Chapter Ten
E lizabeth was frozen as she awaited whatever it was Mr. Darcy was about to inquire of her.
Then the ground shuddered.
She barely had time to catch her breath before another ominous groan rumbled through the earth beneath them. Dust floated over them from the makeshift ceiling above.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Mr. Darcy—”
“I hear it.” His voice was taut, strained, his eyes already sweeping their small, makeshift shelter. The once-stable position had grown more treacherous, the stone above them teetering a bit. Another jolt sent her heart into her throat, and a crack splintered through the loose rock above them. Elizabeth barely had time to flinch before Mr. Darcy threw himself over her and a chunk of stone struck the earth not two feet from them.
“We must move,” she cried. “Now!” She tried to rise as he stood, but her hip had stiffened as they sat in one place, and it did not support her.
Mr. Darcy did not hesitate. He reached for her, his fingers closing around her upper arm as he pulled her up and away from their temporary refuge. Pain shot through her from her arm and hip and nearly everywhere else, but she knew it was the same for him—and at least she was upright.
No sooner had Mr. Darcy pulled them clear than the stone that had been providing them a guard against the rubble slid back and then fell. With a resounding thump, it hit the uneven ground, breaking into two jagged pieces and sending up a fresh cloud of dust. Elizabeth coughed, pressing a hand to her mouth as she turned to look at the place where they had just been sitting. The space was gone, buried beneath the weight of the collapsed rock.
A shudder passed through her—not from the cold, nor from fear, but from the stark realisation of how close they had come to being crushed. Mr. Darcy’s grip tightened briefly on her arm, his chest rising and falling with exertion. He, too, was staring at the wreckage, his expression unreadable. Then, with a steadying breath, he turned his gaze to her.
“Come,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We are not yet safe.”
The slope ahead was difficult to see—but from this new vantage point, it appeared to dip down and then rise again. Elizabeth stifled a cough as they edged forward, each of them moving with an urgent sort of caution. Mr. Darcy led the way, testing the ground before he would allow her to follow. Each of their steps sent small rivulets of earth trickling down, and she could hear the ominous groaning of shifting stone, as if the walls themselves were warning them away.
“Stay close,” Mr. Darcy murmured, though he did not need to warn her. The press of the earth around them was suffocating, the darkness threatening. She had no desire to be left behind.
Then—more shaking.
This one was more violent, a sudden, wrenching shift in the very bones of the earth. With only one good arm and a weakened leg she could not steady herself, and Elizabeth lost her footing. She stumbled forward with a cry.
Mr. Darcy caught her in one strong arm, pressing her back to the wall and covering her with his own body.
More debris tumbled around them. Mr. Darcy grunted and his knees began to give way before she embraced him with both arms about his waist, pulling him to her, and he straightened.
A sharp rock grazed her other arm, but she scarcely felt it. A deeper, more primal fear had taken hold: the fear of being buried alive.
After a few seconds that felt much longer, the rumbling stopped.
Elizabeth could not see Mr. Darcy’s face, but she could hear his jagged breaths. He was in pain, though whether from old injuries or new, she could not say.
“We must continue,” she said gently, her mouth near his ear.
He remained motionless, pressed against her and the wall. “Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth turned her head slowly to the left. The slope twisted down and widened ahead, then wound upwards, ending in a small, flat space covered with broken stone about eight or ten feet below where the sunlight entered their cavern. There was not a great deal of room to escape—the stones had fallen over most of it, but they might be able to call out and be heard from there. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “You are right.”
As he stepped gingerly around her and to the side, a muffled sound echoed down to them from above. A man’s voice—distant but unmistakable.
“Darcy!”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt. Rescue .
Mr. Darcy straightened, his grip on her good arm still firm. “Fitz!” he bellowed, his voice raw from the dust and strain. He grimaced and shut his eyes for a moment. Elizabeth noted somewhat dully that his hair was white with rock dust. She supposed her own must appear the same.
The answer came at once. “Hold on! We are digging—there is a way through!”
“Be careful!” Mr. Darcy shouted back. “Your digging is causing more debris to fall!” He must have spied the same little area that she had, for he glanced back at her. “Are you able to continue?”
“Of course,” she said. The relief that had surged through her was fleeting, for they were not out of danger yet.
Mr. Darcy led her forward, assisting her carefully over and around bits of fallen stone as she tried to manage with a slight limp.
A muffled voice echoed through the chamber from above.
“Darcy? Can you hear me? Is Miss Bennet with you?”
Mr. Darcy stilled, tightening his hold. “Fitz!” he called back, his voice hoarse but sharp with urgency. “She is!”
“Ah, excellent!” the colonel called again, his tone edged with relief. “Follow my voice. We have found a way through!”
“Come, this way,” Mr. Darcy said. He helped her to navigate the shifting rubble as they followed the colonel’s voice. It rang clearer with every precarious step.
As they reached the lowest part of the path that ran along the wall, just before it began to rise up towards the colonel’s voice, there was a three-foot gap between where they stood and the other side of the trail.
Elizabeth shuddered.
“Stay here.” Mr. Darcy hopped across the divide with ease, and then reached back across, his hands held out.
She stared at them, then glanced down. Even in the dark she could see that the drop was an exceedingly long one.
“Miss Bennet,” Mr. Darcy said sternly, “do not look down.”
“Too late.” She closed her eyes. With a deep breath, she opened them again and grasped his hands.
He waited. “You must be sure before you jump,” he told her. “Are you ready?”
She shook her head. Took a deep breath. “I am ready.”
“Very good. I shall count to three and then you will jump and I will help pull you across.”
Elizabeth nodded.
“One . . .”
“Two,” she replied.
“Three,” they said together. Elizabeth bent her knees and jumped, more on her good leg than her bad, but just as he had promised, Mr. Darcy pulled her to him. She landed with the toes of her boots resting atop his, his arms around her. She looked up at him.
“I have scuffed the leather,” she said in a faint attempt to tease. “I hope your current valet will not resign too.”
Mr. Darcy did not respond, only tightened his hold upon her and led them both up the remaining path, one arm remaining around her as they climbed.
The air grew thinner, the dust choking, but then—light.
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s face appeared through a small hole ten feet above them, grinning despite the dirt streaking his face. “You both look positively dreadful.” Then, his voice dropped, firm with command as he addressed Mr. Darcy. “The hill will not last long. We are working as quickly as we can, but you must both be ready to move the moment we can make the opening wide enough.” He extended an arm down to pass a small flask to his cousin. “Water,” he said. “You two must be parched.”
Mr. Darcy handed her the flask and insisted she drink.
She wrinkled her nose as she drank. It was terrible. “The water tastes like spirits, but at least it is wet. Here, you should drink.”
He took the flask and drank what remained.
A low, ominous groan echoed through the cavern walls, the sound reverberating in his bones—a dreadful promise that they were not yet safe. Above them, the rock shuddered, small stones raining down in warning.
Darcy ignored the pain in his head and a new one that burned in a straight line from between his shoulders to the centre of his back. He stepped up on a larger chunk of stone and grasped the edges of the small opening, pulling himself up far enough to peer through, blinking in the painfully bright light of the day. Through it he could see Fitz’s grim face as he worked a few feet away, the men beside him digging around and hacking away at the fallen stone with the desperation of those who knew that time was not favourable to their cause.
“Step back,” Fitz called when he saw Darcy, urgency sharpening his voice. “We are nearly through.”
Darcy dropped back down with a grunt. Just a bit more exertion now, and then he could rest. He took Miss Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her to him, bending over her once more as the tremors returned yet again, strong ones that shook loose a fresh cascade of dirt and pebbles from above.
“Hurry, Fitz!” he barked.
Outside, his cousin cursed loudly. Shovels scraped against stone—they must be prying a rock out of the way.
Suddenly, there were voices crying out instructions and the gap widened, letting in more light, more air, and a rush of hope. But the cavern did not wait—the groan of shifting earth deepened to a roar, the ground beneath them trembling as though the very hill was entering its death throes.
“Now!” Fitz bellowed. “Darcy, lift her through!”
Darcy did not hesitate. He grasped Miss Elizabeth by the waist and shoved her high as she leapt, ignoring the pounding in his head and the raw fire in his back. “Grab her!” he urged.
Fitz’s hands reached through, seizing Miss Elizabeth and pulling her to safety.
She was free.
Darcy braced himself to follow, but the moment he moved, the cavern gave a final, deafening crack. Dust exploded around him and his ears rang. He stumbled dizzily to one side.
Fitz’s voice, sharp with panic, cut through the chaos. “Darcy! Move, damn you! I am not digging you out twice!”
He recovered his balance, stepped up on the small boulder he had used before, and jumped upward with all that remained of his strength. Fitz grabbed him around the ribs and lifted, his hold fierce as he threw his entire weight backwards to yank Darcy through. The pain was intense, but the moment Darcy tumbled free, the cavern beneath them groaned loudly.
“Is Miss Elizabeth safe?” he shouted.
“Yes! Worry about us, you big ox.”
“I am!” Darcy shouted as he shoved himself to his feet. Another jolt. A shudder, this one deeper. The earth beneath them heaved. “Run!”
They were the last of the men to sprint down towards the road. Dust billowed over them, and Darcy could hear the remains of the folly tumbling into the denehole in a deafening avalanche. He did not stop running until they had reached the road.
By the time they were safe, there was silence, except for their laboured breathing. Darcy placed one hand on the back of a cart for support.
The horses shifted restlessly, their ears flicking at the commotion. The creak of leather harnesses and the jangle of metal fittings mingled with the murmuring voices of those watching. Somewhere, a man coughed. The scent of damp earth and sweat clung to the air, heavy and unrelenting.
Darcy cast one last glance over his shoulder as the hillside collapsed in on itself completely.
Fitz swallowed before he straightened and brushed some dust from his coat as though that might save the garment.
“Well,” he said as he exhaled. “That was entirely too dramatic for my taste.” He gazed at the decimated folly, or at least where it had once stood. “You do realize this means you owe me, Darcy. I expect a very fine bottle of port for my troubles.”
Darcy let out a breathless huff and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt Miss Elizabeth’s hand slip into his.
“If you had all listened to Mr. Darcy about the danger of that folly in the first place,” she said pertly, “neither of us would have required rescuing at all. I believe Mr. Darcy may be the one who is owed recompense, Colonel.”
Fitz blinked with surprise, and Darcy smiled wearily. To have Miss Elizabeth defending him—it was a most unusual and wonderful feeling.
Darcy did not release Miss Elizabeth’s hand, nor did she attempt to withdraw it. The weight of exhaustion bore down upon him, but he could not—would not—give way to it until he was assured of her well-being. Now that they were in the light, he could better examine her. One cheek was already swollen and darkening into a bruise. Her face was streaked with dirt, and tendrils of hair, powdered with dust, fell loosely on her shoulders. Her arm was still bound, and she was limping a little, but she could walk. She was safe. That knowledge alone steadied him.
Fitz, ever practical, was already issuing orders to the men about warning everyone who lived near that the site was too dangerous to approach. They began to gather their tools and toss them in the back of the cart, but he ordered them to leave the bed clear.
He approached them both, brow furrowed. “I had Mrs. Collins send for a surgeon several hours ago. They will be waiting for us at Rosings.” He held out a hand for Miss Elizabeth. “Allow me, Miss Bennet. Darcy, can you climb up unassisted?”
Miss Elizabeth nodded readily enough, but Darcy stiffened. “I am perfectly capable of walking.”
Fitz scoffed. “You cannot see what I do, you stubborn mule. If you attempt it, I have no doubt you shall find yourself in a heap on the road. Not very dignified.”
Darcy straightened, bracing himself against the pain in his head and back.
But then Miss Elizabeth said quietly, “Mr. Darcy, forgive me, but I would feel more secure if you rode in the cart with me.”
A simple request, yet it carried enough force to disarm him entirely. He looked to her, saw the earnest plea in her eyes, and his resolve wavered. She had been through an ordeal of her own, and she was asking him to care for her. He could never refuse her any comfort that was in his power to give.
He exhaled slowly. “Very well.”
His cousin’s brow rose in evident surprise at such an easy concession, but he wisely chose not to remark upon it. Darcy helped Elizabeth in first before allowing himself to be assisted up. Once seated, he found he could not remain upright, and he lay back, his limbs protesting, his head still pounding, his back burning, his vision blurred at the edges. He felt Elizabeth’s presence beside him, the warmth of her hand in his.
Fitz climbed in last, settling opposite them. “Darcy, I found your hat, by the by,” he said, holding it up. “That, combined with the fact that Hermes remained in the stable, led me to suspect the worst.”
Now that he was still and the danger was past, Darcy felt his strength waning. “Thank you for searching for us, Fitz.”
His cousin’s expression softened for just a moment before he schooled it back into nonchalance. “Yes, well, no need to grow sentimental, Darcy. It quite upsets my nerves.”
Darcy chuckled, or rather, he thought he did. He felt leaden, his eyelids impossibly heavy. Fitz had found them. Elizabeth was safe. He had fought to stay upright, fought against the weariness, but now, cradled by the motion of the cart, warmth seeping into his aching bones, he surrendered. His breath steadied, the tension in his frame slowly ebbed away. Elizabeth’s hand was in his own. Finally, he could close his eyes.
A merciful darkness claimed him.
Elizabeth watched as Mr. Darcy’s breathing evened out, his body yielding at last to exhaustion. His dark lashes rested against his dust-streaked skin, and his brow was no longer furrowed with tension. She did not know how long they travelled before the road smoothed, the cart rocking with a gentler rhythm, but she was keenly aware of his hand, which remained in hers, even in unconsciousness.
As they neared Rosings, the sight of the grand estate was almost jarring after the oppressive darkness of the cavern. Elizabeth forced herself to sit straighter despite the pain that wrapped itself around her hip and the ache in her ribs. She had ignored them in that last desperate race for safety. She could ignore them a little longer.
The cart hit a bump, and she clamped her lips together to keep from crying out. Mr. Darcy rolled up on one shoulder, a faint murmur escaping his lips. A long tear down half the length of his coat beginning between his shoulder blades caught her eye, and while the colonel was speaking to the driver, she tugged at it a little to have a better look. It was ripped through, but she could not see much more than a bit of his linen shirt stained red before he groaned and rolled back again.
She recalled his knees buckling, near the end of their ordeal when he was shielding her. He must have been injured then. He mumbled, and she leaned closer.
Mr. Darcy’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, but the words struck her with the force of a blow.
“Elizabeth, I would marry you.”
Her breath caught. He did not wake, did not realize what he had said. He merely exhaled again, his body slack against the cart’s wooden frame. But she could not look away. The words lingered, pressing against her, sending a strange warmth through her chest despite knowing he could not mean it.
Before she could begin to make sense of it, the cart slowed before the great house, and Colonel Fitzwilliam leapt over the side with practiced ease, barking orders to the waiting servants.
“Mr. Darcy is injured,” she told the men who approached, her voice calm but firm. “More than I knew. His back—his coat has been torn, and I believe he is bleeding freely. He must be seen to at once.”
“The surgeon is inside,” the colonel said. “I shall send him to you.” He held out his arms to help her down.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Mr. Darcy first.”
The colonel glanced at his cousin and then back at her. “Very well, Miss Bennet.”
She gently removed her hand from Mr. Darcy’s, and the colonel helped the footmen assist him to the ground. The footmen slung his arms over their shoulders and helped him stand. He was conscious enough to walk with their aid, but his head hung limply as though it was too heavy for him to lift. They started moving towards the house.
The colonel held out his hands again. “Now, Miss Bennet, it is your turn.”
She nodded and allowed herself to be lifted safely down. Colonel Fitzwilliam escorted her into the house, where she was handed off to the housekeeper.
“Miss Bennet,” the woman said, “we have prepared a room for you. If you will come with me?”
Elizabeth swallowed hard, cradling her injured arm and casting one last glance at Mr. Darcy’s retreating form before nodding. “Yes, of course.”
She followed, her hip painful and her steps strangely unsteady. Her thoughts began to slow, not only from her own exhaustion but from the weight of all that had happened. The fear, the dust, the closeness of the cavern’s collapse—and now, the whispered words she could not forget.
I would marry you.
Had it been delirious rambling, a mere slip of the tongue? Or was it something more?