CHAPTER 6 – Thunderstruck
Disoriented and unsure of her surroundings, Elizabeth allowed herself to be guided, following the swift steps of her rescuer.
The sharp crack of branches and a heavy thud echoed behind her.
She leaned closer, seeking shelter in his embrace.
They reached the stairs leading to the terrace, and when she tripped over her skirts, his arm wrapped securely around her waist to prevent her fall.
Her feet scarcely touched the floor as he swept her into the house.
Only once they were safely inside did she open her eyes, standing breathless and soaked before her equally drenched saviour.
“Are you well?” Mr. Darcy asked, his chest heaving. All around, servants hurried about the room, closing windows and doors and lighting candles in preparation for the tempest that was beating the house.
Elizabeth gulped and managed a stunned nod.
“Lizzy!” Charlotte appeared beside her, taking her hands. “Are you injured? The tree—it almost fell over you!”
“Indeed!” cried Maria. “You barely made it out! Had it not been for Mr. Darcy, you would have been crushed!”
“I am well, thank you.” Elizabeth was still bewildered. “Good Lord! I have never seen anything like this!”
A few minutes passed in a bustle of Charlotte and Maria’s overlapping accounts—how the storm had broken, how they had sought shelter, how tablecloths had flown, dishes had shattered, and people had screamed, and Charlotte’s fear at not knowing where Elizabeth was.
Elizabeth paid only half-hearted attention, still trying to shake off the shock of it all.
When her breath had steadied and her friends’ excitement simmered down, she let her gaze roam the room in search of Mr. Darcy, intending to offer her thanks—yet he was gone.
Vanished. When had he left? Instead, she caught sight of Lady Catherine at the far side of the room with Miss de Bourgh and Colonel Fitzwilliam.
The roar of the wind drowned their voices, but their gestures betrayed a quarrel as fierce as the storm outside.
The colonel hurried towards Elizabeth as soon as he caught her eye. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet, for leaving your side at such a frightful moment, but I had to assist my cousin. I trust you will pardon the discourtesy.”
“Fitzwilliam! I am not finished!” cried her ladyship.
He turned to glare at his aunt, irritation sharpening every line of his face. “But I am. We shall speak later, after I have ensured everyone’s safety.”
Her ladyship’s cane rapped sharply the floor. “I will not be contradicted! Darcy! You must—” She faltered, suddenly aware her other nephew was absent. “Where is he? Why is he not here?”
“He’s outside, ma’am,” a passing servant replied. “I saw him making his way towards the yard. I believe he’s helping the servants see the families off.”
“I cannot believe you sent those families away in this weather.” Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face flushed.
Lady Catherine stood tall, glaring at the colonel with a surly expression, unmoved by her nephew’s accusation.
“I must help him.” The colonel hurried towards the door with Miss de Bourgh trailing behind.
“Richard! Stop!” Miss de Bourgh seized his sleeve. “It is too dangerous!”
“Anne! Let him go,” bellowed Lady Catherine. “Darcy must be brought back to the house safe and sound.”
“So you would rather risk Richard’s life? He is your nephew too!”
The rain intensified, rendering the gardens all but invisible.
A lightning strike landed too close to the house, turning everything white and shaking the latticed windows.
A few panes shattered, letting gusts of wind sweep through the room.
Several candles were extinguished, and gloom enveloped the space.
Everyone stood petrified, stunned by the flash of lightning and the rumbling echo that immediately followed.
A sharp chill swept through the room. Soaked as she was, Elizabeth braced herself as cold air grazed her bare arms. Maria sobbed on her sister’s shoulder, while Mr. Collins had dropped to his knees, head tilted upward, eyes closed, and hands clasped in prayer.
Near the door, Miss de Bourgh clung to the colonel’s arm, whether out of fear or to prevent him from leaving, Elizabeth could not tell.
With Mrs. Jenkinson’s help, Colonel Fitzwilliam finally extricated himself from Miss de Bourgh’s grasp and moved to secure the draperies around the broken window to keep out as much of the wind and rain as possible.
The butler and a footman relit the candles, restoring a measure of order amid the chaos.
“Fitzwilliam! Leave that and go fetch Darcy!” Lady Catherine shouted, but the colonel ignored her command.
The downpour had subsided somewhat into an intense, copious drizzle, yet the wind remained fierce and unyielding, bending trees and branches, lashing against walls and windows. It was a mighty storm, the kind that grants no reprieve and leaves ruin in its wake.
Elizabeth’s thoughts turned to the safety of the families now embarking on the perilous journey back to their homes.
Mr. Darcy remained in her mind, and despite the mounting indignation she had borne towards his conduct in regard to her sister, her compassionate nature was still concerned for his wellbeing.
Half an hour passed without any news of the gentleman.
Lady Catherine persisted in her argument as the fruitless debate over whether the colonel should pursue him dragged on.
Finally, Mr. Darcy emerged alongside a servant, both carrying a third person who appeared unconscious.
The colonel and a footman rushed outside to assist them.
“What happened?” Colonel Fitzwilliam enquired as they laid the young man on the floor, his head bearing a large, profusely bleeding cut.
Mr. Darcy knelt beside him. “The horses were startled as we helped a family into their carriage. He was knocked off, and his head struck the footboard. It is a miracle the coach did not roll over him.”
“Jamie!” the butler interjected.
“Griffiths, do you know him?” the colonel asked.
“He is the farrier’s son, sir.” The man’s voice cracked. “He assists at the stables.”
“We cannot send for the apothecary in this weather.” The colonel was examining the wound. “The cut is deep, but I have seen men survive worse. Darcy, what of the families? Have they all set out? If any remain, we should offer them shelter until the storm passes.”
“By what right you extend invitations to strangers without my permission, Fitzwilliam?” Lady Catherine darted towards them. “Who appointed you steward of this house? And why is there a low-ranked servant in my ballroom?”
Mr. Darcy rose to his feet, fury flaring in his eyes.
“How dare you send your tenants out into the storm to meet their demise! This boy would not be injured if the families had been offered shelter, as any decent landowner would have done. As mistress of this estate, it is your duty to protect those who live under your rule, not endanger them!”
“You dare question my authority?” her ladyship thundered. “I may not manage my estate with the same liberality as you do yours, but I do know how to run Rosings.” She pointed a dismissive finger at the injured lad. “Take him to the servant quarters. He is staining the carpet.”
Elizabeth’s whole body trembled —not only from the cold, but from the outrage that Lady Catherine’s cruelty stirred in her. The boy lay pale and unconscious, blood pooling beneath his head, and she worried about her carpet? She had never encountered such heartlessness.
A crash of thunder echoed throughout the room.
United by shock and sorrow for the poor boy, the company fell into solemn silence as the butler and three footmen lifted him with care and carried him away.
Mr. Collins followed at once, his concern plain upon his countenance.
Maria wept quietly beside Charlotte; Miss de Bourgh had taken refuge in Mrs. Jenkinson’s arms. Drenched and muddy, Mr. Darcy stood before his aunt, fists clenched, eyes blazing with such ferocity that Elizabeth feared he might strike her.
“Make yourself presentable for dinner, Darcy,” Lady Catherine commanded. “We have important matters to discuss.”
He remained steadfast.
“Come now, Darcy.” The colonel patted him on the back. “’Tis a lost cause.”
Mr. Darcy remained unmoved for a long moment. Then, as if emerging from a trance, he allowed his cousin to lead him out of the room. Elizabeth, standing closest to the door, was able to discern his quiet voice as he uttered words not intended for her ears.
“I could have strangled her right there, Fitzwilliam—with my bare hands.”
“You were not the only one, believe me.”
Startled from her stupor, Elizabeth turned when Miss de Bourgh approached her. “Miss Bennet, you are soaking wet. Forgive me for my earlier inhospitable manner. Pray accompany me. I shall provide you with dry clothes.”
***
Rain fell over Rosings for several hours, battering stone and glass with relentless fury.
Inside the mansion, darkness reigned. Even the numerous candles and torches lighting the halls and rooms failed to brighten the oppressive atmosphere.
Long shadows stretched across the floors and crept up the walls, and the few lit hearths could not dispel the cold from a storm that seemed born in hell.
The Hunsford party had been invited to remain at the mansion until the storm eased—a proposal met with a mixture of relief and dismay, for staying meant enduring Lady Catherine’s domineering tactics for at least another day.