Page 25 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

Aunt Philips reached across the table to squeeze her sister’s hand. “You must not let it trouble you, Fanny. People will always talk, and there is no remedy for it but patience—or absence, as you say.”

At this, Mr. Philips laid down his cutlery, his expression abruptly more serious than his previous light-hearted comments. “If you will permit me a suggestion, my dear ladies,” he began, “perhaps what you both require is a change of scene. Why not take a holiday from Meryton altogether? The Lakes are most beautiful at this time of year. A tour of the principal estates—Chatsworth, Lowther, Levens—would do wonders for the spirits.”

A tour to the Lakes! The very idea was so unexpected, so deliciously enticing, that for a moment I could only laugh.

“Uncle, we would be the envy of all our neighbours,” I said. “But what would people say if Mama and I were to disappear so suddenly?”

“Let them say what they will,” he replied, a twinkle in his eye. “You need not tell them more than the simple truth: that Mrs. Bennet, being a widow, is travelling for her health and amusement, in the company of her daughter. There is no scandal in that. Indeed, it is quite the thing in Bath and London. And as for Fanny’s fortune—no one need know a word of it. You can be as reticent as you please, and in the North, you will be free from all the prying eyes and wagging tongues of Meryton.”

“Elizabeth, what do you think? Ought we go so far from home?” Mama turned to me. “I recall you were keen to travel north with Edward and Aunt Madeleine, and were very disappointed when they had to cancel.”

I took her hand. “Mama, I think it would do us both good. I would greatly enjoy seeing places we have only read about in books, and—most importantly—escape the constant scrutiny of our neighbours.”

Aunt Philips nodded. “The Lakes—what a lovely idea! We can help you plan your route, and Mr. Philips will write to his cousin in Yorkshire to recommend the best inns along the way.”

The rest of the dinner passed in the most pleasant anticipation of our journey. Uncle Philips, whose knowledge of the northern counties was more extensive than I had imagined, regaled us with stories of the great houses: the gardens at Levens, the waterfalls at Rydal, the ancient stones at Furness Abbey. He described the sparkling lakes, the wild moors, the sudden rainstorms that swept across the fells and left the air fresh and sweet.

No scheme could have been more agreeable. “My dear, dear uncle,” I cried, “what delight! What felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and officers! What are men to rocks and mountains?”

Mama, now thoroughly enchanted with the idea, began to imagine herself reclining in a carriage, her cares forgotten. “Perhaps we shall even see a poet or two,” she mused, “for I have heard that many of them live in the North. I should dearly love to meet a poet—so long as he is not in want of a wife!”

We all laughed, the tension of the past weeks momentarily forgotten. Aunt Philips promised to help us pack, and Mr. Philips set about making a list of necessary provisions and suitable inns.

Later that evening, as we returned to Hathaway House, Mama took my hand. “Lizzy, do you think we are doing the right thing? It would be the furthest I have ever travelled away from Meryton.”

“Yes, Mama, it is likely the very best thing we have done since Papa died. As we travel, he will be with us, reading from his travel journals and enjoying the sights just as much as you and I.”

So it was decided that we would leave Meryton behind. Lakes, mountains, and rivers called; not jumbled together in our imaginations, but experienced, as Wordsworth had lived in his poem Home at Grasmere:

I seemed to feel such liberty was mine,

Such power and joy; but only for this end,

To flit from field to rock, from rock to field,

From shore to island, and from isle to shore.

As I lay in bed that night, Mary, Kitty, and Lydia all climbed in beside me. ‘Are we really going to the Lakes, Lizzy?’ I assured them that we truly were, that it was to be a great adventure. I would write a diary that we would read to each other, so as not to forget any of the sweeping scenes and soaring peaks. There was a gentle knock on the door. Papa looked in, smiled when he saw all of us together; then, quietly, he left to sit in his favourite chair in the parlour. His first editions had gone with Mr. Darcy to the estate in Derbyshire—thus, Papa would take his worn and annotated copy of Wordsworth from the parlour shelf, and, with a sip of port, he would while away the night as I slept, anticipating the dawn with an eagerness I had long forgotten.

* * *

We spent a month preparing for our journey, during which time we let it be known that we were to travel for Mrs. Bennet’s health, as Uncle Philips had suggested, and that, due to the necessity of arranging our affairs, we would not be at home to visitors. It was not truly subterfuge, for indeed much required to be fixed upon. Jacob was to accompany us both as footman and under-coachman; John Willis was engaged as coachman for the journey. He was an honest, dependable man and had, on several occasions, driven north on the major turnpikes to Manchester. It was a long journey to the Lakes—two hundred and forty miles by the most direct route—a minimum of eight days if we kept to a steady pace of thirty miles a day.

Of course, we intended much more than that, planning to visit all the remarkable places which lay on our route: Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenelworth, Birmingham, and many more. We intended to forgo the pleasure of visiting Chatsworth, as I wished to take a passenger boat on the Bridgewater Canal from Runcorn to Leigh. Then to Blackpool, for Mama dearly wished to see the sea—the Irish Sea, alas, not the great Atlantic Ocean—and thence to the Lakes!

It seemed our disinterest in the gentlemen of the neighbourhood was noted, for we heard from Aunt Hattie that Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham had switched their visits to Miss Mary King, who was rumoured to have inherited ten thousand pounds. I already knew it, but Mr. Wickham’s attentions to me—as if we could take his attentions to Mrs. Bennet seriously—were solely mercenary, and though Miss King’s fortune was by no means insignificant, it was sufficiently mediocre to prove only his eagerness to grasp at anything. Mr. Denny’s suit could be more easily understood, as he was the son of a landed gentleman of a modest estate—perhaps some eight hundred pounds a year—an additional five hundred from Miss King’s fortune would significantly increase his wealth.

Mr. Collins had returned to Hunsford, though to what purpose Mr. Philips did not know. Certainly, he must return to take up his inheritance, which would otherwise revert to the Crown, there being no remaining male heir. While Longbourn had been my home for twenty years, I had left it behind—as all women must, when ultimately they marry and join their husband in a life away from their family.

* * *

Chapter 12

Loughrigg Fell

We arrived at Kendal, the Gateway to the Lakes, well before noon. John reckoned the horses were still strong enough to take us the further thirteen miles to Ambleside, arriving at the Salutation Hotel at three o’clock in the afternoon. We had followed the southerly route to Lake Windermere, passing through the little village of Bowness. Travelling northwards toward the head of the lake, the views were excellent, and every rising ground afforded something new. Rayrigg Bank had the most complete view of the whole lake, and from Troutbeck Bridge, a little further north, the range of mountains extending from Coniston Old Man to Langdale Pikes appeared to great advantage: the Pikes on Scawfell—the highest land in England—were seen to the left of Bowfell; and, between it and Langdale Pikes, stood Great End and Great Gable, sentinels guarding the pass at Sty Head.

I had purchased Mr. Otley’s guide to the English Lakes and Mountains—the Cumbrian names, so very strange to the ear of a child of Hertfordshire, would soon, I hoped, be as familiar as the hills near Meryton.