Chapter 8
“Dear Lord, it is freezing in here! If the storm does not stop soon, we shall all die, either inside this horrible cottage or outside in the rain, trying to return home!” Mrs Bennet whined.
Sheltered from the storm, their eyes slowly became accustomed to the gloom inside. Outside, the darkness also cleared slightly, as the clouds scattered after the wild burst of rain.
“Mama, I will give you my coat,” Jane responded, taking her mother’s arm.
“Your coat? What use can I have of it? It is as wet as mine. And what about you? If you die of cold, what compensation would that be for me?”
“I would gladly give you my coat, Mrs Bennet, although it is wet and dirty,” Bingley offered.
“You are very kind, but I have no use for it. Can I sit somewhere?” Bingley quickly looked around–without clearly seeing–for a chair for Mrs Bennet.
Each tried to find a place and removed their coats; the ladies took off their bonnets and the gentlemen their hats, all dripping with water.
“Where is Mr Darcy?” Elizabeth eventually addressed Bingley.
“He must have found a means of escape and left us here,” Wickham replied mockingly. “Probably he returned to Netherfield by horse. Let us hope he will send help so we can leave this place.”
“I do not understand your meaning, Mr Wickham,” Bingley replied severely. “Darcy went to release the horses from the carriage; they were still tethered and they could have been harmed in this storm. He would never abandon anyone in need.”
“I apologise if it sounded disrespectful, it was only a joke,” Wickham said defensively, still with a trace of sharpness in his voice.
“A poor one, I must say,” the always amiable Bingley said, apparently offended.
“I find it inappropriate to mock someone who has just saved us. I fear to imagine what could have happened if Mr Darcy had not stopped the horses,” Elizabeth said. She felt annoyed by Wickham’s rude comment in such a trying moment and was distressed with worry for Darcy’s absence.
The storm was still strong, blowing against the roof and the windows, and he was alone outside, without knowing the surroundings well enough. He might need help, while all the other men were safe in the cottage, not even considering looking for him.
“That is true! Mr Darcy was like a hero! I never expected that from him! I was certain we would die, crushed under the broken carriage! Oh Lord! The carriage! Sir William will hold us responsible for it! He will rightfully demand compensation! Why did we not send for our carriage, instead of taking his?” Mrs Bennet started to sob.
“Ma’am, I am sure nobody could hold us responsible for this unfortunate accident,” Wickham interjected. “Who could blame us for the storm or for the horses’ fright?”
“Who? Sir William! We have left him without a barouche! How can he not consider us responsible?”
“Mrs Bennet, I beg you do not worry about the barouche or about the horses,” Bingley interjected. “I will take care of everything. Even tomorrow, I will talk to Sir William.”
“You are too kind, sir,” Jane whispered. “My father will surely repay any inconvenience, but we are deeply grateful for your care.”
“Please do not mention it, Miss Bennet,” Bingley answered.
“You are the most generous and caring man, Mr Bingley. And it is beyond kindness for Mr Darcy to put his own life in danger to save us and the horses. But all will be of little help if we freeze to death. Will you gentlemen not start a fire? There must be a tinderbox around the fireplace,” Mrs Bennet suggested.
“Should we not see if Mr Darcy needs help?” Elizabeth asked. It had been several minutes since they had come inside while he remained somewhere in the rain.
“No. I am sure he can manage the situation. He instructed me to stay inside and take care of you,” Bingley explained.
“Well, we can take care of the ladies very well if you wish to go,” Wickham declared sharply.
“It would be an excellent proof of care if you could start the fire,” Mrs Bennet insisted with increasing annoyance. “I cannot feel my feet nor my hands.”
The men looked at each other perplexed, while the ladies gazed at them, hoping for help.
Mr Bingley, willing to be of use to Jane, quickly looked around, in the hope of finding something to start the fire.
Lieutenant Denny joined him, followed reluctantly by Wickham.
There was some wood and some tinder spread out in the fireplace, all wet and dirty and Bingley’s attempt failed.
“This will never ignite,” Mr Bingley admitted, embarrassed and regretful.
“I agree,” Lieutenant Denny offered.
“We cannot use those, they are all wet and dirty,” Wickham declared.
“Well, thank God we all agree upon that matter. At least we will freeze in agreement,” Mrs Bennet snapped, rolling her eyes.
“Perhaps we could at least light a candle, to be able to see something,” Lieutenant Denny muttered.
Mrs Bennet’s voice cut their ears.
“A candle? How can you light a candle with no fire? And if you had a lit candle, why would you struggle to make another fire? I will lose my mind soon, I am sure! That is, if I do not freeze to death beforehand!”
“Mama, there is nobody to blame for our situation. We can only try to make the best of it,” Jane interjected graciously.
“Making the best from the worst is not easy. I would hope that Mr Wickham or Lieutenant Denny know how to light a fire. As an officer, you should know how to survive in the war; surely you can do so in a cottage.”
“If the tinderbox is useless, I do not see what else we can do,” Wickham said. “I have never dealt with this matter before. Usually there were servants around to light the fire.”
“So we have the company of three gentlemen but we could better use the presence of only one servant,” Mrs Bennet continued.
Wickham appeared offended. “I will give it a try and see if I have any success,” he replied.
Mrs Bennet cared little for his hurt feelings and admonished him further.
“Well, you should attempt it. I doubt there will be servants in battle. And when we speak of fire, one can only succeed or fail. Trying is not enough. The fire is either burning or not and we will either catch a cold and die or not.”
“Mama,” Lydia intervened. “You cannot scold Mr Wickham for being nice. He is doing everything he can. Besides, you said many times that people do not die from a mere trifling cold.”
“Well, we might start,” Mrs Bennet concluded, irritated.
Elizabeth avoided entering into the debate, although she rather agreed with her mother.
She looked at the old, ruined mantelpiece, at the wet tinderbox, then walked around the cottage, trying to find something useful.
She found a kettle and an old chest of tea.
In the closet she found a few towels and some sheets–all dirty but at least dry.
“Perhaps these would help us to keep warm,” she said, sharing the items with her mother and sisters. Wickham also took a towel and shared it with his comrade, drying their faces and hair.
A few moments later, the wooden door opened and Darcy barged in, together with the wind whistling and the rain pattering.
He was all wet, water dripping from his face and clothes.
Trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness inside, he stopped in the doorway, looking around. Elizabeth stepped forward towards him.
“How are the horses?” Bingley asked.
“Safe, I trust. The carriage horses were tangled in the reins but fortunately none of them looked harmed, as little as I could see. Sadly, I could not hold any of them. I am sure they will run back home,” he answered with his usual severity.
“Mr Wickham suspected you had ridden back to Netherfield,” Mrs Bennet said, with obvious gladness to see him. He suddenly had become her hope for a happy ending to their distressing situation.
“I have not,” he responded bluntly. “We should start the fire; it is hard to say how long the storm will last and the ladies must be freezing.”
Mrs Bennet raised her hands and rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“I have been saying that since we arrived but, unless you have your servants waiting outside, nobody seems able to start the fire.”
“We tried, Darcy. We are not such fools as to ignore the obvious; we all know that we need a fire; there is no need for you to teach us,” Wickham said insolently. “But the tinderbox is all wet and muddy and it does not work.”
“Well, if it were clean and dry I could have done it myself,” Mrs Bennet said, pulling the towel around her. “We could have prayed to the Lord to stop the rain so we can go home to warm by the fire.”
“Allow me, ma’am,” Darcy spoke with his regular cold politeness, purposely ignoring Wickham. He took off his coat and hat and put them on the back of a wooden, broken chair, then stepped up to the fireplace. He knelt near the hearth, his back blocking the others’ view.
The ladies looked at each other, while Bingley hurried to kneel by his side and offered to help.
Wickham rolled his eyes with a smirk, glancing meaningfully at the others.
They heard Darcy’s moves, blowing upon the tinder and knocking some stones together to ignite it; after a few long minutes, a flame and a welcoming red light brightened the frozen chamber and met equal joyful cheers and gaps of disbelief.
Darcy stood up, dusted his clothes and brushed his fingers through his messy hair. He briefly glanced at Elizabeth, then turned to Mrs Bennet.
“You should sit by the fire to warm yourself, madam,” he said.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise! Mr Darcy, you are a magician. I would have never expected that! Oh, I could really kiss you! You speak so little and do so much! What a man!”
With utter delight, she even stepped towards Darcy as Elizabeth watched in dismay, fearful her mother would truly kiss him. He stepped back, smiled with embarrassment, then bowed and put himself at even more of a distance, pulling a chair closer to the mantelpiece.