Chapter Eight
I t had been at least an hour since the collapse, Darcy thought, and the silence that had settled between them was no longer as heavy with shock or pain. Though their circumstances remained dire, the urgency of their situation had abated somewhat. They had tended their wounds as best they could, and now there was nothing to do but wait.
Darcy shifted slightly, suppressing a grimace. The pain in his ribs was lessening, leading him to believe that they were not terribly injured, but his headache was worse. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to remain still. “I knew the folly was unstable,” he admitted, his voice even. “I believed no one used it, or I would have warned you.”
Miss Elizabeth turned her head to him, her brows lifting in surprise. “You knew? How?”
He murmured an assent. “It was one of my aunt’s many indulgences. A folly in every sense of the word. My Uncle de Bourgh had a map noting some of the hills around the estate as possibly having deneholes. There are such hills across this region of Kent.” He was about to explain what those were, but Miss Elizabeth interrupted.
“Do you mean the underground chambers from the medieval period? I read about those as a child and dragged Jane out to look for them. Alas,” she said with a little laugh, “there are no old chalk mines in Hertfordshire.” She paused, touching the side of her face that Darcy could not see. “I wish there were none in Kent.”
Unfortunately, there were many of them in Kent. Over time, some of the old deneholes had experienced collapses such as this. Although so far as he knew, none of them had a thirty-ton folly sitting atop it when they did.
“I was assured it would be well,” he said, still angry about being placated and ignored. “And when I pressed the matter, I was treated as though I were a child fretting over the dark.” A wry note entered his voice, and he sighed. “For all my status as master of Pemberley, I remain the youngest male in my family. They still look upon me as a boy.”
Miss Elizabeth regarded him curiously. “Even your cousin the colonel?”
Darcy gave a dry chuckle. “At times, especially Fitz. He endures my aunt’s scoldings as a soldier might endure an unwanted command—without pleasure, but without argument. And he encourages me to do the same. It frustrates me no end.”
She hummed in sympathy, then looked over at him and tilted her head. In the weak light, he could see a teasing expression upon her countenance. “Well, Mr. Darcy, you have a great triumph now. You have been proven right beyond any doubt. You may hold this over them forever.”
At that, he laughed—an unguarded, genuine sound that echoed strangely in their cavern. But he immediately groaned, pressing a hand to his side. “The silver lining,” he muttered. “Trust you to find it, Miss Bennet.”
Miss Elizabeth winced. “I am sorry. It was not my intention to do you further injury.”
“You need not apologise. I would far rather bear the pain than the alternative.”
"Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud/Turn forth her silver lining on the night?" she breathed. “I should have known you would appreciate Milton’s poetry, sir.”
The slightest upturn of his lips made her feel better. “I should have known you would recognize it.”
They both sat quietly for a moment.
“May I ask . . .” Her voice trailed away.
“Please, Miss Bennet, ask whatever you wish.”
“If you thought the folly liable to collapse, why did you not mention it to me when we discussed it?”
“You said you did not like it, that you preferred the bluebells. As there seemed no danger to you, I did not like to expose the argument with my aunt, particularly as I could not seem to win it.” He closed his eyes. “My pride, I suppose.” His heart sank, for it was his own pride that had put Miss Elizabeth in danger as much as his aunt’s.
She was silent for a moment, studying him with a look he could not decipher. Then, with a small sigh, she leaned her head against the wall behind her. “I do not think you can be blamed for not knowing that I would be sitting in a folly I claimed to dislike at the precise moment the hill decided to swallow it up.”
“You are kind to say so.”
“Mr. Darcy.” She sighed. “I would never have thought it, but you do have something in common with my sister Jane. You both take blame for things that are not yours to own.”
Darcy thanked her.
“As for your family—I understand your frustration more than you might think,” she said quietly. “As the second daughter, I have long known my place. Jane is the maternal one—kind, patient, steady. I have always been the protector. It was my place to guard against my younger sisters’ follies, to smooth over my father’s neglect, to divert my mother’s worst impulses. But they are older now, less willing to listen—and it is a losing battle when I have no support from either parent.”
There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, and Darcy turned his head towards her, watching as she gazed off at some distant point. He had often thought of her family, had judged them harshly, but he had never considered what it must be to live among them, to love them despite their faults. Though he did understand the weight of duty without the strength of authority. He felt that acutely just now.
“You think little of my family, Mr. Darcy,” she said, turning to look at him. “I know it. But tell me, do you not love your aunt, despite all her shortcomings? Even despite this folly?” She paused. “Or what is left of it?”
Darcy exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly and then regretting that he had. “At this moment, I do not possess any tender feelings for her at all.”
It was Miss Elizabeth’s turn to let out a startled laugh, and Darcy could not help but smile in return.
“Entirely fair,” she said.
They sat in silence for a time until Miss Elizabeth said something softly.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“I asked, how is your sister? Am I to wish her and Mr. Bingley happy?”
“What?” He was all confusion, and his aching head did not help. “Whatever gave you such a notion?”
Her brows pinched together. “Miss Bingley sent Jane a letter when she closed Netherfield, informing her that Mr. Bingley preferred to be in town because he was courting your sister. According to her, you were all in expectation of an announcement.”
This was beyond believing, even for Miss Bingley. “My sister,” he said, “is not even out.”
Miss Elizabeth turned her head to meet his gaze. “I will not pretend that Jane was not greatly hurt by Mr. Bingley’s abandonment, but it would be better to know.”
“My sister is not betrothed to anyone,” he insisted. “She has only just turned sixteen, and I would ask you not to repeat Miss Bingley’s insinuations.”
Miss Elizabeth indicated their surroundings with a careful flick of her wrist. “That will not be a problem, sir.” She closed her eyes. “The note was sent last autumn. If Jane has shown it to my aunt, I would not blame her, but we do not gossip.”
Well, there was that, at least. Darcy silently cursed Miss Bingley and then grew thoughtful. “I truly did not detect any particular interest in Bingley on your sister’s part.”
Miss Elizabeth’s reply was gentler than he had expected but still held a chastising note. “A woman is warned not to show her feelings before the man has spoken of his own. You have a sister. You should know that.”
He should.
After a few moments, Miss Elizabeth continued. “My sister told me that Mr. Bingley was just what a young man ought to be, which for her is high praise indeed.” She swallowed and attempted to shift her position. “If we are ever rescued, I trust you will at least inform your friend that you were wrong. Even if Mr. Bingley no longer cares for Jane, he ought to know, and to take better care not to injure another lady in future.”
He did not reply. He needed to think on it, and their situation made that difficult.
“And Miss Bingley?” Miss Elizabeth prodded after a few moments had passed. “Did she have the same thought about your sister and her brother?”
“For a different reason, but I am certain that she did.” Darcy’s lips curled in distaste. “No doubt she believes a match between them would secure her own position. However, she overestimates her influence. Bingley is kind, but not so easily led.”
“No?”
“His sisters attempted to dissuade him, but he would have returned anyway. He was only persuaded when I said that Miss Bennet did not favour him, but that her parents might insist she wed him anyway.”
Miss Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. “We have discussed my sister’s true feelings, so I will not repeat myself there.”
Darcy nodded once, grateful for that. He had never intended to hurt the eldest Miss Bennet. But he admitted to himself that he had not considered her feelings of much importance, either. To his shame, he had been thinking more of himself than either Bingley or Miss Jane Bennet.
It seemed that those who ought to have listened to him had not, and those who ought to have ignored him had listened.
“I will write to Bingley when we are rescued and tell him I have it on very good authority that I was mistaken.”
He expected her to thank him, but instead, she asked, “You are certain, then, that we shall be rescued?”
Miss Elizabeth was attempting to be stalwart, but he could detect a little tremor in her voice. He sought to reassure her.
“I am. Fitzwilliam will look for me if no one else does.”
She nodded. “And Charlotte will search for me, but I did not intend to walk here today, and so she may not realise until I do not return. It could be hours yet.”
“Surely they could hear the sound of the collapse even at Rosings,” he said with a sigh. “Fitzwilliam will want to tell me. He will realise I am nowhere to be found.”
Miss Elizabeth sniffed, though he thought it was more a reaction to the dust than because she was weeping. “Then I shall hold you to your promise of a letter, sir. For you were not simply mistaken, you were wrong .”
He sighed. “I admit it, Miss Bennet. You know your sister best. I was wrong.”
“Thank you.”
“There is no need to thank me for correcting an error.”
She was quiet for a moment, then sighed. “As long as I am canvassing things we would rather not discuss in a place we would rather not be,” she said in a tired attempt at lightness, “I have been thinking over your words about Mr. Wickham from the ball at Netherfield. You told me then that his talent was in making friends, not in keeping them. Do you recall?”
Of course he recalled. He had been determined to dance with her just once before he left Hertfordshire and her company forever. “I do.”
“After you left, a local girl inherited ten thousand pounds from an uncle she never knew, and Mr. Wickham suddenly began courting her when he had never so much as spoken with her before.” She shook her head. “I am a hypocrite. I condemned Charlotte for making just such a match with Mr. Collins, yet I defended him for forwarding a friendship with me and then courting another because she had a better situation. I am a fickle creature.”
It was not, by far, the worst thing a woman had done around Wickham. “Not at all. I do hope—I hope you were not injured by him.” He awaited her answer with trepidation, but her reply was reassuring.
“I was not, which was sign enough that I had been foolish.” She sounded confident and not at all bitter. “But I would still like to hear you respond to his claims of being cheated out of an inheritance. I suspect he has not been honest with me, and I should tell people so when I return home.” She whispered something to herself, which Darcy thought might be “We shall return home.”
“He has not been truthful.” Darcy hesitated. He was weary and pained, but they had perhaps hours ahead of them to wait and required distraction. He might as well take advantage of the time alone with her to resolve any misunderstandings. “My father asked that Wickham be given a valuable family living if he took orders. He did not take orders. He asked for five thousand pounds instead.”
Miss Elizabeth gasped. “So much?”
“Mm,” he said in assent. “I gave him three. Three thousand pounds in lieu of a living he was not eligible to receive. And he had another thousand as a bequest from my father. But Wickham always wants more.” More money, more power, more—well, that was not for a maiden’s ears. “He returned after the living fell vacant, told me his circumstances had changed and he now required the living, meaning that he had spent all the money he had been given. He insisted my father wished him to have it, and I was rather intemperate with him over the presumption. I believe my refusal is what later led him to target my sister.”
“Your sister?” she asked sharply.
Darcy closed his eyes at the alarm in her voice. He was an idiot.
“What did he do to your sister?”
He sighed. “I ought not to have said that. But I did not warn you about the folly and I did not warn you properly about Wickham. At least with the latter, you will be able to act upon your improved knowledge of his character. I know you will be discreet.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“Last summer, Wickham followed my sister and her companion to Ramsgate. In league with the woman I had hired to be my sister’s companion, he attempted to seduce Georgiana and convince her to consent to an elopement.”
Miss Elizabeth’s small gasp felt very loud in his ears.
“I arrived, by chance, the day before they were to leave. She confessed everything to me at once and hoped that I would attend their wedding. After I wrote to Wickham to inform him that my sister’s fortune would never be his, he left Ramsgate immediately.”
“That—” Miss Elizabeth cut herself off, as though struggling for a word strong enough to convey her disgust. “That scoundrel ,” she finally said, her voice shaking. “How old was your poor sister?”
“She was but fifteen then,” he said, his voice tight. “I count his attempt on her as my greatest failure. My sister fell prey to a seducer, and neither Fitz nor I were there to prevent it.”
“You cannot be everywhere at once, Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice unexpectedly kind. “You both have your duties. Mr. Wickham was known to your sister, which makes his betrayal all the worse. But you arrived in time. And the fact that Miss Darcy spoke to you of their plans directly suggests that she trusts you.”
He said nothing, though her words calmed something within him. He had often thought only of his failure—but the strength of his relationship with Georgiana, a relationship he had taken great pains to build, had spared them both from a terrible fate. He could not deny that.
As he ruminated on this, Miss Elizabeth spoke again. “You call your cousin Fitz,” she said, tilting her head. “It seems a boyish name for a colonel.”
Darcy smiled faintly at this obvious attempt to change to a pleasanter subject. “It is a relic of our boyhood. My Christian name is Fitzwilliam, and his surname is Fitzwilliam. There were a few years when he was at school and was addressed by his surname while I was still at home and was Master Fitzwilliam.”
Miss Elizabeth blinked. “If your mother called you, did you both answer?”
“You begin to see the problem.”
She laughed softly, a light sound that lifted Darcy’s spirits.
“We were determined to distinguish ourselves from one another, so we agreed to split the name between us. I hated the name Fitz while he liked it. I kept William.” He smiled. “It seemed a reasonable solution at the time.”
She shook her head, her mirth undiminished. “And yet you chose William over Fitz? Fitz is more . . . unique.”
He gave her a dry look. “I detested it. It sounded absurd to my ears.”
Miss Elizabeth was delighted by this information. “I believe I shall call you Fitz, just to confuse everyone.”
“If you wish to drive me to distraction, Miss Bennet, you may do as you please,” he told her, though there was no heat in his words.
“To balance the scales, I shall give you equal hold over me, Mr. Darcy,” she told him. “I dislike it when I am called Eliza, even when the Lucas family does so. But they are good friends, and so I allow it.” A faint wince crossed her features, gone as swiftly as it appeared, and Darcy was forcefully reminded of their dilemma.
He glanced upwards where the sunlight broke into the hole a good fifteen or twenty feet up. There was a way up, but the debris was neither stable nor well-placed to climb. It would be very dangerous to try. And yet, strangely, the thought did not fill him with the same panic it had before. Reason asserted itself. He knew rescue would come, that Fitz would hear of the collapse and immediately begin to account for everyone. It would be short work for him to realise that Darcy was not to be found, but that his horse was still in the stable.
He could count on Fitz to reach them before the hole opened any wider.
And if Fitz did not, there was nothing Darcy could do to prevent it from his current position. Best not to dwell upon it.
In the interim they were inhabiting a strange pocket of solitude, Miss Elizabeth and he, and they might as well make conversation.
He exhaled, allowing his head to rest back against the cool stone. “Fitz,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head.
Miss Elizabeth smirked. “It suits you.”
He groaned, though it was more in amusement than pain. It suited him not at all. “If you insist upon it, I am at your service.”
She held his gaze, her eyes bright even in the dim light. And then, softly, she smiled back. “You truly are a gentleman, Mr. Darcy.”
Darcy swallowed and looked away.
They spoke of little things for a time. Their favourite seasons—Elizabeth preferred the spring, and Mr. Darcy the autumn. Their favourite foods—Elizabeth preferred fish, and Mr. Darcy venison. Even their favourite colours—Elizabeth adored yellow, and Mr. Darcy blue. They spoke of such trifles for a long time, until the sun seemed to be directly overhead, she believed, judging by the brighter shafts of light that made it down to them. She tried to discern how long they had been here. She had left the parsonage around eight and walked perhaps an hour and a half before meeting with Mr. Darcy. They had been here a little more than two hours, then.
That was more than enough time for someone to find them. But no one had come.
The silence had stretched once more, no longer companionable but teetering on the edge of something darker. She held her injured arm very still against her stomach, and the side of her face, her ribs, and her hip still throbbed dully.
A shiver coursed through her, though she was not cold. The thought burrowed deeper: We may never escape. How would her family respond? Papa and Jane would be devastated. Mamma would be too, though her grief would be put on display, demanding all attention be paid to her feelings while ignoring everyone else’s. Mary, Kitty, Lydia—they would mourn her, surely, but she suspected it would not take them nearly as long to recover. Lydia would hate being forced to wear black.
The left side of her face hurt. No. This would not do.
She clenched her teeth and forced her gaze away from the looming shadows. These morbid thoughts served no one. There was no use in dwelling upon their misfortune when there was naught to be done but wait.
Elizabeth sought distraction and asking impertinent questions seemed the best way to accomplish it. “Charlotte told me that Rosings belongs to your cousin Miss de Bourgh.”
Mr Darcy’s low voice answered her. “It does.”
“Then—forgive me—why did you not ask her?”
“Ask her what, Miss Bennet?”
“About the folly. Why argue with your aunt when your cousin could make the decision?”
Mr. Darcy did not answer right away. “I . . .” He huffed, was quiet, then shook his head. “I could say that the argument began before Anne came into her inheritance, or that Anne would never gainsay her mother, and both might well be true. But it is equally true that I never thought to ask.”
He groaned, and Elizabeth tensed, fearing he was in pain. Yet it was not a physical injury that troubled him, at least, no more than it already did.
“I have been as foolish as my aunt, have I not?” he said, his voice heavy with self-reproach. “I presumed myself superior to Bingley and offered advice for which he never asked. And I thought myself wiser than my aunt—only to realise I have been arguing with the wrong de Bourgh.”
Elizabeth watched as his expression darkened and his shoulders stiffened. This would never do—she did not intend for him to take on the gloom she was attempting to shed. She was sorry she had posed the question and quickly conjured another that might distract him as well.
“Why do you not like to dance?” she asked abruptly. Her voice was too bright, too firm, but she could not allow him to descend further. If they were to keep their wits about them, they must both engage their minds elsewhere.
Mr. Darcy turned his head towards her, one dark brow lifting. “You think now an appropriate moment for such an enquiry?”
She let out a breath, willing herself to be amused. “Is it not better than fretting?”
He regarded her a moment longer before acquiescing. “Very well.” He exhaled slowly. “I do not dislike dancing. Not in itself.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “Then why do you avoid it?”
“In London, a dance is rarely only a dance,” he said, his tone weary. “Every step is scrutinised, every turn analysed. A single set with a lady is an indication of interest, an invitation to gossip. It is tiresome.”
She frowned slightly. “But you do not dislike dancing?”
He glanced at her sidelong. “I enjoy it on occasion. Though I only had that honour once with you, as I recall.”
She snorted, recalling the assembly. “That was not my doing.”
He smirked, the expression faint but present. “Nor mine.”
Mr. Darcy’s enigmatic reply was just what she required to divert her mind. “What do you mean?”
“You accepted a dance with me only upon my third request.” He chuckled wryly. “I do not believe I have ever been denied a dance when I have asked for it, and you refused me twice.”
Elizabeth searched her memory. “When . . . do you mean when Sir William forced you into it?”
“No one can force me to ask a lady to dance. Ask Fitz.”
She found herself smiling. “Am I then to understand you were not mocking me when you asked me to dance a jig at Netherfield?”
“It would have served Miss Bingley justly, do not you think?”
She laughed softly in surprise, and he smiled.
“I made one comment about fine eyes, and she was forever teasing me about it. Not in the way you do—her teases were but a sad disguise for bitter mockery.”
“Oh, and may one ask whose eyes you were admiring?” Probably Jane’s, for she had the loveliest cerulean eyes. They were quite remarkable. “Not Miss Bingley’s, I presume.”
“You need not fish for compliments, Miss Bennet,” he said, and she thought he sounded amused.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.
He tipped his head carefully in her direction. “You truly do not know?”
“Know what ?”
He smiled at her. “I was speaking of your eyes, madam.”
Elizabeth stared at him, momentarily lost for words. “Mine?”
“Yours,” he confirmed, his tone matter-of-fact, as if it should have been evident all along.
She blinked. “But–but at the assembly, you—”
“Ah.” He let out a slow breath. “That infernal comment.”
She nodded, pressing her lips together. “You claimed I was not handsome enough to tempt you to dance.”
Mr. Darcy gave her a look that might have bordered on exasperation. “And yet, did you never consider how very much my actions since have put the lie to those words?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to retort but hesitated. She had been so certain of his disdain, had clung to it with a kind of fierce pride. But now, with the benefit of hindsight and his own admission, a new pattern emerged. His attentions at Netherfield, the strange tension in his looks, the way he always seemed aware of her movements in a crowded room . . . Charlotte had said he looked at her a great deal.
Had she truly been so blind?
She studied him, her expression shifting from incredulity to wary amusement. “And here I thought Miss Bingley was simply in a perpetual ill humour.”
Darcy let out a short laugh. “Did you never wonder at its cause?”
“I had assumed it was her nature.”
“Partially,” he allowed drily. “But I am afraid my attentions to you did not endear you to her.”
Attentions? He had ignored her for a half an hour when they sat in the library together. Elizabeth tilted her head. “I must own, she was rather pointed in her remarks.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips curled up. “She is nothing if not consistent.”
“She expected you to choose her,” Elizabeth observed, watching him closely. “Why did you not?”
His brows lifted slightly. “Surely, Miss Bennet, you must know that admiration cannot be dictated by expectation.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully. “So you objected to Miss Bingley because of her expectations?”
“Let us say that while I appreciate a well-educated woman, one who wields her knowledge solely as a means to belittle others does not appeal.”
Elizabeth let out a small laugh. “A neat way of avoiding insult, sir.”
He inclined his head. “I do try.”
She shook her head, smiling. “So. You admired me.”
He met her gaze squarely. “Yes.”
“Despite my not being well educated.”
“You have not been to seminary. That is hardly the same thing. Most gentleman’s daughters are educated at home.”
“But with no governess.”
“The lack of a governess does not seem to have done you any harm, Miss Bennet. You are more than intelligent. You are clever without malice.” He paused. “Yours is a rare character.”
She had no answer. The realisation of his admiration settled over her like the shifting dust around them, displacing everything she had been so certain of.
Mr. Darcy chuckled, though it was rather pained. “I find I am enjoying your surprise.”
Elizabeth huffed a laugh in response and rolled her eyes. “I thought you were too dignified for such petty satisfactions.”
“Even I am not immune,” he murmured.
Elizabeth looked at him then, truly looked at him, and wondered how she had not seen it before. She exhaled, willing away the persistent ache in her ribs. “Well, if you truly do not think ill of me, perhaps I shall take the liberty of another inquiry.”
“Shall I brace myself?”
She ignored that. “Your notions of an accomplished woman,” she began. “Do you truly believe she must possess all of those skills?”
“I was attempting another compliment to you, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth scoffed. “A dubious one. Do you imagine many ladies attain such an impossible standard?”
His eyes glinted in the dim light. “A few,” he said, meaningfully.
Elizabeth stared at him, incredulous. Then, to her own surprise, she laughed. She could not laugh too freely, for her ribs protested when she did. “I fear you greatly overestimate my abilities, sir.”
Mr. Darcy shook his head, exhaling in what might have been amusement. “Do you always have such a difficult time accepting that you are extraordinary?”
“I do, because I am not. I am perfectly ordinary. I cannot draw, I play indifferently, embroidery I am rather good at but do not enjoy, and I speak only French and Italian.”
“You are stubborn.”
“Apparently, you enjoy it,” she countered.
He sighed. “I find I do.” He was about to say more when the ground shifted beneath them.
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat as the stones moaned and dust cascaded from above. Her hand shot out instinctively, finding Mr. Darcy’s arm. The motion was brief, fleeting, but his presence grounded her.
The tremor stilled, but her heart pounded.
Mr. Darcy’s voice was calm when he spoke. “It is only settling.”
She swallowed. “You are certain?”
“I must be. We are still here.” His tone was steady, but there was something else beneath it. Resignation, perhaps. Or determination.
She forced herself to release him, though the imprint of his presence lingered against her fingertips. “I do not care for this.”
His gaze softened. “Nor I.”
Silence stretched again, but this time, it was different. Less oppressive. Less bleak.
Elizabeth exhaled through her nose and forced herself to lean back against the stone. They were still trapped. Still injured. Still uncertain of when—or if—rescue would come.
But at least she was not alone.