Page 41 of A Practical Man
Forgive the long wait for news from me. We have ambled along with far less determination than I expected, for I found I was not terribly interested in being driven like a bull to market by Sergeant Donaldson. In short, I have led us off the intended trail more than once in search of what some farmer or another had told us was an ancient Roman ruin. So far, what we discovered in these meanderings have been indeterminate piles of stones that might have been put there five—or five hundred—years ago. Add to that the discovery that most common tables are quite crude and a smooth surface upon which to write a letter is not easily come by, I am just now able to jot down this note.
The scenery, as you may well imagine, has at times been almost too rich to take in. I suppose this might be attributed to the vastness, which is this earth, apparent only upon an escape from civilisation. There are also plenty of times when Iam sick to death of rocks and hills, and the grass itself seems to mock me. There is a great range in luxury and, to be frank, suffering. I cannot describe to you the bliss of lying down beside a fire after a long march, or the profundity of gratitude I have felt upon the procurement of a bit of cream for our porridge. It is strange to discover that in the experience of deprivation, I have come to recognise what true luxury and wealth are made of—that is, the simplest, most powerful privileges of having shelter and food and the company of friends.
But this discovery has only been made through the occasion of sitting under a bridge during a ferocious storm, sleeping damp, marching in wet boots, eating slightly mouldy bread and, after failing to find firewood dry enough to burn, discovering that our biscuits are inhabited by a colony of weevils and our cache of walnuts has gone rancid. By what contrast, then, must be a day in which the weather is warm, the winds are benevolent, the food at a humble hostelry is hot and wholesome, or that our camp that night is sheltered in a glade full of wild honeysuckle, and our fire burns with a sort of merry unconcern. We talk of our boyhoods, of other adventures we have had, and share stories we have heard of other, more exotic lands. We talk of the road and of our plans for the next day, but never beyond, for we take nothing for granted. And in this, Georgie, I think the secrets of contentment and of satisfaction are found. We are open to what life gives us and grateful regardless of feast or famine.
Lest I begin to sound like a tired old philosopher, I should share that this adventure is not always so profound. I have derived great enjoyment from watching the dance between Carsten and Donaldson as they strive to politely dominate one another and ultimately, lord over me without myknowing it. Someone I admire very much once told me that it is wise to discover something to laugh at in all situations, and I believe her. I cannot tell you how many times I have ceased to notice the pain in my feet or the rumbling of my belly because I am too busy being entertained by what is, in reality, simply human imperfection.
Tell Fitzwilliam that Donaldson has not yet made a good soldier of me, though I am improving, and there are days now even he might not outlast me on a forced march.
Now, dearest, I must ask you to continue to be well, to be happy, to make the best use of your purest of pure hearts, and to send me your love when you close your eyes at night, for this is what I do without fail in regard to you. Meanwhile, we travel onwards roughly in the direction of Newcastle upon Tyne.
Iclosed this letter in the usual way, refraining—with great resolution—from begging her to send word of her friend, or better yet, sending me a fair copy of what letters she had received since I left Pemberley. And in a state of light melancholy, I looked forward to reaching a city where we would stay at a decent inn close to the Fenham Barracks, where Donaldson’s nephew was stationed. Once there, I thoroughly enjoyed a hot wash, a glass of wine, and a rare night in a clean bed, under a sturdy roof, with Trusty well-cared for in a stable full of hay.
This was also an occasion where our party temporarily broke apart. Donaldson stayed at the barracks for two days, and Carsten went missing for many hours at a time as he went about replenishing our supplies and having our clothes and bedrolls properly laundered. I did little more than lie flat and eat, wondering how my valet had the energy to be so productive.Upon mentioning it, however, he admitted he had done nothing more rigorous than pay for services and that he had spent the rest of his time sitting idle by the river.
The disruption in our journey and the distance from one another had been a welcome break, and upon reuniting, I sensed a different form of familiarity between us. Somehow, I was regarded less and less as an employer and increasingly as a friend. This was a most welcome change, yet that same tender sadness I had experienced upon writing to Georgiana overtook me from time to time even as we travelled east, catching glimpses of the North Pennines, finding more continuous pieces of the ancient wall and the storied Roman fortifications, which had been my excuse for striking off into the wilderness.
After three very long days, which we had agreed to enduring because we were well rested and the weather had been ideal, we reached the Vercovicium. There, we stayed at a farmhouse close to the ruin and spent three days exploring a place occupied by Roman soldiers for several hundred years. We then ventured west towards an auxiliary fort on the ancient Roman road which took us into Cumbria and down into the valley of the River Irthing.
At this point I had seen as many ruins as I could digest. I had endured as many hard miles as I wished to suffer, and I had challenged myself sufficiently to the purpose for which I came. I had proved to myself I was more than just a wealthy man. I possessed a mental stamina and physical capacity to work and to endure, and were I to lose my fortune overnight, I knew with great assurance I would do well enough.
We forged ahead towards Carlisle over the next several days, where we had planned to stay at an inn and rest our long-suffering mule. I hoped letters from Georgiana would await me there, and against my will, I then began to feel a touch grim. Gradually, the journey had started to wear on my companions,too, and on a particularly fractious afternoon when we could not find a decent stretch of road that was not rendered treacherous by rocks or gullies, they again came to a halt to argue the most expeditious route to our destination. Behind us loomed a great dark cloud, and ahead of us stretched an endlessly undulating and ill-defined path.
I had lost my sense of humour, and I stood at the periphery of their dispute, utterly forgotten until Carsten, in complete frustration at Sergeant Donaldson’s intractability, threw up his hands and cried, “Mr Darcy is tired, and if you would but raise your head, you would see a storm is bearing down on us!”
“I am no more tired now than I was yesterday,” I said sharply, thus reminding them of my presence, “nor am I afraid of getting wet. However, if I am forced to stand here listening to this argument much longer, I am afraid I might begin to whine.” Having caught their attention, I then exercised my inarguable right to decide and said, “There is a ruin or a wall on that rise. We shall go there and take what shelter we can.”
After a dinner of stale bread and hard cheese we had procured at the Housestead farm days earlier, we huddled in a damp corner of what might have been an ancient stone guard house under a dripping canvas, and it was then that I realised the source of my unshakeable melancholy, and the loss of my ability to laugh.
I was homesick, heartsick, and now, a different form of sick, for I felt the telltale signs I had a fever.
CHAPTER 28
“Mr Darcy.”
“Mr Darcy! Sir? Are you well?”
Why were they harassing some poor sod when I was trying to sleep? Irritable and seeking to roll into a tighter ball and shut those voices out, I tried to curl away from the noise but discovered I could barely move. Lord, now what? What was that ungodly bleating? Had a sheep got caught in a fence somewhere?
By degrees and with great resentment—because the world would not be quiet—I began the long journey up into wakefulness only to realise that it was I, not some poor sheep, who had been moaning, my companions were standing over me desperate to rouse me, and I ached from head to toe.
“Mr Darcy, are you well?” Carsten asked anxiously and with his brow in an ominous knot as he examined me.
“From the look on your face, I am not,” I croaked.
He put his hand to my forehead and glanced at Donaldson, then I closed my eyes and sank back into a murky state between aching misery and black unconsciousness. Eventually, they roused me again, and had I an ounce of will left to me, I would have raged at them. Instead, I groaned off and on as they sat meup, forced a cup of tea to my lips, and eventually managed to get me dressed and raised me to my feet.
“Can you walk, sir?” Carsten gently asked.
“No,” I said glumly, and with that, my right foot moved against my will. Thus, leaning heavily on him and in a state of high moral resentment, I stumbled forwards.
We were roughly twelve miles from Carlisle when we had stopped, which should have made for a reasonable day of walking, but as things stood, that was a worrisome distance. After a mile, even in my semi-conscious state, I understood that a walk of that duration was impossible. I could see the concern etched on Donaldson’s face as he scoured his map, mumbled to Carsten, and stared at his map again. They commiserated, and I caught some of what was said as I sat on a boulder at the side of the path with my head drooping. For a few moments, it seemed they seriously considered leaving the pack saddle behind so that I could ride the mule, but this, they ultimately decided, was too great a risk. They were simply too uncertain of the state of the rutted track we followed. We could reach a washed-out ravine not marked on the map and find ourselves stranded with no provisions and no shelter, in a place abandoned and far from settlements, and worse, with no clear water to be found.
After a moment of silence in which they came to terms with what must be done, they glanced pityingly at me with the consciousness I would simply have to be forced to walk. I was so dull by this point, and cared so little about anything, they might as well have been speaking about the fate of a stranger.
In the end, we limped into a little hamlet, and I soon found myself sitting like a child on a bench holding Trusty’s reins, only vaguely aware that my friends would return—which they must have done—but I had no recollection of anything that took place for many, many hours.
In a dim and fractured light, I again awoke to find Carsten standing over me, speaking to me in a low voice. “You are very restless,” he said, lifting me up to arrange a pillow, and while I was sitting up, he put a spoon to my lips.
