“I never jest about such matters, my dear,” he replied, holding the newspaper aloft. “It says here the blaze began late last night and consumed the building entirely.”
“It was magnificent,” Elizabeth murmured sadly, more to herself than anyone else.
Jane’s brows knit together. “How terrible. Were the fire brigades unable to extinguish it, then?”
“Apparently not,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone dry. “It seems the firemen did not arrive until an hour after the blaze began. And when they did arrive, there was no water to be had.”
“No water?” Elizabeth echoed, incredulous. “But they have—hadthose large cisterns on the roof, did they not?”
“Empty,” he said with a shrug. “No one knows why, at least not yet. By the time other sources of water were found, the fire had consumed nearly everything.”
Jane placed a hand to her heart. “Was anyone hurt?”
“One man killed,” Mr. Bennet replied, his tone sober. “A wall collapsed on him during the efforts to extinguish the flames. Beyond that, very little could be saved.”
Mary set down her toast, her expression somber. “It is a tragedy that such a cultural institution could be lost to negligence.”
Elizabeth nodded, her mind drifting to the performances she had seen there with the Gardiners. “I remember how grand it was,” she said wistfully. “The chandeliers sparkling, the actors commanding the stage. Jane, do you recall the evening we saw Twelfth Night?”
Jane’s lips curved into a small smile. “I do. You were so taken with Viola’s line, ‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate.’ You repeated it for days afterward.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Well, it is a fine line. Shakespeare knew how to turn a phrase.”
Mary sighed heavily. “I suppose I shall not attend the theater when I visit the Gardiners after all. I was quite looking forward to my first play.”
“Not unless you care to sit among the ashes,” Mr. Bennet quipped, earning a giggle from Lydia.
“Perhaps when it is rebuilt before your come-out,” Jane said with a gentle smile.
“Rebuilt?” Mr. Bennet scoffed, folding the paper. “With what funds? The theater was already drowning in debt from its recent refurbishments. I will eat my hat if Sheridan will not be in debt for three hundred thousand pounds by the time it is finished, and I doubt insurance will cover a tenth of that.”
“Three hundred thousand?” gasped Lydia. “La, I should be an actress with that kind of money!”
Kitty giggled along with her sister, but both fell silent at a quelling look from their father. A thought struck her, and her eyes widened. “Does this mean all of London could burn again, like it did before?”
“Do not be silly,” Lydia scoffed. “They are far too clever now to let that happen.”
“Are they?” Mrs. Bennet fretted, waving a handkerchief. “Oh, Mr. Bennet, what of my brother and his family? Could they be in danger?”
Mr. Bennet sighed. “Calm yourself, my dear. Your brother lives in Cheapside, which is a great distance from the theaters. London is not the tinderbox it once was.”
“Why not?” Kitty asked, her face as anxious as her mother’s.
“Well, after the Great Fire of 1666, they rebuilt the city with wider streets and brick buildings to prevent such a calamity from occurring again. That, coupled with the formation of fire brigades, new building regulations, and tiled roofs should prevent even large fires from wreaking complete destruction.”
“But two theaters have burned in a matter of months,” Elizabeth pointed out, her tone thoughtful. “First Covent Garden, now Drury Lane. That cannot be a coincidence.”
Jane tilted her head, her voice gentle. “Perhaps it is merely unfortunate timing.”
“Perhaps,” Elizabeth allowed. “But it seems odd. And to think,” Elizabeth said, her tone lighter, “that we shall never again hear, ‘If music be the food of love, play on,’ from such a stage.” She glanced at Jane with a wistful smile.
Mr. Bennet shook his head, standing with his customary air of wearied patience. “That is quite enough excitement for one morning. I have spoken more to my children than I care to in a day. I shall retire to my study to recover.” He gave them all a grin and bow, then left the room.
The Bennet sisters exchanged smiles, knowing their father to be in jest. Despite the dire news, their father’s wit remained as constant as the rising sun.
As Elizabeth looked around the room at her sisters and mother, whose conversation moved to lighter topics, she could not help but feel a pang of unease lingering beneath her outward composure. While her family’s mindless chatter continued—the newest fashions, Lydia’s endless fantasies of balls, and Kitty’s musings on ribbons—Elizabeth’s thoughts remained tethered to the morning’s news.
Two theaters, both pillars of London’s culture, reduced to ashes in such a short span of time. It was troubling, to say the least. The thought of those glittering halls, now blackened ruins, struck a melancholy chord. More than that, it unsettled her sense of security, reminding her how fragile even the grandest institutions could be.
