Netherfield looked altered longbefore Darcy reached the drive. The façade still stood in proportion, the windows intact, the chimneys upright, but something in its bearing had broken. The gravel lay uneven in patches, as though the earth beneath had exhaled and not yet drawn breath again. A length of cord had been strung across the front steps to prevent entry through the main door.
Bingley was in the forecourt with a man in a dark travelling coat and another stooping over a ledger balanced on a courtyard stone. A third gentleman, older and narrower, held a measuring rod and kept glancing from the house to the ground with the air of one who mistrusted both.
Bingley saw Darcy before he had quite reached them and broke away at once, his expression brightening in visible relief.
“Darcy! Thank heaven. I did not expect you, but I am devilish glad you are here. You see how it stands. Or rather, how it does not.”
Darcy took his hand briefly. “It looks far worse than your letter led me to believe. You cannot be lodging here.”
“No. The inn at Meryton has surrendered its best rooms. Mrs Nicholls would not hear of my remaining within these walls, and I confess I was easily persuaded. Bixby and Mr Netherton’s representative have been tireless. There is an architect—if you would like the particulars—”
“I should like them from you.”
Bingley blinked. “From me? I am afraid I shall disappoint you. I have had the explanations twice and retain only half of them. The main staircase is the worst of it. The crack runs beneath the central span—clean through. One cannot risk a foot upon it. It is as though the earth decided to cut the building in half.”
“The servants’ stair?” Darcy asked.
“Entirely sound,” Bingley said, almost apologetically. “Which makes no sense at all. It is not half so well supported. The architect swears it ought to have fared worse. But it lies on the east side, nearer the kitchens. The main stair is nearer the old drawing room.”
“A different line in the ground,” Darcy said.
Bingley gave a short, uneasy laugh. “If that comforts you, I will accept it. Though it does not comfort me. The ballroom floor has lifted in one corner. The plaster in the south gallery has fissured. The kitchens have lost a section of chimney, and the scullery wall shows daylight where it should not.”
Darcy held up a hand. “I do not require the catalogue of rooms. I require the hour.”
“The hour?”
“When did it fail?”
Bingley stared at him. “During the quake, of course. When else should a house decide to crack itself open?”
Darcy did not look away. “Nothing before that?”
“Nothing before,” Bingley said, then hesitated. “Not to my knowledge. Though—”
“Though?”
“Well, there was some settling afterward. A shifting I cannot account for. It was not during the shock itself. We found it after we had all returned from the wedding.”
“The wedding?
“Of course, you must remember. Mr Collins and Mary Bennet. A very respectable ceremony. The bride bore herself with admirable composure, though Mrs Bennet wept enough for the entire parish. I stood beside the aisle with the Lucases. It was all quite proper. Until…”
He paused, frowning at the memory.
“Until?” Darcy prompted.
“Well, the candles snuffed out. All of them. There must have been twenty at least—on the rail, at the altar, in the sconces. At the precise moment Collins spoke his vow, they went out. Not flickered or guttered. Simply out, every one of them.”
Darcy glanced up at the broken beams. “Is that so?” he breathed.
“There was no draught,” Bingley went on, shaking his head. “The church doors were shut. No one moved. They simply—whooshed. Mrs Bennet gave a little shriek, and then everyone laughed. The clerk relit them, and the ceremony continued. Mrs Bennet is a happy woman, indeed, and I hope the same can be said for the new Mrs Collins.”
He looked up at the house behind him. “Anyway, as I was saying, when I returned here afterward, the steward met me at the gate. The crack in the stair had lengthened. Fresh plaster crumbles lay in a drift at the base. He swore it had not been so when he left for the church.”
“How… singular.”
“It is, isn’t it? He gave me the time, and it must have happened during the vows.” Bingley’s expression shifted as he watched Darcy absorb the account. The nervous brightness faded; something more searching took its place.
