Page 47 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

As we began the ascent of the scree, Darcy offered me his hand, but the stones slid so much underfoot that, reluctantly, I released it, lest the both of us tumbled down the slope. I felt my eyes moisten; my legs ached; my skirt continually draped the rocks ahead, forcing me to lift it out of the way of my boots—progress was exhausting. I slipped, falling forward onto my knees, the rocks cutting sharply through the layers of clothing: the woollen dress, linen petticoat, cotton chemise, and stockings. When had I last grazed my knees? ‘Oh, Lizzy,’ cried Lydia, ‘surely we must return?—this is no longer any fun. No fun at all!’

“Elizabeth, are you well?” Darcy stood just behind me. Likely, he hoped to catch me if I fell. “You are muttering—certainly, it is madness to continue up this slope.”

I felt his presence, leaning against him. “Fitzwilliam, you must promise me, you must promise…”

“Elizabeth?”

“Promise me you will not let me surrender; that I will conquer this accursed fell. Please! Promise me!”

Mr. Appleby had stopped a little ways ahead. He looked down at me with such compassion. “We shall take a short break. Darcy, perhaps a little spirits for Miss Bennet from the bottle you carry. At the very least, it will dull the soreness and pain.”

I never had a taste for brandy—it burned my throat as I sipped from Darcy’s flask. Oh, Lizzy Bennet, whatever are you doing? But it cleared my head. Angrily I turned; anger at the mountain; anger at myself for almost succumbing to my fears and pain. We crested the scree slope, then climbed an even steeper rock-filled cleft. I crawled on my hands and knees, my skirts pulled up around my waist. For decency’s sake, both gentlemen clambered ahead. If I fell—it was a long way down.

We had defeated Mickledore! I stood in the saddle between the twin peaks of Scawfell to the south and Scawfell Pike to the north. I sat, with as little grace as possible, onto the short tufted grass. I had no energy left for elegance nor any form of decorum. The wind blew hard across the ridge, loosening my hair which now fell free below my bonnet.

“You are remarkable, Elizabeth,” said Darcy, sitting beside me.

“No sir. It is you and Mr. Appleby who are remarkable. You tolerated a weak, dare I say, pathetically weak woman, and dragged her to the top of the world. That, sir, is the feat poets should write about—it is not I, Fitzwilliam, who has conquered this mountain, it is you and Mr. Appleby.”

“When you have taken your rest, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Appleby, after rather too short a time for my liking, “we must move on to the summit. There are clouds looming from the north that look rather ominous; we wouldn’t wish to be caught in the rain, or mist.” He took out his watch. “Just three hours—well done, very well done, indeed!”

I forced myself upright. Surely the summit was not far; yet the mountain was not done with me. The final stretch was a jumble of boulders, each one waiting to twist my ankle.

“Careful, Miss Bennet,” Appleby cautioned, as we moved away from the shelter afforded by the crags surrounding the ridge. “These rocks are treacherous, and the wind is sharper here.”

Darcy offered me a steadying hand. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” I murmured, trying not to lean against him. I scarcely noticed the ache in my knees or the cold seeping through my torn gloves. The world narrowed; the wind tugged at my bonnet, snatching loose strands of hair and whipping them about my face. There was no marked route to follow; certainly no sheep were silly enough to ascend so high.

“We have veered a little to the west,” said Mr. Appleby, “but our location affords an excellent view of Great Gable, Derwent Water in the distance, and further, Blencathra and Skiddaw.”

“Is that Sty Head Tarn?” asked Darcy. “Georgiana, Mrs. Bennet, and my father should be taking luncheon at this time. They were headed up the valley along Lingmell Beck.”

“I can see a figure by the tarn,” I said, squinting at a small black dot. “But I cannot see the horses.”

“Take my telescope, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Appleby. “Your eyes are better than mine. Come, place it on my shoulder to steady it.”

I focused the instrument. “Yes, ‘tis certainly Mrs. Bennet. But where are the others?”

“On the hill, Elizabeth,” cried Darcy, pointing to the left. “Look to the slopes of Great Gable.”

I shifted my view. “I see them. Perhaps two hundred yards up the hill. Surely, it is Mr. Darcy. Wait! Two ponies staring down at him.”

“Fitzwilliam, take the glass. I pointed toward the eastern slope of Great Gable. “There, two ponies without saddles—whatever can have happened.” I handed the telescope to him. Two of the ponies had been unsaddled, let free onto the hillside.

“I cannot explain it,” said Darcy. “Where is Georgiana?”

* * *

Movement caught my eye—a flash of red below us. Carefully, I edged down the slope to find a better view. A rider came around the spur that dropped down to Lingmell Col. His coat was faded, cut in the style of the military. His horse was skewbald—white with chestnut patches. Behind him trailed a woman riding sidesaddle; she wore a blue habit, a matching bonnet—her horse tied to the rider in front with a long leading string.

“Fitzwilliam, you must come, now! Georgiana is being led away.”

Darcy slid down the slope, abruptly pulled up, and placed the telescope to his eye. “My God,” he muttered. “It is Georgiana, but who is that man?”

Of course, we knew who he was. Wickham, riding the distinctive gelding that belonged to Colonel Forster. Wickham had not gone to ground in Derbyshire, but come to the Lakes!

“Poor, poor Georgiana!”

The gods can be cruel, for all of a sudden, a mist came rolling in, the temperature plummeting. I looked back to the summit, now shrouded. Perhaps, if the descent were fast enough, we could, in some way, stop Wickham as he passed below the crags, at the base of the scree, before our path was hidden by the mist.