On a warm Summer evening, with only a gentle breeze coming in the open doorway, James Courtney decided to take his two older children along with him on his usual Saturday evening parish visits. Emily and Caroline had agreed to meet and plan their own contribution to the Pemberley Ball.
The sisters had the house to themselves. Sitting around the dining table at the Rectory, they had plans and lists spread out all over when Isabella, who had been out in the garden with little Jessica, came racing into the room.
"Mama, there's a little boy running up the lane, he looks very frightened and quite exhausted..." And as Caroline and Emily rose to go to the door, she added, "I think he is one of the Irish children from the camp on the moors."
Believing the child was either lost or come for help (the Irish preferred to ask at the Rectory for assistance, rather than risk rejection or ridicule in the village), Emily went out into the lane to meet him. She recognised him as Tom, whose mother she had helped with food and clothes a few days ago.
To her astonishment, the child had stopped in the road and was calling to her to come at once. "Please ma'am," he cried, "the men are breakin' up the cottages on the moor ... they are comin' back when it's dark and they are goin' to burn our things..."
Caroline, who had caught up with her, could barely comprehend the boy's words, unused as she was to the Irish accents.
But Emily, who had been helping the immigrant families and was familiar with their speech, understood him exactly. She had already been warned by some of the locals that there was a good deal of resentment towards the "Paddys," as they were called in the village, but never, not in her worst nightmares, had she expected anything like this. Despite that, it took her but a moment to understand the seriousness of the situation.
Quick to respond, she amazed Caroline with her instructions. "Caroline, you must go directly to Littleford and alert Richard and the others at the hospital. They must send some men from Pemberley to help the families on the moor. I shall take Isabella and go at once with Tom to see what can be done."
She took little Jessica indoors to her nurse and sent a man to find the Rector and tell him what had occurred.
Spending barely ten minutes to get her wrap and bonnet, and giving brief instructions to her maid, Emily was ready to depart, taking Isabella with her. Caroline, unable to do other than follow her sister's directions, had got back in her carriage and was looking out anxiously.
"Emily, are you sure you will be safe? What will you do if the men come back?" she asked.
Emily was quite calm. "Don't worry Caroline, no one will harm us. We are going to see how we can help Tom and his mother and the other women up on the moors. They are alone, with most of the men away working. I hope we are in time. You must get as fast as you can to Littleford and tell Richard what is afoot. He will know what to do. They must get help as soon as possible."
As she drove away, Caroline could not help wondering at her intrepid young sister's courage. Her admiration was, however, tempered with some apprehension. Unfamiliar with the Irish immigrants, although aware of the work Emily and James were doing to help them, Caroline was afraid for both her sister and her daughter.
Arriving at the camp on the moor, where some half dozen families were trying to eke out a living under exceedingly difficult conditions, Emily saw a scene of utter devastation and misery--the evicted women and their children were sitting in the dirt surrounded by their pathetic belongings tied up in bundles or strewn around them in the mud. Smashed furniture, pieces of wooden palings and makeshift roofing lay all around them. It was plain that the women and children were terrified, powerless to do anything, not knowing how to escape the wrath of the men who had threatened to return at nightfall to burn their belongings.
Most of their husbands were gone either to Liverpool, Manchester, or Birmingham to look for work. Some had not been back in weeks, leaving the women to struggle on, depending for the most part on charity and the hardwon produce of thankless toil.
Some of the children were crying, and their mothers, with no men to protect them, were preparing to run away into the wild moorland, where they could quite easily perish from exposure.
Young Isabella Fitzwilliam, who had never seen anything like it in her life, was wide-eyed and apprehensive herself; but in the face of her aunt's remarkable courage, she was determined to show no fear.
"What are we going to do, Aunt Emily?" she asked with not a little trepidation. "How will we help them?"
Emily spoke quite firmly, her words expressing her determination. "We shall stay with them until help arrives, Isabella; we should hear from Littleford, quite soon. We cannot leave them to the mercy of a gang of ruffians." She added more gently, "Have no fear, Isabella. Even if they return, they will not harm us. Everyone in the village knows Mr Courtney." So saying, she set about trying to comfort the fearful women around her.
Meanwhile, Caroline had barely driven half a mile up the road when she encountered Robert, who, with Rose, was returning to the Fitzwilliams' for dinner, having spent the afternoon with his parents at Oakleigh.
They were all smiles when they greeted her, but soon realised from her grave countenance that something was seriously amiss. "Caroline, what has happened? Where is Emily?" Robert asked.
Caroline explained, breathless and afraid for her sister and Isabella, and begged Robert to ride to Littleford and alert Richard while she followed with Rose.
Robert agreed and went immediately, waiting only to get sufficient information for Richard. "Caroline, you had best return to the Rectory with Rose and wait for James. When he arrives, tell him I have gone to get help and will be going directly to the camp on the moor with Richard," he said, taking fond leave of Rose, who pleaded to be allowed to go with him. Robert would not hear of it.
On returning to the Rectory at Kympton, Caroline and Rose found James Courtney preparing to start out on foot. Very relieved to see them, he was too preoccupied to protest when they declared their intention to go with him and climbed quickly into the carriage, plainly concerned for the safety of his wife.
James Courtney knew how strongly Emily felt about the suffering of the Irish immigrant families; only a week ago she had returned from the camp, extremely upset by the condition of the children.
"They cannot possibly survive a Winter on the moor; they have neither the clothing nor the shelter to protect them from the weather. If nothing is done for them, they will die of chills and pneumonia," she had said, and he had promised to talk to Mr Darcy about the problem.
"Perhaps he will agree to let them use some of the old vacant farm buildings on the estate," he had said at the time, but there had not been an opportunity to broach the subject with Mr Darcy.
By the time they reached the edge of the moor, where they had to alight and walk, it was almost dark.
In the distance, in the lee of a hill, they could see the light of flaring torches, and several huddled forms were silhouetted against the darkening sky. As they hurried forward, James, realising suddenly the danger in which the two young women accompanying him might be placed, stopped abruptly. "Wait here, you cannot go on, there is no knowing what might happen," he said.
They protested. "Surely, they will never harm any of us, they know all our families," said Caroline, but James was not so sanguine.
"I cannot see their faces, they may not be men from the village at all," he said, determined not to expose them to any further risk.
Rose and Caroline, anxious though they were to go to Emily's side, could not defy James. They concealed themselves behind a clump of trees as James went on without them. He moved forward cautiously; he could hear a low rumble like angry voices grumbling in unison.
As he got closer to the camp, he was aghast to see his wife standing, with young Isabella Fitzwilliam beside her and several bedraggled and frightened women and children crouched on the ground, confronting a group of men. Some carried torches, while others had short, thick sticks they had obviously used to smash the houses and furniture, which lay around them in the dirt. One big man had a vicious looking dog on a lead, which he looked ready to loose onto anyone that moved.
James Courtney could not hear what they were saying, and he felt as if his feet had turned to lead as he tried desperately to move over the claggy ground. "Please, God, let them not do anything rash," he prayed.
Suddenly, clear as a bell, he heard Emily's voice. "What do you want with these people? They have done you no harm."
Several voices were raised in argument--they were grumbling about the Irishmen taking their jobs, working for less money ... squatting on the commons ... poaching game ... taking the food from the mouths of the poor, and they were all papists, to boot!
It was a litany of complaint.
"And do you mean to punish the women and children by smashing up their belongings, burning their houses, and turning them out on the moor?" Emily's voice shook with emotion.
"What would you have them do? Have they not as much right to eat as your wives and children? They do not steal or beg. Are they not entitled to our compassion as much as the people who have come here from Scotland or Yorkshire?" she asked, knowing full well she had helped many such families over the years of depression.
Taking advantage of their silence, the result of some confusion among the men, she demanded to know how many of them were settlers from other parts of England? There were a couple of unfamiliar faces she did not recognise from Kympton or its surrounding areas. She was determined to drive home the point, as a few hands went up, albeit reluctantly.
"And how did our community treat you when you first arrived among us? Did we smash your houses and turn your wives and children out into the cold to starve? Or did we, perhaps, show you some Christian charity? Did we put food on your tables and clothes on your children's backs? Mr Courtney and I have helped many families from Scotland and Tyneside or the West Riding. Some of you have found work and decided to stay on here; your children come to our school. Yet, you would not have us do the same for these people. Why do they deserve less than you do?
"Their men are gone to find work; how brave is it to attack women and children while their husbands and fathers are out working? What would you do to men who attacked your wives and children and burned down your houses? Would you stand idly by or would you be calling for revenge? Then, why would you do it to these poor helpless people?"
Her voice shaking, her eyes filled with tears, Emily stood her ground as, one by one, the men began to turn away. James Courtney rushed to her side just as Robert, Richard, and several men who had ridden over from Pemberley arrived and confronted the thugs, taking many of them into custody.
To Robert's horror, one of the men skulking away was Morris, a gamekeeper on his father's property, whose family had often benefited from the Gardiners' generosity. Seeing the expression of disgust and anger on Robert's face, he retreated quickly into the darkness, while Robert made a mental note to tell his parents about Morris and his role in this outrage.
As the men either made off into the night or were arrested and taken away to be brought before the magistrate on the morrow, everyone crowded around Emily and Isabella, ensuring they were unhurt. Caroline and Rose, who had crept up behind the contingent from Pemberley, rushed to embrace them, while Emily's brothers were speechless with amazement at what they had just witnessed.
The Irish women were loud in their praise of Emily, claiming she had saved them all from death or worse. Even allowing for exaggeration and a colourful turn of phrase, she had clearly averted a very ugly incident.
For Emily, however, the work was not yet done. "Something has to be arranged for the women and children; they cannot be left out on the moors without shelter or protection," she insisted.
Apart from the moorland weather, which could be quite bitter, she feared the men would return. It was plain that the women shared her fears.
But Darcy's steward said he had instructions from his master to remove all of the women and children to the Kympton church hall, provide them with food and shelter, and then, in a day or two, a way might be found to help them settle somewhere safer than the moors.
When everyone had been moved to the church hall, fed, and bedded down, the family gathered at the Rectory. Richard was to go on to Pemberley and report to Darcy, while Robert and Rose returned belatedly to the Fitzwilliams.
Neither could relate the story of that night without emotion. That Emily had put herself at risk to protect the poor Irish women and their children astonished everyone, but no one who knew her was surprised at the tenacity and courage she had shown, certainly not Darcy and Elizabeth, who had heard Richard's account with alarm.
That night, after everyone had returned to their homes, Elizabeth and Darcy discussed the day's events and spoke of Emily with great pride. "She never ceases to amaze; her integrity and strength are phenomenal," said Darcy, still shocked by the details of the story.
There had been several rumours of purported attacks on Irishmen and their families, but none had been as serious or as frightening as this one.
Elizabeth could not believe the savagery of the gang who had gone up to the camp on the moor. "How could anyone plan, in cold blood, to do such a thing to unprotected women and innocent children?" she asked, not really expecting an answer.
But Darcy did respond, pointing out the nature of the offence. "It is the kind of irrational brutality that takes over when men, especially ill-educated and powerless men, can find no solution to their problems. Without work, without money--now that the Poor Law prevents them receiving help unless they enter the workhouse--they will strike out at anyone. The Irish immigrants are convenient scapegoats," he explained. "Their situation is worse than most because, in addition to being destitute, they are treated as outcasts in England because they are different. To ignorant people, this justifies their persecution."
Elizabeth could not accept it. She had tears in her eyes as she spoke. "But they are as powerless and downtrodden as any of our own poor--even more so, having not even a piece of ground of their own!" she cried.
Seeing her distress, Darcy tried to explain, "Poverty is an ugly condition, my love. It may bring out the goodness in some, but mostly, it takes away the power to reason and lets us do terrible things. It is easy to be generous and caring when one has the means to live well while helping others, but grinding, hopeless poverty takes away the inclination and the means."
Elizabeth sighed, understanding his explanation but not reassured by it. "What is to become of them?" she asked anxiously.
He wanted to allay her fears and comfort her. "Tomorrow, Sir Thomas and I will meet to see what can be done to accommodate them in a safer place. There is some land within our two estates which may be suitable-- chiefly abandoned farmland on the edge of the common. I have asked John Grantham to join me when I meet Sir Thomas; he would know best what can be done for them."
He was careful not to promise too much, unwilling to raise her expectations and disappoint her if a practical solution could not be found. Elizabeth pressed for an answer. "Would you let them stay?" she asked.
He smiled. "You would like me to, would you not, my love?" When she nodded, he added, "We shall see tomorrow. I must get Sir Thomas to agree, but if it is at all possible, they shall stay."
Her arms tightened around him, loving him, willing him to do what was right. If a way could be found to help the Irish families, who had so narrowly escaped a dreadful fate just a few miles from Pemberley, she knew he would find it.