Chapter 45
THE MISTRESS OF NOTHING BUT RUBBLE
“I have already looked in that pile,” Elizabeth said. She lifted the stack of papers off the desk and replaced it with a different one. “Try these.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam duly began rifling through his new commission. “What exactly are we looking for, again?”
“I do not know,” Darcy replied, closing the folder on the desk before him with a contemptuous flick.
“Every record of Pemberley’s mines, past and present, is accounted for, and I have never set eyes on any document relating to works this close to the house.
Ferguson swears blind that neither has he, and the plans show nothing.
But I must look. I cannot sit idly and do nothing. ”
“And if we cannot find anything?”
“Then the next task will be to unpack every crate from the library and look there.”
Elizabeth repressed a sigh. It was a hopeless task.
They had already searched every drawer, cupboard, and shelf in the estate office that Ferguson had suggested from his sickbed—and every one that he had not—to no avail.
They had turned their attention this morning to the Argyll room, where the contents of Darcy’s study, formerly in the east wing, were being stored.
After this, it would indeed be the library contents, followed by Darcy’s attorney’s office in Derby.
All because Mr Jacobs was immovable in his conviction that there was a mine under the house, and Darcy would not rest until he had found something to discredit the theory.
The architect was due at any moment with a report, having spent the morning inspecting the site with Darcy’s own Principal Colliery Viewer, Mr Regis.
If anybody could identify a drift mine, it would be the man responsible for superintending all the others on the estate, and Elizabeth had no doubt the imminent meeting was the chief source of Darcy’s present agitation.
The anguish in his voice saddened her deeply, yet she could think of no other way to support him but to help look for that which she was entirely unconvinced existed.
The colonel heaved a great sigh and dropped into a chair.
“Had I known, when you sent for me, that you wanted me to do your filing, I might have stayed at Branxcombe.” He pulled out a hip flask, took a swig and offered it to Darcy, who refused.
The colonel waggled it at him again, attempting to persuade him, but desisted when someone knocked on the door.
At Darcy’s instruction, Mr Jacobs entered, followed by Mr Regis.
“Well? What is the verdict?” Darcy enquired.
Mr Regis cleared his throat. “I am inclined to agree with Mr Jacobs, sir. Looks like a drift mine.”
“How is it possible that nobody knew about it?” Fitzwilliam asked incredulously.
“How is it possible that the vast trench you dug in my lawn did not expose it?” Darcy demanded of the architect.
“Our excavations were not deep enough, Mr Darcy. We dug well below the level of the foundations but stopped when we hit solid limestone. Even when we thought there might be sinkholes, we did not suspect so large a cavity, and we could not have investigated deeper without the use of explosives, which would have done untold damage to the house.”
Mr Regis took up the explanation, pointing at the colonel. “And, in answer to that gentleman’s enquiry, Mr Darcy, it is very easy to see why nobody knew about it. It is old. Much older than the house. Could even be Roman.”
“Roman?”
“Aye, for it has all the hallmarks of the lead mine over at Lower Kympton. ’Tis certainly not modern at any rate—far too irregular, and though it is hard to be sure without climbing all the way down, there look to be scorch marks, which would indicate the use of fire-setting for ore extraction.”
Darcy rubbed his face with both hands and came back up shaking his head. “Where is the entrance to it?”
“Could have been buried more than a thousand years ago. Or if the mine between this point and the entrance has collapsed, could look like nothing more than just another cave by now.”
“But this bit has remained intact until now,” Elizabeth said, frowning. “If it is that ancient, and Pemberley has stood on it for over a century without issue, why has it collapsed now?”
“I believe,” said Mr Jacobs, “it has to do with the blocked culvert that was discovered on the north slope in the summer. Rainwater will erode limestone given enough time, but even so, I thought it could not have so great an effect on solid bedrock. But I did not know there was a pre-existing void there. It must have eroded the roof of the mine until the weight of the east wing eventually became too great.”
“Can it be backfilled?”
“Any cavity can be filled, given enough materials, money, and time, Mr Darcy. The question is, how far under the house does the mine extend, and how much of it has been compromised by erosion? If the answer to either of those questions is unfavourable, then the cost may prove prohibitive. Grandchester Abbey down in Somerset had a similar problem—not with a mine, but subsidence, nevertheless. Lord Inbrooke ended up pulling the whole house down and rebuilding on another part of the estate.”
The look on Darcy’s face made Elizabeth heartsick. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not look much better as he watched Darcy, his eyebrows drawn together in a deep frown and pity twisting his mouth askew.
“What do you suggest?” Darcy asked in a strained voice.
“Investigate what is down there. It is all we can do.”
“Is the house safe to live in?”
Mr Jacobs’s shrug gave Elizabeth no comfort. “There are no visible cracks on any other part of the building as there were on the east wing. It warrants careful monitoring, but there is no sign of an imminent problem.”
“I understand you are returning to Sheffield this afternoon, Mr Jacobs. May I presume I can retain your services for the foreseeable future, though?” Darcy asked the architect, who agreed that he could. “In that case, I thank you both. That will be all for today.”
The two men departed, and a pall fell over the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam offered Darcy his flask again, and this time, he took it. “That was not the news you were hoping for, Darcy, I know.”
“It may not be as terrible as they made it sound,” Elizabeth tried. “Remember, Pemberley is far more than just a house.”
“Mayhap, but it is nothing without any house,” Darcy replied bitterly.
“Do not jump the gun, old boy,” his cousin interceded. “There is a decent chunk still standing, and your man Jacobs has declared it safe to inhabit.”
“I suppose we shall have to find somewhere more permanent to store everything now. At least then we can get back to living properly in the house that remains. For as long as it does remain.”
Elizabeth wished there were something she could say to alleviate Darcy’s obvious distress, but she would not insult him with more platitudes.
The want of sanguinity sat ill with her; she was used to being able to laugh herself out of despondency, but laughing oneself, one’s husband, and one’s entire household out of a literal hole in the ground was quite another.
“I must call on Ferguson,” Darcy said, coming to his feet. “I promised I would tell him what Jacobs discovered.”
Elizabeth offered to join him, to see how Mrs Ferguson was faring, but they had not made it to the hall before Matthis intercepted them with a letter, just arrived for her. She took it eagerly, a rush of anticipation quite outstripping her reason for a moment.
“Would you mind if I did not come after all?” she asked Darcy before even looking at it properly. He readily agreed and went on his way, leaving her to read her letter in peace and quiet.
She regretted her decision intensely upon inspecting it more closely.
She had hoped it might be from her aunt Wallis or Jane.
To the former, she had sent an express, begging for an explanation of her connexion to Mrs Reynolds.
Of the latter, she had begged for words of solace, for despite Darcy’s insistence that she was the panacea to all his woes, Elizabeth had never felt so helpless in all her days.
Alas, the distinctively careless hand marked it very clearly as having been sent by Lydia.
She did not need to open it to know what it said, for it was the third such plea she had received; but open it she did.
When she passed the saloon door and heard someone call her name, she could not decide which was worse—continuing to read Mr and Mrs Wickham’s appeal for money or stopping to hear whatever it was Lady Catherine wished to say.
Ultimately, it was the modesty of her ladyship’s request that induced Elizabeth to slip her letter into her pocket and agree to spare a moment of her time.
Apart from coming downstairs to greet the colonel when he arrived the day before, Darcy’s aunt had kept herself to herself since the wall collapsed, even eating all her meals in her room.
It had been useful, for there had been much else to occupy their time, but Elizabeth felt a little guilty now for having ignored her so thoroughly.
“I shall not prevaricate,” her ladyship began.
“I wish to apologise. As you know, I came here to see how you were conducting yourself as mistress. You will also know that nothing escapes my notice, and that I have therefore observed all the ways in which you have erred in your duties, not to mention your failure to court the esteem of any of the ladies of eminent neighbouring families. Until two days ago, the best I could have said of you was that you displayed a willingness, perhaps even a capacity to improve.”
Elizabeth said nothing. She had already admitted to Darcy that she was relying on other people’s wisdom to pass herself off as competent. That somebody as determined to find fault as Lady Catherine had also noticed was no great surprise.