Page 62 of Elizabeth and Mrs. Bennet

“Fitzwilliam! I have never been treated so badly in my life. And why ever are you carrying the tea tray? That is a job for servants, not the heir to Pemberley!” Darcy ignored Lady Catherine and, on my instruction, placed the tray on the table, filled the teapot with hot water, and refilled the kettle on the hearth.

Georgiana sprang up and assisted me in pouring tea for the Crawleys, which was gratefully received—perhaps their only warm drink of the day. Biscuits were quickly taken up, and I was glad the cake basket had been filled.

Lady Catherine was growing increasingly indignant, but Fitzwilliam ignored her until his guests had been seen to. “Aunt, we have guests whose house has been severely damaged by the storm.” He stared at her—with what I had come to recognise as the Darcy Stare.

I have often engaged in staring contests with dogs—particularly, eye-dogs accustomed to shepherding sheep on the farm. They catch your eye, just as they do sheep, and hold it. Eventually, the dog wins the contest with the sheep, which turns away, to be dominated by the dog. But such an animal had never bested me, nor Darcy—Lady Catherine turned away.

“I am beginning to understand, Aunt,” he continued, “why you travel with a clergyman. He possesses little enough charity, but his presence compensates, ever so slightly, for your having none.”

The room went very quiet, the Crawleys attempting to hide behind their biscuits and tea.

Fitzwilliam rose to his full height. “Dinner will be called a little late, for the kitchen is understaffed. But I suggest you and Cousin Anne retire to refresh yourselves and change. You will be notified when dinner is served.”

The lady’s face went red—I thought she might explode, such a tantrum as the world has never seen before. But she recollected herself, stood, and waited by the door for Anne to join her. Without any further word, they were gone.

Mr. Collins hastily followed. Surely, he was related, for his face held the same venomous look as did the lady’s when he passed by me.

“Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” I whispered.

“Father told me of her comments and those of Mr. Collins, which he overheard this morning. I am so ashamed, Elizabeth, that any relation of mine could treat you so poorly.”

The room seemed to shrink. He held an expression of such tenderness; his eyes, dark and intense. He smelt of wet grass, damp soil, a sweet and dusty smell of horse, the rich, oily tang of saddles and riding boots; a sharp, salty, musky scent mingled with amber and sandalwood. Unconsciously, I stepped closer—there was an aura, a glow about him which I had never seen before.

“Do you think, Lizzy, that the kitchen could make up some sandwiches for the Crawleys?” Georgiana came skipping across to us, kissing Fitzwilliam on the cheek. I scarcely heard her. Was I family enough to kiss his cheek also? The impropriety! In the drawing room with guests! Yet, I was so sorely tempted.

“W-what? Of course, Georgiana, I shall see to it. You see to your guests.”

She and Darcy crossed the room to join the Crawleys. The murmur of gentle conversation filled the silence. In the hall, I met Jacob returning from upstairs. “The rooms are made up, Miss Elizabeth. Do you wish me to escort the Crawleys to their chambers?”

“Jacob, there is a room adjacent to the library which once, I believe, was set up as a bedroom for the old Mr. Darcy, when his gout prevented him from climbing the stairs. Would it be suitable for the Admiral?”

Jacob thought for a moment. “It was before my time, but I know the chamber. Let me check, ma’am. Certainly, it would be easier than carrying him upstairs of an evening.”

“If it is suitable, have a maid change the linens and give the room a good airing. Let us wait until that room is prepared before we take the others upstairs. Now, I am to make them a few sandwiches, for they have not eaten all day.”

“Surely, Miss Elizabeth, it is not your place in the kitchen.”

I laughed. “Lady Catherine would agree with you; but needs must when the devil drives.” Jacob frowned, unsure of my meaning.

“It’s from the Bard, Jacob— All’s Well That Ends Well.”

I returned to the kitchen, just as Mrs. Abernathy came in from the barn. I explained the Crawleys’ circumstances: that they would be staying at Pemberley until their house was put to rights, likely more than a fortnight. I asked whether a hot meal, perhaps some stew or ragout, could be served at dinner.

“Of course, Miss Elizabeth. With fresh-baked, hot bread and lashings of butter. We’ll fill them poor dears up, an’ they’ll leave Pemberley fatter’n they arrived. Just leave’t to Cook, my dear.” She chuckled. “While very handsome, ma’am, I’m not sure t’estate could bear the expense of putting every maid in fitted jackets and long skirts, like yerself. No, ma’am, our current livery is fine enough, and likely more practical.”

* * *

How was it that Jonathan Swift, a hundred years before, had predicted in his poem Description of a City Shower, the strange sequence of events that befell us at Pemberley? We had endured the pouring rain; now came the cats and dogs—

Drowned puppies, stinking sprats, all drenched in mud,

Dead cats and turnip-tops come tumbling down the flood.

There was one cat in particular that arrived at Pemberley’s door seeking sanctuary. Unannounced, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst stepped down from their carriage, looking tired and cold—in short, bedraggled. Accompanying them was Miss Caroline Bingley.

The Crawleys had retired to refresh themselves before dinner. I was about to go up when the Hursts were announced.

“Mr. Hurst, we had no knowledge of your coming to Pemberley.”