Mr. Darcy's Refuge (9 page)

And what in the world was she doing even thinking about this while comforting a child who had lost her entire family? Fortunately, fatigue seemed to be overwhelming Jenny’s sorrow, her sobs now interspersed with quiet moments. Sooner or later the girl was bound to fall asleep.

It was at least a quarter hour later when Elizabeth gently released Jenny’s head onto her pillow, but when she looked up, Mr. Darcy had already left the room.

***

Back in Mr. Collins’s room, Darcy checked his pocket watch. It was almost three in the morning. He must have slept half the night beside Elizabeth’s bed. How could he have done such a foolish thing? He had meant only to close his eyes for a minute. Sheer physical exhaustion was no excuse, not when it came to spending the night in a lady’s bedroom. Men had been killed for less. If Elizabeth ever found out, she would be furious.

But Elizabeth already knew; that much was almost certain of it from the reproachful look she had given him. Devil take it, why must he always be making things worse with her no matter how hard he tried? How was he to face her in the morning?

The situation between them was becoming more untenable by the hour. If the river was calmer tomorrow, he would find a boat and row Elizabeth across to Rosings, then consult with his aunt as to the care of the tenants. He did not like to think of the treatment Lady Catherine would mete out to Elizabeth. Informing his aunt of his intention to marry Elizabeth was something he was dreading himself, and he was far more accustomed to her fits of pique and resentment. And, of course, as soon as he and Elizabeth were with anyone of their acquaintance, the question of their relationship would have to be addressed, and that was something he would prefer to delay as long as possible.

First thing in the morning he would check the river. If it was still a torrent, he would have to come up with some other plan.

***

Sally brought hot chocolate and rolls to Elizabeth in the morning in what had to be a sign that life in the parsonage was gradually returning to normal, even if she felt rather like Noah on the ark. It gave her new sympathy for that biblical gentleman living through forty days and nights of torrential rain.

“How is Jenny this morning?” Elizabeth picked up a roll and tried to break it open, only to have it tear easily into two pieces. It looked light and flaky. Obviously things were not as much back to normal as she had thought. Cook’s rolls usually bore a distinct resemblance to cannon balls.

“She was awake for a bit earlier, but now she’s asleep again, miss.” Sally straightened the counterpane on the bed.

Elizabeth tasted the roll. It was deliciously buttery and smooth. “Who made the rolls today?”

Sally gave her a frightened look. “Cook did, miss. She don’t let any of the others cook for you and Mr. Darcy.”

“Do not fret; the roll is excellent. Have you seen Mr. Darcy today?”

“Yes, miss. He went down to the village with some of the menfolk early this morning to see what can be salvaged.”

“In this weather?” Elizabeth gestured to the window and the severe thunderstorm raging outside.

“It wasn’t raining then, and the river looked to be going down a mite. I’m sure they’re being very careful, miss.”

Once dressed, Elizabeth went down to the sitting room to work on Charlotte’s basket of mending for the poor. Ordinarily she might have chosen to read instead, but having discovered that there was little she could do to assist in the current crisis, she did not at all care for the new feeling of uselessness it gave her. She was accustomed to taking her part in household affairs, but there was no call at the moment for arranging flowers, directing the gardener, or making a purchase in Meryton. Here at Hunsford she had accompanied Charlotte in caring for her chickens, but her friend had managed the accounts, planned the menus, organized the household, and directed Sally and Cook in their tasks. The housekeeper did most of that work at Longbourn, and although Elizabeth supposed she could learn how to do so with as much facility as Charlotte had, her lack of knowledge of the supplies kept her from making an attempt.

Mr. Darcy had been the one to realize that food stores were running low. He had sent out the cart to fetch more, and when that failed, he had done it himself. He would have known even less than she had about the arrangement of the household, and he could not have been trained in these tasks any more than she was. Still, he had arranged to house the villagers in the neighbor’s barn when she had not even realized there was such a barn, and now he was directing the efforts in the flooded village. All she had done was to entertain Jenny and attend to Charlotte’s seemingly endless supply of mending. When she had tried to feed Charlotte’s chickens the previous day, Cook had informed her testily that it had all been taken care of. She might have attempted to visit the displaced villagers in Charlotte’s stead, but Mr. Darcy had been quite clear that she was not to be alone with them.

Sorting through the basket of old clothes, she put aside the wool socks with moth holes that were on the top. Jane had always teased her over the messiness of her darning, a task Elizabeth disliked and had never put much effort into learning to perform well. Instead she found an old shirt whose hem was partially ripped out. Sewing a basic seam was definitely within her capabilities. Threading a needle, she set to work.

The light was poor, even sitting right next to the window, and her eyes were already feeling the strain when she heard loud voices coming from the kitchen. Resolving that it was time for her to take more of an interest in the proceedings, she put aside the shirt and marched to the kitchen door.

The creature in the kitchen would most likely have been revealed to be one of the village men if the thick layer of smelly mud that covered him were removed. Cook faced him, hands on her hips. “Out of my kitchen this minute! And no, you cannot destroy our good clothesline in that filthy river!”

“What seems to be the matter here?” Elizabeth asked.

Cook turned a glare on her. “He can’t have our good clothesline. Mrs. Collins wouldn’t stand for such nonsense.”

Elizabeth looked at the man. “What do you need it for?”

“River’s going up again. Need to clear out what we can, but the river’s too fast to go into without a rope. Mr. Darcy said to get more rope.”

Cook sniffed. “Mr. High and Mighty Darcy always knows best, I suppose, so you might as well take it before he comes storming in here himself. It’s on the shelf in the shed.”

The man turned to leave, but Elizabeth said, “Is Mr. Darcy is still down by the river, then?”

The man guffawed. “Can’t rightly say
that
. He’s
in
the river up to here.” He indicated a line across his chest. “Without a rope, more fool he. Wouldn’t want to be the one to tell her ladyship if he don’t make it out.” Chuckling at his own wit, he shambled out of the kitchen.

Elizabeth felt a ridiculous urge to run after him and find out for herself what was happening by the river, but her presence would only be a hindrance to the efforts. Surely he must have been exaggerating the risk. She did not want to think about that. Since mending would only give her time to brood, she decided instead to check on Jenny.

Jenny was awake now, sitting up in bed with her arms wrapped around the wooden dog, staring blankly at the opposite wall. Her first words on seeing Elizabeth were, “Is Mr. Darcy back?”

Elizabeth blinked in surprise. She had not thought the girl to have a particular attachment to Mr. Darcy, or even to know his name, for that matter. “Not yet. Is there something I can do for you? Would you like something to eat?”

The girl shook her head. “Just your husband.”

Not that again. Elizabeth had supposed someone would have disabused the girl of the notion, but at this point it would probably do more harm than good to correct her. “And why are you so eager to see my… Mr. Darcy?"

Jenny’s mouth drooped. “I’m not supposed to tell.”

What sort of nonsense was this? If the girl had not been through so much already, Elizabeth would have tried to coax the secret from her, but under the circumstances, she could only wait to find out. She would have some choice words for Mr. Darcy on his return, that was for certain – assuming he did return. Her chest felt tight.

Determined to give no sign of her distress, she sat down beside Jenny’s bed and drew out a loop of string she had made earlier. “Do you know how to play scratch-cradle?”

Teaching Jenny to make the string figures took the better part of an hour, and Elizabeth was pleased to see her laughing at the silly mistakes that Elizabeth made deliberately. It was during one of those episodes that she heard footsteps behind her.

It was Mr. Darcy. He looked as if he had recently been used as fisherman’s bait. Elizabeth’s relief at the sight of him was enough to rob her of words.

Jenny gave a little bounce in bed, then winced in pain. “Did you find her?”

Darcy handed her something swaddled in a towel. “She is very wet.”

As Jenny eagerly cradled the bundle, Elizabeth swept her eyes over Darcy. His coat was only damp, as was to be expected from being in the rain, but under it he appeared to be soaked to the skin. She looked up at him archly. “She is not the only one.”

Darcy glanced down at his clothes. “No, she is not,” he said with a fragment of a smile. Then he added more formally, “Please excuse my appearance, Miss Bennet. I can only plead that my errand was of some urgency.”

“Indeed,” she said gravely.

He bowed to her, looking rather silly making the formal effort in his disheveled state, then departed. To her surprise, she was disappointed. It was most likely simply a desire to scold him for taking risks.

Jenny was weeping openly over the bundle, where a slip of the towel revealed a painted doll. Elizabeth fetched a rag that Jenny used to dry the crudely carved shape as carefully as if it had been a live infant.

Elizabeth could see she was no longer needed. In a moment of inspiration, she returned to the sitting room and rummaged through the pile of mending until she discovered a torn piece of sprigged muslin large enough to make a dress for the doll. She spread it out on a side table and was contemplating how best to go about it when a firm knock sounded on the front door.

A moment later, Sally timidly entered the sitting room. “Colonel Fitzwilliam is here, Miss Bennet.”

With a glad smile, Elizabeth straightened. “Show him in, please.”

“Miss Bennet.” Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed, his straight hair was plastered close to his head and his trousers splashed with mud. Still, he was a very welcome sight.

“This is a delightful surprise,” she said. “I had not thought anyone would be able to reach us from Rosings yet.”

“My route was hardly a direct one. I had to ride clear to the coast to find a bridge that was passable, and even there, my horse was knee deep in water on the approach. I hope you have not suffered unduly here. We have been worried on your behalf at Rosings.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I imagine Mr. Collins has not allowed a moment of silence on the topic! But we have managed quite well here despite the circumstances.”

“I am very glad to hear it.” The colonel crossed to the hearth and held his hands out in front of the flames for a minute to warm them, then he turned to her with a grave expression. “I do not suppose you have had any word of Darcy.”