Page 27 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“Are you quite well, Mama?” I inquired, noting the flush of her cheeks.

“I am tolerably well, Lizzy. The boots are a trial, but I shall not complain. I am determined to reach the summit, if only for the sake of my pride.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Bennet, the summit is well worth the effort,” said Mr. Appleby. “And if I may say so, you have a most admirable spirit.”

Buoyed by this praise, Mama pressed on, and soon we emerged from the last field onto a rise that overlooked Loughrigg Tarn. The tarn, nestled in a hollow, held two men fishing with very long rods. A pair of grebes floated serenely near the shore.

“It is so beautiful!” I found the scene captivating.

“Do you have your sketchbook, Lizzy?” asked Mama, then turned to Mr. Appleby. “Do you often sketch here?”

He nodded, producing a small, battered book from his coat. “Indeed, Mrs. Bennet. This tarn is a favourite of mine. I have found it looks quite different in the morning mist, or at sunset, with its long shadows and the sun glancing off the tops of the hills. Would you care to see?”

He opened the book, revealing delicate pencil sketches—one of the tarn at dawn, the distant peaks blurred by rain. Carefully, he turned the pages.

“They are lovely,” I said. “I wish I could draw as you do.”

“But you also sketch, do you not?”

Unconsciously, I had withdrawn the sketchbook from my satchel, which often accompanied me up Oakham Mount. I hesitated, but Mama urged me on. “Go on, Lizzy. It will rest your feet and amuse you. I am content to sit a moment.”

At that moment, Kitty came to sit beside me. Taking a pencil, she began drawing in quick, bold strokes: the sloping land leading down to the tarn, a tall sycamore tree, the two fishermen standing by the shore, the distant hills, a tumble of rocks falling around the peaks and crags.

Mr. Appleby watched her hand glide across the paper. There was genuine awe in his voice. “You are very talented, Miss Bennet. You put my humble sketches to shame.”

I mumbled my thanks for his approbation, and quickly closed the sketchbook. How could I explain that it was Kitty’s drawing, and not mine?

Refreshed, we rose and continued. From the northern shore of the tarn, the path angled upward, leaving the meadows and hedgerows behind. The ascent grew steeper, and the track became rough with stones and tangled roots. Mama declared she would go no faster than a snail, but she persevered, pausing only to catch her breath and remark on the wild heather.

“Only think, Lizzy, how pleased Mr. Philips will be to hear I have climbed a real mountain. You must write to him of all this.”

“I shall, Mama. And perhaps you will allow me to mention your fortitude. I’m sure Aunt Hattie will be most envious.”

Mr. Appleby, walking just ahead, pointed out the landmarks as we climbed—the sweep of Windermere to the south, the distant thread of the Brathay river, the shadowed bulk of the Langdale Pikes far to the west.

As we neared the summit, the wind grew brisk, carrying with it the scent of bracken and peat. The final push was the steepest, and I felt my heart quicken with the exertion. At last, we reached the crest—a broad, rocky plateau, dotted with tarns and crowned with a simple cairn.

The view was breathtaking. To the north, Grasmere—perhaps, even now, Wordsworth was gazing upon it from his cottage; to the east, the slopes fell away to Rydal Water, and beyond, the distant Pennines faded into haze; to the south, Windermere stretched out until hidden from view by Latterbarrow Hill.

“Oh, my,” whispered Mrs. Bennet, sinking onto the grass. “It is more beautiful than I imagined.”

Mr. Appleby unslung his knapsack and produced a neat parcel wrapped in oilskin. “I took the liberty of packing a luncheon, Mrs. Bennet, Miss Bennet. There is barley bread, hard-pressed cheese, and dry-cured ham, all Cumbrian favourites. And a flask of tea, if it has not grown cold.”

I spread out my shawl, and we arranged ourselves comfortably, backs against a sun-warmed rock.

Mrs. Bennet, opening the offered package with delight, exclaimed, “Why, Mr. Appleby, you are the very soul of foresight! I was quite prepared to make do with our biscuits and water.”

We ate with the appetite that only walking can bring, the food tasting doubly good in the fresh air. Mr. Appleby poured tea into tin cups, and we toasted the summit, with lukewarm but very refreshing tea.

There was a happy silence for a time, broken only by the call of a curlew and the distant bleating of sheep. Mama, content at last, leaned back and regarded the view.

“Lizzy, I declare I have never seen anything so grand. It puts Oakham Mount quite to shame. You must sketch this, too.”

“I fear my sketch would not do it justice, Mama,” I replied, “but I will try.”

Mr. Appleby, finishing his tea, remarked, “There is a legend that if you make a wish at the summit and leave a stone on the cairn, your wish will come true.”

“What a charming notion!” said Mrs. Bennet. “Lizzy, you must make a wish.”