Chapter 10
My dear Aunt Gardiner,
Once more I take up my pen to chronicle a most sensational episode.
Greatly though I enjoyed prolonging your suspense in my narration of our carriage accident, I shall, on this occasion, do you the favour of allaying any anxiety which these prefatory remarks might arouse.
I assure you that we are all very well—though Kitty has a trifling cold in the head.
Once again, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley have been required, by the foolishness of another, to brave the weather and execute a rescue that could only be called daring.
On this occasion, the unfortunate individual to stumble into peril was Alice, the young maid who has been so concerned for her poor mother and newborn brother.
I cannot blame her for her actions, foolish though they might have been.
You will be wishing me to cease dithering and commence my tale, however—and so I shall.
Yesterday passed in an unremarkable fashion.
Snow was falling lightly, but the groundsmen felt sufficiently hopeful of a change in the weather to begin packing down the snow on the drive to allow horses through.
I kept to my chamber in the morning, watching their laborious progress, but I descended to the drawing room in the afternoon.
Dinner was rather a simple affair by Miss Bingley’s standards.
I suspect that without access to regular shipments of London delicacies, the cook cannot offer the elaborate repasts which have been the norm ere now.
I cannot regret the change, as the meals remain ample and well-prepared.
I was occupied for most of the afternoon in avoiding Mr. Collins’ attentions.
Bless Mary, whose observational abilities have never been so keen!
She perceived my reluctance to speak with our cousin and laid aside her book to join in the conversation, diverting him with questions about the sacraments.
Mr. Darcy proved equally useful at dinner.
Despite Miss Bingley’s efforts to draw his notice, he took the seat next to mine and solicited my opinion of Mr. Wordsworth’s latest, a topic which neatly precluded Mr. Collins’ participation—though he did attempt to share certain of Lady Catherine’s pronouncements upon the deficiencies of sentimental poetry.
I never thought I would be glad to see Mr. Darcy’s haughty glower, but on this occasion, it proved most serviceable.
Even Mr. Collins could not entirely ignore so overt a show of displeasure from the nephew of his patroness, and he soon turned to speak to Mamma.
Though Miss Bingley did interpose herself after the meal, I felt most refreshed by the interval of quiet literary discussion and was not even compelled to take up my pen to escape the general conversation.
Mr. Darcy seemed in a reflective state of mind.
He spoke but little after dinner and made his excuses early.
The rest of us lingered in the drawing room, playing whist and listening to Mary’s efforts at Herr Bach’s preludes.
The snow and wind had picked up after dark, and whenever the music paused, we could hear the storm’s rattle against the windowpanes.
The Hursts went up after the first rubber of whist, and I, weary of Miss Bingley’s hostile stare, determined to follow. I had only just risen when the crisis came to light.
Mrs. Nicholls, the housekeeper, appeared in the door of the drawing room and asked to speak to Mr. Bingley. The gentleman stepped out of the room, then returned a moment later, pale-faced.
Miss Bingley inquired what was the matter, and he stammered out something about the storm and someone missing. Then, declaring that he needed to consult Mr. Darcy, he left the room once more.
Everyone began to talk at once. It was only a quarter hour later, when Mr. Darcy entered followed by Mr. Bingley, that we learned the true nature of the situation. Evidently, Alice had gone missing sometime before dinner and had not returned.
“Mrs. Nicholls believes that she went to visit her family,” Mr. Darcy explained. “Her mother has a new babe, and the girl has been beside herself with worry. She might have stayed with her family, but the staff believe it more likely that she braved the storm, not to be seen as deserting her post.”
“A pity,” Miss Bingley said before anyone else could respond.
“She will have to be turned off when she returns in the morning, of course. Such absences cannot be tolerated. Reliable help is so difficult to come by in the country.” This she declared with a conspiratorial glance at Mr. Darcy, as though expecting him to share in her opinion, but he only frowned.
“Nonsense, Caroline,” Mr. Bingley protested. “The girl shouldn’t be punished for going to see her family under such extraordinary circumstances. I am certain she will learn from her error. But we must first retrieve her.”
He, too, turned towards Mr. Darcy, who nodded his approval.
“We must not lose further time. Let us collect our coats and be off. I have already instructed a footman to gather as much rope as he can find, that we might not lose our way. If Mrs. Nicholls is correct, then Alice will likely be in the old oak wood on the far side of the home farm.
“You mean to go after her?” Miss Bingley frowned between them, evidently as alarmed as she was astonished by the gentlemen’s resolve.
“Of course,” Mr. Darcy said, eyebrows raised in incredulity. It seems it had not occurred to him that anyone might hesitate to rescue a fellow man.
“But— But it is far too dangerous. The snow! You will not be able to see where you are going, nor to find your way back to the house. You will become lost yourselves. Charles! You must not!”
However little fondness I may feel towards Miss Bingley, I could not but sympathise with her fears. We could all see, out the front windows, the snow streaking down in a blinding veil.
Mr. Bingley stepped forward to take his sister’s hand. “Do not trouble yourself, Caro. The ropes will help us to find our way back, so far as possible. The circumstances are, I grant you, less than ideal, but there is nothing else to be done.”
“But this is absurd! If the girl was fool enough to attempt the journey in such conditions—which I very much doubt—then she must be left to the consequences of her own folly. You must not endanger yourselves on the merest chance of finding her. Charles, I forbid it!”
He patted her hand with a sympathetic smile.
“Don’t fret, Caroline. It must be done, you know, but all will be well.”
“Quite right, Mr. Bingley!”
I confess, I was most surprised to discover that this interjection had come from my own mother, who, though slumped in a chair with her handkerchief raised to her nose, nevertheless regarded us all with an expression of resolve.
“You mustn’t leave the poor child to freeze to death!
But oh, do take care, Mr. Bingley!” At that, she burst into tears and was escorted upstairs by Papa and Mary.
Kitty and Lydia followed, the former also sniffling, the latter giggling at such a scene.
The gentlemen, after issuing directions to Mrs. Nicholls, retired to don their warmest clothes.
Miss Bingley and Mr. Collins followed after, each issuing loud protests against the scheme.
The latter seemed to think it an offence against the divine order for Lady Catherine’s nephew to risk himself on behalf of a servant.
Meanwhile, Jane and I chose to remain below, in the hope that we might be of service. We were yet lingering in the hall when the gentlemen descended a few moments later.
Jane, pale but composed, bade them farewell with a brave smile and words of gentle approbation. Mr. Bingley drew closer to speak with her quietly, leaving me to say my own farewell to Mr. Darcy.
He was the image of self-possession, tall and solemn and impassive, clad in his many-caped driving coat, hat, and thick gloves. Though his mind was evidently fixed upon his task, when his eyes fell upon me, he managed another of his slight smiles.
“You waited to see us off, Miss Elizabeth?” he asked, “Or perhaps you wish to ensure that I cannot interfere with my friend’s farewell to your sister?”
Something in his eye told me that, though mere days ago we had been at war, he was now teasing me rather than levelling criticism. I smiled, slightly bashful for some reason for which I could not—and even now cannot—account.
“We wished to see you off, of course, and to determine if we might offer any assistance.”
“It is good of you. You must not weary yourself. I am certain that the staff will be able to tend to us when we return.”
“I could not rest, knowing you are in danger. Or Mr. Bingley, or Alice, of course.” I flushed at this awkward avowal, once more perplexed by my own discomfort. “Nor would we wish to rest, when anything might be done to help.”
He frowned, and something in me shrank back from his displeasure. Contrary to my fears, however, he merely said, “I would not wish you to do further injury to your ankle.”
“You worry for my ankle, when you are about to go out into the storm?” I laughed, but his expression remained entirely sincere.
“I certainly do.” As he said this, he looked intently into my eyes.
How great an injustice I did this man, aunt, to despise him so vehemently for a few ill-judged remarks. Arrogant he may be, but that slight shade in his character cannot outweigh the generosity which has become so evident of late.
“Pray, have a care for yourself, Mr. Darcy,” I protested.
Though I wished to say more, speech eluded me.
Gazing at him a moment longer, I observed that he had no muffler.
His high-collared coat and beaver hat would be insufficient protection against the elements.
Slipping off my own plain woollen shawl, I held it out to him.
“You will become chilled with nothing to protect your ears or neck, sir,” I said.