Page 3 of Mr Darcy’s Lakeside Romance

The landscape beyond the dusty glass gradually morphed from the flat hedgerows of the southern counties into something wilder. The rolling green hills grew sharper, thrusting towards the sky. Craggy limestone outcroppings broke through the soil like the bleached bones of ancient giants. They had crossed the border into Derbyshire, abandoning the civilised world for a dramatic terrain.

The carriage plunged into a particularly vicious rut, launching Elizabeth upwards, her bonnet colliding with the frame of the window.

Uncle Edward snorted, his eyes snapping open in a bewildered panic. He slapped a hand to his waistcoat, checking for his pocket watch. “Are we under attack? Highwaymen?”

Elizabeth rubbed the side of her head, adjusting her squashed bonnet. “A Derbyshire crater, Uncle. I fear the road intends to swallow us whole before we ever reach the inn.”

Aunt Madeline marked her page with a silk ribbon and closed her book. “We are less than an hour from Lambton. The coachman promised we should see the village spire before the sun sets. This inn is excellent, unlike the mediocre ones we have stopped at on the previous nights. We shall have a hot supper and soft beds tonight, and you may wash that extraordinary layer of road dirt from your chin, Edward.”

Uncle Edward scrubbed a hasty hand over his face, producing a small cloud of grey dust. “Thank heavens. If I am forced to consume another plate of gristly posting-inn mutton, I shall lead a rebellion.”

The final hour stretched into an eternity, but eventually, the carriage wheels hit the cobblestones of Lambton. The village nestled snugly within a valley, surrounded by wooded hills that cast long, violet shadows across the slate roofs. It was a picturesque, bustling little town devoid of the watchful claustrophobia of Meryton.

The carriage halted before the doors of the principal inn. The sign swinging above the entrance proclaimed it the Black Swan.

Elizabeth descended the folding steps with the cautious movements of a woman eighty years her senior. Her knees popped loudly in protest. She inhaled a bracing breath of the evening air, detecting the comforting aromas of roasted chicken, woodsmoke, and yeast.

The innkeeper, a rotund man with a gleaming bald head, bustled out to greet them, bowing so low his nose nearly brushed his buckled shoes. A small army of stable boys descended on the carriage, wrestling the trunks from the roof.

Settling into the Black Swan was a loud symphony of shouting ostlers, slamming doors, and the carrying of hot water jugs. Elizabeth’s bedchamber was small but clean, boasting a large window that overlooked the bustling High Street and a bed with a mattress stuffed thick with goose-down. She spent a full hour stripping away her ruined travelling gown and scrubbing the abrasive road dust from her skin, donning a fresh, unwrinkled gown of blue muslin.

When she descended the back stairs to the inn’s private parlour, she expected to find only her aunt and uncle waiting for the promised roasted chicken. Instead, she found the room dominated by a stranger of volume and colour.

The lady occupied the largest armchair by the hearth. She was a woman in her mid-fifties encased in purple silk. An overly complex lace cap perched on her greying curls, adorned with no fewer than five shades of ribbon.

Aunt Madeline gestured as Elizabeth entered. “Ah, Lizzy. Come and be introduced. This is my cousin, Mrs Lovejoy. Honoria, this is my niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”

Mrs Lovejoy did not rise, but she leaned forward with intensity, cataloguing every inch of Elizabeth’s appearance in less than a second. “A pleasure, I am sure. Madeline warned me you were a beauty, and for once, my cousin did not exaggerate. Though you are a trifle pale, child! The Derbyshire air will put some pink in those cheeks, mark my words.”

Elizabeth executed a polite curtsy. “I thank you, madam. The journey has been somewhat taxing.”

“Taxing! I should say so!” Mrs Lovejoy slapped the arm of her chair with a plump hand, her ribbons quivering in righteous agreement. “The roads from the south are a disgrace. I wrote to the magistrate about the ruts near Matlock just last month. Did he reply? He did not! Men are useless when it comes to the practicalities of travel.”

Uncle Edward, wisely choosing to ignore the slight on his gender, poured a generous glass of sherry from the sideboard and retreated to a quiet corner.

Mrs Lovejoy launched into an unbroken monologue, requiring no encouragement to share her life history within the span of ten minutes. She was the widow of the town’s most prosperous haberdasher, a man who had the finest eye for imported lace in all the northern counties.

“Mr Lovejoy—God rest his soul—never stocked a substandard ribbon in his life. We supplied the finest families, you know. Nothing but pure silk and French threads.” Mrs Lovejoy adjusted her cap as if to prove the point. “Now I am retired to a sweet little cottage on the edge of town. A widow’s peace, they call it, though I am rushed off my feet managing the garden and keeping the village girls from ruining their reputations with the militia passing through.”

Elizabeth accepted a small glass of sherry from her uncle. “It is a charming village, Mrs Lovejoy. I am eager to explore the surrounding countryside.”

Mrs Lovejoy’s eyes lit up with the gleam of a dedicated tour guide. “Explore! Oh, you must. You must! I have drawn up a complete itinerary for your stay. You must see the caves at Castleton, of course, though it is terribly damp and ruins one’s hems. And Matlock Bath is fashionable, if you do not mind the crowds along the walks.”

Aunt Madeline took a delicate sip of her sherry. “We had hoped for something a little more scenic, Honoria. Perhaps some of the grand estates? I remember the parks being beautiful in the summer.”

“The estates! But of course! There is only one place you must visit, and it is on our doorstep. Barely five miles through the woods.” Mrs Lovejoy lowered her voice to a whisper. “Pemberley.”

Elizabeth’s lungs seized. The sherry went down the wrong way, and she erupted into an undignified fit of coughing. Uncle Edward had to thump her heartily on the back as she gasped for air.

Mrs Lovejoy watched the display with mild concern before plunging onward. “It is the seat of the Darcy family, you know. The grandest house in Derbyshire, perhaps in all of England. The grounds alone are ten miles round, filled with timber and water. You cannot come to Lambton and ignore Pemberley. It would be a crime against nature!”

Elizabeth gripped the stem of her sherry glass. “I—I am sure it is grand, madam. But surely it is a private residence. We cannot trespass on a gentleman’s property to gawk at his shrubbery.”

“Nonsense, child!” Mrs Lovejoy waved a dismissive, ringed hand. “Great houses are always shown when the family is away. And the family is definitively away. The master of Pemberley spends half his life in London or locked up in his own consequence. He is a proud man, Mr Darcy. Not well-liked in the village, though his coin is good.”

A hollow dread began to pool in the pit of Elizabeth’s stomach. Away. He was away. That was a relief. But the thought of walking the halls of his home, of standing in the rooms he commanded, made her skin crawl with a thousand invisible insects.

Aunt Madeline’s face blossomed into a nostalgic smile. “Pemberley! Oh, Edward! My father used to take me in the cart when he delivered goods to the house. The late Lady Anne Darcy was an excellent woman, truly elegant. She used to give me candied fruit in the kitchens.”