Loving Mr. Darcy: Journeys Beyond Pemberley (64 page)

Their final destination for the day was the village of Repton. Darcy thoroughly detailed the history of the pivotal town as they drove, Lizzy in a fever of excitement by the time they crested the small rise and viewed the town spread before them on the sloping hillside.

"Essentially, in the present," Darcy explained, "Repton is no more than the typical farming and fishing village. Except for the school. Repton School is the oldest independent school for boys in all of England, functioning unbroken since 1557 if you can imagine. My grandfather attended here for three years and my father considered sending me, but the headmasters following my grandfather's day had allowed the school to decline. I honestly do not know the reputation currently. I remember I was disappointed, as the idea of formal education appealed to me. I begged for Eton or Winchester or Harrow instead, but mother was ill, and I think father could not bear wounding her heart by sending me away." He paused in memory, Lizzy squeezing his knee.

With a smile, he resumed his narrative, "We will tour the school, as it sits on the same campus as Saint Wystan's Church, which is the real draw of the area. Repton, my love, unassuming as it is, was the capital of Mercia in the sixth century. All the kings and princes resided here and were buried in the church. The crypt and mausoleum are mostly intact and the remains of several kings can be viewed. It is very exciting! In fact, these artifacts are some of the oldest and best-preserved Saxon relics in England. Additionally, Repton is the first village where Christianity was preached in the Midlands. Priests were sent from Northumbria, as northern England then was, to convert the pagan Mercian kings. Amazingly, they were successful. The church was built over the mausoleum in the eighth century and has remained relatively unchanged to this day. A priory was founded here as well, but no longer remains, except as the foundation stones for the school."

"Who was Saint Wystan?"

Darcy pursed his lips in thought. "A prince, if I recall correctly, the son of one of the Kings of Mercia. He was murdered, and miracles apparently ensued as an aftermath. The history is vague, as it often is with legends and superstitions. Eventually, he was sanctified and the church was named for him as its patron saint."

Lizzy was very impressed, thrilled to touch the ancient stones and imagine medieval men carving and building. Of all the marvels seen on their short jaunt into the past, these ruins were the most ancient. The press of age and history, life lived to the fullest if utterly divergent from the modern familiar, was palpable as they descended the archaic, worn stone steps to the crypt. It was easy to sense trapped emotions and memories, the ethereal whisper of forgotten voices echoing. It was eerie yet oddly comforting to know that time marched on but the indelible stamp of the past endured.

They roved about the grounds, sat in serene contemplation inside the church itself, and then strolled through the town. Like all country hamlets, the buildings were primarily stone and thatch, most old with the random, newer construction interposed. Children dashed about the streets, dogs yapping at their feet as they laughed and skipped and teased. It was very relaxing, and neither Darcy nor Lizzy were in any hurry to return to Derby. The numerous evidences of the past at each turn delighted them and further astounded. It was the perfect end to a perfect day.

The final day of the Darcy journey through the lower Midlands of Derbyshire dawned cloudy with rain threatening. Darcy was tempted to cancel the outing, but Lizzy refused. "You will not melt, William." She declared firmly. "This is England, after all. If rain halted us, we would never accomplish anything."

He assumed a disapproving frown, lips twitching. "Very well, Elizabeth, but if you catch a cold do not expect me to nurse you!"

The day's excursion would be interrupted somewhat by intermittent showers, but as luck would have it, they were light and occurred primarily while driving. Elizabeth inhaled deeply of the clean air, lifting her face to the sprinkles, and despite Darcy's dire prediction, did not become ill.

The first stop was Tutbury, a village technically in Staffordshire although it hugged the border so closely that many Tutbury residents lived on the Derbyshire side of the River Dove. The reason Darcy wished his wife to visit the sleepy village was for the thirteenth-century castle. The ruins of the once vast fortress strategically located on a promontory above Tutbury was notable for its aesthetic value and crowning Norman architectural significance; however, it was the history that interested Darcy.

"The fortress city was initially built by the Kings of Mercia long ago," he told Lizzy, who actually already knew the history, but she loved to hear his voice so did not interrupt. "The natural butte was a perfect location for tactical reasons, and there is archeological evidence that the Romans built a settlement here. The main road we traveled on is a Roman road constructed before the turn of the millennium, a trade route between the south and north. Unfortunately, other than a few coins and similar artifacts, little is known of what the structure here might have been. It may have been no more than a campsite as soldiers moved from one battlefield to the next."

He paused as they reached the northern edge of the cliff, both captivated by the panoramic view of the Dove valley far below, odiferous bog clearly visible.

Darcy resumed his tale in a hushed voice, "You can imagine why this place was ideal. A fortress was built and some of the kings resided here. Along with Repton, Tutbury was the prime seat of power. However, from the eighth to the eleventh century, between Saxons, Vikings, and the Normans, war raged. Tutbury changed hands numerous times, was ravaged and rebuilt, abandoned and reoccupied. I venture it is nearly impossible to ascertain now which stones were laid when or what the fortress may have actually looked like. In fact, the early Mercian castle was undoubtedly more wood than stone." They strolled about the fallen piles of rock and half erect walls, catching vague glimpses of rooms and symmetry, only to have the emerging shape lost abruptly in open grassy spaces.

"Over the centuries, various inhabitants renovated the castle, but never to full potency. The constant civil wars of our Norman ancestors, and later the English rulers, prevailed well into the 1300s, love, as you know. As a fortress and city of authority, Tutbury was inhabited and besieged over and over again. One would barely manage to bolster the defenses when another would come along and break holes." He shook his head at the stupidity of it all. Taking Lizzy's hand, they descended the slick steps leading into the dungeon and remains of the castle, heading toward the south tower. They paused inside the dungeon, not nearly as ominous as it probably once was now that the roof and one wall were collapsed.

"The following three hundred years were peaceful and attempts were made to rebuild with fair success. It was never entirely completed, long years of disuse and delayed restoration preventing full restitution. Nonetheless, the South Tower was considered impenetrable and served as one of the many prisons for Mary, Queen of Scots in the late 1500s. Of all the places she was confined in during those eighteen years, she wrote that she hated Tutbury the most. The castle was largely falling down and poorly constructed, the area surrounding extraordinarily damp and marshy with foul odors frequently arising, and the distance from London detained the delivery of necessary goods. The legends say she became very ill here from the harsh winters."

One look at the moldy damp stones of the ruined keep and Lizzy felt a surge of sympathy for the long dead Mary, despite her English prejudice toward the treasonous Queen. Lizzy shivered the entire time they rambled about the place, actually thankful to depart.

They turned north from Tutbury, planning a relatively short circle back to Derby. The journey home would be long, as Darcy intended to visit a few places of interest along the way, so he did not wish to travel too far afield today. Therefore, they snaked leisurely through the farmlands and tiny towns dotting the plain. They traveled north through Church Broughton to Longford, onward to Shirley then veering east to Brailsford. Along the way, they stopped as the mood arose to sightsee another church or ruin, nibble a snack, or simply stretch their legs.

After luncheon at a pub in Brailsford, they turned southeast toward Derby. The last stop of significance was Mackworth Castle--or rather, the finely detailed gatehouse of what may have been a castle. Here was a location of true mystery. Why would the arch and facade of a two-story structure be all that remained of a manor house? Was the house destroyed utterly without leaving a trace except for the untouched gatehouse? Or was it some unknown man's folly and never completed? Why was there no history surrounding the structure? Apparently the questions would never be answered.

It was a humorous, puzzling end to a glorious sojourn in lower Derbyshire. The goal of acquainting Elizabeth Darcy with her new home was flourishing. Darcy was supremely satisfied in all ways, and Lizzy did sense a greater kinship and connection to the land that would be her home for many years to come and her children's home. She knew that Darcy now itched to drag her to the wealth of attractions the Peak District boasted. Englishmen were by nature territorial, especially the gentry. For a man of Darcy's station and lineage, Derbyshire was more than merely the place he resided. It was in his blood. His very identity was first as a man of Derbyshire then as an Englishman. Lizzy did not know if she would ever attain his level of affinity for the region, but she understood his passion and felt it touch her through him. It affected her most profoundly when their child moved inside her. The reality that she carried the heir to Pemberley, and all that it meant not only to her husband but also to the future of Derbyshire, was a staggering, but also a joyous honor.

L
IZZY WOKE THE FOLLOWING at eight-thirty to an empty bed. There was nothing at all unusual about that, although she was surprised Darcy had allowed her to sleep so late. His agenda for the journey home was a secret, but the distance to Pemberley was a nearly two-hour carriage ride without halting. She had assumed he would want to depart early.

Donning a robe, she entered the small sitting room to discover her husband busily scribbling at the desk. He jumped up when she entered, Lizzy laughing and waving him down. She was forever telling him not to do that, but long years of gentlemanly manners could not be erased. He ignored her gesture, approaching with a smile.

"Good morning, my love! Did you sleep well?" He kissed her forehead, smoothing through her hair.

"I always sleep well, dearest, except for when your hot body smothers me completely!"

Darcy grinned. "Forgive me. Even subconsciously I must be near you. I have no control over the matter. Tea and a scone?"

"Yes, please." She sat, tucking her feet under her. "No need to apologize, William. I simply elbow you hard and you roll away, temporarily at least. Come winter you can repay the treatment when I slip my frozen feet between your thighs." She lifted her face for a kiss, which he happily bestowed. "What are you so diligently working on this morning?"

He resumed his seat, taking a long gulp of coffee before answering. "A letter to Mr. Keith." He turned to her, face animated. "I had a thought, if you are amenable and physically tolerant. Our miniature holiday prior to our main one in September has thus far proceeded so enjoyably that I am considering extending it for a few more days. Does this appeal to you?"

Lizzy was already nodding positively. "It definitely appeals to me! I am having a marvelous time, darling, and love sightseeing. Physically I am wonderful, although I would request traversing well maintained roads." She rubbed her lower abdomen with a grimace, Darcy instantly frowning.