The Pemberley Chronicles

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  “We cannot have that, can we, Papa?” said William, appealing to his father, who had agreed at once. “Certainly not, William, if your Mama must see the Lakes to complete her happiness, we must and shall go there, this Summer.”

  And so in May, they set off for the Lakes, making a virtue of necessity and taking the opportunity to have new plumbing and other vital conveniences installed at Pemberley while they were away. Bidding goodbye to Mr and Mrs Gardiner and Richard, with whom they dined the day before their departure, Elizabeth left the addresses of the inns at which they proposed to stay and begged her aunt to write with all the news from home. She was particularly keen to hear of Emily and Paul.

  Elizabeth had written also to Jane, who had been prevented from joining them at dinner because of the indisposition of her two youngest children:

  Dearest Jane,

  We missed you at dinner yesterday and were exceedingly sorry to hear that little Sophia and Louisa are unwell. I pray it is nothing serious and they will soon be themselves again. We leave tomorrow for the Lakes. Only a small party with Darcy, myself, the children, and my faithful Jenny, who refuses to entrust me to unknown ladies’ maids in Cumbria, of which she speaks as if it were a veritable wilderness. Save when she has travelled with me, Jenny has never left Derbyshire, and though a pleasant and intelligent young woman, she still believes that, everywhere outside her home county, men are vile and not to be trusted!

  Would it not have been wonderful if we could have taken this holiday together? I do miss our long lazy afternoons and have promised myself that next Summer, we shall all travel to Surrey or Hampshire or some such pleasant spot, where the children will safely entertain themselves, Darcy and Bingley will fish, ride, shoot, or play cricket, while you and I allow ourselves some really long talks together. I shall think of you at the Lakes and look forward to a letter or two while I am away. Dearest Jane, I do miss your letters, now you are so busy with your little ones.

  My love to Bingley, my favourite nephew, and all my lovely nieces. Yours etc.

  Elizabeth looked forward to their tour of the Lakes with a greater degree of anticipation than she had felt about any other recent activity. She had confessed to Jane that, on her last visit to London, she had been bored except for the excellent recital by Mr Mendelsohn they had attended with Signora Contini and had longed only to return home.

  Wondering at her own sense of excitement, which easily exceeded that of her daughter Cassandra, she reasoned that it was probably due to the disappointment she had felt, when many years ago, their plans for just such a tour had been curtailed due to Mr Gardiner’s business commitments. And yet, it had been that very disappointment that had resulted in their being in Derbyshire and more particularly at Pemberley, when its owner happened to return a day earlier than expected. The rest, of course, was history.

  Elizabeth and her aunt had often speculated about the possibilities. But Mrs Gardiner, like Jane, had insisted that some things in life were inevitable, and she was confident that Darcy and Elizabeth were so clearly right for each other that they would have met and married anyway. Elizabeth was not so sure and never ceased to thank her aunt and uncle for their part in bringing them together.

  On that last occasion, the excursion was to have helped her overcome some degree of disappointment in her estimation of a certain officer of the militia, whose engagement to Miss Mary King had astonished her. Then she had hoped that mountains, rocks, and lakes would bring her fresh life and vigour. Almost twenty years later, with the confidence that a happy marriage and loving children gave her, she was setting off full of life and vigour, looking to enjoy the glories of a place whose beauty had become a lure for many travellers.

  Travelling North from Matlock, their journey took them through Yorkshire, which had been a route preferred above the ancient and hazardous one from Lancaster across the treacherous sands of Morecambe Bay at low tide. Their driver regaled them with hair-raising tales of coaches disappearing in the quicksands and careless travellers lost in the fog or engulfed by the rising tide.

  William, who was of an age when a touch of a danger seemed to add zest to any activity, wondered aloud why they had not chosen the “cross-sands route.” “Would it not have been so much more exciting, Mama?” he said wistfully. Neither his parents nor the driver of the carriage were prepared to agree with him. Cassandra pointed out, with some sarcasm, that she had thought the purpose of this excursion was to get to the Lakes and enjoy their beauty, not to be drowned or sucked into the quicksands before reaching them.

  Elizabeth felt a little sympathy for her son; his elder sister had a quick wit and a sharp turn of phrase, which she occasionally used to put her young brother in his place, yet William, being of a gentle disposition, never ever retaliated. “William is so much like Jane,” her Aunt Gardiner had commented, “such a steady, sweet nature,” and Elizabeth could not but agree. On this occasion, she felt compelled to enter the conversation on his side, “There will be plenty of exciting things to do when we get to the Lakes, William. I promise we shall not spend all our days looking for Mr Wordsworth’s favourite places.” Darcy caught her eye and, understanding her purpose, added that he was looking forward to some fishing and boating on the Lakes and unless he was very much mistaken, there were some exciting hills to climb as well. William, who was easily pleased, agreed that he was looking forward to all of that, but it might have been fun to be able to regale Mr Clarke and Mrs Reynolds with a terrifying tale of being lost in a fog amidst the quicksands of the estuary, at which prospect everyone laughed, including Jenny, who was Mrs Reynold’s niece. William was a great favourite with Mrs Reynolds, a fact not lost on the rest.

  Stopping whenever they needed rest or refreshment, while the horses were fed and watered, or staying overnight at an inn which took their fancy, they travelled at a leisurely pace from the dales of Yorkshire into Cumbria. The children were especially intrigued by the dry stone walls that seemed to wind in and out of valleys and over steep craggy mountains, in the teeth of the wind, quite different to the friendly green hedgerows that formed the boundaries of farms in the Midlands and the South of England. Passing through Lonsdale and Kirkby on the border of Cumbria, they proceeded to Kendal, which had grown into an important market town with its cobbled yards and busy inns, filled with coaches and people travelling either for business or pleasure.

  A good turnpike road which made travel safer and cheaper brought hundreds of tourists into the district. Many of those who came were attracted by the idyllic word pictures of this part of England drawn by the poets—Coleridge, Southey, Keats, and the father of them all—William Wordsworth. Unlike her cousin Caroline, whose passion for Wordsworth had undergone a radical change upon discovering he had joined the Conservatives, Elizabeth still found great pleasure in his poetry. A wellworn copy of his Lyrical Ballads accompanied her on this journey, during which, she promised herself, she would read from it whenever she felt in a mood to do so. Unfortunately, like all the best laid plans, such promises could not always be kept, as Elizabeth found when they reached the inn beside Lake Windermere, where they were to stay a few days.

  That night, she wrote to Jane, in an unusually poetic frame of mind:

  It was twilight, and the setting sun lit up the sky as it sank behind the hills, while the quiet lake lay like a dark silken sheet before us. Only the swallows wheeling around over the water seemed awake, as all around the darkness gathered everything into its arms. Now, I thought, if ever there was a time to read some lines of Wordsworth, now was the time. But alas, dear Jane, it was too dark to read, and my book of poetry lay in a bag at the bottom of a pile of luggage on the footpath. The children, especially William, were tired from travelling, and Jenny was anxious to get their luggage into their rooms, before it was completely dark. Darcy had gone to see the landlord, and there was no one to share with me this magical moment, my first glimpse of that special quality that the Lakes have above every other part of England. How I wished for you or Caroline to shar
e my mood. My Cassandra is very keen on her music and would rather sing than read poetry. I have some hope for William, though. I have been reading Keats and Wordsworth to him recently, and he is much more receptive. Better still, he can draw and has promised to do some sketches of our most favourite places, so I shall have some souvenirs of our tour.

  Later that night, when they had dined and retired to bed, Elizabeth told her husband of her missed “poetic” opportunity. Sympathetic, but not without a hint of mischief in his voice, he promised that, on the morrow, he would seek out the exact spot where Wordsworth composed the lines about Lake Grasmere, and she could take her book of poems and read to her heart’s content.

  And when the day dawned bright and clear, with the sun making the water glint like cut crystal, Darcy was as good as his word. Fortunate for having been in the area before with a touring party from Cambridge, he recalled that the places of pilgrimage for lovers of Wordsworth were Grasmere and Rydal Water, rather than Windermere, which was the most popular of the Lakes and therefore, frequently, the most crowded.

  So it was to the Vale of Grasmere and tranquil Rydal Water, which lay at the northernmost end of Lake Windermere, that they went, and there, indeed, it was both appropriate and possible to lie in the shade and read poetry that had been inspired by this quite magical place, hidden for centuries amidst the mountains and valleys of ancient Cumbria. The two lovely Lakes, linked by the river Rothay, were the centre of an exquisite scene, and in whichever direction one looked, a prospect of great beauty opened up before one’s eyes.

  They had brought a picnic and spent all day in such happy pursuits that when the sun slipped behind the hills and Jenny reminded them it would be best to get back to the inn, nobody wanted to leave. There was still light in the sky, and William and Cassandra begged to be allowed to stay a little longer. William was completing a sketch, and Cassy just could not bear to leave the sound of water slipping over the stones. “It was so much like music,” she said. Neither Darcy nor Elizabeth had the heart to refuse.

  Returning later to the inn, they found it filled with a party of travellers, rather noisily celebrating a successful fishing expedition. Windermere, for all its beauty, was too popular to be attractive to them. The following morning, they moved on, to Grasmere, where they found very acceptable lodgings, within walking distance from the Lakes. It is not necessary to relate in detail the pleasures of the next six weeks that so engrossed their little party; none of them felt the time pass other than too swiftly.

  The Summer days slipped by, whether fine or occasionally wet, with visits to a myriad of places. There were the curious, tiny “Dove Cottage,” where William and Dorothy Wordsworth used to live when they first settled in the area and the sad little graves of two of Wordsworth’s children, Catherine and Thomas, in the churchyard, reminding one that life here was not all beautiful vistas and rustic romance. On many lovely days, all their daylight hours were spent on or beside the water, at Grasmere, Coniston, Derwentwater, or over the far side beside Lake Buttermere, and each found something of the magic that had enchanted thousands of travellers and held in thrall artists and poets alike. They clambered up craggy hills, walked miles in the woodlands and meadows, and read poetry as they picnicked beside the waters of tumbling streams and placid lakes. Mysterious, ancient stone circles like the one at Castlerigg left them as much amazed as the natural phenomena—monuments to men and women who had inhabited these mist covered mountains and hidden valleys many centuries ago.

  Everywhere they went, around each deep bend in the road, a new vista opened, enticing them to stay longer. William had become absorbed in sketching places they visited, and his sketchbook was filling up with pictures of lakes, bridges, boats, dark fells, and sunlit valleys—all souvenirs of this splendid summer. Elizabeth and Darcy enjoyed the close companionship with their children, even more than the sights and sounds of the Lakes. It was a rare and precious thing, and they treasured it.

  In the penultimate week of their holiday, Elizabeth and Cassy declared that they needed new boots, since theirs were completely worn with walking, and Darcy suggested a day in Kendal, well-known for its rustic entertainment. The offer was accepted immediately, for they had all heard from their hosts of the excellent country fair at Kendal and were keen to visit it.

  Returning from Kendal to Ambleside, they found several letters which had been sent on from their lodgings at Grasmere. Seeing hers were from Jane and Mrs Gardiner, Elizabeth begged to be excused from a walk after dinner to the Lake, where the end of a boat race was to be followed by country dancing and fireworks. Darcy, noting how eagerly she had opened up Jane’s letter, smiled to himself. Fireworks offered no competition to a letter from Jane.

  As William and Cassandra set off with their father for the ferry wharf, Elizabeth curled up in a large, comfortable chair and settled down to read her letters. Jane’s letter was, happily, full of news. She wrote:

  My dearest Lizzie,

  I have had yours, written at Windermere at the start of your tour of the Lakes, for almost two weeks, and I am sincerely sorry for this delay in replying. I have no excuse to offer except that we have been very busy, and instead of sending off a scrap of a note, I decided to wait for a day when there would be sufficient time to write you all the news. Today, everyone is away at a cricket match. Bingley and Jonathan are both playing, and Emma has gone along with some friends in the neighbourhood to cheer their team. It means I have the day to myself, and my first thoughts were of you, out there enjoying the beauty of the Lakes. I hope this finds you still at Grasmere, which I am told is very peaceful indeed. My informant is Caroline Bingley, who together with Mrs Hurst has just left for Bath after spending a few days with us, on their return from London, where they had attended a wedding. It was not as trying having them because we did not have to be concerned with our brother-in-law, Mr Hurst, whose gout has rendered it impossible for him to travel to London. While I am sorry he suffers with the gout, I have to confess I was relieved he was not with them.

  Back to Caroline and the Lakes—she declared that she had spent two weeks there some years ago. While she found it “peaceful,” she admitted to being bored with the “endless panorama of mountains and water and no one of any quality about.” I do long to hear your response, dear Lizzie. I gather from your letter that you are unlikely to be similarly bored.

  Charlotte Collins has just this week returned to Mansfield, having spent a fortnight with us together with her two girls. Catherine, her eldest, is still at Rosings. Charlotte says her godmother and namesake, Lady Catherine, has invited her to stay on as a companion to Miss de Bourgh. While Charlotte will miss her, I think she sees it as an opportunity not to be missed and has prudently consented. Her own endeavours are bearing much fruit. She has seven young ladies at Mansfield, who will finish in November, with seven others starting next Spring. She has neither the room nor the capacity to take in more. Rebecca, she says, is very helpful. She wants to be a writer for the newspapers—and has been sending work away to several publishers— including the Matlock Review but is happy to teach Charlotte’s young ladies in the meantime. Rebecca says they are eager to learn and especially love to read poetry, write pretty letters and verses and such things. It amazes me Lizzie that we got on without such tutoring at all.

  But, Lizzie, my favourite young person has to be our goddaughter, Amelia-Jane, who is almost fifteen and already the loveliest young girl you could hope to meet and with such a sweetness of disposition, too. Bingley gave a party for the two Misses Collins last Saturday and Amelia-Jane was remarked upon by everyone present. Unfortunately for all the gentlemen who wanted to dance with her, since she is not yet “out,” her mother did not permit her to accept invitations except from Jonathan and Richard, who she said “were almost like her brothers.” There were many disappointed partners, to be sure, but Charlotte is very protective of her girls, understandably, seeing she has to bring them up on her own. She has, however, promised that Amelia-Jane may spend Christmas wit
h us, while Charlotte and Rebecca go to Lucas Lodge.

  Dear Lizzie, we have had so many visitors this Summer—Caroline and Fitzwilliam have been here on their way back from London—all very excited with their achievements. Caroline could hardly stop telling us about all the hard work Fitzwilliam had been doing with this Reform Group, who are trying to improve conditions for working people and get everyone the vote.

  Bingley swears that if women could vote and stand for Parliament, Caroline would be at Westminster herself! Oh Lizzie, how this couple have given the lie to those who thought they were unsuited, because she was too young for him. I have rarely seen a marriage in which two people loved, encouraged, and appreciated each other more . . .

  There was more, with details of several domestic and personal matters, all of which Elizabeth greatly enjoyed, glad that Jane had waited to write at length. She was still smiling when she opened up her aunt’s letter, and on glancing at it very quickly, as she was wont to do, she was struck by the difference between the two.

  As much as Jane’s letter had been filled with the sweets of Summer, leaving her sister thankful for the happiness Jane and her family enjoyed, Mrs Gardiner’s brought an immediate feeling of unease. The letter, not obviously seeming gloomy or despondent and certainly not conveying any specific bad news, appeared strained and difficult to read, quite unlike her aunt’s usual style. She also wrote of her daughter and son-in-law and their pleasure at the success of Fitzwilliam’s campaign to give more power to local councils, but Elizabeth was unconvinced; the letter lacked enthusiasm. To the extent that she could read between the lines, Elizabeth felt her aunt, whom she knew well and loved dearly, was trying to conceal some anxiety or unhappiness, but her letter betrayed her.