Darcy's Trial (2 page)

‘Ha! I shall find a white feather and stick it in your bonnet.’

They continued in this cheerful manner to Rydal, where they paused for refreshment at the David Inn before taking what Bridget called the ‘coffin road’ towards Grasmere. Here they often paused to appreciate the beautiful views down to Rydal Water, and their conversation turned to the companions they had left behind in Ambleside.

‘My sister’s husband is called Henry Beauchamp,’ Bridget volunteered. ‘They have planned this tour for some time in the hope that fresh air and exercise would improve his health, but unfortunately he has remained mostly interested in eating and drinking, and Frances has felt obliged to remain at his side.’

‘Do you live far apart?’

‘My husband and I are based in London, where Henry also has a town house, although his main residence is on the Beauchamp estate in Norfolk. As second son he did not inherit the baronetcy, but they are well provided for.’ She cast an anxious glance at Elizabeth. ‘But I’m chattering too much about my own family—what of your companions?’

Elizabeth flushed, feeling patronised as yet another baronet was pulled out of the hat. ‘My uncle and aunt work hard, so this has been a long-anticipated break for them,’ she said. ‘He is a merchant and they have a lively house in Cheapside with four children and many visitors.’

‘I see.’ Bridget looked away for a moment before jumping to her feet, ready to resume their walk. Elizabeth wondered at this sudden dropping of the topic: was Bridget embarrassed at the evident social distance between their families? Thoughts of Darcy, mercifully absent during their previous banter, intruded again, and for a while she kept silence and concentrated on the scenery as the path led away from the first lake and downhill into a wood.

At a junction, Bridget stopped and touched her arm. ‘Elizabeth, has something upset you?’

Elizabeth met her gaze and saw only concern. ‘I’m well, thank you.’

‘If you prefer we could take a short-cut over the footbridge and miss out Grasmere.’

‘I’m happy to keep going.’ As they started climbing again, Elizabeth said, ‘You must excuse my occasional silences. I have not been myself for some weeks, owing to an upsetting experience that I cannot really talk about, since it is of a rather—personal nature.’

They emerged from the wood and Bridget pointed to a copse a few hundred yards ahead. ‘Unless I am mistaken, an acquaintance of mine lives in the cottage over there. Would you mind very much if we called in as we pass? She is a keen rambler and might be out and about on such a pleasant day, but if not I would like to greet her. Her name is Miss Dorothy Wordsworth, and she lives with Mr William Wordsworth and his wife Mary. If you like poetry his name is probably familiar to you.’

‘Indeed,’ Elizabeth cried in astonishment. ‘My father and I have read
Lyrical Ballads
from cover to cover.’

Bridget impulsively gave her a hug. ‘Please come with me! I’m sure they will be delighted to make your acquaintance.’

Situated at the edge of a copse, Dove cottage was a happy combination of stone and slate with a charming half-wild garden. The door was answered by a maid-of-all-work, soon joined by a striking woman with lustrous auburn hair.

Bridget introduced herself as the cousin of Sir George Beaumont, and the woman immediately smiled and held out her hand. ‘I’ve heard about you from Dorothy. I’m Mary, Mrs Wordsworth.’ She turned to Elizabeth. ‘And your companion?’

Elizabeth too was introduced, and they were led to the drawing room to await the arrival of Dorothy, who was at work in the vegetable garden. Mary Wordsworth sat opposite them and apologised that her husband was too busy to be disturbed. Presently, a stocky woman with sharp eyes and dark hair parted at the front appeared in the doorway, holding a toddler whom she handed to Mary Wordsworth. Bridget rose and stepped forward to take both her hands. ‘Dorothy, what a pleasure to see you again!’

‘We will have tea,’ Dorothy Wordsworth declared, once all introductions had been made. ‘Tea made with mint, fresh from the garden. And butter scones with gooseberry jam.’

After instructing the maid, she rejoined the group and plied Bridget with questions about Sir George Beaumont’s latest acquisitions, and the places she had visited in her tour. Elizabeth, who had expected to remain a spectator, was pressed to give her impression of Claife observation station, and soon found herself immersed in a conversation that ranged from the development of tourism in the Lake district to critical reactions to Wordsworth’s preface to
Lyrical Ballads
. Tea and scones duly arrived, both delicious and plentiful, and the talk was so absorbing that before she knew it she had eaten her way through two scones thickly spread with jam, and drunk several refills of tea. The affectionate interplay between Mary and Dorothy was charming, as they shared the tasks of dandling the little boy and attending to their guests.

Over an hour passed in this agreeable way, before Bridget glanced at Elizabeth and whispered, ‘We must leave soon, else we will be late back.’

Elizabeth nodded, and after expressing their disappointment, Dorothy Wordsworth went to retrieve some letters for the Ambleside post. On her return, she was accompanied by a man of perhaps thirty, with a high forehead and thinning straight hair, whom she introduced as her brother. With a tingling scalp Elizabeth found herself face to face with the kind but penetrating eyes of the poet. He observed her with a grave smile as she offered a trembling hand, and with moist eyes she left the cottage, feeling hauntingly as if some part of her being had changed forever.

As they continued their ramble Elizabeth felt little inclination to talk, with her mind abuzz absorbing the lessons of the past hour. Having dallied so long at Dove cottage, they decided not to attempt the full circuit of Grasmere, preferring to turn back along the lakeside path to Penny Rock Woods and across the footbridge to Rydal cave.

Among many revelations, Elizabeth was impressed most that such a conversation could take place among a group of
women
. Never in her life had she experienced anything similar. With her father she had read passages from the preface to
Lyrical Ballads
aloud, and talked them over at length; she had accordingly been able to contribute detailed comments to the discussion at the cottage, to the evident surprise and pleasure of her hosts. Yet she had never held such conversations with Jane or Charlotte. Yes, they had read poems together, and pronounced them sad, or uplifting, or banal. But Jane and Charlotte, for all their taste and intelligence, were not
intellectual
. They were happy to read a poem and either enjoy it or not, without concerning themselves with the poet’s objectives, or his innovations in language and form.

It was not that Dorothy and Mary Wordsworth were focussed only on things of the mind. Quite the contrary: they had eagerly applied to Bridget for news of her family, and repaid her with gossip about their friend Mr Coleridge; they were also articulate observers of nature. But their interests were omnivorous, and pursued with little or no regard to social position. They observed the world and thought about it, and were delighted to share these observations and thoughts with anyone else similarly inclined, whether prince or pauper.

With these reflections came a re-evalution of her present companion. She had suspected Bridget of parading her prestigious connections to the Beaumonts and Beauchamps, while looking down on the Gardiners. However, any such attitude was contradicted by her evident respect and affection for the Wordsworths, who (as Bridget had related) had lived in poverty for many years, after their father, a lawyer, had not been paid for his work; only the settlement of this debt two years before had enabled Wordsworth to marry. Of course Wordsworth was not an average commoner but a poetic genius; still, Elizabeth could not imagine that Caroline Bingley, for example, would have taken pride in such an association.

As they cut through a copse to the Ambleside road, Elizabeth managed to probe, very gently, for further details of how Bridget had met the Wordsworths; and this time she took pains not to bristle at any mention of higher connections. It transpired that the baronet Sir George Beaumont was not only a patron of the arts but a practitioner, who often toured the Lakes with his wife for the pleasure of painting and sketching; and that a year ago, during such a tour, he had met the poet Coleridge by chance at Keswick, and through Coleridge’s advocacy, had requested an introduction to Wordsworth as well. Thereafter, an unlikely friendship between the Tory baronet and the radical Lake poets had quickly developed—in spite of grave objections to Coleridge’s political views—and the Wordsworths in particular were welcome guests at Grosvenor Square, where Bridget and her husband had been introduced to them.

In exchange, as if testing the water, Elizabeth was more forthcoming about her own background, and especially her long-standing relationship with the Gardiners, whose values and tastes had been formative influences during her childhood. While developing this theme she observed Bridget’s reaction carefully, and detected no sign of prejudice—on the contrary, Bridget declared herself eager to meet them, if the occasion arose.

As they reached the outskirts of Ambleside, talking ever more freely, Elizabeth felt a flutter of nerves over their impending parting. She was not yet ready to take Bridget fully into her confidence—to recount, for example, the tribulations she and her sister had suffered at the hands of Messrs Darcy and Bingley. Still, more than anyone she had met,
she wanted Bridget as a friend
. At times she thought this feeling might be returned, but since Bridget’s manner had been confident and lively from the outset, it was hard to be sure of any particular regard. The analogy immediately came to mind of Darcy’s misreading of Jane’s sentiments towards Bingley, and for the hundredth time she cringed with shame at her unfair denunciation of what was almost certainly an honest mistake.

After the excitement of the day, the evening delivered a cold shower. As they reached the inn, Bridget haltingly explained that much as she would like to meet the Gardiners, she would have to dine separately with her sister and brother-in-law. Elizabeth, struggling to control her disappointment, responded with cold civility, whereupon Bridget left quickly for her room.

At dinner the two parties were well separated, and since Bridget was facing the wrong way there was no opportunity to study her countenance or to exchange glances. In any case, Elizabeth had much to tell her aunt and uncle, who were enthralled that she had met the Wordsworth family and shaken hands with the poet himself. She wondered whether Bridget would pass by on her way out, but she had reckoned without Mr Henry Beauchamp’s appetite, not to mention his thirst, which kept their party at the dinner table far the longer. Sadly she occupied herself writing a letter to Jane, including full details of their itinerary as well as some account of her adventures, before retiring in such a tumult of emotions that she hardly expected to sleep.

Next day also dawned bright and breezy, and at breakfast Mr Gardiner declared himself fit enough to undertake a short outing, not to Todd Crag but at least to the northern shore of Windermere. There was no sign of the Beauchamp party, and while the Gardiners were relaxing with the morning paper Elizabeth took the opportunity to visit the Post Office again, so that her letter to Jane would be dispatched with all speed. Irrationally she half hoped to find Bridget again in the queue, but a satisfaction of a different kind greeted her in the unlikely shape of a letter from Jane—in fact, two letters, attached with a rubber band, one addressed so ill that it was surprising it had arrived at all.

Back at the inn she withdrew to the parlour, now empty, to read her letters in privacy. The first letter opened with the usual neighbourhood gossip, but narrated without Jane’s usual sparkle, reminding Elizabeth anew of Darcy’s arrogant intervention in her affairs—as if that gentleman thought himself able to interpret Jane’s feelings more accurately than Bingley himself, merely on the basis of one or two casual observations. However, these reflections were immediately cast aside when the letter suddenly took a new turn, as Jane in obviously rushed handwriting related the shock of Lydia’s elopement with Wickham.

Tearing open the second letter, Elizabeth soon confirmed her worst fears. Lydia and Wickham had been sought without success, the trail running cold in London, and there was no reason whatever to suppose them married. Jumping up in great agitation to seek her uncle and aunt, she nearly collided with a woman who loomed suddenly in the doorway.

‘Elizabeth! Whatever is the matter?’

Elizabeth froze in shock as she recognised Bridget’s face, animated with concern. ‘Excuse me, I must find my uncle and aunt on business that cannot be delayed.’

A wave of dizziness hit her as she stepped forward, and she was in danger of stumbling before she felt a firm grip on her forearm.

‘Sit down, dear. You look very pale.’ Bridget guided her to an armchair. ‘A maid can fetch your relatives. Where …’

‘They will be resting in their room.’

Bridget span and called out for a maid, returning only seconds later to kneel beside the chair.

‘They will be here soon. Dear Elizabeth, is there anything else I can do? A glass of wine? You look so ill.’

‘I am not ill, Bridget, only distressed by some news I have just received of my youngest sister. She is but fifteen years old, and very flirtatious with the officers. It seems that one of them has persuaded her to elope with him. I have learned recently of his poor reputation, and see no prospect that he will honour his promise of marriage. She is lost forever, and the worst of it is that I am mostly to blame.’ She slumped forward, head in hands, and burst into tears. ‘I could have told my family what I knew of this man, and so prevented this disaster. Oh wretched, wretched mistake!’

Bridget stroked her hair with soft cooing noises, as if comforting a child. ‘Elizabeth, it is not your fault if this scoundrel has deceived your sister. The shame is his, and his alone. Remember too that such events are not uncommon. With luck he will be persuaded to marry her, and before long all will be forgotten.’