Page 60 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

Mr. Darcy and Fitzwilliam were already inspecting the outbuildings; the lanes were barely passable, choked with fallen trees and six inches of mud. My hems would have been proud. Georgiana and I changed into our riding clothes and rode the Cumberland Bays to visit the cottagers and leaseholders, seeking those whose needs were immediate—a collapsed roof or fallen chimney—and those who could wait longer until help from the manor arrived.

We found one household where a creek now ran through the door and under the opposite wall. Little Herbert Platt and his sister Herret, aged two and three years, were pitifully weak. They had been taken in by neighbours who hardly had the room in their cottage to swing a cat, let alone squeeze in two more adults and their children. Georgiana and I lifted the infants to sit before us, carrying them, closely held, to Pemberley. Mrs. Reynolds dispatched a young maid to care for them—mightily relieved, no doubt, no longer required to pull up rugs and carpets where water had seeped under the shutters and windows.

Darcy was in the formal dining room, several large maps spread across the table. Their scale was exceedingly large, carefully copied from the surveys of the estate, dating back to when many of the leases were first awarded. A large ledger stood open, where he was transcribing notes from his pocketbook.

“Elizabeth, you rode out? Should you have done so with your leg not yet recovered?” He looked at me with concern. I had been limping when we entered the room, more to do with stiffness from having ridden than any injury.

“My right leg rests over the pommel, though a little more cramped than I would wish. Still, Oldaker’s crutch allowed great stability—I daresay, were I foolish enough, I could leap a hedge as easily as any man riding astride.”

“Elizabeth, you are ridiculous—fancy jumping while riding sidesaddle! I daresay you would fall before the horse got a foot off the ground.” Georgiana scolded me, then turned to her brother. “We visited the cottages off Beeley Moor. Elizabeth wrote notes—do you wish to copy them?”

“Of course. Please, mark the cottages on the map and the tenants’ names. Father and I intend to have the carts go out as soon as the roads dry a little.”

We found Lady Catherine and Mr. Collins in the breakfast parlour. Having arisen at six, and ridden out a half-hour later, we were both exceedingly hungry.

“Georgiana, there is no hot water for Anne’s bath.” Lady Catherine’s imperious tone greeted us before we had sat at the table. “Apparently, all of the staff are engaged elsewhere. Surely, niece, you must speak to Mrs. Reynolds: she ignores all of my requests and only listens to Mrs. Bennet.”

“No, aunt, there is only a little hot water—sufficient for your washstand,” replied Georgiana politely. “Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Abernathy are supervising pot-meat and broth to carry to the tenants. Many have lost their hearths, and their firewood is wet through. Mrs. Reynolds is seeing to the house where water has seeped in, and to the servants’ quarters.”

“You pamper them, Georgiana. My tenants at Rosings would never let their firewood become wet—if they wished it, I would show them the best way to store wood. Of course, if they burnt coal, there would be no concern.” ‘Apart from the expense,’ muttered Mary.

Lady Catherine returned to sipping her tea, her lips pursed. We welcomed the silence, taking a slice of toast; the bacon was gone, as were the eggs. But the kitchen was already busy, and neither Georgiana nor I wished to place a further burden on it merely to renew the breakfast dishes. Georgiana left to refresh herself, whilst I refilled the teapot from the kettle on the hearth.

“I have watched you, Miss Bennet,” said Lady Catherine abruptly. “You are all too familiar with my nephew.”

“I do not know that I am,” I replied coolly, taken by surprise. “If you say so, I must believe it is true.”

“Impertinent girl! You have some prettiness, I grant, but do not rely on your wiles and allurements to make him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You have drawn him in.”

Whatever was she saying? “If I have, I am the last person to know it.”

“Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.”

“I doubt it not, but I have no intentions towards Darcy.”

“You do not fool me for a minute. You distract him—that you cannot deny. But you cannot have him; Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”

“I have never heard him nor Mr. Darcy speak of it.” I regarded her with some confusion. I truly did not understand her—that Fitzwilliam held a tendre for me was without doubt; but as a sister to Georgiana, nothing more.

‘You are a sister to him,’ said Kitty, softly. ‘But he is so beautiful.’ Lydia sighed. ‘Comely, Lydia, you mean, comely.’

Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied, “The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. While in their cradles, his mother and I planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, is it to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his noble family? To his tacit engagement with Miss De Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy?”

“Cousin Elizabeth,” interrupted Mr. Collins, “you must see that honour, decorum, and prudence forbid your interest in Mr. Darcy—I am your betrothed. Lady Catherine thought my attentions to Mrs. Bennet unsuitable—she is too old to bear my children.” He regarded me with far too much familiarity. “You, my dearest Elizabeth, have wide hips and a sufficiently generous form to nurse any number of babes.”

I stared at them both. Were they really expecting me to abandon my friendship with Fitzwilliam purely to appease Lady Catherine’s misguided belief that he would ever, could ever, marry his cousin Anne? And Mr. Collins—heaven forbid that I should ever bear his child. The thought was too improbable, too abhorrent to even contemplate.

“You have said enough, Lady Catherine. As for you, Mr. Collins, you disgust me!”

I stormed from the room. As I passed the threshold, I saw Mr. Darcy standing quietly in the hall. He took my hand—I could not help myself, and fell into his arms. He stroked my hair, just as Papa had done when I was a child, seeking comfort.

What was I about? We were alone—Mr. Darcy unrelated. Abruptly, I freed myself. “Excuse me, sir, Georgiana will be waiting. There is too much to be done to waste time on vulgarity and delusion. If you will pardon me.”

Georgiana and I rode further afield, towards the cottages along the Kympton road. We passed labourers clearing trees that had fallen across the lane, removing debris lodged under bridges. I busied myself, comforting the women and children as best I could, telling them they were not forgotten, that all the resources of Pemberley and the Darcys were directed to providing assistance once the roads were safe.

Slowly, we turned towards Pemberley. It was not the great Cumberland Bays that were weary, but Georgiana and I. We returned from the cottages with a list of needs: blankets, wood, dry flour, a little tea if it could be had, pots to replace those that had been swept away. Yet, there was a resilience in the families; the storm had revealed a strength that the casual bystander would likely miss—a pride in themselves and the estate.

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