He helped her to dismount and then dismounted beside her, and they walked on, leading their horses, until Elizabeth at last tired and took her seat once more in the coach.
As they travelled south through France, the Alps drew steadily closer.
‘Twice now I have been deprived of a promised visit to the Lake District, but both times I have been glad to change my destination. I never thought anything could be so beautiful,’ she said.
She raised her eyes to their summits, which were iced with snow.
‘You must have seen pictures of them,’ said Darcy.
‘Pictures, yes, but they didn’t prepare me for their scale or grandeur,’ she said.
As day followed day, they left the lowlands behind and began to climb, following a winding road through the foothills of the mountains which gave extensive views at every turn. Against the backdrop of the mountains there were tall trees and shady glens, and here and there, they saw mountain goats. There were flowers still blooming in the meadows. Butterflies flitted between the gentians, harebells, and saxifrage, their iridescent blue and yellow wings catching the light.
From time to time, they came across cool, bubbling springs at which they stopped to drink.
Darcy knew the way, having travelled the route before, and as the light started to fade at the end of each day, he led them to a homely cottage where they could shelter, having them safely inside before sunset.
At the end of several days’ travelling, they stopped for the night at a small inn.
‘It’s not like the inns in England,’ said Darcy as they approached.
‘It’s delightful,’ said Elizabeth.
It was set amidst the mountains beside a mirror-like lake. She ran her eyes over the rustic building with its gaily painted shutters, its blooming window boxes, and its overhanging eaves.
They were welcomed warmly with genuine hospitality. The size of their retinue at first caused some consternation, but the problem was quickly solved by the judicious use of outbuildings which nestled close by the inn.
Elizabeth’s room was homely, with pine furniture. There was a picture over the bed, but the real picture in the room was the view. Framed by the window, it was magnificent. Elizabeth rested her arms on the window ledge and watched the sun setting. It turned the sky golden as its last rays blazed out, then flooded it with orange and red as the sky around it grew darker, changing from blue to purple, and then, as the sun sank at last, to black. The white finger of the mountain could still be seen, glowing softly in the ethereal light of the stars that pricked the sky. Elizabeth watched it still, delighting in the novelty and the splendour of its majesty, until the wind blew cold and she drew the curtain.
She washed and changed and then went down to dinner. The dining room was a simple apartment with only three tables, each flanked with benches. But the room was pretty, with long gingham cushions on the benches and gingham curtains at the windows.
Despite the remoteness of the place, the Darcys were not the only guests. A middle aged English couple, a Mr and Mrs Cedarbrook, were also staying there. They had an air of solid respectability about them and whilst her husband’s expression was absent-minded, Mrs Cedarbrook’s face wore a sensible aspect. They were dressed in good but unostentatious clothes, with Mrs Cedarbrook wearing a cashmere shawl over her cambric gown and Mr Cedarbrook wearing a well-tailored coat and breeches with a simply folded cravat.
The inn was so small that friendship was inevitable, and the four of them were soon engaged in conversation.
‘Have you come far?’ asked Mr Cedarbrook, as their host brought in a large bowl of something savoury and proceeded to ladle appetising soup into clay bowls, placing large hunks of crusty bread on the plates next to them.
‘From Paris,’ said Darcy.
‘Ah, Paris! How I love Paris,’ said Mrs Cedarbrook.
‘Humph,’ said her husband, tasting his soup. He made an appreciative noise and took another spoonful. ‘Big cities are not for me.’
‘My husband is a botanist,’ explained Mrs Cedarbrook. ‘He prefers the countryside. We are on a walking tour, collecting plants.’
‘New species,’ said her husband as he broke off a piece of bread. ‘There are plenty of them in the Alps. What do you do?’ he asked Darcy.
‘I am a gentleman of leisure,’ said Darcy.
‘A man needs a hobby, even so,’ said Mr Cedarbrook. ‘You should take up botany.’
‘My dear, not everyone wants to be a botanist,’ said his wife.
‘Can’t think why not,’ he returned.
Mrs Cedarbrook smiled indulgently, but accompanying the look was also an expression of good humour and common sense. She reminded Elizabeth of her Aunt Gardiner, who treated Mrs Bennet’s foibles in much the same way as Mrs Cedarbrook treated her husband’s eccentricities.
‘Do you always travel together?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘We do now,’ said Mrs Cedarbrook. ‘When the children were younger I stayed at home because I did not like to be away from them for months at a time, but now that they have all married and have homes of their own, I enjoy our journeys and I like to see something of the world.’
‘And what do you do when your husband is studying plants?’ asked Darcy.
‘I have my sketchbook and my watercolours, and I make a pictorial record of everything we see,’ she replied.
‘And very useful it is, too,’ said her husband.
They talked of their experiences in the Alps over the meal, sharing their pleasure in the scenery. They also shared with each other information about the journey, for they had approached the inn from different directions, and so they knew what difficulties their fellow guests would face on the following day.
When they had finished their meal, their host brought in a bottle of some local spirit and Mrs Cedarbrook said to Elizabeth, ‘I think it is time for us to withdraw.’
‘Gladly,’ said Elizabeth.
It was a long time since she had had a woman to talk to—a sensible, mature woman—and she felt herself in need of someone to turn to.
As there was no withdrawing-room, they retired to Mrs Cedarbrook’s chamber and there they sat and talked. All the time, Mrs Cedarbrook watched Elizabeth and after a while she said, ‘Something is troubling you, my dear. Can I help?’
‘No, it is nothing,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I have two grown up daughters and I can tell that something is wrong. Will you not trust me?’
Elizabeth was longing to do so, but she did now know how to begin.
‘You are from Hertfordshire, I think you said?’ prompted Mrs Cedarbrook.
‘Yes, that’s right, from a small town called Meryton,’ said Elizabeth.
‘I do not know the town, but I have passed through Hertfordshire often on various journeys. It is a very beautiful county, but very different to the Alps. You are a long way from home. Do you not find it lonely here, where there are so few people?’
‘I have my husband,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Of course. But sometimes a woman needs another woman to talk to.’
Elizabeth said nothing, but she had been thinking exactly the same thing. She had been troubled for some time, and she found it difficult to keep her feelings to herself, because at home she had always had someone to talk to.
‘You are a long way from your mother,’ said Mrs Cedarbrook.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Elizabeth.
She gave a rueful smile as she thought of her mother.
Mrs Cedarbrook said, ‘Ah,’ quietly, and added, ‘And your friends.’
‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth with a sigh.
‘You must miss them,’ said Mrs Cedarbrook kindly.
‘I do. But not as much as I miss my sister.’
‘If you need someone to talk to, my dear, I am here.’
Elizabeth looked at her uncertainly and then came to a decision. Mrs Cedarbrook was a stranger, but she was a sympathetic woman and Elizabeth needed to confide in someone. Her friends and family were a long way away and she had no one else to turn to in her need for a listening ear and, more importantly, some advice.