Chapter 35

Mousehole, Cornwall

Per William's promise, they played the tourist in the days following their arrival, walking the coast, visiting St. Michael's Mount, and taking little drives in the carriage to places of local beauty. These scenes were largely new to William as well as Elizabeth, for he had seen very little of Cornwall save what was visible from Jory's fishing boat. As much as she could, Elizabeth allowed the joy of travel to envelop her, the beauty of new sights, the smell of the salt air, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs. It was far from Derbyshire both in distance and in scenery, and she found she had been right in wanting that distance at present: the memories faded more easily, with distance.

They spent a goodly amount of time with the Trevillses as well, either dining in the little cottage or having the couple out to the Keigwin Arms for one of the inn's fine dinners. In time, though, Elizabeth began to suspect that her husband longed for more time with his friends, particularly with Jory, and she asked whether the fishing boat might serve as a way to tour the coast from another vantage.

It did not serve particularly well for this purpose. The boat reeked of the years' worth of fish that had bestowed its decks and there were few places where one could sit safely. Still, they all went out as a family party and had a surprisingly fine time of the trip. The boys were awed by the size of the sea, and did whatever little duties were assigned to them by William and Jory with enthusiasm. The two men worked with quiet efficiency, and still more with apparent pleasure over each other's company and competence. Although Eseld said she sailed but rarely with her husband, still, she understood enough of the craft to keep watch over Elizabeth and the children, ensuring they did nothing that might result in their going overboard. For her part, Elizabeth enjoyed this view of the coast greatly, even if the smells around her made her less enthusiastic at the dinner table that evening.

Following this, she encouraged frequent sailing for their family. Sometimes they all went out and sometimes William and Jory took the boys fishing. On these days, Elizabeth went to the cottage with just her daughter, something she would have considered a trial, at the beginning of their stay. Yet while it was impossible to forget the role the Trevillses had played in William's absence, she found them steadily winning her fondness. It was difficult to maintain a hardness of heart against people comprised of such goodness and kindness, impossible to avoid some return of the love they so readily bestowed not only on William, but also on Elizabeth and the children. Eseld, in particular, had won little Elizabeth's trust more rapidly than her mother had thought possible, and the child toddled around the cottage kitchen in complete comfort, just as readily tugging upon Eseld's skirts as her mother's when she desired a cup of milk or a sugared orange slice.

Only one thing left Elizabeth feeling discomfited during these visits, and that was her lack of usefulness about the cottage, which felt still more noticeable when it was just the two women and the little girl. Eseld was an efficient manager of her household, and there had been very little mending available to take up; once Elizabeth had sewn through this, she was returned to sitting at the kitchen table and watching as the other woman prepared the family's meal. A little into her second day of this, Elizabeth asked if she might help, and Eseld gazed at her dubiously and said,

"Ye can slice them swedes there, if ye wish."

Gingerly, Elizabeth picked up the knife and one of the swedes, and began slicing it. But a few seconds later, Eseld grasped her arm, saying, "Oh – oh – not like that, milady, you'll cut your fingers off."

For a moment looked as though she was going to pull the knife from Elizabeth's grasp. Instead, and with much patience, she explained the best technique for cutting swedes and then left Elizabeth to it, returning to the dough she had been kneading.

The dough was for pastys, which had quickly become a favourite of the entire Darcy family, but Elizabeth thought the ones on the dinner table that night tasted even finer than usual – never before had she consumed a meal she had played some part in making, and it pleased her.

She began helping Eseld with the meals every day, learning more than she had ever thought she might learn about the cooking of food. She had opportunity to learn about marketing, as well, for Eseld proposed they all sail over to Penzance on market day, and everyone was amenable to this plan. Little Elizabeth was left back at the inn with her nurse, and when they touched against the pier in Penzance harbour, Elizabeth looked to her husband and told him that she and Eseld could take the boys to the market, if he wished to go out with Jory for a little sail and come back for them later. He responded eagerly to this offer – so eagerly, Elizabeth realised he must have been wishing for it for some time. Certainly, the two men enjoyed sailing with their various companions, but some time for just the two of them – as it had been in the past – would renew their bond of friendship like nothing else.

Thus, the women and the boys walked towards the market, leaving the men to their sail. This, at least, Elizabeth was familiar with, having spent a goodly number of Saturdays in her youth walking to Meryton to mingle with her neighbours amongst the food and wares on offer. Here, though, there was a much greater proportion of fish, a smell Elizabeth had still not grown accustomed to. Eseld needed no fish, of course – with great pride had the boys participated in yesterday's abundant catch – but she made her way about the market, buying vegetables, flour, and butter.

It was at a baker's stall that they all became distressed by an event they witnessed: a poor, thin woman – hardly older than a girl and yet with a baby in one arm – was pleading with the baker to take the few coins in her hand, in exchange for a loaf of bread.

"Price is a bob. I cain't give it to ye for less," was the baker's firm response.

"Please, sir, we're starvin'. Could we get half a loaf, if ye'll not give us the whole?"

"I cain't sell the other half. If ye want what costs less ye'd be best to buy oats an' make porridge of 'em."

"I've no fuel for fire," pleaded the woman, her eyes brimming with tears.

Elizabeth was more than ready to intervene and buy the woman's bread when she felt little William's tug on her hand.

"Mama?" he whispered, and she leaned over so she would be nearer to him. "Mama, we've got money, don't we? We could buy bread for the lady, couldn't we?"

"Yes, my darling boy," Elizabeth told him. "Do you recall the gold coins you and Henry helped find and then count for papa?"

"I do, mama."

"Well, papa has set aside some of them for doing good and helping people, and I think this is a very good opportunity for you to help this woman. Would you like to buy the bread yourself?" When he nodded, Elizabeth opened her reticule and located a guinea, giving it over to him.

He seemed to grow shy, looking up at the thick-set baker and his large stall full of bread. Yet he whispered to Henry and then clasped his brother's hand, both of them seeming to gain courage from each other's presence as they approached the baker. Elizabeth stepped closer, wanting to ensure the baker did not short-change her son in the purchase, and also not entirely certain that the man would pay the boys any mind, although they were clearly dressed as boys of their class.

She need not have worried, however, for William immediately attracted his attention by holding up the guinea in his palm and saying, "How much bread can we buy for this, sir?"

"More'n the rest of me stock, lad. D'ye really want that much bread?"

"Yes, please."

The baker glanced up at Elizabeth and Eseld, and Elizabeth nodded.

"Then ye give me that guinea, an' I'll give ye two shillings back." The baker took the guinea from William's hand and looked it over carefully – they were not so common these days as the new sovereigns, and it was likely neither had been very common to such a man. Seeming satisfied that it was legitimate, he placed two shillings in William's palm and then invited the boys to take all of the quartern loaves within his stall.

The thin woman had been watching all of this in hopeful confusion, and her hopes were met when William handed her two of the loaves as well as his shillings. The boys then gathered up as many loaves as they could carry and asked Elizabeth and Eseld to help with the rest. They made their way through the market and then into the streets of Penzance, looking for those in need and giving each person they found a loaf of bread. Elizabeth felt her heart swell, to watch them, her dear little good-hearted boys, very much following after their father.

Darcy had been reluctant to ask for it, but he had very much been wishing for some time alone with Jory, just the two of them sailing the lugger – as it had used to be. So he was eager to accept Elizabeth's suggestion that they go out for a sail while the others went to the market.

"Feels strange, to just be sailin' for leisure, like the lugger's some yacht," said Jory as the harbour receded behind them.

In that moment, Darcy felt the differences between them fully. He had duties, of course: to his family, his employees, his estate. Yet he spent a substantial portion of his time in leisure, doing both activities he enjoyed and activities that others in society enjoyed and therefore expected of him.

"We could cast a net, if you wish," was Darcy's awkward response.

"Nay, I'll grow used to it. I'm already gettin' used to bein' on shore more," stated Jory. "Will, I reckon – reckon ye won't want the lugger, anymore. Ye've got your little boat on your lake – that sounds like more what ye need, more a gentleman's boat. The lugger ain't truly goin' to pass for a yacht."

Darcy nodded. "I shall always be fond of the boat, but this is a long journey, for my family. It is worth the while, of course, when there are friends to be met at the end of it, but – well – once you and Eseld are gone, I do not know that we would return here to use it. My promise to look after her, though, that will always hold firm."

"I know it will, my lad. Don't matter if you're Will or Mr. Darcy – you're a man of your word, an' I'm that grateful to ye."

"I do wonder, though, whether you and Eseld would like to come and live with us. Not now, necessarily, unless you wish it, but as you grow older. I would like to look after you both, and I believe the children would benefit greatly from your constant presence – I would benefit greatly from your constant presence."

"I know what you're sayin', Will, but I'm not so sure of it. I don't know that Essie and me could live in a big fancy house after all these years of livin' our lives. I don't think we could be comfortable a place like that."

"You need not live in the great house if that is what worries you. I have cottages that would suit you, I think – some a little bigger than your home now."

"Well, now that's a bit more temptin', Will, but I reckon we'll need to give it some thought."

"I understand. It is much, to ask you to leave the home you have known all your life for an unknown place, and one very unlike what you have known. In a way I feel selfish for asking."

"Nothin' wrong with tryin' to keep your family together, Will, an' I'm that grateful ye think of us as family."

They settled into a more comfortable silence after this, and it was only then that Darcy realised he should have spoken to Elizabeth about making such a promise before he had actually done so. It was not until that night that they had the privacy for such a conversation, after they had all eaten a hearty dinner at the Keigwin Arms, and Jory and Eseld returned to the cottage.

The Arms seemed to have retained some of the furniture from the manor house it had once been, but had redistributed it into the most inappropriate rooms possible; thus the Darcys retired to a vast old four-poster bed that had surely known the Wars of the Roses and took up almost the entirety of their little bedchamber. It was there that Darcy told Elizabeth of his promise, ending with, "I should have spoken of this with you first. I believe – I hope – that your sentiments towards them are shifting, but it does not follow that you would wish to have them living on our estate."

"My sentiments towards them are shifting, you are correct in that. And do not worry yourself over making such an offer. I had presumed it was what you would want. Did Jory agree to it?"

"No, he wished to think on it. I hope they will agree but I would understand if they do not. I am asking a great deal of them."

"Still, they would gain a great deal. Although they do not strike me as the sort who would move to Pemberley for the gains others might want. I believe family would be the draw for them."

"I completely agree."

"We had a lovely little moment, at the market." She proceeded to tell him of William's act of charity at the market that day, a story that filled Darcy with pride in his son. "I am glad you had your time with Jory, but I wish you could have been there to see it. You would have been so proud of both of them."

"I do wish I could have seen it. I am glad William and Henry were so united in wishing to help."

"They are always united, I think. I fear sometimes – "

She did not continue her statement, until Darcy said, "Yes, my love?"

"I fear sometimes that they shall always be a tight little duo, and little Elizabeth will be left out. That would not have mattered if Julia had remained in the nursery, but now – now she may be all alone."

"Having been a rather reserved child myself, I will say that I think little Elizabeth may often wish to play alone. However I also think that because the boys are good-hearted little children, they will not wish to see her excluded when she wants to play with them. I may also speak from personal experience in saying that one can be a far closer friend with a cousin than with a nursery-mate."

He could see the soothing effect of his words even before Elizabeth thanked him for them, saying they brought her much comfort. "I would though – I would like another child someday. Not soon, of course, but perhaps in a few years, when I have fully recovered. We only knew the birth of one child together, and I want to experience that again, with you."

To do so, they would need to be intimate again – fully intimate – when even such acts as they had limited themselves to had ceased after that awful night at Pemberley. Darcy did not raise that topic, nor would he ever do so; it was hers to raise or initiate. Instead, he leaned over and kissed her softly, chastely. "For my part, I would like that, but it is you who bears all the risk, and I understand Julia's birth was very difficult."

"The reasons it was difficult will all be gone," she whispered, "and you will be there to hold my hand. That, in itself, will make a world of difference."