The Tolling Bells
The bells tolled with such force that the air itself seemed to shiver.
Coal smoke hung thick above the rooftops, mingling with the sharper reek of pitch, and the cries of Victory at Kingston!
rose from every street. Elizabeth pressed Wicked through the throng, her cloak drawn close, her head bent.
No hand reached for her reins, no sentry demanded her name or errand.
For a heartbeat she was grateful. In her state she could not have explained herself. Yet the relief turned quickly to dread. If she could ride unchallenged into London’s heart, so too could the enemy.
The broad sweep of Whitehall came into view, the towers of Horse Guards rising stern and grey above the tumult.
Elizabeth guided Wicked to the great archway and slid down, her knees nearly giving way.
A sharp cry escaped before she could stifle it.
The pain, dulled for hours by the laudanum, had returned with a vengeance.
Her ribs throbbed in time with her pulse, each breath a labour.
She clenched her jaw and forced herself forward.
“I must speak with Major Darcy,” she said to the clerk who stood near the door, his hands full of papers.
He barely looked at her. “Major Darcy departed hours ago, madam. The Duke of York has dismissed the officers. They are gone about their duties.”
Her pulse leapt. “Then fetch Lieutenant Lucas. He serves under Major Darcy.”
The man’s brows drew together in irritation. “Lieutenant Lucas? There are scores of lieutenants, and all long since gone. I cannot summon officers for the whims of a lady.”
Another man nearby laughed. “Best tend your household, madam, and leave the army to its own.”
Elizabeth’s throat burned with unshed words.
To speak of French soldiers marching still upon the road, of a traitor in red, would be to expose all.
Yet to be dismissed so lightly, when her very country hung in the balance, threatened to break her resolve.
Her vision wavered, the edges darkening, and she gripped the desk for steadiness.
She staggered back, catching Wicked’s bridle for support. Darcy had gone. William had gone. She was too late.
For a moment despair pressed hard upon her chest. Where could she turn?
Carlton House, where the Regent held court amid celebration?
To search the streets blindly in hope of finding William?
Or to her uncle’s house, where she might at least rest and think?
The warning burned in her throat, unsaid, and time slipped like water through her fingers.
Elizabeth swung into the saddle once more, biting back a groan as her ribs protested. The last light had bled from the sky. Darkness pressed close, broken only by the flare of lamps and the orange glow of pitch torches.
The city opened before her in shadow and flicker.
Houses rose tall and severe, their brass knockers gleaming, their windows curtained against the night.
Carriages rattled past with crests she did not know, lamps flaring, wheels hissing on the damp stones.
This was a world far from Gracechurch Street, far from Longbourn, where wealth and power moved unseen behind shuttered glass.
She pressed Wicked on. No one stopped her.
No watchman hailed her, no servant asked her errand.
For that she was glad, for she had no words ready.
Yet the ease unsettled her. If she could pass so freely, might not others also?
Men with muskets hidden beneath their coats, voices speaking foreign words in the dark?
She urged Wicked eastward, the glow of the city ahead. She must reach her uncle’s house, she must find safety, and yet her thoughts circled always back to the same point. Somewhere in these streets was Major Darcy. If only she knew where.
She turned Wicked down a quieter street, its lamps burning low, the rattle of wheels muffled by distance.
The stallion’s flanks were damp, his breath rising white in the chill, and Elizabeth’s own strength threatened to give way.
Her side burned now with every movement, the pain creeping like fire beneath her skin. The laudanum was spent.
She drew him to a halt beside a narrow mews and slid stiffly to the ground. For a moment her knees gave beneath her, and she caught at the bridle for support. Wicked shook his head, impatient, but bent obediently to the bit of grass that edged the stones.
Elizabeth lowered herself onto a low step at the corner of a shuttered shop.
The cold seeped through her cloak, but she scarcely felt it.
Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, her ribs throbbed, her head swam.
The world tilted. She told herself she would rise again in a moment, that she only needed to draw breath before going on.
Her eyes closed.
Just for a moment, she thought. Only until her strength returned.
The hum of the city faded, the lamplight blurred.
Sleep stole upon her before she could resist, heavy and certain as the night.
Wicked lifted his head at last, the reins slipping from her slackened grasp.
He stood watchful in the quiet street, ears flicking to every sound, his body restless with the memory of the road.
Then, with a sudden toss of his mane, he turned toward the west, hooves ringing sharp against the stones, as though he knew where help might yet be found.
* * *
Darcy descended the wide staircase of Matlock House with measured tread, the murmur of grief still echoing from the chamber above.
The Earl had bowed beneath the news, his genial warmth struck dumb by sorrow.
The Countess had sat pale and still, her daughters close about her.
Lady Henrietta’s weeping had filled the room, a torrent of lament, while Lady Rowena had gone rigid and silent, her eyes fixed upon nothing, as though all sound had been struck from her.
The Viscount had gathered his wife and children away, seeking to shield them from the storm.
Darcy had spoken what must be spoken, offered what little comfort his presence could provide, and then excused himself with as much dignity as grief would allow. He could do no more. His place now was elsewhere.
The butler bowed low as he passed into the hall, the marble floor gleaming beneath the chandeliers, portraits of Fitzwilliam ancestors gazing down with austere calm. Darcy drew his cloak about him and stepped out into the cold night.
The carriage waited in the square, its lamps throwing long streaks of light across the cobbles. Within sat Bingley, his face grave. As Darcy mounted, his friend asked softly, “How did they bear it?”
Darcy settled opposite, his gloves tight in his hand. “As well as any may bear the loss of a son. The Earl is struck silent. The Countess has not stirred. Lady Rowena spoke no word, while Lady Henrietta’s grief was loud enough for all. The Viscount has taken his wife and children away.”
Bingley inclined his head, his expression sorrowful. He asked no more, and the wheels turned, carrying them from the house of mourning.
The carriage turned at last into quieter streets.
The noise of London, though still clamorous in the distance, seemed to fall away here, the lamps throwing long pools of light across the wet cobbles.
When the horses drew up before Darcy House, the familiar facade rose grey and steady against the autumn night, its columns stark, its windows aglow. Darcy clasped Bingley’s hand briefly.
“Thank you,” he said, the words quiet but sincere.
Bingley returned the pressure. “You have strength yet, Darcy. You must keep it for her.”
Darcy stepped down, the chill biting sharp against his cheek. He lingered a moment, his hand upon the carriage door.
Bingley regarded him with quiet concern. “I shall leave you here. I must go and meet Caroline. You have borne much already.”
Darcy inclined his head, his gratitude unspoken but plain. The wheels rattled away, carrying his friend into the night, and Darcy mounted the steps alone.
The great doors opened at once, Williams, the butler, bowing low. “Major Darcy. Welcome home.”
Darcy’s voice was steady though his chest was hollowed by grief. “Is my sister within?”
“She is, sir. Miss Darcy has remained at home all evening.”
Darcy gave a single nod. “I shall see her at once.”
He stepped into the hall, the hush of his own house closing around him.
The marble floor gleamed in the lamplight, the air still with the scent of beeswax and smoke.
It was his own domain, yet never had it felt so heavy, nor the silence so deep.
Above, somewhere in those quiet rooms, Georgiana waited, innocent still of the loss that must be told.
Darcy drew a slow breath, set his shoulders, and mounted the stair.
The dining parlour was lit warmly, the table laid though only one place was set. Georgiana rose as he entered, her embroidery falling forgotten from her hand.
“Brother,” she exclaimed softly, her eyes bright with relief. “At last. I had begun to fear.”
He crossed to her at once and drew her into his embrace. She was taller now, but still slight beneath his arms, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “You need fear nothing,” he said, his voice even though the words cost him. “I am safe.”
She stepped back, studying him with anxious eyes. “You look so worn. Will you not sit and eat? I told Mrs Annesley you would have need of something warm, no matter the hour.”
Darcy allowed himself to be guided to the table.
A simple meal was set before him, broth, bread, and a glass of claret.
He ate sparingly, more to reassure her than from hunger.
Georgiana sat opposite, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, as though holding back all the questions that pressed upon her.
At length she spoke. “Your last letter said you were leaving Baldham Heath, that you were to meet Richard in Haslemere. I have thought of little else since. Tell me, is he well? He must be with you?”