Chapter 2 In Which Darcy Plays the Part of Chimney Sweep with Disastrous Results #3
“Perhaps they should,” Lizzie said with a scoff. “I’d like to see a man make a loaf of bread or hem a dress before they tell
me I can’t negotiate a contract.”
“You’re full of the most absurd ideas,” Caroline said, and then turned abruptly to the maid kneeling before the fireplace.
“Speaking of work, where is the fire?”
“I’m sorry, miss!” the maid said in a small voice.
Darcy looked to see the girl desperately pumping the small bellows, trying to coax the stack of dry wood and kindling to catch from the coals brought up from the kitchen.
But every time she managed to get the air flowing and the kindling to catch, the flames would fall down again, and smoke trailed past her, hanging in the drawing room.
Darcy could see the girl’s hands were shaking with every new attempt, and the attention from the party was not helping.
“Here,” he said, standing to go by her side. “Allow me to assist.”
“You can’t be serious, Darcy!” Caroline scoffed.
And perhaps it was the drinks he’d downed on an empty stomach, but Darcy shot her a glare and said, “Why not? Can a man not
do a woman’s task?”
A snort of laughter from Lizzie galvanized him, even as Jane looked on with dismay and Bingley was rubbing his temples. “Darcy,
I can ring for someone, you don’t have to—” Jane began, but he waved off her protest.
“I know I don’t have to, but I’d like to. I agree with Lizzie—I think men ought to know how to do as much as women. What if
I were stranded somewhere with no help, and in danger of freezing to death unless I could light a fire?”
He looked down at the maid’s handiwork and tried not to think about the fact that she had likely lit a hundred fires for every
small fire he’d started when he wasn’t inclined to ring for a servant. But Caroline had annoyed him so much, and the poor
maid was practically quivering from fear, so he didn’t regret stepping up.
“I can get it going with the bellows, sir,” the maid said, so softly he almost couldn’t hear, “but it won’t keep.”
“Well, that should be easy enough to solve. Is the damper open all the way?”
“I . . . I think so? I’m sorry, sir, but you see, I’ve never lit this fireplace before.”
“Honestly, the ineptitude,” Caroline huffed behind him.
“That’s all right. It’s an antique, this fireplace,” Darcy said. “I’ve got one just like it at my estate, and they can be
temperamental.”
“Honestly, Darcy, I’ll ring for Grigson,” Jane said.
“No need.” Darcy looked for the lever to control the damper. It was tucked unobtrusively below some of the more extravagant
detailing of the mantel. He gave it an experimental nudge, but it didn’t give. “You know, I don’t think the damper is open.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” the maid said, stepping back. “I’m new here, and I thought—”
“Don’t you worry,” Darcy said cheerfully, gripping the level and giving it a pull. “It’s just a matter of opening it up and—”
But the lever really didn’t want to move, even when he put his back into it.
“Oh, Darcy, please don’t tax yourself,” Jane said.
But Darcy was determined, if for no other reason than it would annoy Caroline. “I’ve got it, thank you. I think just another . . .
good . . . pull . . .”
With a metallic screech, the damper gave just a bit. He peered into the fireplace and up, and could see the damper had opened
partway—perhaps a hand’s width. It was probably not a wise idea to light a fire in a fireplace that hadn’t been used in decades,
much less one that clearly needed to be swept out. He squinted into the darkness—was it just that dark, or was there something
blocking his view?
“Can you remove the coals?” he asked the maid. “I think there is something stuck in the chimney.”
“Really, Mr. Darcy! A man of your station!” Mrs. Bennet sounded scandalized.
He cast a glance over his shoulder to the assembled party. The younger Bennet sisters were looking on in horror, Jane was
biting her lip again, and Mr. Bennet had lowered his newspaper, deeming Darcy’s actions at least marginally more interesting
than whatever the paper had to say. But Darcy’s gaze met Lizzie’s, and she was staring straight at him with a mix of wonder
and surprise and was that . . . a challenge in her eyes? She tilted her head and raised a brow.
Definitely a challenge.
“Oh no, I insist,” he said, and allowed the maid to come forward and expertly sweep up the dying coals into a bucket so he
could properly inspect the inside of the fireplace without getting burned. “After all, Bingley, I told you I’d be happy to
lend a hand with the estate.”
“Well, I didn’t mean for you to sweep my chimneys for me,” his friend said, sounding baffled.
“He’s going to be covered in soot,” Caroline said with disgust, but Darcy ignored her and stepped into the fireplace. It was
so large that he only had to crouch a bit to look up at the damper. It had not escaped him that this was a rather foolish
exhibition, but if it earned him Lizzie’s attention, then it would be worth it.
The innards of the chimney were totally dark, and so the only dim light he had to go on was in the drawing room itself.
Gritting his teeth, he reached up into the meager opening, hoping he wasn’t about to plunge his hand into a rat’s nest. Or a bunch of bats—did bats live in chimneys? He didn’t want to find out.
Darcy was expecting the worst, so he was surprised when his hand touched something firm, and covered in . . . cloth? Was there
a wad of fabric stuffed into the flue? That seemed rather dangerous, and he was grateful all of a sudden that the maid hadn’t
gotten the fire to stay lit. The last thing they needed was to burn the place down. He felt around the blockage, trying to
get a sense of the shape, but wasn’t able to determine anything definitive, except that it appeared to be large. Growing confident,
he pushed his entire arm into the opening.
“What is it?” Lizzie asked, and Darcy turned his head to find her lifting her skirts to step over the fender.
“Not sure,” he grunted. “It’s as if someone stuffed a large . . . something . . . up here.”
The ladies in the room began to whisper, and Bingley came forward. “Don’t trouble yourself, Darcy. I thought the chimneys
were all swept last week, but we can call someone to take a look.”
“No, I think I’ve got it,” Darcy said. “The damper won’t open because whatever it is is slumped down on it, but I’m going
to push up and then Lizzie, pull on the damper lever.”
Lizzie had already placed her hand on the lever. “All right, ready.”
“One, two, three . . .” Darcy grunted as he pushed the object up.
It was, he was certain now, heavier and bigger than he’d initially suspected.
Cloth-wrapped, but something beneath his hand felt brittle and hard.
It scraped up the inside of the flue reluctantly before stopping, but Lizzie managed to push the lever of the damper so the cover moved back, now unstuck.
Darcy sneezed at the sudden swirl of old soot and dust, and lost his grip on the object.
Only now that the damper was open, it was coming down the flue—right on top of him.
He jumped out of the way in time for the blockage to tumble down with a hard thud—but there was a hollow sound there, too,
along with the ripping of old fabric. The Bennet sisters squealed and Caroline let out a small shriek of surprise as a cloud
of gray dust billowed out from the fireplace, covering Darcy, Lizzie, the carpet, and the nearby furniture.
So much for showing up Caroline Bingley. She’d complain about the absolute mess he’d made for months. Years.
As the dust settled, Darcy could see the object that had fallen into the bare hearth was much larger than he had anticipated,
about the size of a large dog. It was irregularly shaped and wrapped in a tattered brown cloth. It was, most certainly, not
a rat’s nest.
“That is not what I was expecting,” he murmured, ignoring Caroline’s cries about her sullied skirts.
“And what exactly were you expecting when you foolishly reached your hand into that flue?” Lizzie asked, coming closer to
the object. It was the first time in days, Darcy realized, that she hadn’t sounded annoyed with him—she was close to her old
self again, almost teasing.
“Rats?” he asked.
She burst out laughing then, and the sound was so unexpected that he found himself grinning.
“Um, Darcy?” Bingley said.
Both he and Lizzie turned to look at Bingley, whose expression had gone ashen—and not just because he happened to be covered
in a fine layer of grime. He was staring down at the floor.
The fraying cloth had come loose when the object had been dislodged from its unconventional resting place—tearing and falling
aside to reveal something that Darcy could not, at first, fully register. It was a roundish object protruding from one end,
brown and weathered and covered in more dust and debris. He took in every detail, slowly, his mind not coming up with the
proper word for what he was seeing—at least, not until Caroline began to scream.
Darcy was staring into the sunken, empty eyes of a human skull.