Page 77 of Miss Bennet's Dragon
My aunt laughed. “Have my stories disturbed your nap?”
“No! I am enjoying them. But I am recovering after being shaken to pieces this morning.”
“It should be smooth to Lambton. The roads are good near Pemberley.”
I almost flew off the seat. “Pemberley?”
“The Darcys maintain the roads for miles around their estate,” my aunt said. “And Lambton is within the estate. Did you not know?”
I shook my head. My mouth opened, but nothing intelligible emerged.
“How near is Pemberley to Lambton?” asked my uncle.
“No more than five miles,” my aunt said. “It is a beautiful house.”
“I should like to see it,” my uncle replied. “What do you think, Lizzy? I recall you met the gentleman but did not like him. Still, you must have heard tales of Pemberley. Shall we go?”
I realized my aunt and uncle were waiting for an answer. I forced a breath. “You may go. I think I shall rest. After touring so many great houses, my eyes are full of fine carpets and satin curtains.” There. That was a sensible answer.
“Are you sure, Lizzy?” my aunt said. “If it were merely a grand house, I should not care myself. But the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country. And”—her smile grew teasing—“they have alake!”
“A lake?” I echoed weakly.
My aunt foundan inn and began an animated conversation with the owner. I stood outside, watching the tiny town square while the inn’s footman carried bags to our rooms.
Pemberley. I knew traveling in Derbyshire brought us closer. But nearness is a relative thing. Derbyshire is large. I had not expected to stumble into an inn so close I could walk there.
My heart was tripping in my chest. “Stop it,” I whispered.
Any meeting with Mr. Darcy was unthinkable. If the mutual mortification of a spurned proposal was not enough, I had utterly severed our association with my insults.
So, I would stay while the Gardiners visited. But what if the lake was the one I sought? That would be irritating. And strange, also.
My aunt arrived beside me. “You cannot imagine the memories I have! I was younger than you when I was last here. Let us take a stroll. My legs are sore after sitting so long.” We started down the street at a pace my aunt could manage.
Mrs. Gardiner exclaimed over everything, changed and unchanged: a door that was now painted red, a shop sign that had only faded. I smiled at her enthusiasm.
“This is new,” she said as we reached the corner.
There was a good-sized building with large, modern windows and a sign that read, Lancasterian System for Children.The door stood open, and I heard young voices singing.
We exchanged a look, then peeked inside.
A dozen children were seated at rows of desks. A neatly dressed young lady, the teacher or governess, stood in front, directing them through a song. It seemed to be a funny recitation of types of trees.
The teacher caught our eye and gestured to wait, then told the children to continue without her. They did so with giggles, then ardent volume.
“Is it a school?” my aunt asked as the teacher joined us.
“Yes. This is our third year since opening. As you see, the class has grown large.”
The students were dressed in simple farm clothes, some even homespun, though all looked freshly scrubbed.
A memory from months ago returned. A comment Mr. Darcy made during dinner at Netherfield.
“The Lancasterian System,” I said. “Is that not a program for educating”—I paused, not wishing to call them poor—“children of limited means?”
“Yes.” The woman laughed, not self-conscious at all. “We would take them all, poor or rich. But in practice, it is those who cannot afford other schooling who attend.”
