London in Shadow
The night air cut sharp as Darcy swung into the saddle. Wicked tossed his head and stamped, the bit flecked with foam, his dark flanks heaving as though fresh from battle. Every line of the stallion spoke of haste, of distance covered with desperate speed.
Darcy pressed his knees to the horse’s sides, steadying him. “Very well, then. Show me.”
The stallion surged forward, hooves striking sparks upon the cobbles, the grooms scattering back in alarm.
The carriage wheels rumbled behind, the driver wisely keeping to a slower pace lest the team founder.
Soon the sound diminished, yet Darcy knew they followed still, their lanterns bobbing faintly in the gloom.
Wicked needed no urging; his stride lengthening with every turn, as though he carried knowledge Darcy had yet to grasp.
They passed swiftly through streets where the lamps burned low and the smoke of pitch fires clung thick. Bells tolled still, their iron clamour echoing across the city, mingled with cries of “Victory!” from unseen throats. Yet here, away from the main thoroughfares, shadows pressed close.
Darcy’s jaw tightened. What folly was this, to follow a horse as though he bore some message?
And yet, no other explanation presented itself.
Wicked had been left behind at Kingston.
No hand there could have urged him so far, so fast. The evidence of his lathered flanks and tangled mane admitted no gentler use.
Someone had ridden him hard, and only one thought, however impossible, could account for it.
Darcy urged him on, the wind of their passage stinging his eyes. Hope warred with reason, pounding in his chest with every beat of the stallion’s hooves.
At last Wicked slowed of his own accord, tossing his head as he turned into a narrow mews. His ears pricked, his stride shortened, and he drew up before a shuttered shop.
Darcy reined in, his gaze narrowing. The street was silent except for the faint hiss of a distant lamp and the soft drip of water from a gutter. He saw no guard, no waiting messenger, nothing but the pale outline of a figure huddled upon the step.
For a moment he thought it a beggar, some wretch overcome by drink or cold. Such sights were not rare in London. Yet Wicked stamped and snorted, neck stretched toward the still form, as though urging Darcy to see more clearly.
Darcy swung down, boots striking the stones. He advanced warily, his breath misting in the night air. The figure was slight, cloaked, the hood fallen askew. A glimmer of lamplight caught upon loosened strands of dark hair.
He stopped short, every muscle taut.
The hand that lay against the stone was pale and fine-boned. Not the hand of a beggar, nor of any common vagrant.
Darcy’s pulse thundered. He dropped to one knee, reaching with a trembling hand to turn the face toward him.
Elizabeth.
Her lashes lay dark against her cheeks, her lips parted in sleep, her breath soft but steady. Exhaustion had claimed her utterly, heedless of the cold or the peril of the streets.
For an instant he could not move. Relief, disbelief, and fear all struck at once, leaving him shaken to the core. She was alive. Against all expectation, all reason, she was alive.
“Elizabeth,” he whispered, scarcely trusting his voice.
She did not stir.
“Elizabeth,” he said again, bending close.
Still she did not move.
His hand trembled only once before he mastered it, fingers seeking lightly at her throat. A pulse beat there, faint but steady. Her breath brushed against his cheek, warm in the cold night. Relief struck through him so sharp it left him near dizzy.
Darcy’s gaze swept over her in the lamplight. The hem of her gown was torn and muddied, her cloak stained, her boots scuffed raw. No wound showed itself at once, yet her pallor spoke of trial beyond endurance. His chest tightened at the thought of what might have brought her here, alone and spent.
The distant clatter of wheels grew steadily louder down the narrow street. At last the carriage lamps swung into view, their glow spilling against the walls as the team drew up hard at the mouth of the mews. Wicked stamped and tossed his head, answering the horses’ approach.
The sound of hooves and a bobbing lantern reached him; the carriage had caught up at last, its wheels grinding to a halt at the mouth of the mews. Jack, one of the grooms, hurried forward with the lantern raised, his face pale with alarm.
Darcy rose swiftly, his voice low but firm. “You, Jack, run to fetch Doctor Russell. Lose no time.”
The groom gave a quick nod and dashed off down the street, the light bobbing in his grasp. The others stood hushed, their eyes upon the still figure at Darcy’s side.
Darcy gathered her cloak more closely about her and brushed a strand of hair from her brow with a touch he could not quite steady. “You are safe now,” he murmured, though she could not hear. “Safe.”
The carriage jolted, and Elizabeth swayed. Darcy tightened his hold, steadying her against his shoulder, his arm firm about her to keep her from slipping to the floor. She was feather-light beneath his grasp, yet the weight of her presence bore heavily upon him.
He kept one hand firm about hers, the other braced against her back to hold her upright as the wheels jolted over the uneven stones. Every turn, every rattle of the harness, seemed some new peril to her frail rest.
His mind raced. Was Darcy House the right refuge?
She had a sister, Miss Bennet. He had left her in Miss Bennet’s care, certain that gentleness and sense would prevail, where his own duty forbade him to linger.
He had left a carriage at Kingston, believing she would be conveyed in safety.
Yet here she was, alone, torn and spent, and Wicked lathered from a desperate ride.
Where was Miss Bennet? Where was the carriage? Had they been separated upon the road, or had Elizabeth gone astray of her own will? If her sister were here, he might have answers. As it was, there was only silence, her head pillowed against his shoulder, her lips parted in restless sleep.
Darcy drew her cloak more closely about her, shielding her from the draught that crept beneath the door. His hand lingered upon hers, steadying, assuring himself of the warmth yet in her grasp.
He set his jaw. Whatever mystery surrounded her arrival, whatever peril had driven her to this pass, he would see her safe first. All else must wait.
The carriage drew up before Darcy House, its lamps cutting through the night. Darcy stepped down at once, Elizabeth held firmly in his arms. Her weight was slight, yet each step up the stone stair carried the burden of all she had endured.
The great door swung open before he reached it. Williams, grave and silent, stood ready, the glow of lanterns behind him. Servants murmured in astonishment, but at a glance from their master they fell back into order.
“Have a fire lit in the receiving parlour,” Darcy said, his voice clipped but steady. “Bring blankets. Send for wine and broth.”
He crossed the threshold, boots striking the marble, and turned at once into the small parlour that opened off the hall. The room was dark, but a servant hastened ahead with a taper. Firelight flared against the panelled walls, catching at gilt frames and polished brass.
Darcy set Elizabeth gently upon a settee near the hearth, drawing her cloak close about her. She stirred faintly, a whisper of breath against his cheek, but did not rouse. He brushed a strand of hair from her brow, his hand lingering despite himself.
“Brother?”
The voice was soft but urgent. Georgiana was descending the stair, her slippers light on the treads, her eyes wide. She halted in the doorway, the light of the fire falling across her face.
“Fitzwilliam, who is this? What has happened?”
Darcy straightened, his jaw set. “A lady in need. That is all you need know for the present.”
Georgiana came nearer, her hands twisting in her gown. She looked from Darcy to the still figure on the settee, her face pale with confusion. “She is insensible. Was she attacked?”
Darcy’s gaze dropped to Elizabeth once more. “I do not know,” he said quietly. “But she lives, and the doctor is on his way.”
Georgiana hesitated, then knelt beside the settee, her hand hovering above Elizabeth’s but not quite daring to touch. Her voice trembled. “She looks so unwell. Will she wake?”
Darcy turned aside, unable to answer. He knew no more than she. Why Elizabeth had come alone, where her sister might be, what had befallen the carriage, all was still hidden from him.
Mrs Annesley appeared then, drawn by the commotion. She crossed the threshold with calm assurance, her hand light upon Georgiana’s arm. “Miss Darcy, you must not distress yourself. Let us see to what may be done.”
Darcy inclined his head in silent gratitude. He stood over them both, every sense taut, listening for the sound of wheels upon the street. The doctor must come soon.
The fire burned steadily in the receiving parlour, its glow throwing long shadows across the wainscoting.
Elizabeth lay insensible upon the settee, her cloak drawn close, Georgiana and Mrs Annesley keeping anxious vigil at her side.
Darcy stood apart, every nerve strained for the faint rise and fall of her breath.
The rattle of wheels broke through the hush, loud in the still night. Hooves struck the cobbles outside, and the flare of carriage lamps lit the square beyond the window. Darcy’s chest tightened. He crossed swiftly into the hall.
The great doors swung wide. Cold air gusted in as Bingley entered first, his arm steady about Miss Bennet, whose face was pale with alarm. Lieutenant William Lucas followed close, grave and watchful.
Miss Bennet’s voice broke the silence at once. “Major Darcy, she is here? My sister, tell me she is here.”
Darcy inclined his head, but before he could frame a reply her words tumbled on, quick and desperate.
“She was so strange when she left me. She would not explain, only said she must go on, that she could not delay, and then she leapt from the carriage before I could stop her.” Her eyes, wide with grief, lifted to his. “I have not seen her since.”
The admission struck him like a blow. Elizabeth, riding alone, pressed to such extremes, what had driven her so far? His mind seized upon the fragments: Wicked lathered and near spent, her gown torn, her strength all but gone.
Darcy could not soften the truth. “She is within. Doctor Russell has been sent for.”
Miss Bennet’s breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her lips.
Without another word, she hastened past him, her step faltering only as she crossed the parlour threshold.
Darcy followed with his eyes as she dropped to her knees beside the settee, gathering Elizabeth’s limp hand between her own.
Her shoulders shook, though her voice was low and steady as she whispered her sister’s name again and again.
Bingley moved at once to her side, his concern plain, while Lucas stood a little back, watchful but grave.
The household stirred around them, servants bearing water and linen, Mrs Annesley hovering near Georgiana, who had drawn back at the arrival of the others.
Williams closed the great doors against the night, yet remained close, in case he was needed.
Darcy stood for a moment watching the scene before him, then turned aside to Lucas as Bingley left Miss Bennet’s side and joined them. Darcy’s voice was low. “Where did you find Miss Bennet?”
Bingley’s face was troubled. “She came to us but an hour ago, wild with anxiety. Saying only that her sister had gone on ahead and that she must see you at once. She gave us no rest until we brought her here, certain you would know what to do.”
Lucas added gravely, “She scarce paused even to take breath. It seemed to me she feared what delay might cost.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened. So Miss Bennet had reached London still searching, desperate to find both her sister and himself. Elizabeth, meanwhile, had ridden alone until her strength gave way. Two sisters scattered on the road, each pressed beyond endurance.
From the parlour came the low murmur of Miss Bennet’s voice, soothing, though Darcy knew her tears were falling freely. The sound pierced him to the quick.
“How did Miss Elizabeth come to be here, sir?” Lucas asked, his gaze fixed upon the still figure on the settee.
Darcy’s hand closed upon the back of a chair, steadying himself. “Not far. She was spent. Wicked brought me to her,” he said at last.
Bingley drew a sharp breath. “Alone? In such a city, good God, Darcy!”
Darcy met his friend’s alarm with calm words. “She is here now, and Doctor Russell will see to her. That is all that matters.”
Lucas inclined his head, though his eyes lingered on Elizabeth with unspoken understanding.
From within the parlour Jane’s voice rose again, low but urgent, Elizabeth’s name repeated in tones that tore at Darcy’s composure. He turned from the men. “We will let the doctor judge her condition. Until then, we can only wait.”
Miss Bennet pressed a trembling hand to her temple.
“There is something more she said, something I did not understand.” She looked from one to the other.
“She whispered that the river had not taken them all. At the time I thought her confused, perhaps speaking of her belongings, for I had heard it said they were lost. But she was so intent, so urgent. She begged me only to tell you.”
Darcy’s blood chilled. The river had not taken them all. Not baggage, not wreckage, men. Survivors. Frenchmen still abroad. His pulse quickened, but outwardly he schooled his features to calm.
“You have done rightly, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice measured. “You were right to bring it to me.”
Her eyes searched his, bewildered still, but before more could be spoken the sound of hurried steps echoed in the passage. A groom appeared, lantern in hand, breathless. “Doctor Russell is here, sir.”
Relief struck through Darcy like air to a drowning man. He turned at once. “Bring him in without delay.”
The butler stepped aside as the physician entered, his case clutched close. Russell bowed briefly to Darcy before moving past him into the parlour. Darcy followed, the weight of Jane’s words pressing heavy upon his heart.
Elizabeth lay still, pale against the pillows, the firelight playing across her face. Soon the surgeon would speak, and perhaps at last some answers might be wrested from the silence.