Page 39 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

We turned onto the road, leaving the hotel behind—and, truth be told, sufficiently early to miss Lady and Miss Augustus, who kept to town hours. After a mile, a road to the left crossed the Pelter Bridge leading to Langdale, going around the base of Loughrigg Fell. To the right stood Rydal Hall. Not desirous of seeing yet another grand house, we continued on past Rydal Water and the slate quarry at Whitemoss.

It was not long before Grasmere came into view, the lake reflecting the grey clouds overhead, with similarly grey herons stalking one of its small islands. Georgiana rode up beside me, her cheeks bright with excitement. “Is it not the loveliest place you ever saw, Elizabeth? Do you think we shall see Wordsworth? I’m sure he lives nearby.”

I doubted the poet would be out so early, or so inclined to greet strangers. As we descended toward the village, the road wound between stone walls tufted with ferns and harebells. The Swan at Grasmere looked inviting, smoke curling from its chimney. Darcy drew up his horse.

“We shall rest here a while, if it pleases you all. I have arranged for breakfast to be laid in the dining room. The next stage is rather steeper, and it is best to be fortified before attempting Dunmail Raise.”

This was met with general approval. As we dismounted, I caught Darcy’s eye; he looked pleased, perhaps at the success of his planning, or perhaps simply at the prospect of sharing such a morning with our party. I felt a flutter—certainly he was a handsome man. But it was merely hunger, I supposed, and joined Georgiana and the others at the breakfast table. Hanging on the wall was a view beyond Grasmere, the artist capturing the broken rocks of Helm Crag.

Following the meal, we strolled a small distance along the shore, Mrs. Bennet on Mr. George Darcy’s arm, Georgiana running ahead, leaving me walking with Darcy.

“Wordsworth described the Crag as an astrologer and old woman,” said Darcy, abruptly breaking the silence. “I myself see it as a lion and a lamb.”

I glanced up to him; he was staring ahead towards the distant hills. Taking my eye off the path, I inadvertently stumbled.

“Perhaps, sir,” I said, a little hesitantly, “could you assist me, for the path is a little uneven?”

Immediately, he offered his arm. I leant on it, perhaps a little too closely, but the ground was covered with stones and grassy tufts, the footing certainly irregular. We walked on—there was a contentment I had never known before. Likely I felt the same as Dorothy Wordsworth writing about her beloved home:

Peaceful our valley, fair and green,

And beautiful her cottages,

Each in its nook, its sheltered hold,

Or underneath its tuft of trees.

* * *

I reluctantly admitted that travelling by horseback was certainly easier and quicker than if we had walked. Leaving Grasmere, we ascended Dunmail Raise and continued through all the lovely places my guidebook described, until we came to Keswick a little after noon, where we turned in at the Royal Oak. Keswick itself was a small market town, delightfully situated near the foot of Derwent Water. We took luncheon while resting the horses—if not ourselves—before walking about the town. Its principal trade was in the woollen manufactories, but there were also several manufactories of black-lead pencils made from the mineral plumbago mined at Seathwaite in nearby Borrowdale.

‘Oh, Lizzy,’ exclaimed Kitty, pulling me towards a workshop where black-lead pencils were manufactured. ‘Please, please, please! Oh, I do want a pencil with the lead cut so narrow it leaves just a thin line.’

“Miss Elizabeth, are you feeling well?” Darcy came to stand by my side.

“Oh, I am perfectly well. It is just that I occasionally mumble to myself.” I paused, colouring. “Though I suppose that is often taken as a sign of imminent insanity.”

“I shall warn you of it, if it were to become too frequent a habit.” He looked at the board showing a large pencil hanging above the shop. “Do you have a particular style of pencil in mind? I myself do not draw, so would be unable to offer any guidance.”

“Oh, Kitty wishes a very fine edge—my other pencils are a little coarse.”

“Kitty? Is she a friend in Hertfordshire?”

Now my ears pinked; a flush of colour crept up my neck. Whatever should I say? Kitty being a friend was as good an explanation as any other.

“Indeed, sir. I also wish to purchase some for myself; though the fineness of the lead often compromises its strength.”

“Then let us ask the craftsman himself, for I’m sure he is familiar with your problem.”

Darcy opened the door and escorted me into the workshop. Inside, several men and women were stooped over their benches. The building backed onto the River Greta, driving a small water wheel linked by leather belts to circular saws and polishing lathes. A craggy, white-bearded man wearing a leather apron approached.

“Ma’am, sir, would ye be seekin’ aught?”

Darcy glanced at me, as if inviting me to speak first.

“Yes, sir,” I said, smiling as I stepped forward. “My sister—my friend—wishes to purchase a pencil with the finest possible lead, but I am told such pencils are apt to snap. Is there a way to have one both fine and strong?”

The craftsman’s face crinkled with amusement. “Aye, that’s oft asked, missus. The best black lead’s cut at Seathwaite, but th’ finer ye whittle it, th’ likelier it is to snap, as ye’ve noticed. Mind, if ye pick one set in cedar an’ handle it gentle-like, it’ll likely outlast t’others.”