Chapter Seven
E lizabeth inhaled slowly, drawing breath through trembling lips as she relaxed. She coughed, pressing a hand to her ribs at the sharp pain the motion provoked. It was only then, as the first tremors of her shock ebbed away, that she truly began to feel the full measure of her injuries.
Her left arm throbbed, a deep, insistent ache that drew her attention to her forearm. As Mr. Darcy had remarked, her sleeve was torn and damp with blood. The sting of it was sharp. One side of her face was tender, the skin stretched tight and sore. It would likely swell—something hard had struck her as they fell, though she could not say what. Her back, too, was bruised from the impact, and her ribs protested each slight movement. Her left hip, sore and stiff, ached beneath the weight of her own body. And yet, as she tested her limbs, curling her fingers and shifting her legs, she realised with a wash of relief that nothing appeared to be broken. Bruised, battered, and bloodied as she was, she remained whole. And she thought it likely that the reason was Mr. Darcy.
Beyond their ledge, the cavern dropped sharply into deeper darkness. The earth had collapsed unevenly, forming a jagged slope that vanished into a void below. The depth of the pit was uncertain; the dim light did not reach far enough to reveal the cavern floor. However, the faint trickle of loose gravel and the occasional distant echo suggested a greater chasm beneath them.
To their right, another slope led upwards then pitched down, and she wondered if it continued down or headed back up at any point. An attempt to discover where it led might be possible but would certainly be treacherous.
The cavern walls themselves were rough, a mixture of natural limestone and disrupted earth, with places where the folly’s foundation had embedded itself into the soil. The stones bore fresh cracks from the collapse, and thin streams of dust still trickled from above.
The remains of the folly lay scattered like toppled chess pieces, some pillars snapped clean in two, others still partially upright but leaning at precarious angles. Large slabs of the floor, their polished surfaces now fractured and uneven, jutted from the earth at unnatural angles, creating treacherous ledges and deep crevices where darkness pooled.
Mr. Darcy’s voice, low and steady, drew her attention from her observation and discomfort.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, his tone far gentler than she had ever heard it. “Tell me truly—how badly are you injured?”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and she found him studying her, his expression searching, his features drawn tight with concern. In the dim, fractured light filtering from above, she could see him more clearly now, and what she saw made her stomach twist.
There was a long, thin slash just above his right eyebrow. Another gash trailed along the same side of his head, and blood matted his dark hair. The wounds bled freely, though they could not, she thought, be too deep, for he remained as alert as ever. Or nearly so. His gaze, though sharp, bore the faintest edge of weariness.
“You are hurt,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. She had noticed before, but it bore repeating.
He exhaled, a brief, unamused sound. “It is nothing.”
“It is decidedly not nothing,” she countered. “You are bleeding.”
“And yet I live.”
“As do I,” she said pointedly.
His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, she shifted, drawing herself more upright despite the pain it caused. His hand twitched as though he wished to steady her, but he did not move, watching instead as she settled herself against the wall.
He continued to regard her, his concern evident in every careful movement. He spoke to her as though she were a frightened animal, as though any sudden motion might send her fleeing. She found herself strangely touched by the consideration, for had she not been convinced of his indifference?
And yet here he was—bruised and bloodied—because he had risked his very life to save her.
“You saved me,” she said, the words quiet, yet laden with the weight of certainty. “You might have released me when it was clear you would fall too.”
He scoffed as he tugged at his cravat, though the sound was half-hearted. “If I had truly done anything praiseworthy, we would not be here.”
“I disagree,” she said softly. “And for my part, I thank you.”
Something flickered in his expression, a shadow of uncertainty, of something unreadable.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze slipping from hers. For a long moment, he said nothing, and she wondered if he would dismiss her gratitude, if he would deflect once more.
But when he spoke at last, his voice was quieter still.
“I could not have done otherwise, Miss Bennet. I could not—” He hesitated, drawing a breath as though to steady himself. “I would never have let you fall at all could I have prevented it.”
For the first time since they had met, Elizabeth saw him not as the proud and distant gentleman she had long supposed him to be. He was instead a man who had risked all for her sake.
She simply did not understand why.
Mr. Darcy turned his attention to his cravat, his fingers working with slow, deliberate movements to untie the knot at his throat. The linen was already streaked with dust, the once-crisp folds rumpled from their fall. He pulled it free, shaking out the fabric with a brief flick, before reaching towards his boot and withdrawing a small knife.
“You are fortunate not to have lost that in the fall,” she observed quietly, closing her eyes.
“The sheath has to be untied,” he replied. “It is meant to guard against tumbles.” His smiled faintly. “I rather doubt this was what the makers had in mind.”
The glint of steel caught in the dim light filtering through the ruined folly above, and with a few efficient strokes, he cut the cravat into several pieces, a few long, the others square.
Elizabeth watched him in silence, each motion revealing the strain upon his body. He favoured his left arm and though his expression remained composed, she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes narrowed, the careful control he exerted over his breathing. His injuries pained him more than he wished to admit.
“Your arm,” he said, his voice low. “Hold it out to me.”
She hesitated only a moment before obeying, lifting her wounded limb despite the sharp protest of her muscles. He took it carefully, his touch firm yet gentle as he inspected the wound. Blood seeped sluggishly from the gash, staining her sleeve in irregular patterns.
Mr. Darcy said nothing as he worked, finding the cleanest part of the fabric and folding it over itself, securing it with the narrower strips, his fingers grazing her skin as he carefully bound the wound. The warmth of his touch sent a strange shiver through her, an unfamiliar awareness that disturbed her even more than their circumstances.
“Does that feel secure? Not too tight?” he asked once he had finished, his gaze flickering to hers.
She nodded. “It is well enough. Thank you.”
He inclined his head, though he made no reply.
Elizabeth glanced once more at the wound on the side of his head, and the blood still flowing freely from the cut above his eyebrow.
“May I?” she inquired, holding out her hand for his knife.
Blinking, he handed it to her.
She took it, then reached into the pocket of her gown, fingers brushing against the soft folds of linen tucked within. When she withdrew her handkerchief, she unfolded it, turning the clean side inward before pressing it gently against his brow. “Hold this here.”
Mr. Darcy tensed at the contact, his breath hitching ever so slightly, though he did not draw away. Instead, he stilled entirely, his eyes slipping closed as he lifted his hand to apply pressure.
“You ought not have waited to tend me,” she murmured. “You have lost more blood than I.”
“It is my privilege to see to your care,” he said softly.
Elizabeth huffed but said nothing further. She took the knife and turned away, lifting her skirt and cutting several inches up the seam of her petticoat.
“What are you doing?” he asked. “Do not feel you must . . .”
“Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth said sternly. “Tend to your own business there.”
He chuckled quietly.
She worked with hands still trembling, cutting a section of her petticoat into bandages. When she was prepared, she lowered her skirt and wrapped the bandage about his head until both cuts were properly bound. He endured the ministrations without complaint, save for the occasional flinch when she pressed too firmly.
“There,” she said at last, tucking the end of the cloth beneath the binding. “It is done.”
Darcy opened his eyes, their depths dark and unreadable in the faint glow of daylight from above. “I thank you.”
She inclined her head, though her thoughts were too tumultuous for a proper reply. Something in her wanted to laugh, for she was wearing a man’s cravat on her arm, and Mr. Darcy had a lady’s petticoat wrapped around his head. But she feared her laugh might sound as shrill as her mother’s, and so she refrained.
Silence stretched between them for a time, punctuated only by the distant creak of shifting stone and the faint sound of loose gravel pinging against rock somewhere in the depths of the cavernous space. Elizabeth turned her gaze upward, assessing the height of the ruined folly above.
“There is no way to climb out,” she observed, her voice measured.
Mr. Darcy followed her gaze, his expression grim. Clearly, he had already come to the same conclusion. “Not without assistance, I am afraid.”
She exhaled. “Then we must wait.” The pain in her ribs had settled into a dull, persistent ache, her back and hip, certainly bruised, making themselves known with each breath she took.
“You ought to rest,” Mr. Darcy said softly.
“I should say the same to you,” she countered. “I think you have fared worse than I.”
His lips quirked slightly, though it was not quite a smile. “Then let us rest together, Miss Bennet, and hope for a swift rescue.”
She regarded him for a long moment before nodding, allowing herself a greater measure of ease in his presence. For though they were trapped underground beneath the ruin of a folly, she knew with strange certainty that she could not have had a better companion in misfortune.