Chapter Two
Though they’d made a late night of it, Darcy’s sleep proved restless.
Visions of Elizabeth Bennet swirled behind his closed lids.
Elizabeth laughing. Dancing. Frowning at him.
Elizabeth’s ire, directed at Darcy, as she mentioned George Wickham.
His slumbering mind seemed endlessly agitated by her, that preoccupation so extreme as to drive away rest. Unfortunately, upon waking his mind fixated on the more disturbing aspect of the evening, the certainty expressed by the entire community that Darcy’s good friend, Charles Bingley, would soon propose to Elizabeth’s sister Jane.
Not that anyone could raise objection to Jane Bennet in appearance or manners, which seemed to be all Bingley noted. Were she in pure isolation, Miss Bennet’s lacking dowry and inability to bring any worthwhile connections would pale in comparison to her beauty and charm.
But Miss Bennet didn’t exist in pure isolation.
She was part of a family, and that family boasted four other unmarried daughters, three of them entirely unpresentable.
As well, an ineffective, yet intelligent, patriarch and the most hellish matron Darcy had yet encountered.
Not to mention, relations in trade. Worst of all, unless Darcy misread Miss Bennet, she had a lack of true affection for Bingley.
Little more than a kind regard, really. The sort of affection many far wealthier and better connected women could easily bring to bear.
With visions of Elizabeth and worries over Bingley’s affection for Miss Bennet cartwheeling through his thoughts, Darcy rose shortly after the sun and rang for his valet. Unable to sleep, and aware that Bingley intended to depart early, Darcy put attempts at rest behind him and readied for the day.
He found the breakfast parlor empty of all but table settings and a platter of cold, sliced meats. As he took a seat at the table, a maid came in with a bowl of boiled eggs, another following with a dish of butter patties.
Darcy waved the second maid over. “Coffee, if you will.”
She dipped a curtsy. “Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
Flipping open a two-day old newspaper, Darcy waited while the staff assembled the sideboard and brought his coffee.
Two footmen appeared and took up watchful positions on either side of the room, ready to meet requests.
Darcy’s coffee arrived. Finally, when the sideboard looked too full for more offerings, a maid bearing a basket of steaming rolls entered, followed by Bingley.
Sighting Darcy at the table, Bingley strolled over. “Darcy. You’re up early.”
“I wished to see you off. Will you breakfast first?”
“I will, and I’m glad for the company, though I mean to make a quick meal of it. I’ve already asked for my carriage to be brought round.” He pulled out the chair across from Darcy and sat, waving over a footman. “Coffee, please, James.”
“Yes, Mr. Bingley.”
“And have we yesterday’s paper yet, from London?”
“I’ll check, Mr. Bingley.”
After the man left, Darcy and Bingley went to the sideboard to assemble their plates.
For a man who wished to make a quick meal, Bingley took a surprising amount of food, but Darcy made no comment.
Bingley’s idea of a quick meal generally coincided with Darcy’s idea of a long one, and a leisurely breakfast for Bingley could last nearly to noon.
They returned to their seats but before conversation could begin, or Bingley’s coffee arrive, Netherfield’s butler entered, his mien alarmingly dire for so early an hour.
“Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, excuse me, sirs, but there is some local news you might care to hear before you leave for London, Mr. Bingley.”
“News?” Bingley asked, butter laden knife in one hand and half a roll in the other.
“Yes, sir. The man who brought the milk this morning said that the Bennets’ house burned down last night. His daughter was a maid there, and she came home shortly before he went on his deliveries.”
A vision of Elizabeth’s laughing eyes before him, Darcy asked, “Was anyone hurt?”
The butler turned to him. “The Bennets’ cousin, Mr. Collins, died. He started the fire and stayed, trying to put it out. Everyone else escaped.”
A band of pain eased from around Darcy’s heart.
“Everyone else is unharmed?” Bingley asked, face filled with worry. “You’re certain she—that is they, are all well?”
“I have only what the milkman said, sir, which is that only Mr. Collins died. Shall I send round for more information?”
Bingley shook his head. “No. I’ll go myself. Is my carriage ready?”
“It is out front, sir.”
Bingley surged to his feet, still holding a knife and roll.
Alarmed at where Bingley’s thoughts so obviously took him, Darcy said, “Surely you should eat something before we go?”
Bingley looked from one hand to the other, then to Darcy. He sat back down. “We?”
“I would like to join you.” How he wished Bingley had planned to ride. With a carriage ready, he could too easily bring Miss Bennet to Netherfield or, worse, many Bennets. Darcy had to do whatever he could to prevent that.
And it would reassure him to see Elizabeth unharmed and well with his own eyes.
“Yes, certainly you may accompany me,” Bingley said, setting down the knife and roll. “But really, Darcy, I don’t think I can sit here and dine. I must go see her—er, them. I need to know she—they, are being well cared for.”
“I’m sure their neighbors are helping.”
Bingley shook his head as Darcy spoke. “That doesn’t stop me from helping.”
Darcy took a sip of his coffee and set the cup back down. In truth, he didn’t feel like eating, either. “Very well. Let us go be reassured.”
“Thank you.”
Leaving their virtually untouched breakfasts, they headed for the front door.
Despite the certainty that news of any harm to Elizabeth would travel at least as quickly as the news of Mr. Collins’ demise had, Darcy decided he couldn’t be more pleased with Bingley’s insistence that they find out the truth of the matter.
Bingley beside him, he jogged down the steps and climbed into the carriage.
Riding would have been faster, and might better stave off a Bennet incursion, but Darcy marshalled his impatience and tried not to gawk out the window, although there was nothing to see.
Still, he thought he smelled smoke, though he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination.
Finally, they reached the remnants of the Bennets’ home and rounded the curve at the top of the drive. He and Bingley jumped out.
A smoldering ruin stood before them. Blackened beams. Heaps of scorched stone.
Melted windows. The odor of burned wood, earth and rock filled Darcy’s nostrils.
As they approached, he felt the heat that radiated from the ruin.
At a glance, nothing that remained within appeared identifiable. Not a chair, cabinet or table.
“Not a happy sight, is it?”
Darcy whirled to see Mr. Bennet coming across the ash coated garden, from the direction of Lucas Lodge. He wore the same suit as the evening before. His hands and face were clean but his cuffs and coat front were smeared with soot.
Bingley rushed to meet him. “Mr. Bennet, please tell me everyone survived?”
“Everyone except Mr. Collins,” Mr. Bennet said with little inflection. He studied the smoldering rubble. “When that cools, we must see if we can locate him for burial.”
“We are extremely sorry for your loss,” Darcy said, coming up to the other two men.
“What can we do?” Bingley added. “Where is J—that is, your wife and daughters?”
Mr. Bennet raised an eyebrow but merely provided, “Elizabeth and Jane are at Lucas Lodge. Mrs. Bennet and my younger three daughters are with the Phillips, in Meryton.” He pulled free his pocket watch.
“Or perhaps they, too, are at Lucas Lodge. They planned to gather there, to take stock of what little was saved.”
Bingley eagerly looked back to his carriage.
Frowning, Darcy reiterated, “How can we help, sir?”
Mr. Bennet left off studying Bingley to turn to Darcy.
“Mr. Collins held the living near a relative of yours, Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She will need to be notified of his death. I would appreciate it if you would do so. It would save me the bother of finding her direction, and of writing reasonably about the man whose carelessness cost me my home.”
“Do you wish me to provide details of the event?” Darcy asked, thinking he wouldn’t mind hearing them.
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “Please say only what is proper. I don’t mind speaking ill of the dead, but if I write down my true thoughts and feelings in this moment, my words may come back to haunt me.”
A little disappointed but not deeming it his place to ask for more information, Darcy nodded. “Certainly.”
“But how did Mr. Collins burn down your home?” Bingley asked, apparently possessed of less compunction.
Expression flat, Mr. Bennet replied, “He spilled burning coals all over the front parlor. Then, when my footman ran for water, spent his time almost putting out one fire while allowing others to burn. If he had started by shoveling all the coals back to the fireplace, there might have been a chance to control it, with only the furnishings of one room lost. Or if he’d used a coal scuttle instead of a shovel to carry the coals, even his falling down would not have created so big a disaster. ”
Darcy winced, sympathetic to Mr. Bennet’s inability to write kindly about Mr. Collins, a task that would have been a struggle even if he hadn’t burned down the man’s home.
Bingley stared at the ruined house. “And now, because of one man’s folly, you cannot even reside under one roof as a family.”
Before Bingley could invite the entire Bennet clan to Netherfield Park, Darcy asked, “Have you made any plans for temporary housing?” He hoped very much that Mr. Bennet had.