Free Mr. Darcy's Refuge by Abigail Reynolds Page B

suddenly remembering Elizabeth’s presence. “You cannot have been alone here all this time.”
     
    Elizabeth laughed. “Alone? Hardly. We have been well chaperoned by Sally, Cook, and a little girl with a broken leg, not to mention fifty or so villagers who took refuge here from the flood. And here is Sally now with a pot of hot tea. May I pour you a cup?”
     
    ***
     
    The morning newspapers arrived as usual in Meryton on the early coach. Mrs. Long, who always read the page dedicated to intelligence of the ton over a cup of tea, appeared at Mrs. Phillips’ door a scant half hour later with the offending paper in hand. After that lady made a shocked perusal, it was decided that this called for an immediate visit to Mrs. Bennet.
     
    Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of rising with the larks. She was firmly of the opinion that any event so discourteous as to occur before noontime was not worthy of her attention. As a result, she was still in her bedclothes when Mrs. Phillips and Mrs. Long arrived at Longbourn. However, the ladies were determined, and having convinced Miss Mary Bennet through their high distress and furious looks that the apocalypse must be at hand, Mrs. Phillips claimed a sister’s privilege and breached the final defense of Mrs. Bennet’s bedroom door.
     
    She carried the newspaper as her battle standard, shaking it in the air until she tossed it on Mrs. Bennet’s lap. “Well, sister, would you care to explain this ?” she demanded.
     
    Mrs. Bennet’s nervous complaints about her dishabille were ineffective in halting the approaching forces. “Whatever do you mean?” she said querulously.
     
    Mrs. Phillips struck a pose and pointed dramatically at one particular item in the newspaper. Mrs. Bennet, who was more short-sighted than she cared to admit, had to hold it close to her face and squint to make out the fine print. On first comprehending it, she sat quite still, unable to utter a syllable, staring blankly at the bearers of such astonishing intelligence. The shock was such that she did the unthinkable and rose from her bed while the day could still be called young. Grasping the newspaper, she hurried downstairs, crying Mr. Bennet’s name as she went.
     
    Mrs. Bennet’s nerves had been Mr. Bennet’s constant companions these many years, but in native self-defense, he had learned to tell the difference between her usual vapors and when she was in true distress. Her wild-eyed appearance in the door of his library suggested the latter. This did not, in fact, make him any more sympathetic to her, just more careful in watching for potential flying objects.
     
    “Yes, Mrs. Bennet?” he said.
     
    “Look! Look at this!” she cried, waving the newspaper in front of him so rapidly that it would have been impossible for him to read even the headlines.
     
    “What, precisely, am I to look at?” he asked, prying the newspaper from her fingers.
     
    “At that! Oh, Mr. Bennet!”
     
    Since his wife had made no indication what that she was speaking of, Mr. Bennet glanced down the page. It is a truth universally acknowledged that no matter how many words might appear in a page of newsprint, one’s own name will somehow immediately spring out, and so it was with Mr. Bennet. He read, frowned, put on his spectacles and read again, and finally set down the newspaper with an extraordinary gentleness which indicated how much he wished to tear it into little pieces. Even a natural indolence as strong as his could not stand for an insult of this magnitude.
     
    He placed his hands on his desk and rose slowly to his feet. “Mrs. Bennet, please be so kind as to instruct Hill to pack a bag for me immediately. I will be traveling to Rosings Park on the next post coach.”
     

 
     
    Chapter 7
     
    Colonel Fitzwilliam downed several cups of tea in rapid succession while sitting by the fire as Darcy related the various events of the last two days to him. “Today I had some of the men working to salvage