September Storm Relay Story Part 3

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Without further ado, here’s our third scene from Nicole Clarkston. Enjoy!

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No one seemed to know quite what to do with her. Lady Catherine more closely resembled a drenched cat than a noblewoman, both in figure and manner. She stoutly refused any efforts to conduct her to the kitchen, declaring that a woman of her station ought not even know what a kitchen looked like. Elizabeth thought privately that this opinion of the lady’s might serve to account for the bland and dismal meals served at Rosings.

“Please, Aunt Catherine,” the colonel begged, “everyone is gathered in the drawing room. Surely, you cannot wish to go in there. Not…ah…not in your present state.”

“Unhand me, Fitzwilliam!” Lady Catherine threw off her nephew’s cautions and stormed up the front steps of the house. However, she neglected to negotiate them with the proper care, for her drenched skirts and—it was later found—her still-missing left shoe rendered her somewhat less graceful than was her wont.

She began to stumble, arms pinwheeling as she struggled for balance. She cleared the top two steps—largely because Darcy grasped her shoulders to steady her—but the breadth of the entry proved her undoing and she fell, again face forward, her body traversing the threshold.

Darcy fared little better, and though he banged his shoulder with a loud thump in the door frame, the greater share of his weight landed on his elderly aunt. He flailed about, trying to regain his feet, but he could do little without shoving his knee into the lady. Knightley straddled Lady Catherine to step into the door and help Darcy to his feet, but she was stabbing about with the cane in her free hand and, regrettably, injured him in the most distressing manner known to men.

After he collapsed to the floor—mostly clear of the bodies already clogging it—Bingley managed to succeed where the others had failed. He tugged at Darcy’s feet to permit his friend room to move, then bodily rolled Lady Catherine upright.

“Well!” she cried as she tried to straighten her petticoats. “At least someone has some sense!” She looked up and down Bingley appraisingly, her gaze lingering rather oddly on his ruddy curls, his strong hands, and she gave a peculiar smile. “A tradesman’s son, are you? I do not believe it. You are much too fine and gentlemanly.”

Bingley coughed and stammered his gratitude for the…was it a compliment? He cast a wide-eyed glance at the other gentlemen and shuffled out of sight.

But Lady Catherine was still dripping on the carpets, and no doubt in peril of pneumonia if she were not attended to. Elizabeth tried to help her out of her wet cape, but Lady Catherine rounded on her with such a look of effrontery and–heaven help her–comic dishevelment that Elizabeth felt it wiser to draw back and push Kitty forward to do the honours.

“Oh, dear me, Lady Catherine de Bourgh!” Mrs Bennet was fluttering about that great lady, quite probably doing more harm than good by trying to dab at the mud splattering her attire, and likely only succeeding in grinding it deeper into the cloth. “Oh, do forgive us the state of that bridge. I have told Mr Bennet time and again that this was bound to happen, but would he listen to me? Jane–Jane, dear! Have Mary fetch my salts!”

Lady Catherine was too busy scowling and swatting away Mrs Bennet’s hands to note her hostess’s distress or care about chaos her arrival had created, but she was quite sharp enough to observe her nephew as he tried to sidle out of the room after Bingley. “You!” She thrust a finger towards Darcy and he stopped, his countenance nearly white.

“And you!” Lady Catherine turned round again until she spotted Elizabeth, where she stood with her back against her mother’s tea cabinet. If a grown woman could be said to hiss and spit–figuratively, of course–Lady Catherine most certainly did so as she glared between them. “I would have words with you–you first, Miss Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth could not help it. Really, who could have? For a certainty, it was not every evening that a tall…with broad shoulders and a wet shirt…such expressive eyes…no, it was not every evening that such a man graced her mother’s drawing room, staining the carpets with his boots and cowering in fear of the outraged figure at its center. But that was not what overcame her at last.

It was the feather. The mud-soaked one that dangled down from Lady Catherine’s hat, and persistently tickled her nose and poked at her mouth as she held forth with her umbrage, making her look so very much less intimidating than she would have desired. Elizabeth tried to conceal her smirk, but her body was already shaking with the effort of remaining sober and respectful. The moment she met Mr Darcy’s eyes, all hope was lost.

He snickered first, trying to shield his face with his fist, and then Elizabeth crumpled. She held her stomach as peals of laughter racked her. Lady Catherine’s disgusted protests availed little, for Elizabeth would not be mistress of herself for a long while. Fortunately, her mother was at her back now, pushing her out of the room and towards the kitchens. What became of poor Mr Darcy in the face of his aunt’s wrath, she did not know, but the intrigue of it all was sufficient that Miss Morland followed her out. The girl proved to be just the companion Elizabeth required to compose herself–naive and a bit silly herself, but sweet and honestly perplexed about the whole affair.

They remained in the hall some minutes until the flurry in the next room seemed to quiet, and were considering their return when Miss Bates happened upon them. “Oh!” she cried. “Oh, now, Miss Elizabeth, I was so very much hoping that I would be no trouble. No, indeed, I would never wish to cause any trouble, you see, a nobody like me. The very idea! Why, I could be of no interest to anyone, to be sure, or so I always thought, but I think there has been a very great mistake.”

“What mistake is that?” Miss Morland asked.

Miss Bates folded her hands and cast a nervous look all about her before she leaned forward with a conspiratorial whisper. “Why, the thing is, you see, that the gentlemen have all determined that it is not safe for any of us to leave. And, my dear Miss Elizabeth, you know I would never speak a word against the size of anyone’s house–goodness me, it is so much finer than my own, of course!–but of course, there are so many more of us here now than there usually are…”

“Pray, Miss Bates, just tell me what concerns you,” Elizabeth said. “I presume none of us will have the luxury of privacy, but we will try to make you comfortable.”

“Well,” she answered in a timid voice, “my dear cousin Catherine here is to have the comfort of staying with your own sister Catherine–goodness, how clever is that! How Miss Woodhouse would laugh to hear me speak so! But there remains yet a Catherine without a bed mate, and by elimination or attrition, I suppose I am to be…oh, dear.” She put a hand to her head and nearly swooned but for Miss Morland’s quick attention.

“I will see what is to be done,” Elizabeth promised.

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