CHAPTER 14 – Omens Come True
Darcy and Elizabeth re-entered the house through the kitchens, where they were immediately approached by Ferguson.
“A footman saw the parson inside,” the man said. “He was making his way towards the family apartments.”
“How long ago?” Darcy asked, concern sharpening his tone.
“’Bout an hour, sir. Maybe more. He asked after the mistress.”
He exchanged a tense glance with Elizabeth. If Collins truly had murdered his aunt and now meant to harm Anne, then his young cousin was at the mercy of a madman.
As they neared the main staircase, a sharp scent hit him: smoke. Not a pleasant, woody aroma, but something heavier, acrid, redolent of charred wood and oil. The smell struck him with chilling precision, conjuring the vivid memory of the night Pemberley’s barn had burned to the ground.
He looked up. A thin veil of smoke crept along the gallery.
“Fire!” he cried, scarcely believing his own voice. “The house is ablaze!”
His first instinct was to seize Elizabeth’s arm and steer her towards the front door. “You must leave—now.” Then, turning to Ferguson, he said, “Take Miss Bennet and the other ladies outside. Get them clear of the house at once then find plenty of men to assist with the bucket line.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “No! I can help!”
Darcy gripped her shoulders, his gaze locking with hers. “Elizabeth, listen to me. Pray, do as I say. Leave the house at once. I must find Anne.”
Her eyes brimmed with anguish. “Pray, take care.”
“Come, miss,” Ferguson urged. “The smoke is spreading fast. We’ve no time.”
Elizabeth allowed Ferguson to guide her away, her gaze lingering on Darcy as she hurried down the hall. He offered one last, steadying smile, then turned and took the stairs at a run.
Chaos followed. Footmen raced through the house, shouting orders to bewildered servants. He took command, ordering the men to fetch buckets, wet blankets, anything they could use to quell the flames.
The smoke thickened as he reached Anne’s bedchamber. Finding the door locked, he struck it with his fist. “Anne! Open the door!”
No answer.
He seized a spear from a nearby suit of armour and wedged it between the door and the frame. With a mighty thrust, he forced it open—only to be met by a wall of smoke and blistering heat.
Through the flickering haze, he saw her—pale, trembling, and trapped.
Darcy squinted against the smoke and lowered his body to find clearer air as he crossed the burning chamber, dodging flares that came from all around him. Anne stood frozen by the window, her wide eyes locked on the blaze.
“Anne!”
She turned her head slowly and lifted a trembling hand towards the dressing table.
“He tried to kill me,” she cried, voice breaking, “He k-killed my mother. He tried to kill me.”
He followed her gaze and saw Mr. Collins sprawled on the floor, flames crawling ever closer. He strode towards the parson and searched for signs of life. The parson’s chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths.
“He said I had to die,” Anne sobbed. “He came at me. I pushed him away, then the lamp. . . It fell. The fire started.”
“We must leave. Now!” Darcy grasped her arm and looked around, weighing his options.
Escape through the main door was now impossible as the inferno had blocked it.
He flinched as the glass in the doors to the balcony shattered behind him, and a violent gust burst through, whipping the flames into a frenzy.
The bed ignited like a torch; the ceiling groaned above them.
Fire was already surging towards the dressing room and their access to that way out narrowed with every heartbeat.
The path was doable for him; Anne’s skirts, though, could catch fire before she made it through. But it appeared to be the only way.
Without hesitation, Darcy swept her into his arms.
“Hold tight.”
Dodging flames and falling debris, he reached the side door that led to the dressing room, shielding her as embers rained down and flames tore at the frame. The gallery door came into view. He kicked it open, and a rush of cool air struck him like a wave.
He set Anne down just beyond the threshold. “Run. Get out of the house!”
“Where are you going?” She clutched his sleeve.
“I must go back. I cannot not leave him there.”
“William, no!”
“Go!” he shouted, pushing her away.
She stumbled down the gallery, coughing as she fled towards the staircase.
Darcy turned back. He could not leave Mr. Collins inside.
Drawing one final clean breath, he plunged once more into the inferno.
***
Lowering his body below the smoke, Darcy ventured back through Anne’s dressing room, then into her bedchamber. The heat grew unbearable as he made his way towards Collins. The parson lay motionless on the floor, flames creeping along the edge of the carpet where he lay.
“Collins!” Darcy shouted, shaking him by the shoulders.
The man groaned, his eyelids fluttering open. Confusion clouded his gaze as he took in the raging hell around them.
Darcy hauled him to his feet. The air had thickened; every breath was a struggle. The doorway to the dressing room was now blocked by flames, leaving only one way out: the balcony.
“We must leave—now!” Darcy said with urgency, gripping Collins by the arm.
The parson blinked, his expression twisting in pain and bewilderment.
“She said she was afflicted. . . begged for salvation,” he said in a rasping voice. “Whispers in the walls. . . Shadows in the corners. . .”
“This is not the time for riddles.” Darcy dragged him towards the open doors. “Move!”
“Jenkinson knew. . . She knew!” Collins muttered, voice low and fractured. “Just like before. . . Evil persists. . . I came, she asked. No one can be trusted. Not even—”
A violent crash rang through the room as the canopy of Anne’s bed broke apart, sending a burst of embers into the air. The distraction was enough for Darcy to force the rector outside.
“We must jump to the other side.” He pointed to the neighbouring balcony. “It is our only chance.”
But the parson recoiled, eyes wide with terror. “No—no! She warned me!”
The floor groaned beneath their feet. Collins stumbled backward, clutching at the railing. His foot tripped on a loose stone, and with a strangled cry, he lost his balance.
The crumbling balustrade gave way under his weight.
“Collins!” Darcy lunged, catching his wrist. “Take my hand!”
Their eyes met. For a fleeting moment, something like clarity shone in the parson’s gaze. He gave a bitter grimace. “I tried to make it right,” he cried. “I tried to save her.”
Darcy held on with all the strength he had, but the parson’s weight dragged at him, his grip slick with ash and sweat.
Then, despite everything, he slipped through Darcy’s grasp, falling over the edge and vanishing into the turbulent waters below.
Overcome by exhaustion, Darcy rolled onto his back and shut his eyes, the weight of death pressing heavily upon him. For a brief moment, he willed himself to believe this was nothing more than a fevered nightmare.
But it was not.
This was all too real—and he still had his own life to fight for.