Chapter 18
No sooner were the windows covered than the wind completely shifted, turning its full force against their side of the house. The layers of fabric covering the windows were a paltry barrier against the storm’s direct hit.
“Move to the corridor!” Darcy ordered as his cousin quickly helped Mrs. Hammond to her feet. “Everyone, go now!”
“Lord have mercy, but this sounds like cannon fire hitting the broadside of a ship,” Mrs. Hammond noted as she scurried through the doorway to relative safety.
With the exception of Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, who closeted themselves in the stillroom again, the ladies were willing to get away from the onslaught, so it took little time until they were squeezed into the narrow hall. With the doors at each end closed, they were encased in total darkness. The women whimpered and moaned.
“This is God’s judgment day for Meryton’s seeking their own pleasures ahead of the will of God,” a female voice proclaimed over the sounds of the storm.
A voice Darcy recognized as belonging to Miss Lydia replied, “Oh, do be quiet, Mary, for I suspect the wind is blowing just as hard at Westminster Cathedral as it is here.” After a brief pause, she added, “You have sour grapes because you missed an opportunity to perform. Perhaps this storm was God’s way of saving the rest of us from listening to you.”
“Sisters, enough!”
Darcy would recognize Miss Elizabeth’s voice anywhere. She was close. Too close. With his vision gone, his other senses were on high alert. A waft of honeysuckle tickled his nose. An elbow poked his middle.
“Pardon me,” she whispered.
Elizabeth, with her lustrous hair, her refreshing scent, and eyes that sparkled in the sunlight. Forcing the image away, he thought of anything and anyone except Miss Elizabeth Bennet: his favorite dog when he was young, his first tutor, and his stern grandfather Darcy who always reminded him to mind his posture. When that did not work, he mentally recited the Latin oath he swore before gaining access to the Bodleian Library at Oxford. Tipping his head back against the door’s wooden panel, he reflected on the series of events that led him to be pressed into a hall with Bingley’s neighbors along with Netherfield’s servants. And her.
His fingers itched to reach out and touch her arm. His heart nearly persuaded him that it was the right thing to do, to offer comfort during exceedingly stressful events. His conscience, however, lashed at him for rejecting all the reasons he should not connect himself to the lady.
Certain members of her family were…unrestrained. Even though he saw facets of Miss Lydia and her mother that were appealing, they would be an embarrassment to have associated with the Darcy name.
He rubbed his eyes as weariness oozed through his veins, both from the late hour and his circumstances. His defenses were down, a scary prospect far outweighing the potential for damage from the storm. Dropping his hands to his side, he pressed his body against the door. Away from her.
For five long years, until Ramsgate, Darcy carried his secret alone. Seeing Wickham stirred his emotions until regret, anger, and even guilt twisted his gut. Would George have turned out as bad had they been raised as brothers? Or would Darcy be more tolerant of the wrongs that were done?
Vexed and tired, he occasionally considered what it would be like to have someone to share with, but any attempts always led to disappointment. For a certainty, he would never expect a woman to carry the burden he bore. Nevertheless, to trust someone enough to pour out his heart, including the torrid information he read in his father’s journal, felt freeing.
He should hate Wickham. He should hate his parents for keeping secrets. No, he should resent them for not acting perfectly in the first place. Yet, he could not hate or resent any of them. Even Wickham, with his easy smile and gregarious personality, deserved a measure of something due to the circumstances of his birth.
No! He refused to allow his mind to travel in that particular direction, especially in a time of crisis. Wickham was a nuisance hellbent on seeking his own pleasure despite the trail of damage he left strewn behind. That he sought to claim the hand of Georgiana Darcy for the sake of her dowry was lower than anything the rake attempted to that point. Would he finally be satisfied if he had a fortune? Likely not. Was he redeemable? Darcy sincerely doubted it.
Just thinking about him made Darcy’s chest hurt.
Wind pounded the door at his back, testament that the windows and the outer kitchen door were blown open. The high-pitched wail as the air forced its way into the building was deafening and fear inspiring. His own heart thumped loudly, gaining speed when small fingers with blisters on the tips entangled with his own.
He cautiously twisted his hand against hers until their palms pressed together. In that instance, despite the turmoil from without and within, he found peace.
Elizabeth was near enoughto the door to feel every movement of Mr. Darcy each time a gust hit the back of the door. What would they do if he could no longer hold that thin barrier in place? There was nowhere else to hide unless they could somehow make it into the cellar with the men, an impossible task with the force of the storm blowing against them. They would be tossed hither and thither about the kitchen.
The darkness and the shrill howl of the gale sent chills up and down her spine. In her lifetime, she had never felt the presence of death hovering around, waiting to snatch her final breath until that moment. Regrets over opportunities missed or not yet presented to her filled her soul. For as long as she could remember she wanted to travel, to visit the lakes and mountains in the north or the continent and beyond. Since adolescence, Elizabeth dreamed of wearing a deep blue silk gown with golden thread embroidering the sleeves and hem while dancing with a handsome gentleman at a London ball where she rubbed elbows with the elite of society. She’d never been courted. She had yet to experience her first kiss. Should her life end at that moment, she would miss much.
Walls shook then rippled as the wooden paneling loosened with the onslaught. Fear drove her to reach out to the only person stable enough to trust. Mr. Darcy protected them to that point. If there were a chance of survival, she would cling to whatever opportunity was available. She reached for him.
The strength of his hand was comforting. What surprised her was the roughness of his fingertips and the firmness of his grip. This man did far more than sit behind a desk writing letters and giving orders. He was an industrious man.
Her mind instantly pictured him with his shirtsleeves rolled up doing hard physical labor at his estate, a smile on his face from a job well done. The image almost robbed her of breath. Without a doubt, his cousin also experienced the physicality while in battle conditions. Nonetheless, it was not Colonel Fitzwilliam who captured her attention and held it close. The master of Pemberley, who was far out of reach for her, appealed to her from every direction.
She felt his exhale whisper against her ear.She shivered when his chin brushed her temple.
“Miss Elizabeth, I feel you tremble.”
But then he staggered against her from the wind battering the door.
“If you are able, for your protection and that of others, please sit. Stay as close to the floor as possible. I do not know how long this door will hold. Colonel Fitzwilliam, if you will make your way towards me? With your help, we may be able to keep the destruction from the room.”
Cook said, “If you are a praying sort, I beg you to do so now in hopes that the wind will turn again. I need back in my kitchen.”
The colonel’s arrival would separate them. Boldly placing a hand on his chest, she guessed the vicinity of his own ear. She needed to apologize to him for believing Mr. Wickham’s lies. She needed to tell him that she forgave him for his insults. And she needed to thank him for all he was doing for their safety.
Except, it was not his ear she reached. In the total darkness of the confined space, her mouth brushed his cheek. Instead of leaning his ear toward her, he turned his face until his lips were on hers.
He smelled of spice and tasted of sweet…something. He…was everything, and…the storm hit the door again, ripping his lips away from hers, almost knocking them off balance, reminding Elizabeth that, although no others could see what she and Mr. Darcy were doing, their conduct was far from proper.
His free hand lightly touched her cheek before he moved away from her. Breathing her name, he started to kiss her a second time with a thoroughness that robbed her of thought and reason. She…oh, good heavens! She floated on clouds and…was her heart singing?
Someone bumped her from behind, bringing her to the few senses she had remaining.
“Darcy, where are you?” The colonel’s voice rang in her ear.
“Here.” He released her arm and pulled his cousin next to him.
She was bereft. Elizabeth had just experienced the most wonderful moment in her lifetime, which ended far too soon. Was it shameful that passion wreaked havoc on her emotions until she yearned for more while a tempest raged outside the house? For one more embrace or caress?
Mr. Darcy softened his tone.“Pray be seated, Miss Elizabeth, for your safety and mine,” he whispered.
The breeze coming in around the door carried his words to her and beyond. Quickly, she did as he asked, feeling the wall behind her, the burning of her fingers constant but insignificant in comparison to the chaos around her. She would do nothing to endanger him further.
“Let us wedge ourselves against the door.” Mr. Darcy directed.
Both men were fighting a battle no individual could win. Nor two men.
There were six Bennet females in the immediate area, along with three Lucas ladies, three Longs, several maids, the housekeeper, Mrs. Hammond, and Cook, who was a giant of a woman with massive arms from kneading dough daily. Their total weight could assist the men.
She shouted. “Cook, please help. Any others who are willing, pray join me in aiding these men.”
“Outta my way, miss.” Cook almost thrust Elizabeth aside as she moved next to Mr. Darcy, placing Colonel Fitzwilliam at Elizabeth’s side. Within moments and with only a few complaints, bodies surged against Elizabeth’s back, pushing her closer to Mr. Darcy than she had ever been to any man other than her father. Reaching around him, she placed her hands on the door. Whoever stood behind her did the same to her, pushing against Mr. Darcy’s back.The pressure was tremendous.
Elizabeth’s heart rejoiced as they fought the beast until the muscles in their arms throbbed. Although it felt like her spine was being pressed past her lungs to the front of her rib cage, the pressure served to remind her that this was her family, her community, who struggled as one.
One second, she feared they could not possibly succeed. The next second, the wind shifted again, bringing immediate relief.
Mr. Darcy and the colonel directed the ladies toward the cellar. When Cook began sifting through the damage in the kitchen and pantry for food items, Mr. Darcy, the colonel, and several footmen assisted her. They shook broken glass and a dusting of flour from the blankets before handing them down the stairs. Glassware that was still intact was also handed down. Baked loaves of bread protected in metal bread boxes, as well as two hams and a bowl of fruit, were amazingly spared in the chaos.
Elizabeth used the light from the opened doorway to count heads, making sure that her mother and sisters were all safe. Only then did she help Mrs. Hammond down the stairs. Once she reached the bottom, she was appalled by the condition of most of the men. Unconcerned or unable due to the amount of spirits they consumed, they were blindly unaware of the danger their loved ones and neighbors were in.
Glancing between the shelves, she noted that Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst were missing. Trying to recall the last time she noticed their presence, all she could remember was Miss Bingley’s accident with the ashes. Her tired brain was rather muddled, so her thinking was not clear. Had they gone back into the stillroom? Were they well?
On her way back up the stairs, she heard enough to know the answer.
“Mr. Darcy, I am trying, but you must allow me to return to my room and the others to return to their houses. I am in no state to have company. I am wet, filthy, and miserable. I am simply exhausted and weary from the wind and company that have stayed too long. Where is Charles? Tell him that we need to leave as soon as I am refreshed. I simply insist.”
She wondered how Mr. Darcy would respond.
Elizabeth could hear the sneer in Mr. Darcy’s voice. “Where is your neighborly concern and your human compassion, Miss Bingley? While you search for it, I suggest you join the others in the cellar where it is safer. There, you may consult with your brother and Mr. Hurst to see what they have planned. Or you may return to the stillroom, as you please.”
Grinning at the set down, Elizabeth returned to the sorry state of the cellar where her mother, Lady Lucas, and Mrs. Long were rousing the men out of their stupor to give up their chairs situated tightly between rows of shelving to the matrons. Once they had a blanket to cover them, the ladies, along with Mrs. Hammond, slept.
Elizabeth took up a position as far away from Mr. Collins as possible. He loudly voiced his opinion that Lady Catherine de Bourgh would never countenance having the ladies in a cellar. According to Elizabeth, not one person listened to him, including herself.
Elizabeth watched with bated breath until the others descended the stairs. Once her eyes settled on Mr. Darcy, tension eased from her heart and mind. She had been waiting for him.
Her eyes studied every inch of his face, his irritation with Miss Bingley obvious by his furrowed brows and lips that were pressed tightly together, lips that set Elizabeth’s heart on fire.
Even though their situation was frightening, she doubted not that her dreams would recall in detail every touch, every whisper, every scent. Sitting in a corner with Jane on one side and Lydia on the other, Elizabeth pulled the offered blanket under her chin, closed her weary eyes, and slept.