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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SHOCKINGLY LIKE-MINDED

It was not until two days after the riot that Darcy read of it in the morning papers. His alarm was immediate, and he summoned Mr Travers at once.

“Why have I not been informed of this sooner?” he asked, struggling to preserve his composure. “Why did I have to read of this riot, so near my own property, in the papers?”

Travers did not hide his surprise. “My apologies, sir. I heard of the disturbance the day it happened, and sent Hamblin over to Meadowbrook at once to enquire after the tenants and the property. I received immediate reassurance that all was well, and what with this bitter cold spell occupying us during lambing, I did not think it of sufficient consequence to trouble you.”

Darcy accepted the man’s reasoning, but could not so easily assuage his own panic. Nothing would do but that he have his horse saddled and set out at once for Sheffield.

Upon his arrival in the area, all seemed as usual, except perhaps for a greater presence of military individuals, some on foot and some on horseback, all on patrol. Still, he could not be easy until he saw the red-brick home belonging to Elizabeth, sitting undisturbed upon its little hillock.

His agitation had been so great during the ride, that he had not stopped to consider how awkward this meeting might be. Ought he to simply visit the Hawthornes to make his enquiries? It was likely the answer. He could not do it, however; he could not be so near to Elizabeth and depart without setting eyes upon her.

A neat servant whom he did not recognise answered his knock and took his card. Moments later, he was escorted into the drawing room, and there, appearing lovely and fresh and perhaps just a little pale, was Elizabeth. Her aunt, Mrs Philips, waited with her, and it was she who greeted him, urging him to take a seat, and sending the servant to fetch tea for their caller.

“Mr Darcy,” she said, in eager tones, once he was situated, “have you heard our news? I daresay you have—I told Lizzy you were sure to write, if not come in person. We were caught in the midst of the riot when it happened! I daresay, we were fortunate to escape with our lives!”

If he had not already been seated, he might have fallen over, so great was his horror.

“I am very sorry to hear of it. Reports of the uprising were in this morning’s papers, and finding my steward’s information to be insufficient, I wasted no time in coming, hoping to discover that it had all happened at the greatest possible distance from you.”

“No distance at all in fact! Elizabeth was injured!”

He gasped, stood, wanting to go to her at once, to fall at her feet, to apologise, to do something to fix this. “Mr Travers’s report said nothing of injuries! I am sorry to hear it, more so than I can say.”

But Elizabeth, his brave and beautiful Elizabeth, found a smile for him and proceeded to treat the matter with the greatest nonchalance. “My aunt exaggerates, sir. I was merely struck by a flying potato, and not a large one at that—a small bruise not worth remarking upon. Mr Hawthorne did not know of it, so occupied was he in getting us immediately to safety. In fact, he was hit by carrots, I believe. And perhaps a fish or two. Aunt Philips, I beg you will speak no more of such a trifle. Pray be seated, Mr Darcy.”

“That is not the point, Lizzy. No, it was not serious, but it might have been.” Mrs Philips, plainly, had been deeply shaken by their experience.

Elizabeth expressed an opposite opinion. “I have not heard of any injuries, not to anyone. In such a case, I believe one might suspect that odds were good that it was not a life-threatening situation.”

Her aunt would not cede the point. “What of Lord Milton’s speech? Rocks were thrown at him! The military was forced to intervene!”

Elizabeth turned her gaze to Darcy. “Lord Milton urged a very angry, and I assume very hungry, assemblage that they ought to ‘put off’ worrying about their concerns of extravagant prices until after the harvest. As a reasonable justification to a crowd who fears they may not be able to purchase enough flour and corn to feed their families for the next month, much less until autumn, it was not perhaps a rational argument for peace.”

Darcy clenched his jaw in anger but, sadly, not surprise. “He would have done better to work with the merchants in subsidising their prices for a time, until tempers cool.”

“I do not suppose one man, even with his lordship’s wealth, could afford to subsidise the entire town.”

“Perhaps not by himself, no—but if he had worked together with his neighbours, we could have discovered a way. Pemberley is but fifteen miles from here—I would help. There are others who will, also. Outrage and conspiracy are the offspring of distress and want of employment, fostered and rendered formidable by nothing but the want of trade.”

Elizabeth was shocked that Mr Darcy had come.

She had not realised that his estate was so near—although it must have taken him a couple of hours, at least, to make the journey, even on horseback. There had been no mistaking the look of dismay upon his face when her aunt had revealed Elizabeth’s small injury—he had been well and truly distressed. And then to hear him express opinions similar to her own on the cause of the rioters, rather than Lord Milton’s, was deeply astonishing.

But her amazement was not caused solely by the concern he plainly felt, nor the sense he plainly showed.

From the very beginning of their acquaintance, she had classified him in her mind as an insufferable tyrant. For men such as he, his feelings and his alone were important to him; thus, he could give himself permission to lash out whenever the mood struck. It was his right. Such men as he, she believed, spread misery as often as civility.

She had based this impression largely upon his rudeness at their first interaction, which had coloured their every subsequent one. Upon hearing of his interference with Jane’s romance, she had added hatefulness to his list of deficiencies. When he had spoken so ill of her family during his proposal, she had not hesitated to treat him as she would a rabid dog—with distaste, dislike, and an earnestly expressed wish for his immediate departure.

The man before her displayed neither arrogance nor incivility. It was the man from the letter. Just who was Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy?

“All are not as obtuse as Milton,” he continued. “I am certain I could gather others who feel that different measures are required.”

Mrs Philips agreed, and then, just as if she had not already regaled him with enough nonsense on the subject, proceeded to give Mr Darcy a minute-by-minute recital of the day of the riot; she could not be distracted from her purpose no matter how Elizabeth tried. His expression showed his alarm, his concern.