Darcy looked up. The western sky, a high pale blue not a quarter of an hour since, had gone the colour of slate behind the rise, and was coming on fast. There was no warning; it had simply arrived, the way the high country’s squalls didsometimes, out of a clear sky and over the tops before a man could find his hat. It would not be a problem, but nearly half his guests, including Miss Elizabeth, were a great way from any roof.
He would have saddled a horse, but the path was safe for neither rider nor beast, particularly in a storm, and so he simply turned and hurried back.
Georgiana reached him first, having come across the lawn as the weather began to turn, her face turned up to the ruined sky.
A pale flash opened behind the rise.
She stopped short. A moment later the thunder followed, low and uneven, rolling over the park.
“Go in with everyone who is here,” he said, nodding at Mrs. Annesley, the Carstairses, Hurst, and Mr. Pelham. He also saw, with a bit of surprise, that Mrs. Gardiner was here, but Miss Elizabeth was not. “Do not let Lady Carstairs stop upon the steps to admire the lightning. Send one of the footmen down to Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Atherton to warn them to return inside. Richard and I shall bring the rest of them down directly.”
“You have only just dried off,” Georgiana observed, with the ghost of something that, on a less anxious day, might have grown into teasing.
Darcy squeezed her hand. “It cannot be helped,” he said, and went.
He crossed the lower lawn before the next flash came. It showed the whole crest of the rise for an instant—trees, path, and the walkers moving too slowly. The thunder was nearer this time. Darcy lengthened his stride.
The rain had not yet begun where he was, but he could see it now beyond the high ground, a grey curtain drawn across the far side of the park. It was coming on hard, and the walking party was directly in its path.
There was a folly nearby that had been built by Darcy’s grandfather for the view, a small, single round stone chamber with a domed roof, three open arches, and a curved stone bench against one side of the inner wall. It was the only solid roof within half a mile, and the whole strung-out length of the walking party appeared to have been making for it. Bingley had got his sisters under the arches, and was already out again, hatless, starting back down into the rain after the rest. Darcy waved him back. He and Richard could handle the remaining walkers, and it would be of use to have a man at the folly for the others. Bingley, after a moment’s mutiny, acquiesced.
The rest were still on the path, and as Darcy approached, he could see they had stopped—Richard, the two Pelham girls, and Miss Elizabeth.
Then the lightning struck again, not behind the clouds this time, but bare and white over the ridge. For one sharp instant the outline of the whole party stood out against it. Miss Elinor, the youngest member of the walkers, had stopped on the highest and most open stretch, and would not be moved. Miss Pelham had her by one hand and Miss Elizabeth by the other, the two of them talking to her low and steady, in the way one talks a frightened horse past a gate. But the lightning was skimming the tops at her back, nearer with every flash.
Richard could carry the girl who would not walk, but he could not carry the one and shepherd the other two besides.
Now there would be two of them, which made the difference.
There was no time to arrange anything, and the storm settled the matter for them. A flash opened behind the rise, too near and too white, and in the instant before the thunder came, the hair lifted at the back of his neck.
Richard saw it too—or saw enough of it. His expression hardened.
“Forgive me,” he said to the ladies, and stopped being a gentleman. He swept Miss Elinor up bodily—fourteen, soaked, rigid with fright—and Darcy took the other two, Miss Elizabeth on his right and Miss Pelham on his left, put his head down, and brought them off the top of the rise.
The rain came then in earnest, turning the dirt beneath their feet to a stream of mud. The thunder broke almost directly over them. Miss Pelham whimpered and flinched hard against his arm, but Miss Elizabeth neither cried out nor faltered. Darcy had time to see Richard ahead of them, Miss Elinor gathered close against his chest, before the dark closed in again and the path vanished into a pouring rain.
They came in under the arch together, and Bingley had his own coat off and around Miss Elinor at once. As Darcy brought the two women inside, he realised that there was hardly room for them all. The folly had been meant for three or four people at most, and there were eight of them now, pressed into the little round chamber, the rain blowing through all three arches and the stone floor dark with water. Richard was not a small man; Darcy was larger still; and with Bingley and five women besides, every movement required an apology.
Richard wiped the rain from his eyes and gave Darcy one look, which said plainly enough that the task had required both of them.
“Your picnics put me in mind of the Peninsula,” he said, when he had the breath for it. “Flood, fire, lightning, panic in the ranks—and Lady Carstairs with a quoit, which I still contend was the most perilous encounter of the day.”
“I will admit this is not how I had imagined the day proceeding,” said Darcy.
Richard’s mouth twitched. “Simply be a host, Darcy,” he murmured. “They have every one of them had a fright, and you are better at the mending of frights than I am, heaven knows why.”
Darcy pushed the wet hair off his brow and did just that. He had brought no umbrella and no remedy. These summer squalls were often brief, but this summer had been unusually wet, so there was no way to tell how long it would take to blow past. For now, there was nothing for it but to wait it out in the little stone folly and make their time here as easy as possible.
He shifted nearer the centre arch, where the spray off the threshold was worst. It gave him a place to stand without taking space from the ladies.
Across the little chamber, at one end of the curved bench, sat Miss Elizabeth. Her skirts were gathered clear of the wet floor, and her face was turned towards the streaming arch, the storm apparently the most absorbing thing she had ever seen. She did not look at him.
Miss Bingley saw before anyone else that his post by the arch had set him within a half-step of where Miss Elizabeth sat. It was a useful position. It was also, he knew, too near her.
It did not take Miss Bingley long to act.
“Mr. Darcy,” she said, with a glance towards Miss Elinor, who was still trembling under Bingley’s coat, “surely you will not leave that poor child crowded between so many wet gowns. Miss Eliza, perhaps you would be so good as to move to the other side of the arch where there is a little room. You are so fond of storms, I am sure you will not object to the prospect.”