Page 89 of Lizzie’s Spirit

They waited for the tide at the entrance to the Mersey River, then made passage past Liverpool until they came to Runcorn, where the Unicorn moored at the Old Dock.

Immediately, stevedores began unloading the cargo, transferring it to canal boats waiting to make the thirty-mile journey along the Bridgewater Canal to Manchester.

Elizabeth stood for a while, breathing the clean, fresh air coming off Albion’s shore, gazing across the fields towards brown and white cows, so different from the animals at the Cape.

“Mrs. Darcy, leaving us so soon?” Captain Webber laughed. “Eager to reach that lucky man of yours? It was a pleasure having you on board.”

“You’re a hard man, Captain—but I enjoyed singing for my supper! ‘Twas a good trip, but coming home is always more welcome. I trust your crew will no longer see a woman on board as bad luck!”

“What is the expression?—if pigs could fly. But, ma’am, they’ll have you always.

I apologise that I canna give you more coin, but I’ve scarce enough to pay off the crew.

The Dutch were the first to complain when the British annexed the Cape Colony, but they much prefer English silver shillings to their rixdollars. ”

“For sure, but I’ve enough to get me home. You take care, Captain. Now, I must be off.”

Elizabeth descended the gangplank. Five years since she had stepped on English soil. No, Lizzie Darcy , you mustn’t become a watering pot.

She had planned her route: Northwich, Knutsford, Macclesfield, Buxton, Bakewell, Lambton, Pemberley—William!

“Ben, we’re almost home. How I wish I’d enough money to rent a chaise; then we could be safe in William’s arms this evening. No, we must walk, for I’ve only enough for some food at the inns and, perchance, straw in a barn on which to lie.”

In her pocket remained the few English shillings that Charlotte had pressed into her hand at Fort Frederick—they would have to suffice.

The ruin of Halton Castle loomed behind the courthouse as she walked past. The latter was a fine building, so much grander than that at Sydney.

But the country is so very different—the luxuriant verdure of spring, late blossoms, wildflowers: primroses, daisies, buttercups, harebells, chicory, foxgloves, bluebells, honeysuckles, daffodils, poppies, and forget-me-nots.

She had, indeed, forgotten—the joy of a glorious English spring.

Ben, safely in his wrap, the guitar and red blanket across her back, her small bag containing the precious necklaces and apron—the road was rough, but she had walked worse.

On the third day, the weather turned, and Elizabeth sought shelter in a small inn on the outskirts of Buxton.

The crackling fire was welcome, and the food, though expensive, was good and warming—Cheshire soup, filled with potatoes, leeks, carrots, oatmeal, cheese, and good brown bread alongside.

Outside, the wind howled, catching the eaves, banging the shutters, rain hurtling itself against the slate roof and gritstone walls.

The tavern door swung open, and a draft of cold, rain-laden air blew across the room.

“Oi, close the bloody door!” the innkeeper shouted at a man clad in cloak and dripping hat who stood at the threshold.

“Hold your tongue, Hugh Wilde; the weather’s as foul as your speech!”

“Sorry, your lordship, didna recognise ye. What’re ye doing out on a night like this?”

“’Tis Lady Rushton; her time’s come early. I thought Mrs. Craddock, the midwife, may have come here, for she’s not at her house, miserable as it is.”

“Gone to her sister in Chapel, won’t be back till Monday.”

“Damn the woman. Are there any others in the village? Knutsford and Bakewell are too far to go on a night like this.”

Elizabeth couldn’t let a poor woman labour alone. Now, she must leave the warmth she had paid for with the last of her coin.

“My lord, I am a midwife—perchance, I can assist your wife?”

“Who are you? Not from hereabouts, I’ll warrant. Passing through and hoping to get your sticky fingers onto my silverware. Be off with you.”

She was angry again. Always. Just lurking beneath the surface.

“Oh, so quick, my lord, to disparage me, without even the courtesy of knowing my name and disposition. Well, I trust you luck in birthing the child yourself. ‘Twould be different for me—I’ve delivered nigh on fifty babes, but that is of no concern of yours.”

Deliberately, she turned her back to the man—Lord Rushton?—and pulled a piece of bread from the loaf. “And, my lord, close the door promptly when you exit, because little Ben objects to the cold.”

Angrily, he strode to the bench, took Elizabeth by the shoulder, twisting her to look at him. She swatted his arm away. Bumper, lazing by the fire, stood up, his hackles raised, a deep, guttural growl resonating in his throat.

“Touch me again, and I’ll not restrain the dog. He’s a mean boy when aroused.”

But confrontation would achieve nothing.

“My lord, both of us need to calm ourselves. I’ve had a long day, and you are much distressed.

Ira furor brevis est: animum rege, qui nisi paret impera— Anger is a momentary madness, so control your passion or it will control you . I’m sure Horace had the right of it.

Rushton stared at the woman—ill-dressed, sitting alone in a tavern, a large savage dog by her feet. And now, quoting Latin as though it were the most natural thing for any woman.

“You’re a midwife? What do you here?”

“Walked from Runcorn, off the brig Unicorn from the Cape. Bound for Bakewell. I was midwife to the 73rd in Sydney, New South Wales. Now rejoining my husband in Derbyshire.”

“’Tis true, you’ve birthed some fifty babes?” He looked wildly around the room, but there was no one else. The women of the inn had fled—none had the experience of assisting a birth, certainly not a lord’s wife. Elizabeth saw fear, then resignation, cross his face. She stood.

“Come, my lord, let me gather my belongings. Is your carriage nearby? For it’s blowing an awful gale outside.”

The manor was a large, imposing building, but Elizabeth didn’t linger at the entrance.

“You,” she gestured to a footman, “take the dog to the kitchen; he needs feeding and a warm place to lie. It will keep him content, and he’ll know where I am.”

A maid was descending warily down the stairs. “Are you the midwife, ma’am? Poor Lady Rushton’s in such a bother.”

Elizabeth followed the girl up the stairs to the mistress’s chamber. Inside, a rather young woman, more of a girl, lay groaning on the bed. Oh, ‘tis so similar to poor Martha at Baulkham Hills.

“Take little Ben and place him in the crib. He’s overlarge, but very weary, so he’ll sleep well. Now, I need warm water, a good strong soap, and some clean rags. Be about it, girl, quickly now!”

“Ma’am, you are rather too free with your instruction. Perhaps ask me or the housekeeper of your requests beforehand.” Lord Rushton entered the room, scowling at Elizabeth.

“My lord, are you a judge?”

“Indeed, the Court of Chancery.”

“I know judges, sir; you fit the mould. You may issue any order in your courtroom, but in a birthing chamber, it is I who rule. Now, I’ll need your assistance.”

He was taken aback; never had he met such a determined woman and never been reprimanded with such self-assuredness.

“But ma’am, during the travail, surely I should not be here?”

Elizabeth harrumphed. Who tells men such falsehoods?—as if the father has no knowledge of his wife’s anatomy. But best to be polite.

“We have not been introduced. Please forgive my impropriety if I do not curtsey. Mrs. Darcy, and Lord…”

“Rushton. My wife, Lady Emily Rushton.”

“Lord Rushton, I know you care greatly for your wife; indeed, you braved a fierce storm to bring her help. Now, during her labours, Lady Emily will experience much anxiety, helplessness, exceedingly strong pain, anger, joy, and exhaustion. Your presence will offer her great comfort.”

The maid came with the soap and water. Elizabeth had the maid and Rushton also wash their hands.

“Now, sir, can you sit behind your wife? We’ll prop her with cushions at the edge of the bed so the babe, when it comes, can easily exit her womb, assisted by that great discovery of Sir Isaac Newton—gravity.”

***

Elizabeth awoke with a start. Where was she? The floor wasn’t moving—onshore. Which town? She hardly knew.

Lady Rushton’s chamber. Quietly, she stood from the chair in which she had fallen asleep.

Her back ached from the discomfort, particularly from holding little Ben in her arms. He was no longer small—a stone and a half; he would be big like his father.

Carefully, so as not to wake the lady, she pulled back the bedclothes and quickly examined her.

No bleeding, her skin colour good, breathing calm and regular.

The babe, lying in the crib next to the bed, was awake, looking up with unfocused eyes at the candle she held. All was well.

“Lady Rushton sleeps, and the babe is quiet. Please sit with her. If she awakes, place the babe to her breast.”

The maid, sitting by the door in the hallway, stood and entered the room. With Ben held tightly—still asleep, dear child—she made her way to the servants’ stairs, following them down to the kitchen. Too early for baking. She roused Bumper—time to be on the road.

“Ma’am, canna help? Ye look mighty burden’d.”

The sun had just risen, still hidden by the high hills surrounding the River Wye valley. The early morning chill was seeping through the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders.

“Mighty kind, sir. The boy is, indeed, somewhat heavy.” With unfeigned relief, she placed the guitar and her small bag onto the sacks on the cart and climbed onto the bench beside the carter.

“From whence ye come, Missus? Not many walk the road.”

“Not so far, from Runcorn, about three days ago. I’m to Bakewell, then Lambton.”

“Three days on the road. Well, ye’ve spirit, I’ll grant ye that. I reck’n there’s yer man to welcome ye?”

She laughed. William. Oh, for sure.

The cart jogged along, faster than her walking—through Miller’s Dale, Cressbrook, Little Longstone, slow up Ashford Lane hill, then back down to the Wye at Ashford-in-the-Water.

“I’ll leave ye here, Missus. Good luck to ye. ‘Tis just a mile to Bakewell, then take the packhorse track to Lambton, quicker ‘n the road. Yer man’s a lucky fellow; yer a fine bonny lass.”

How many hours? ‘Twas about eight bells when she took the cart, maybe five bells on the road. So, half past six o’clock. A mile to Bakewell—seven o’clock.

The Bakewell Bridge over the Wye. Little Ben restless and hungry. Putting him to the breast. With a gentle tug, he latched on and started sucking. The letdown was a relief, her breasts overfull—she’d had no chance to feed him whilst sitting on the cart.

She relaxed, so close to home—soon, safe in William’s arms. Oh, how she missed him.

The past sixteen months felt like an eternity.

After ten minutes, she swapped Ben to the other side.

She was impatient, so very impatient. Taking her last piece of bread, she watched the gentle waters flow slowly under the bridge.

The river wide, the bridge majestic with the morning sun illuminating its five stone arches.

Pemberley. A large, handsome sandstone building, standing well on rising ground.

But she had no interest in admiring its prominence—that it stood before a glistening lake, that its green parks and grounds were all that was delightful.

She already knew that to be mistress of Pemberley was something so very special.

As she approached, she saw a chaise and two trundle across the stone bridge and disappear up the road, which wound towards an eminence before disappearing into the woods behind.

“Oi, ma’am, the servants’ door is t’other way.”

She ignored the shout and continued up the gravelled path. A liveried footman opened one of the grand doors that stood at the top of the stone steps leading to the entrance. Again, she ignored his attempt to direct her away.

“Ma’am, may I assist you?” The butler, while his countenance was stern, was impeccably polite.

His manner disarmed her. Here, at the very end of her journey, all of her fortitude disappeared.

No longer Mrs. Darcy, wife of the Lieutenant Governor of New South Wales—just Lizzie Darcy , scared, alone, and only wishing to be held, comforted, and safe.

She burst into tears; she could go no further.

It was impossible to cross the threshold of such a grand house. Oh, the impostor she was.

“Jacob, help the woman to the bench.” The footman stepped forward and gently led her to the seat just inside the vestibule; the ceiling, rising through two floors, loomed over her.

“Mr. Winthrop, she holds a babe; let me take it. Bring her some refreshment; the poor dear is close to collapse.”

She let the lady—the housekeeper?—take little Ben, who accepted being passed to her without murmur. The lady held him, ever so kindly, adjusting his skirt, which was pulled up around his waist. She paused, gasped. Then, holding the babe as though he were the most precious object in the world,

“Ma’am, my apologies… Mrs. Darcy?”

Elizabeth, through her tears, saw the lady gazing at her with so much hope.

She remembered—Mrs. Reynolds, the housekeeper, and Mr. Winthrop, the butler.

Her dear William had talked of them when, as a child, he had lived in this place, playing, scampering through this great hall.

Where was he? In the study? Perchance the music room, listening to Georgiana play the piano forte? Finally, she could smile.

“William, my husband… Mr. Darcy. Please, I very much wish to see him. We’ve been apart, ever so long, these past sixteen months.”