Elizabeth expressed her condolences. It pained her to imagine Mrs Lanyon frantically searching the list of names of the evacuees from Spain, hoping her beloved husband had survived.
“What was it like in Minorca?” Elizabeth asked to distract her from the grief that had appeared in her eyes. “This trip to Scarborough will mark the farthest I have travelled. Before now, I had only ever been into Kent and to town.”
It became clear that the extensive knowledge Mrs Lanyon had gained in meeting with persons from all parts of the world made her an interesting companion. She had travelled extensively, been in a circle of varied acquaintances, and spoke plainly but with interest about what she had seen and experienced alongside her husband.
“I fear I shall grow jealous of you,” Elizabeth said kindly, a quarter of an hour later.
Mrs Lanyon raised an eyebrow. “I suspect the right man will come along at last, if you are willing to love him warmly in return.”
“Oh no!” Telling Darcy he could not have made her an offer in any possible way that would have tempted her to accept it ran through her mind.Is there any reason to hope he might ask me again?If he were to ask her now, the mode of address would make it likely she would give him a favourable answer. “No, I meant of your travels, in your manifold connexions and acquaintances. I mean, I want to marry, but I?—”
“Forgive me for misunderstanding you.”
Elizabeth sighed in relief at not having to explain further. “I enjoyed listening to your accounts of Minorca and your friends there. I am surprised you do not speak more in company when you have such fascinating experiences to relate.”
“Not everyone wishes to hear, and I wish to avoid bringing undue attention to myself.”
“You are an educated woman with?—”
“I was educated in fashion, and not improving my mind,” she said. “And some might consider me of an inferior race because my skin is tinged with more jet than ivory to listen to what I say.”
She could not argue with Mrs Lanyon’s own experiences. She wondered if Mrs Lanyon was too used to saying what she thought ought to be said, rather than expressing her true opinions. “I can suppose it is hard to speak with someone who has insulted you because of their own prejudices. But I hope you will not be that way amongst those who would like to be called your friends.”
Mrs Lanyon nodded. “How long is your acquaintance with Mr Bingley and his sisters?”
Elizabeth relayed Bingley’s visit to Hertfordshire last autumn, and briefly mentioned encountering Darcy again in Kent in April and Bingley’s subsequent return to the neighbourhood and his marriage to Jane. “And so we have all met again to travel north and meet Bingley’s friends.”
“Huh,” was uttered with a surprised intonation. “Your acquaintance with Mr Darcy is of a longer standing than I realised.”
“We have known each other a ten-month, but only recently am I coming to truly know him better.” And she cared for him more deeply than she ever had before.
“I hope you made good use of your afternoon in Bakewell yesterday, then.”
Elizabeth was not equal to replying to this, and instead asked if she might see Mrs Lanyon’s sketches from Bakewell, and this occupied them until that lady’s maid came to dress her for dinner.
The clouds must now be pouring enoughwater to deluge the land.
The entire heavens were black as ink and lightning flared in sheets of fire as Darcy looked out the window after dinner. The men were still at the table, but Darcy had left to see how much rain had fallen. It was only eight o’clock in the evening on the tenth of August, but it was already too dark to see onto the lawn.
He walked through a door on the other side of the house to better see into the garden. Only when lightning struck could he have a better view, but it was plain they would be flooded by morning. Sandbags had been placed hours ago, but he wondered if they would serve their purpose.
“Darcy, is that you?” a voice called.
He ran back inside, closing the umbrella that had done little to keep him dry, given the wind. Bingley was giving him a concerned look. “Why were you outside in all of this?”
“The gardens at Pemberley lie low, lower than the flood level of the Derwent.” He frowned and looked back out the window but, of course, it was too dark to see. He took out a handkerchief to dry his shoes. “The garden is sloped to afford a ready discharge at the surface for storm water, but I fear it is already flooded. I worry what other ravages might be committed on the rest of my land before the storm passes.”
Bingley gave him his handkerchief to wipe the rest of the water from his face and sleeves. “Violent storms of rain are not common in the Peak. I suspect it will let up before long.”
It did not sound as though it would move on soon, but he allowed Bingley to lead him to join the others in the drawing room.
“Will the Derwent flood?” Bingley asked as they went to where Georgiana and Elizabeth were making tea and pouring coffee.
“It has in the past, but not since I have had charge of Pemberley,” he answered, taking a cup of coffee from Elizabeth. He smiled his thanks; she had made it the way he liked. “It flooded in ’95, and there was considerable damage when Toadmoor Bridge washed out. And again in ’99 at Matlock, it rose to a surprising height.”
“Did you say there shall be a flood, Fitzwilliam?” Georgiana asked.
“I cannot see from here. I suspect the stream has already gone overits banks, but perhaps the Derwent will not rise too high. Let us hope none of the weirs break.”
