Chapter 8 #2
The entire heavens were black as ink and lightning flared in sheets of fire as Darcy looked out the window after dinner.
The men were still at the table, but Darcy had left to see how much rain had fallen.
It was only eight o’clock in the evening on the tenth of August, but it was already too dark to see onto the lawn.
He walked through a door on the other side of the house to better see into the garden. Only when lightning struck could he have a better view, but it was plain they would be flooded by morning. Sandbags had been placed hours ago, but he wondered if they would serve their purpose.
“Darcy, is that you?” a voice called.
He ran back inside, closing the umbrella that had done little to keep him dry, given the wind. Bingley was giving him a concerned look. “Why were you outside in all of this?”
“The gardens at Pemberley lie low, lower than the flood level of the Derwent.” He frowned and looked back out the window but, of course, it was too dark to see.
He took out a handkerchief to dry his shoes.
“The garden is sloped to afford a ready discharge at the surface for storm water, but I fear it is already flooded. I worry what other ravages might be committed on the rest of my land before the storm passes.”
Bingley gave him his handkerchief to wipe the rest of the water from his face and sleeves. “Violent storms of rain are not common in the Peak. I suspect it will let up before long.”
It did not sound as though it would move on soon, but he allowed Bingley to lead him to join the others in the drawing room.
“Will the Derwent flood?” Bingley asked as they went to where Georgiana and Elizabeth were making tea and pouring coffee.
“It has in the past, but not since I have had charge of Pemberley,” he answered, taking a cup of coffee from Elizabeth.
He smiled his thanks; she had made it the way he liked.
“It flooded in ’95, and there was considerable damage when Toadmoor Bridge washed out.
And again in ’99 at Matlock, it rose to a surprising height. ”
“Did you say there shall be a flood, Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana asked.
“I cannot see from here. I suspect the stream has already gone over its banks, but perhaps the Derwent will not rise too high. Let us hope none of the weirs break.”
“What does it mean if they do?” Elizabeth asked.
“It would worsen a disaster,” Darcy muttered.
Elizabeth was looking at him with interest and concern. He had a glimpse of what it might have been like to have a wife to have equal share in all of his concerns at Pemberley. Is it too late for her to ever have any precious feelings for me?
Darcy supposed it was natural for him to have hopes on the subject, but he could not yet be secure of her feelings.
“Downstream mills have penned-back water by a weir to reduce the fall upstream. The millponds hold water that flows under the wheel. Many in the past thirty years have purchased leases along the rivers and erected water mills. There are two mills at Pemberley alone.”
“If the weirs are destroyed, it will not only affect the mills’ production . . .”
“If the weirs and gates are carried away by a flood, even more water will come rushing down and the surge would flood the banks and cause more destruction than will come from all the rain.”
“It has been a dreadfully wet season,” Georgiana said quietly.
“I spoke with Mr Knowlton, the Duke of Devonshire’s estate manager, after we came down. He has recorded the rainfall at Chatsworth and says that we have had 135 percent more rain this May, June, and July than is typical.”
“Did I hear you mention the Duke of Devonshire?” Balfour said as he brought back his coffee cup.
“I was disappointed the rain prevented me from taking the travelling chariot to apply to see Chatsworth. Hester has never been. I missed the party when the duke came of age last May. Did you attend, Darcy?”
He nodded, thinking about how easily the River Wye west of Rowsley, near its junction with the Derwent, could spill over its banks.
“They say the expense of the duke’s party was not to be limited, not even in the hundreds of pounds,” Balfour said.
“He has sadly inherited properties that are heavily mortgaged,” Darcy said, shaking his head. “And he holds them in fee simple.” His lordship—and his expensive tastes—had absolute possession of all his estates. “There is no legal restraint to prevent him from increasing his encumbrances.”
“All the better,” Balfour cried, with a wink. “Chatsworth is splendid.”
Darcy gave him a dark look. The idea of mortgaging any of his properties was abhorrent. “Such extravagances must be paid for.”
“You ought to spend a little more of your—”
“I think Darcy ought to spend a little more time with his friends,” interrupted Bingley, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Let us decide on a game!” he called to the room at large.
“Yes, that should do very well,” Elizabeth said. “Won’t you join us, Mr Darcy?”
Without waiting for his answer, Elizabeth drew his sister to where the others were gathering to decide what to play.
“Shall we play a game of action? Or a game of intelligence?” asked Mrs Bingley.
“A social game,” said Balfour. “Utterson, put down that letter and come near! Mrs Hurst, if you would not mind waking your husband?”
“Very well,” said Utterson, standing grudgingly. “But no game of memory because Darcy always wins.”
Darcy listened to the rain again, wondering when it would end. “You may play what you like,” he said, walking to one of the windows.
“Miss Darcy, what shall we play, since your brother will not choose?” Bingley asked.
During the silence that followed, Darcy listened to the thunder and watched for lightning, judging the storm close by and wondering when it would move on.
“Well, at school, we would play the ribbon game.”
“What is that?” Miss Bingley asked.
“Everyone takes hold of a ribbon, and the conductor of sport holds the ends of their ribbons whilst we form a half-circle—”
“Oh, the rule of contrary!” cried Mrs Bingley. “My sisters have played that, but with a large handkerchief.”
“I think with so many of us, we shall each need a piece of ribbon,” said Mrs Annesley.
Several ladies dispersed to retrieve ribbons from their workbaskets whilst Darcy tried to get a better look of the front lawn through the window.
“Mr Darcy, you cannot stop the rain, for all your glowering,” Elizabeth said. He had not noticed that she had drawn near.
He sighed, knowing she was right. “I might just be arrogant and conceited enough to think that I can stand here and argue the rain into stopping,” he said in a low voice.
She smiled, as he hoped she would. “No, you are not.” After a pause she added, “Your manner is too gentlemanlike.” She gave him a quick look and then gazed out the window, likely seeing as little as he could. His heart now resided somewhere in his throat, making it hard to breathe.
Elizabeth seemed equally incapable of speaking further. She esteemed him now, but was there any love there along with it? Could he excite genuine love in her heart?
Elizabeth gave him a more playful smile than the sweet one she gave him a moment ago. “Perhaps you can be an obstinate man, but in the case of the weather, I do not think you will win your point in the end. Come, join the game?”
He bowed, and they joined the others when he had much rather tell all of his guests to go to bed so he could have five more minutes alone at the window with Elizabeth.
Mrs Annesley and Mrs Lanyon were handing out long lengths of coloured ribbons whilst Bingley held the other ends. Elizabeth stood next to him as they collected theirs. It appeared that Bingley had nominated himself to be their conductor of sport.
“Each person being provided with a piece of ribbon holds one end of it in his or her hand,” he said. “Now, form a semi-circle around me and I shall tie the ends together and hold them in my hand. When I say ‘Hold fast,’ let go of your end, and when I say ‘Let go,’ hold fast.”
Darcy looked across the circle at Georgiana. “That is it?”
Georgiana shrugged, but Mrs Bingley said, “We have played at Longbourn, and whilst it is more fun to catch out one who has never played before, it is not so easy.”
Utterson, who was holding his end of ribbon between his thumb and first finger with an attitude of the whole being tiresome, said, “This is a great simplicity, and you shall have no forfeits when all is said and done.”
“Aye, that is just like you to think of the forfeits!” Balfour cried. “You wish we could play Le Baiser à la Capucine as a forfeit?”
“I think there are too many siblings amongst us for that,” Darcy said flatly as Utterson humourlessly sputtered that was not at all what he meant.
“Hold fast!”
All but Hurst dropped their ribbons.
“With no offence to Miss Darcy, this is too simple a game,” Utterson said as they gathered up their ribbons.
“Any who harbour such an opinion ought to prove it to be so,” said Miss Bingley, with a simpering smile to Georgiana. Darcy hated to see his sister courted for his sake.
“Let go!” Bingley cried. None dropped their ribbon. “I shall add a challenge, then. You must all talk, and I shall at times call out ‘let go’ or ‘hold fast.’”
“Since you are the conductor of the game, give us a topic,” Elizabeth said.
“Very well. Since the ladies outnumber the men, and I have recently entered that happy state, you should talk of marriage. Let go!”
Mrs Lanyon let go, and gave an embarrassed laugh before picking her end of ribbon off the floor.
“Louisa,” Elizabeth said, taking up the game, “how long have you been married and what advice do you have for Jane?”
“Three years in January. And she ought to establish separate rooms because Charles has snored since he was a child.”
The room laughed, and for a while Bingley was too indignant to conduct the game.
“Ladies, what is the proper age a woman ought to marry?” Utterson asked in a grumpy tone to move things along.