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Elizabeth could have hugged her. “Yes, Aunt. That is exactly what I think.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

RIOTOUS LIVING

The following day, Elizabeth and her aunt had planned for more shopping. They meant to go to the linen-draper’s, the upholsterer, and also to inspect and make themselves known to the butcher, the baker, the grocer, the fishmonger, and others; to Elizabeth, the list seemed endless. The competent Mrs Hawthorne had named all the best tradesmen, so they had places to start, but it would be a massive undertaking.

“I never truly considered all it takes to set up a house,” Elizabeth said, staring with some dissatisfaction at her reflection. Without the help of a skilled maid with her hair, it was difficult to tame. She had pulled it back severely, really the only look she could manage on her own, trying to conquer its wildness, and could only hope that Diana Stretton would take the job—and that she was a miracle-worker.

Mr Darcy obviously did not mind how you appeared to him, in this exact style. The thought, and the image of the man who inspired it, had edged into her mind unbidden, as he had managed to do so many times this last week. Despite promising herself that she would dispose of the letter, she had instead re-read it a half-dozen times.

It does not matter, she reminded herself. Even if he is not so terrible a man as I believed, even if, in truth, he is a superior one, he has your answer, Elizabeth. The words she had used to deny him also had a habit of repeating themselves. ‘If I ever do marry…he will never be you.’

“Do not be a fool, Elizabeth,” she told herself. “The past is in the past, and it is all likely for the best. Mr Darcy did not know me, just as I obviously did not know him.” Determinedly, she pushed up from the dressing table, leaving her unsatisfactory reflection behind.

Elizabeth’s first drive into town had been for the purpose of displaying to her its finest buildings and sights; this time, their business was less exciting, perhaps, but no less interesting.

The area was enormous compared to Meryton, but since Elizabeth had often visited Cheapside, she was not intimidated by the busy streets and crowded pavements. It was smoky and loud, although nothing to London. They were turning from the High Street towards the Market Place—an expanse usually filled with fine shops and tradesmen—when the sound of a heavy object hitting the cart roof startled them both.

“What was that?” cried Mrs Philips. “A rock?”

The cart came to a sudden halt as the streets filled with swarms of men, women, and children, all shouting incomprehensible words. While Elizabeth did not understand the commotion, their expressions were uniformly enraged.

“What is happening?” she wondered aloud, trying not to show her alarm.

Mr Hawthorne turned to face them. “Riot,” he shouted, over the noise of the rampaging throngs. “Streets are clogged, and I cannot move the cob. Come, take shelter in Mr Harris’s shop. It’s nearest, I know him, and he will keep you safe.”

Hurriedly, she and her aunt exited the cart. The gathering crowd seemed to grow thicker and wilder as they were shoved this way and that; Elizabeth cried out as she was hit in the shoulder by a potato, part of the spectacular demonstration of anger and waste. Mr Hawthorne was likewise hit, but he continued quickly, inexorably along, doing his best to shield them from stray flying vegetables. A barrel of red herring was smashed open, and abruptly they were slipping on them. Mrs Philips shrieked her dismay, but Elizabeth thought she sounded more angry than scared. The short distance seemed endless.

The door was barred from the inside.

What now? Elizabeth wanted to scream, but Mr Hawthorne pounded on the door. “Harris!” he bellowed, more loudly than she had ever before heard him. “’Tis Hawthorne! Let us in!”

With a sigh of relief, she heard the sound of wood sliding against wood. As soon as the door opened, they quickly ducked inside, except for Mr Hawthorne.

“Got to get back to the horse,” he muttered, and hurried back out into the chaos.

“Oh, Mr Hawthorne!” Elizabeth cried. “Come back!”

“No sense trying to stop him,” the man who must be Mr Harris replied, barring the door again, shaking his head sorrowfully. “John Hawthorne will do what he thinks is best for that animal, should it kill him. Come to the back of the shop, sit by the stove, and let us hope the mobs disperse without much damage.”

Elizabeth looked about, realising that they were in a shop of porcelain wares; delicate glass pieces lined the shelves. No wonder Mr Harris had secured his door so quickly.

“What is this all about?” Mrs Philips demanded, once they were seated.

“Flour at six shillings eight per stone, is what,” the shopkeeper explained, hefting wooden planks to block the windows. “’Tis nearly tripled from what it was a few months ago. When folks cannot feed their children, they’re liable to rise up.”

Elizabeth shivered, and felt farther away from the quiet streets of Meryton than ever before.

It went on for hours. Mrs Philips was tearful, and Elizabeth tried to be stoic, but it was not easy when one was terrified, when the sounds of breaking glass and curses and screams echoed in her ears. Finally, the shouts began to diminish as members of the military joined the fracas. Just as it appeared as though the situation was calming, some men sent up a cry, “All in a mind for the Volunteer arms!” and the crowd swarmed away in an opposite direction. Shortly thereafter, Mr Hawthorne reappeared.

“We should hurry,” Mr Hawthorne said. “Some have dispersed, but many have set upon an unguarded military depot not far from here. Harris, we thank ye, but ye ought to go home. No glass be worth dying over.”

On the way to the cart, she had a better view of the disorder surrounding her; the streets were littered with muddy potatoes, corn, and fish. Women and children were scurrying around, shoving the refuse into pails and pockets, probably meaning to eat it after all. She shuddered at the poverty that made such notions prudent. They were well away from the town before she breathed a little easier.

“Oh, Lizzy,” Mrs Philips said, tears beginning to flow once more. “What have we got ourselves into here?”

Elizabeth moved across to sit beside her on the bench, placing a comforting arm about her shoulders. She had no answers, sadly, to her aunt’s query. Mr Darcy, what have you done to me? she wondered.