Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
The break in the weather lasted three days.
Long enough for the roads to turn to slush, then harden again with frost. Long enough for Mama to declare the worst of winter past and drag Mary back to Meryton to admire lace. Long enough for Papa to walk the perimeter of the fields once more and pronounce himself cautiously satisfied.
Then, on the fourth night, the wind came.
It did not announce itself properly. There was no long warning, no gradual thickening of cloud.
It arrived late, sharp, and furious, rattling the shutters with a violence that suggested long-checked impatience rather than the natural teeth of winter.
Freezing rain followed first—hard, slanting pellets of ice, driven sideways so that it found every weakness the house had not yet discovered.
Only after that did the snow fall, wet and heavy, clinging to what the rain had already slicked into a frozen glare.
By morning, nothing moved.
No carts on the road. No messengers. Even the servants ventured out only in turns, quick and unwilling, returning with cheeks stung raw and boots soaked through.
The world beyond Longbourn had narrowed to what could be seen from the windows, and even that changed by the hour as the wind worried at drifts and stripped branches bare.
Papa said little at first. He stood at the window longer than usual, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the line of the barns through the blowing snow. When he did speak, it was to ask after roof tiles, then shutters, then whether the grain bins had been checked again since dawn.
“They were sound yesterday,” Mr Hill reminded him. “The doors held through the stoutest of the gusts.”
“Yes,” Papa replied, gazing out the window. “Yesterday.”
By the second day of the storm, he could not be kept indoors.
He pulled on his boots and coat and went out with two of the men, returning an hour later with water on his cuffs and a look Elizabeth did not care to see upon his face.
He said nothing at dinner, but he did not eat much either, and when Mama began to complain of the inconvenience of being cut off from society, he waved her off without humour.
“The inconvenience,” he said, “is not the point.”
When the storm broke after several days, it did so almost grudgingly. It would be some days more before the roads were passable by anything but the most intrepid. Papa bundled himself in as many layers as could be found and went out to his barns, with ledger and pencil in hand.
He came back slower. Frozen from beak to boots.
The harvest had been sound. Of that, there was no question. The bins had been dry, the roofs intact. And yet, grain that should have kept dry and sound for years at a time had begun to heat in places.
Not everywhere. Not evenly. One bin untouched, another only lightly spoiled along one edge. Damp where there had been no leak. Warmth of spoilage where there should have been cold.
“It makes no sense,” Papa said that evening, more to himself than to anyone else.
“If it were water, it would spread. If it were rot, it would be predictable, would smell foul. This is… just dry and black. I have never seen the like. It is almost as if…” He trailed off, then shook his head. “We will know more tomorrow.”
Elizabeth listened from her chair by the fire.
She had been unwell for more than a fortnight now. Long enough, she should have recovered from any mild complaint several times over. The illness that had struck her down at Netherfield—whatever it had been—had come upon her suddenly and released her just as cleanly. This did neither.
There was no fever. No single point of pain she could name and address. Only a weakness that ebbed and returned without pattern, a general agony that refused to be dislodged. Some mornings, she could sit up and read a page or two. Others, she could scarcely bear the light.
Darcy left the house with a list folded neatly into his pocket and every intention of crossing each item off before dusk.
The air had turned sharp overnight. Snow lingered in the seams of the street—pressed into corners, dulled by soot—while the paving stones held a thin, treacherous glaze.
His boots found purchase by habit rather than care.
London moved around him with its usual insistence: carts rattling, porters calling, the early bells still echoing faintly between buildings.
He reviewed the list as he stepped into his carriage.
For Georgiana, something chosen, not merely bought.
For Richard, something useful enough to survive campaigning.
For Mrs Reynolds, Mrs Hodges, and the senior staff, the customary acknowledgments that marked the season without extravagance. Practical kindness, properly ordered.
Nothing on the list required urgency. Nothing ought to be difficult. That, he reflected as his carriage turned onto a familiar street, was the advantage of preparation.
The bell above the shop door jingled as he opened it.
Darcy paused just inside, letting his eyes adjust, expecting—without thinking of it—a particular arrangement of light and colour: bolts of cloth stacked in their accustomed places, the long counter polished to a soft sheen, the small display near the window reserved for finer pieces set aside for established patrons.
The counter was there. The shelves were there. They were simply… rather bare.
“Mr Darcy,” the proprietor said at once, emerging from behind the counter with more haste than courtesy. “A pleasure, sir. What can I do for you today?”
Darcy inclined his head. “I require very little. Something suitable for a young lady—my sister. And something for my housekeepers, possibly.”
“Of course. Of course.” The man gestured toward the shelves, then hesitated. “You may find our selection somewhat… reduced.”
Darcy stepped closer. He did not need the explanation. Where there should have been stacks upon stacks of samples, bolts, ribbons, there was bare wood. Where a certain shade had once been plentiful, there were only two lengths left, both set aside with paper tags tied to their corners.
“Delayed shipments?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Well—partly.” The man’s hand moved, then stopped. “Some diverted. Some promised and not delivered. It is all most irregular.”
Darcy examined a bolt of fabric, running its edge lightly between his fingers. Serviceable. Not what he had intended. This was to be a gift, not a necessity.
“And this?” he asked, indicating a bolt of pale silk.
“Already spoken for, I’m afraid. A standing request, my best customer, sir. I cannot possibly—”
“No, no. I would not ask it,” Darcy interrupted.
He selected the first bolt instead. This might not do for Georgiana, but his housekeepers would think it very fine, indeed.
When the shopkeeper named the price, Darcy had to cough to smother his shock.
Nevertheless, he signalled his approval and waited as it was measured and wrapped.
As he turned to leave, the proprietor added, almost apologetically, “One hopes matters will settle after the season, sir.”
Darcy did not answer at once. He took the parcel and adjusted it under his arm. “One hopes,” he said, and stepped back into the street.
The market lay only a few streets on, and Darcy altered his course without deliberation. If one shop had been thinned, another might compensate. That was the advantage of London: redundancy, abundance, alternatives.
The noise reached him first. Voices overlapped in argument rather than commerce. A cart stood half-unloaded in the street, its driver shouting back at two men who had seized the same sack by opposite ends. Someone laughed, but it carried an edge that did not belong to amusement.
Darcy slowed.
At the nearest stall, baskets that should have been heaped were filled barely to their rims. Apples with bruises set carefully outward.
Roots still clotted with frozen soil. A chalkboard leaned against the counter with prices written twice—one crossed through, another added beneath in a darker hand.
“Is this all?” a woman demanded.
“For today,” the vendor replied, not looking at her. “I told you—come earlier.”
“And tomorrow?”
The man shrugged. “Ask me tomorrow.”
Darcy moved on. He heard the same exchange repeated with minor variations: assurances hedged, tempers shortened, promises made with the air of men who expected not to keep them.
He stopped at a butcher’s stall that he recognised. “Mr Darcy,” the butcher said, wiping his hands. “You have chosen a lively morning.”
“So I see,” Darcy replied. “Is the supply delayed?”
The man snorted. “‘Delayed’ implies it is coming.”
Darcy tilted his head. “Then where—”
“Bought up,” the butcher said. “Or spoiled before it ever reached me. I cannot say which.”
Darcy glanced at the hooks above the counter. Too many were bare.
“And your winter contracts?” he asked.
The butcher hesitated. “Being honoured. As far as may be.”
Darcy inclined his head and moved on, but the answer followed him. As far as may be. Not utter refusal. Not panic yet. Rationing—but rather sudden. Should not all the papers be full of it, if matters had gone this far?
At the far end of the market, a man had mounted a crate and begun to shout. “There are signs, I tell you! The land answers its own account—”
“Answers what account?” someone called back. “Your tab at the gin shop?”
Laughter broke out, then was swallowed by more voices. A turnip struck the crate and split; another followed, less accurately thrown.
The man ducked, straightened, and pressed on, voice rising to meet the noise. “You mock because you are comfortable, but mark me! This is the price of pride. Too much ploughing, too much forcing. We have stripped the soil to bone and marrow—”
“It’s the war,” a woman snapped from the edge of the crowd. “Always the war. Everything goes to the army, and we get the scraps.”