Page 32 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“I wondered why Georgiana was so delighted to meet Miss Elizabeth,” the Colonel said, turning to me. “No offence, ma’am, but she’s usually very reserved, even with friends. You did her a great kindness.”

To Mr. Darcy, he added, “Meryton?—sixteen miles north of Watford? I’m bound for Horse Guards in London tomorrow; perhaps I’ll stop at Pemberley for the vowels and receipts you hold in Wickham’s name, and then on to Meryton to have him arrested for debt. It would be my pleasure.”

“An excellent idea, Richard,” said Mr. Darcy. “And if he tries to run, he can be charged with desertion. Mrs. Bennet, do you know the colonel of the regiment?”

“Colonel Forster. A pleasant man, though I had to tell him we didn’t suit,” Mama laughed, blushing at the memory of another suitor.

“An unlucky fellow,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, grinning. “Denied your favour and now stuck with Wickham in his ranks. With luck, by week’s end we’ll see Wickham in Marshalsea. I take it, Uncle, you don’t care to pay for him to live in the Fleet?”

“Let him see Marshalsea, then choose between the Royal Navy as a common seaman or a longer stay in prison,” Mr. Darcy said, his voice hard but his manner softening as Georgiana and Fitzwilliam entered.

“Ah, the rest of our party. Time to plan the day.” He glanced across the table at Mrs. Bennet. “We would be delighted by your company, ladies, if you will join us.”

* * *

It was decided! We would take a sailing boat and explore Lake Windermere, not from its rocky shores but from the water itself. Neither Mama nor I had ever stepped on a boat before—the River Ver, which bordered Longbourn, was but a ditch, and dry most of the year round. Oh, what an adventure! Could we ask for a more fortuitous day? Even Wordsworth could not describe it better: a flawless, cornflower-blue sky, carrying just enough breeze from the north to ripple the water. A perfect day for a water excursion.

It was less than a mile to Waterhead Landing, so we chose to walk rather than take the carriage, though Mr. Darcy had several baskets of provisions carried to the jetty. Clearly, he had planned the excursion beforehand, for Mr. White’s boatmen had prepared a pleasure cutter for our use. She was a fine, broad-beamed, clinker-built vessel, rigged as a cutter with a single grand mainsail and a small forward jib. A canvas awning was fixed over the stern to shield us ladies from the direct glare of the sun. Already, my face was sprinkled with freckles—by the end of our tour, I would become brown and coarse, as Miss Bingley had once remarked on my walking too much out of doors. I myself preferred brown and glowing.

“Miss Elizabeth, may I assist you?” The Colonel stood by the edge of the jetty, his hand extended to hold mine. Darcy was already standing in the boat, which rocked gently against the wooden planks. I took the Colonel’s hand and stepped down to the gunwale.

“Oops!” I cried, as the railing slipped under my boot and I felt myself falling. Whilst the Colonel’s grip steadied me, it was Darcy’s hands about my waist that prevented my plummeting towards ignominy and profound humiliation on the sole of the cutter.

Gently, he placed me onto a seat in the boat’s cockpit. He never said a word—nor did I; my embarrassment had, for once, stopped my tongue.

“Lizzy, are you all right?” Mama called from the pier.

“Oh, my! Only my pride, Mama. Both the Colonel and Darcy prevented my fall.” I blushed, scarcely looking at Darcy. Never before had a gentleman held me so close. I leant against him, breathing in the scent of amber and sandalwood, his chest pressed against mine. Oh, Lizzy! Whatever are you about?

Of course, Mama and Miss Darcy stepped lightly into the boat as though they had been born to it. Georgiana, having anticipated stiff breezes, was sensibly dressed in a riding habit of superfine wool, a deep slate blue, with a smart collar and brass buttons. She looked ever so elegant—a true Darcy. Mama and I wore our high-waisted gowns of sturdy white cambric and printed calico cotton. I had thought them far more practical for stepping into boats than delicate muslin—sadly, I had proved myself singularly wrong. We were not so foolish as to forgo our quilted spencer jackets to ward off the damp. Georgiana had forgone the beaver hat that went with her riding habit; in its place, a straw bonnet, similar to those Mama and I wore. Hers, naturally, was trimmed with blue ribbons, whilst I had decorated mine with yellow, complementing the cotton prints of my dress.

The men, in a nod to nautical utility, wore long, loose-fitting trousers of cream-coloured linen duck, tucked into half-Hessian boots. Their short tailcoats and loosely tied cravats, already slightly askew, gave them a decidedly rakish air.

“Colonel, you dress like pirates; are we searching for gold this morning?”

“‘Twas my intention, Miss Elizabeth,” he replied, chuckling, “but, alas, there are no Spanish treasure ships on Windermere.”

“I find myself disappointed. Indeed, where are we headed?”

“I thought to circle Belle Isle, and then take the view from the summerhouse below Claife Heights,” said Mr. Darcy, who had taken a seat opposite. “I am told it has one of the finest views of the Lake.”

“As if there could be any greater beauty than that which surrounds us,” said Mama, gazing at the tree-covered slopes and brown shadowed hills and mountains beyond.

“Certainly, Mrs. Bennet, beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” said Mr. Darcy, smiling, his own eye lingering a little longer on her before turning to gaze across the water.

“We have a small skiff on the lake at Pemberley,” said Georgiana, sitting next to me, “but I have never sailed before. Fitzwilliam said he raced sailboats on Whittlesey Mere when at Cambridge.”

I was not surprised, therefore, after our boat had been pushed into deep water by boatmen on the pier using long wooden poles, that Darcy took the helm, leaving the Colonel and the hired boatman to haul on the halyards, raising the great mainsail and small jib canvas.

The lake was not as smooth as I expected; its waves rising as much as the seemingly calm sea we had observed at Blackpool. But the water was wonderfully clear, and we could distinguish the pebbles and sand at its bottom to a great depth, which in some parts was covered with a green, herbage-like grass.

With the mainsail hanging square to the vessel to catch the maximum push of the air, the cutter glided effortlessly southward down the expanse of the lake, until we approached the cluster of islands opposite Bowness. The boatman spilled the wind from the sail, and we slackened our pace to coast near Belle Isle’s shores to admire the extraordinary Round House surrounded by the verdant woods.

“It was inspired by the Villa Vicenza in Rome,” said Mr. Darcy. “Built in ‘74, it is occupied by Mr. Curwen. He is not currently in residence, but there is a gravelled walk around the island, if you wish to explore further.”

“It looks a little out of place,” said Georgiana. “Surely, such an eccentric classical structure does not belong in the Cumbrian wilderness?”

Certainly, it was stunning, a cylindrical Roman pantheon topped with a great dome and fronted by giant Ionic columns. But I couldn’t support it. “Did not Wordsworth lament that an artificial appearance has been given to the whole, while infinite varieties of minute beauty have been destroyed?”