might be pleasant for Lizzy and Mr Darcy to enjoy our company on their special holiday does not mean that it was my suggestion. Not really.”
“When do we leave for St Ives, mother?” said Kitty, having just finished a chapter of The History of Tom Jones.
“Tomorrow morning. Early. I think it would be best if you girls retired to your bed chambers while your father and I discussed our travel plans.”
Kitty and Mary picked up their things and went to their bed chamber.
“Now, the weather should be fine tomorrow,” said Mrs Bennet, “so we’ll be able to have a good look around St Ives.”
“I was talking to the landlord when I fetched your hard cider and he said they were expecting a terrible storm to rise sometime tonight or early tomorrow morning.”
“Nonsense, Mr Bennet. When I was outside earlier there was barely a breeze.”
“He said it gets very calm before a storm in these parts.”
“Well, I don’t believe it. I can feel it in my water that it will be fine tomorrow. And who are you going to believe, Mr Bennet? The landlord of a village inn or your wife’s water?”
“I’m sure you’re right, my dear,” said Mr Bennet with a worried glance out of the window. “You usually are.”
They awoke very early the next morning and enjoyed a quick (and full in Mrs Bennet’s case) breakfast. Mrs Bennet asked that the coach and horses be prepared and they made ready to leave for St Ives.
“I wouldn’t leave just yet if I were you,” said the landlord looking up at the sky.
“Why ever not?” said Mrs Bennet.
“It’s about to rain. Look at the clouds,” he said. “Look at the colours.”
Mrs Bennet looked up. The clouds hung low and were an unpleasant looking mixture of black, brown and a dirty yellow.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs Bennet. “You make ready with the coach while my husband settles your bill. I’m going for a little walk to get a little fresh air.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you, Mrs,” said the landlord.
“At least take an umbrella, my dear,” pleaded Mr Bennet.
“Nonsense,” said Mrs Bennet, and she strode from the inn and walked down the little lane with great vigour.
She returned less than five minutes later. She looked very different though. She had gone no more than a hundred yards when the clouds burst forth and deposited great, heavy drops of rain, most of which seemed to have fallen on Mrs Bennet. As she turned and tried to make her way back, puddles quickly formed, soaking her feet and the hem of her dress. Her hat gave her no protection and was battered with pelting hailstones mixed with the rain.
As she ran into the shelter of the inn, little rivers of water ran from her clothes and soaked the wooden floorboards of the porchway. Mrs Bennet could not speak for several minutes and was unwilling to move as that would make the water penetrate her clothes yet deeper. She looked very forlorn.
“Why didn’t you give me the umbrella, Mr Bennet?” she asked at last.
“I suggested you take an umbrella, my dear. But you refused.”
“I think you wanted me to get caught in the rain and catch a chill. And you know that my great aunt was carried off by a chill after she fell into the lake.” Tears fell from her eyes. A little forced perhaps but tears nevertheless.
“She wasn’t really carried off though was she, my dear? She merely moved to Bath.”
“Please don’t contradict me, Mr Bennet.” The tears fell faster.
“Crying will only make things worse, my dear,” said Mr Bennet with sympathy. “Come now, why don’t you have a hot bath and put on some dry clothes. I’m sure you’ll feel much better. Shall I
fetch you some hot milk with a little brandy?”
“Very well,” she said with a little sniff and a dab on her face with Mr Bennet’s handkerchief.
The coach and horses were returned whence they came and a hot bath was drawn for Mrs Bennet. By the time she had finished bathing it was nearly time for lunch so they stayed at the inn for a while longer while they ate and were ready at last to set out for St Ives in the middle of the afternoon.
Darcy and Lizzy's Cornish Adventure Page 6
