And it was then that she fully comprehended that her future would entail more than simply the happiness of helping to raise the future Master of Pemberley and any other children the Darcys were blessed with. So far, she had been fortunate to see the lush landscapes of several counties, breathe the air and walk the fields of Kent and Hertfordshire, gaze upon the tall buildings of London, revel in the finery and jewels of the social elite, explore the wonders of grand parks and busy city streets, and so much more that she had filled two journals already. Now she was ascending the magnificent heights of the Peaks, those famous mountains and moors that were glimpses on the distant horizon all her life but never seen up close. Her exuberance was indeed bubbling, and she felt far more than ten years younger.
The tiny village of Edale was unremarkable. Their carriage rumbled along the road that wound through the narrow gorge created by the Noe, passing the huts known as booths that housed the boothmen, those hardy souls who lived in the rustic dwelling places while tending the wandering livestock that fed off the moor grasses. Edale itself was a collection of stone buildings scattered without symmetrical planning, the bare necessities provided to the local residents and not much else. Naturally there was a pub, but the ramshackle construction was dubious at best, even Darcy’s thirst for a cool ale not strong enough to brave the possibility of the place crumbling down when the door slammed behind him! The seventeenth century church sat on a lovely grassy knoll, but was plain and boasted no historical significance, so they chose not to investigate.
They detoured on the road leading to Hayfield, halting at Edale Cross. The medieval stone cross erected some seven-hundred years prior by the Abbots of Basingwerk Abbey to mark the southern boundary of their land was eroded and chipped in places, but astoundingly intact. Re-erected in 1810, the ancient marker was now a local monument and historical artifact proudly preserved and tended to. The cultural significance was intriguing to Darcy and Lizzy, and the Edale Cross area was also a good place to pause for refreshments and casually stroll with the baby.
But they tarried for only a short hiatus, both of them anxious to commence the real point of the day’s outing: attaining the plateau of Kinder Scout. They decided on the trails leading from Edale. It was a longer route but a bit less strenuous. Nevertheless, many of the trail portions were steep and nearly invisible amid the thick peat and stones. Hardy folks frequently braved the challenge in order to view the breathtaking vistas from the two thousand foot moor, and Darcy and Lizzy were two such people. Or at least they intended to try.
Leaving a well-fed and sleeping Alexander behind in the care of Mrs. Hanford, Mr. Anders, and Watson, they set out on their adventure. By the end, as the sun was setting to the west and the dimness of twilight illuminated the avenue leading to Chelmbridge, Lizzy was leaning onto her husband’s shoulder drowsily holding her eyes open by sheer willpower. But her incredible stamina and walking skills had prevailed, to Darcy’s pride and satisfaction. They reached the highest point of Kinder Scout, traversed the craggy heathland, and stood upon the edge of Kinder Downfall with the spray of the waterfall misting their sweaty brows.
Lizzy was not ashamed to admit that she required her strong spouse’s assistance over the harsher climbs upon occasion. But for the most part, she accomplished the deed on her own steam and was as proud of herself as Darcy was of her. If she fell asleep less than half an hour after entering the house, without a full meal, and only budged for the subsequent ten hours to dazedly nestle Alexander to her breast, it was worth it. She did not complain about the soreness to her legs or the painful blister on one toe, the memories burned into her brain of the spectacular tableau visualized erasing any discomfort. They did, however, opt to stay at the estate the next day. Or rather Darcy insisted, claiming his own fatigue and desire to fish in the river, go for a horse ride, and picnic on the shaded lawns as the excuse. Lizzy did not believe the fatigue pretext, but a day of rest was a pleasant enough prospect, so she did not argue.
For their final day, they again packed up the landau for what was planned to be a two-part jaunt—the morning for a visit to the grandest of the Peak’s caverns, the bizarrely named Devil’s Arse, and the afternoon a leisurely drive through the woodlands and moors where the Dark Peak and White Peak merged, and then on to the ancient Roman town of Buxton, now primarily known for her thermal springs and Poole’s Cavern.
During the short drive, Mrs. Hanford asked a question that, naturally, launched Darcy into teaching mode.
“Is it true, sir, that thieves live within the depths of the cavern?”
“Indeed, that is what the rumors hold,” he answered, smiling at her frightened expression.
Lizzy knew the stories, but the nanny did not, so listened spellbound as Darcy enlightened her. Alexander also seemed to be riveted to the tale, staring at his father from Lizzy’s lap.
“It is doubtful that bands of brigands call the inner caves their home in this progressive age,” he assured her. “However, in centuries past, it was primarily the baser elements who braved the dark recesses of the Devil’s Arse. Some say that it was they who caused such a name to be.”
“How do you mean?” she asked, leaning forward unconsciously.
Darcy shrugged. “The name, if you will pardon me, Mrs. Hanford, was given due to the unusual noises that would escape from the mouth. Noises that resembled, forgive me, the passing of wind. Flatulence, you see. Some claim the noises are caused by ghosts who haunt the depths. Others believe the cavern extends to Hades, hence the ‘devil’ part of the name and why the subterranean river is called the Styx, and that the sounds are of demons. Still others think, more logically, that it may be the echoes from people, the thieving gangs, living below. Of course, the first two are nonsense, so I rather believe the legends of bandits is more probable, or perhaps some scientific explanation yet to be understood.”
“So, there is no doubt that thieves dwelt there, at some time?”
“No. Enough evidence exists, especially the wealth of stories. According to legend, and the tales of Samuel Rid, somewhere in the mid-1500s the notorious knave Cock Lorel met with the current King of the Gypsies, whoever that was, at his hideaway in Devil’s Arse. Together they devised a secret language that only rogues would understand.” He shrugged again. “Probably that is a romantic myth, but the language, thieves’ cant or rogues’ cant depending upon the source, is verified. More likely it is a compilation of slang words from dozens of underworld guilds. The colorful argot is a common feature of numerous Elizabethan literature and plays. I have a collection of books from the Era, including Life by Bampfylde Moore Carew, who claimed to be King of the Beggars.”
“There’s a title to wear proudly,” Lizzy interjected with a laugh.
“Truly,” Darcy agreed with a smile. “You are welcome to read them, Mrs. Hanford, as well as anything else in the library, as you know.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Today I can promise that we shall see no thieves. We will, however, observe the troglodytes. The cave dwellers, that is. These are normal citizens who chose to live within the upper reaches of the cave. As you shall see, it is quite large. They build small houses under the rock, a whole miniature village, in fact, with barns for their livestock and workshops to ply their trade. Living quite happily and secure, one would imagine.”
“How odd,” the nanny declared, obviously baffled by the concept.
“I would tend to agree with you, madam. It is not how I would choose to live. But they have done so for centuries, perhaps at one time living in harmony with the thieves!” He laughed, and they joined in. “Now they continue the ancient tradition of making rope for the local mines. The moist atmosphere of the cavern aids the process. Rather ingenious, actually. The poet Charles Cotton wrote in his ‘Wonders of the Peake,’ Now to the cave we come, wherein is found,A new strange thing, a village underground:Houses and barns for men and beasts behoof,With walls distinct, under one solid roof.