Page 6 of The Fire at Longbourn (Pride and Prejudice Variation)

Longbourn

The blessed rain had shifted from a downpour to a sprinkle, and Darcy and Bingley, along with Sir William Lucas, stood under the stable’s overhang discussing how best to manage the servants and staff of Longbourn, most of whom had gathered within the stable, relishing the meager but dry warmth after hours fighting the fire in the numbing rain.

The blacksmith and his sons, and Colonel Forster and his militia members, had already departed, sent on their way with heartfelt thanks from Sir William and the servants.

“I suggest that I take Mr. Collins and the kitchen servants back with me to house at Lucas Lodge,” Sir William Lucas said.

Bingley nodded and looked up at the stables. “Am I correct that some of the servants live up above the stalls?”

“They do,” Sir William confirmed, “but with the kitchen burned, there will be no facilities for them to cook.”

“There is the summer kitchen,” Darcy pointed out. “If we can provide food and wood or coal, they can prepare food there even though it is November.”

“We can send hot food over from Lucas Lodge for tonight,” Sir William declared. “In the morning, Bennet can decide how to best proceed.”

All three men turned their attention on the master of Longbourn, who was standing at the door of the summer kitchen, staring blankly at the broken window which led into the library.

Sir William grimaced and said, “I will go talk to him.”

“Allow me, sir,” Darcy suggested. He had no particular desire to speak to Bennet, who was, he knew, in shock over the calamity, but Bingley and Sir William were temperamentally more able to manage the distressed and confused servants.

/

Bennet wondered vaguely if this was what dying felt like – like one’s soul was floating outside one’s body, tethered by only the slimmest of holds, a wisp of smoke as thin and fine and ephemeral as what was still trickling from the gaping window of his library.

His library . Burnt to dust and ash. He almost fancied he could see fragments of paper spilling out the eyeless socket that had been the generous window.

Absurd, of course, through the mist and the smoke and the distance.

But the entire situation still felt surreal, why not indulge this fancy too?

Perhaps he would wake tomorrow to find it had all been a terrible nightmare, brought on, perhaps, by falling asleep in his favorite armchair watching the fire in the fireplace.

He would wake and find himself with a crick in his neck and his books whole and untouched as he hid from his wife and daughters rather than flaking to ash.

His wife, who would be dead now without the sharp observation and quick thinking of Mary. His wife whom he had assumed was downstairs, whom he avoided so assiduously as to be unaware that she had not come out of her bedchamber all day. Whom he would have unknowingly abandoned to a terrible death.

And Mary. Brave clever Mary. Who could have died. Who could even now be dying in a house in Meryton while he stood, staring blankly at the husk of his library, stunned and aching for his precious books.

A faint breeze caught the smoke in the yard and sent it swirling, brushed gently across his damp forehead and tear-wet cheeks before moving on to lift the mist like gauze curtains.

His nose twitched at the scent of burnt paper and leather, the soft sobbing of brokenhearted women an appropriate ambiance to the scene of devastation. He was a ghost in a yard of ghosts.

“Mr. Bennet,” a voice said from his left.

Bennet turned weary eyes on Mr. Darcy, who had just crossed the wet lawn from the stable. The master of Pemberley was dirty and drenched, and his face was slack with weariness.

“Mr. Darcy,” Bennet forced himself to say. “You have my ... I am most grateful for your assistance, sir.”

“It was my honor to help, though I wish I could have done more,” Darcy said gravely.

Bennet bit his lip, hoping that the pain would help him arouse from his stupor. “You and the others saved all but the east wing,” he said, and then his lips stretched into a travesty of a smile, “though I confess that I would have gladly sacrificed any other room in the house than my library.”

Darcy sighed deeply and nodded. “I understand, sir. It is a devastating loss to a bibliophile. At least there was no loss of life.”

Bennet lifted a hand to his eyes to wipe away tears. “My daughter Mary – I confess I am afraid to go to my brother Phillips’ house. What if she…?”

Darcy stared at him in horror. “Did Mr. Jones say that Miss Mary’s condition was serious?”

Bennet swallowed and looked around him. “No, no, he … he was quite certain she would awaken and soon. But when I remember her falling from her mother’s room ... I do apologize, sir. I fear I am not myself at all. There is so much to be done, and I confess that I do not know where to start.”

“You have had a terrible day, Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said, his usually stern face softened with compassion. “The servants have brought the paintings and valuables into the stable for now, and there is little that needs to be done until morning. I suggest you go to Meryton.”

“What of the servants and Mr. Collins?” Bennet asked wearily.

“Sir William Lucas and Mr. Bingley will arrange for their care.”

Bennet nodded and said, “Again, thank you, Mr. Darcy. I owe you all a great debt.”

/

Pig in the Poke Tavern

Meryton

Wickham shifted in his chair, the wood creaking, and cast a disdainful look around the common room of the Pig in the Poke.

With so many of the town’s men at Longbourn, he had easily claimed the best seat, which was next to a window which faced out onto the village’s main street.

Thus, he was not forced to look at the squalid little pub, with its plebeian furniture, half-timbered walls, and the simple oak counter beyond which could be seen the storeroom where the innkeeper kept his kegs and barrels.

The atmosphere of the entire place was rustic and common, nothing like the elegance which Wickham knew was his due.

Still, Meryton had a few notable advantages over London, Wickham thought with a smirk as he quaffed his drink.

Fewer angry fathers of foolish handsome daughters who might suddenly appear to break his nose, fewer angry merchants dunning him to pay debts he had no intention of ever paying.

For all its unsophisticated air, the Pig in the Poke had a very attractive bar-wench and quite palatable food.

There were dozens of merchants ripe for the fleecing in Meryton, and no doubt a bevy of lovely girls available to warm his bed.

He cast a thoughtful eye towards the kitchen doorway, through which he would occasionally get glimpses of women moving around. It was too dim and vague for him to guess at their features, but it was someplace to start – and, anyway, the smells emerging from the room were heavenly.

Boredom sent his gaze wandering back to the window.

Outside, Darcy and Bingley were clopping slowly by on their horses, both men soaked and smoke-smudged and plainly weary to the bone.

Wickham grinned. His offer to escort the Bennet women had worked nicely to help him avoid that same grimy weariness.

He had no interest in fighting fires any time, but even less so when Darcy would be around to cause further problems.

He leaned back in his creaking chair, toying with the idea of wandering outside to taunt Darcy as the man passed.

But no – better not to attract the attention of Georgiana’s elder brother; for all the leverage that Wickham held, he knew Darcy was still furious with him.

He should not tempt that particular fate, no matter how much pleasure it would bring him.

“Is the drink to your liking, sir?” a male voice said, and Wickham jerked before turning a practiced smile toward the middle aged man standing to his right.

“This is wonderful,” Wickham said cheerfully, and drained his glass to show it. “Are you the owner of this fine establishment?”

“I am,” the man replied with a slight bow before turning to bellow, “Sally, another drink for the gentleman!”

“Thank you,” Wickham said. “It is excellent ale, Mr. …”

“Morris,” the publican said. “Are you just passing through Meryton, sir?”

“No, I have recently accepted a commission as a lieutenant in Colonel Forster’s regiment and arrived here only today.”

“Welcome to Meryton, Lieutenant! We have thoroughly enjoyed the presence of the militia these last weeks, and your presence can only add to that pleasure.”

Wickham thought, cynically, that Mr. Morris was probably happiest about the additional customers for his pub, but he would not say such a thing, of course.

The girl arrived at this moment with another glass filled to the brim with dark ale, and Wickham bestowed a nod and a wink to her. “Thank you most kindly.”

At this moment, the main door opened, and a crowd of red coated officers surged in, bringing with them the smell of smoke. Wickham rose and gestured toward Captain Denny, who sauntered through the room and clapped a hand on Morris’s broad shoulder.

“We would appreciate a round of drinks,” Denny said, lifting one hand to wipe his dirty face. “We recently finished helping put out the fire at Longbourn, and are all parched!”

“Of course, Captain!” Morris exclaimed and rushed off.

Denny collapsed into the chair across from Wickham and said, “That was, by far, the most exhausting hours I have ever spent in my military life.”

“I am sorry I missed it,” Wickham said drily.

“So am I,” Denny answered with a chuckle, “but I know you needed to escort the Bennet ladies to their aunt’s home.”

“Indeed,” Wickham replied, then continued, “did the house – Longbourn, I believe it is – burn entirely down?”

Denny sighed just as Sally bustled up with a glass of ale.

He poured it down his throat within a minute and then said, “No, we managed to save all but one wing, and there were no deaths. It is a pity though – the Bennet ladies are quite the most handsome and charming in the entire region, and this will be hard on them.”

“A great pity indeed,” Wickham said with spurious sympathy.

/

The Phillips’ House

Meryton

“Father!” Elizabeth exclaimed, though there was no one to hear her.

Mrs. Bennet had been helped upstairs to the best guest bedchamber, and Kitty and Lydia were sitting with her.

Mary was now resting in the sitting room with Jane in attendance.

Elizabeth, left to watch for Mr. Bennet, flew into the vestibule, through the front door, and down the stairs just as her father’s bay came to a halt on the pavement in front of the Phillips’ residence.

“Father! Oh Father!” she exclaimed as her father swung heavily out of the saddle. “Are you … are you hurt?”

“Not at all, my dear,” Bennet replied, and despite his wet, dirty, pungent clothing, he pulled his favorite daughter into a fervent embrace. “I am well enough. How is Mary?”

“She woke up about an hour ago,” Elizabeth said, and found her eyes filling with tears as her body trembled with relief.

They may have lost Longbourn, but at least her family was safe, and she was thankful.

“Mary is tired and in pain, and her arm is broken, but she is talking sensibly. Do come inside, Father and sit by the fire. I can feel how cold you are. You must warm yourself.”

“Rufus needs to be rubbed down and fed,” Bennet said heavily, “and I daresay the Phillips’ male servants are still on their way back from Longbourn on foot.”

“Mabel can take Rufus to Mr. Milton’s stables and arrange for his care,” Elizabeth said, grabbing the reins from her father’s limp grasp and tying them around a convenient railing. “Do come in, Father. You need to eat and rest.”

Bennet smirked wryly. Once again, he found himself under the direction and dominance of a stronger personality than his own. “Very well, my dear.”