Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was another early morning for him, but it felt better to be tired and active rather than to do nothing.
Darcy rode to assess the damage of two buildings, and then visited with a few of his tenants who had not suffered as much as the others.
After settling what assistance he could depend on from them, Darcy was riding back to the house when, as predicted, the skies opened.
There is another fine expanse of meadows inundated.
As he came in from the rain and changed his clothes, he wondered at the future expense of everything.
He had demands on himself for more than two thousand pounds already, primarily for repairs and for those who now had no crops, and many would be unable to pay their rent.
His expenses for the support of his family were manageable, but for visitors, a season in town, travelling, they would now be exceedingly high considering what all else he had to spend for the sake of Pemberley.
Darcy stayed in his apartments as a gloom settled upon his mind.
He was lonely, but knew he was in no mind for conversation.
Dinner last evening was a sombre affair and everyone retired early, and this morning he ate a very early breakfast alone in his room.
He had seen no one since last night and knew he must make an effort to engage with his guests.
The guest he most wanted to engage with was Elizabeth.
She had been so expressive in her friendship towards him last night that he considered when he might ask if her feelings for him had strengthened.
Darcy looked out the window at all the rain and sighed.
He should not be thinking of her sparkling vivacity of wit and humour in times like these.
That entire matter of if she loved him had best be put aside for the present.
This second storm settled in for over an hour, during which time Darcy wrote letters asking his neighbours for what help they could give, and to the cabinetmaker in Buxton to be ready for work because they needed coffins quickly.
It was a heavy rain, and Darcy saw that it stripped the remaining leaves from most of the trees.
Half an hour after it stopped, he was on his way down the stairs to return to Lambton when Mr Stevenson found him.
“I was looking for you,” he said, with an air of real regret. “Sir, the gardener has found a body in the stream.”
Darcy’s shoulders fell. “Where?”
“In the park, about a half of a mile from the house, along the path to Lambton.”
He hoped no one connected to Pemberley had walked to the village and been caught in the storm.
“Do we know who it is?” Mr Stevenson shook his head.
“Maybe they washed down from farther upstream,” Darcy wondered aloud.
“The poor soul might be my tenant, but it is as likely he is from miles away and the body was dislodged during this morning’s storm and swept downstream. ”
“I don’t know yet, only that it’s a woman. A boy found her and told the head gardener. I thought you ought to come since she is on your land. Maybe you can identify her.”
That will be a gruesome task if she drowned on Monday. The bodies recovered so far had been bloated, fetid, a dreadful sight. A ten-year-old he recognised as a shepherd’s boy was on the bank keeping watch; his face was white as a sheet, and Darcy sent him home before he saw any more.
He, his gardener, and his steward stood on the bank peering at what looked like a bundle of water-soaked clothes.
The body was facedown half on the bank and half in the water.
The feet were encased in good-quality shoes and together with the material of the pelisse seemed to indicate that the woman had been torn from a relatively wealthy home.
I have seen that purple pelisse: walking through Bakewell at the well dressing fête, descending from the Bingley’s carriage, in the park at Rosings.
Darcy clamped a hand over his own mouth to stop the exclamation from escaping. The woman with brown hair facedown in the swollen stream was Elizabeth. He felt his throat close and the hot sting of tears in his eyes.
“You ought to go down and see if you know her,” Mr Stevenson said quietly, still looking at the body.
Nothing could deaden the fear and shock Darcy felt as his feet refused to walk nearer.
“What is the matter, sir?”
He knew he must be absolutely pale with terror; his stomach was sick in agony. He had never before felt such horror and fright.
When he could not answer, Mr Stevenson turned to the gardener and asked, “Can you bring her up?”
“No!” Darcy cried. “Don’t . . . do not touch her.” He would be the one to move her; he could not allow a stranger to touch her. “I will do it.”
Oh God, she must have gone walking this morning and been caught in the rain.
What had happened? Did she slip on mud and fall in?
Had she struck her head and then drowned?
He swallowed thickly and forced himself down the slick bank.
His heart turned over at the thought of the letters he must write to Bingley, and then to Mr Bennet.
It would break their hearts; Mrs Bingley would be distraught.
He was now at the water’s edge, and he forced his knees to bend. She should not have died here, alone.
He clenched and unclenched his fingers before touching her shoulder. He hated the indignity of her lying in the water and the mud, with strangers staring at her as though she was merely an object.
“I am so sorry, Elizabeth,” he whispered.
Darcy exhaled and turned her over; long hair matted with sand and gravel fell away to reveal the agonised face of a woman, her blue eyes stared at nothing.
For a moment, he wondered if the water had turned her dark eyes blue, but slowly he comprehended that he was looking at blue eyes, a rounder nose, a small prim mouth.
“Why is she wearing Elizabeth’s clothes?” he said softly.
“What did you say, sir?” Mr Stevenson called.
Darcy bent his head to hide his relief, and the guilt he felt for that shameful relief. Someone’s daughter is still dead. Just because it was not a woman he loved, a woman was still dead, her body still in the cold water. “It is Molly Carew, Mr Carew’s daughter, my sister’s lady.”
As he wiped away the tears from the corner of his eyes, Mr Stevenson and the gardener came down with the litter and Darcy helped to place her on.
The gardener was about to pull the sheet over her face when Darcy stopped his hand.
“Look,” he said, pointing, and Mr Stevenson leant over.
“Her temple is crushed. There is blood in her hair.”
“Did she slip and hit her head, and was knocked unconscious and then drowned?”
Darcy looked back to where they found her, and then farther upstream. “I cannot see where she might have struck her head near the water’s edge.”
They carried her back up to the path, Darcy following behind, deep in thought.
Was she dead before she fell into the stream?
“Mr Stevenson, will you send a few men to walk the path along the stream as it leads from the house to Lambton? I want them to try to find where Carew fell in or where she hit her head, since she did not hit it here.”
Mr Stevenson agreed and then asked, “Shall we take her to the house, or her father’s? Or to the makeshift deadhouse in Lambton? The other drowned souls did not need an inquest and a verdict, but if she hit her head . . .”
“Pemberley,” he said with authority. “If her father wants her home then we shall bring her, but I am not arriving on his doorstep with his daughter’s body.
” He could not think on a coroner’s inquest now.
“Miss Darcy and I—” He cleared his throat.
Georgiana will be devastated. “We must tell him first. Can you send a man to the farm where her brother works and tell him to come home to his father?”
“Yes. Shall you go to him directly, sir?”
Darcy felt a wave of exhaustion and nausea hit him, and for a moment he thought the receding terror from standing over what he had thought was Elizabeth’s corpse might make him vomit.
He took a deep breath and tried to flex his numb fingers.
“Soon. I must . . . I have to . . . There is something I must do first, but once it is done, Miss Darcy and I will call on poor Mr Carew.”
Elizabeth had heard from many quarters that Miss Darcy played and sang well, and by her own admission she was fond of music, but this was the first time Elizabeth had the opportunity to listen to her without any distractions.
Miss Darcy’s performance, both vocal and instrumental, was infinitely superior to her own.
Even if she practised as much as Lady Catherine suggested, she would never match Miss Darcy’s skill and natural talent.
After she had performed two or three songs, Mrs Lanyon and Elizabeth shared an amazed look before applauding and complimenting Miss Darcy’s voice and taste. Mrs Annesley encouraged her to accept their compliments with words rather than by only turning pink.
“Shall you play another?” Mrs Lanyon asked gently. “You are a true proficient.”
“Yes, that was beautiful,” Elizabeth added.
Miss Darcy begged to be allowed to perform for them another time.
Mrs Annesley then suggested that the ladies might like to enjoy the library or use the instrument themselves whilst Miss Darcy tended to other matters.
Elizabeth supposed that her companion knew that her young charge was overwhelmed and, after they were gone, she suggested so to Mrs Lanyon.
“Yes, she is shy, but age and confidence will improve that.”
“It was an enjoyable way to pass a rainy morning. Should you like to keep me company whilst I write my letters?”
“If you want my company,” Mrs Lanyon said cautiously, “I am happy to give it to you.”