CHAPTER 15 – One Step into the Abyss
The distant view of Rosings Manor was haunting.
Never a welcoming sight, the house now glowed with dozens of yellow points against its dark stone walls—a diabolic vision conjured straight from hell.
Turbulent skies churned around the towers as a dry, unmerciful wind fanned the flames and carried the smoke beyond the island, proclaiming victory over the once-invincible fortress.
Rosings Manor, built to stand forever, was about to fall.
Outside, a small crowd watched the fire with the helplessness of those who had nowhere else to turn.
Half the manor burned, while the other half teemed with servants—desperate creatures darting through the halls, rescuing what they could, perhaps even for themselves.
In the distance, the ringing of the town’s bells carried across the wind, announcing the mansion’s downfall to the entire island.
For Elizabeth, who held no deep attachment to Rosings or its inhabitants, the image was nonetheless heart-wrenching.
She did not have a husband trapped inside like Charlotte, nor was she about to lose her home like Miss de Bourgh.
Yet her heart ached for those still within—especially for one gentleman risking his life to save others.
If only she had told him how much she cared for him—just once—before he vanished into the smoke.
But fate had worked against her from the moment she arrived on the island, and now she had a right to be frightened that it would not be kind.
“Do not despair, miss. The servants are doing all they can to keep the fire from spreading,” said a woman gently.
Elizabeth turned towards the voice and saw the housekeeper wrapping an arm around the mistress’s shoulder.
But Miss de Bourgh did not appear to hear her.
The lady watched in stunned silence, as if the sight of her burning home had cast some terrible spell over her.
She said nothing, and no trace of emotion stirred her pale, drawn features, which were untouched even by the housekeeper’s quiet gesture of comfort.
Then, slowly, she inclined her head and leaned against the woman’s shoulder, her gaze never leaving the inferno.
Elizabeth took pity upon her. First, she had lost her mother, and now her home. Surely the shock had numbed her—no one could remain so calm in the face of such ruin.
Charlotte, silent until now, stepped forward and intercepted one of the footmen rushing past. “Have you seen Mr. Collins?”
The servant looked at her, puzzled.
“The parson. Have you seen him?”
The man shook his head and hurried away.
“He is inside,” Anne replied with composure, casting a brief glance towards Charlotte. “My cousin went for him.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened. Mr. Darcy was looking for Mr. Collins in the burning house? Charlotte’s stricken face showed she had heard the same.
A stir behind them drew their attention. Colonel Fitzwilliam had returned.
“Richard!” Miss de Bourgh’s stillness was gone in an instant as she ran to meet him.
“Anne!” Colonel Fitzwilliam caught her in a firm embrace.
“Oh, Richard, I thought you were gone!” She sobbed into his chest.
“I saw the fire from the ship. I had to come back.”
Between trembling sobs, Anne recounted what had taken place in her room: Mr. Collins’s sudden attack, their struggle, and the fire that followed.
Charlotte’s features twisted in shock and disbelief as she clung to Maria’s steadying hand.
Her poor friend! But Elizabeth’s fear was fixed elsewhere, and she must alert the colonel before it was too late!
“Colonel Fitzwilliam.” Elizabeth stepped forward, her voice urgent. “Mr. Darcy is still inside! He brought Miss de Bourgh out safely, but he returned to help the others!”
“He is still inside?” the colonel’s expression hardened. “I must go for him.”
“No!” Anne clung to his arm. “Richard, do not leave me!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam pulled away and ran into the house.
***
Darcy sat up on the stone and came face to face with the burning house.
His options for escape were meagre at best. Behind him, a dark abyss towered over the turbulent waters below and, on either side, a row of crumbling stone balconies.
He had come to the terrace with the intent to jump from one balcony to another, but after witnessing Collins’s fateful fall, he was uncertain of his odds of suffering the same.
He rose, aware that time played against him.
The fire’s glow illuminated his surroundings, allowing the separation between balconies to become visible.
The gaps were wider than he had anticipated, but some protruding stones might provide enough support for a careful climb.
It was a treacherous path, and the adjoining room might already be taken by fire, but he had no other choice.
Bracing himself, he passed over the railing and stepped onto the first stone.
It held firm. Keeping his body pressed tightly against the wall, he advanced slowly, one step at a time.
His shoe slipped once, but he recovered, heart hammering against his ribs.
When he reached the next balcony, he took a breath and leaped.
A mistake.
His landing was unsteady, and loose tiles beneath his shoes sent him sprawling forward. His torso slammed against the stone ledge, dislodging pieces of masonry that tumbled into the abyss. He grasped at the pillar beside him, fingers scraping for purchase as his feet kicked the air.
For a moment, hanging over the precipice, exhaustion nearly overcame him. Was this how it ended?
***
Fitzwilliam dashed up the stairs, sidestepping a fleeing servant.
“Have you seen Mr. Darcy?” he demanded, gripping the man’s sleeve.
“The last I saw, he went into Miss de Bourgh’s rooms. But those have fallen in!”
He hurried down the gallery, reviewing the destruction. The fire was consuming the rafters; it was only a matter of time before the rest of ceiling caved in entirely.
His mind raced. His cousin was a resourceful, tenacious man. If still alive and capable, he would have sought an alternate escape route from that hell. The only viable option was the balconies along the cliff.
With Lady Catherine's apartment ablaze, he entered Sir Lewis’s former chambers. Smoke had begun to gather within, yet the room was still navigable.
The colonel paused for a moment to scrutinise the room.
The firelight seeping through the window cast a dim, flickering radiance, just enough for him to discern the details within.
He was struck by the fact that, despite the chambers having been shut since Sir Lewis’s death, some objects appeared recently disturbed.
The small desk near the window was one of them—the inkstand and pens were ready for use, and some drawers were partially opened.
Stacks of papers, letters, and assorted documents were scattered across the surface, one bundle bound with a ribbon of blue satin.
It was strange. Perhaps his aunt, known for her twisted mind and morbid inclinations, had become a frequent visitor to her husband’s chambers after his death, rummaging through his things for reasons only she understood.
A sinister notion, yet everything about Rosings was sinister.
Fitzwilliam shook off these pointless conjectures. Every second counted; his cousin’s life was hanging by a thread. He strode towards the balcony just as Darcy attempted his ill-fated jump.
The colonel watched in horror as his cousin tripped. A portion of the railing gave way, leaving him dangling over the edge, clawing for a hold.
Fitzwilliam stopped in his tracks. For a single heartbeat, unbidden thoughts flickered through his mind. He stood transfixed, watching as Darcy struggled to find purchase.
An impulse anchored him in place—then instinct seized him.
He ran to his aid.
“I have you, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, gripping his cousin’s arm.
A wave of relief washed over Darcy’s face. With Fitzwilliam’s help, he scrambled onto the balcony and fell onto his back, gasping for breath.
“How did you—” His voice was hoarse. “I thought you had sailed.”
“I saw the fire and returned. Miss Bennet told me you were inside.” Fitzwilliam gave him a once over. Darcy was coated in dust and ash. “Can you walk?”
Darcy nodded, though he was still unsteady.
“Then we must leave. Now.”
The two men bolted towards the main staircase, reaching the front doors just as the eastern wing came crashing down behind them.
***
Outside, Elizabeth’s breath caught as the ceiling caved in. She barely registered Miss de Bourgh’s hysterical cries before her gaze snapped to the front door.
The colonel came out first.
Then, through the dust and smoke, another figure emerged.
Mr. Darcy.
Relief surged through her. He was alive—grimed with soot, bent with exhaustion, but alive. A thousand emotions assailed her at once: joy, anguish, disbelief, and the desperate urge to run to him, to throw her arms around him and never let go.
Instead, she stood frozen, unable to move, ashamed of her stillness, even though her heart was racing. He bent over, hands braced on his knees, coughing violently as he tried to clear his lungs. Mr. Ferguson appeared beside him, patting his back, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.
Still, Elizabeth remained motionless. She was so foolish—utterly foolish. If only she could just make her feet run to him.
At last, she shook herself from her stupor. She fetched a bowl of water and stepped forward, pressing it gently into his hands.
Mr. Darcy drank as though his life depended on it.
“Thank you,” he said.
Without thinking, Elizabeth reached up and stroked the soot from his cheek. Her fingers lingered, trembling with the force of all she could not say. “I thought I had lost you.”
His smile was faint yet filled with a tenderness that made her breath catch. They stepped closer to each other. They stood together for a long moment as if nothing else mattered: the chaos, the flames, the weight of death and destruction—all faded into the background.
But a loud crash split the air and Mr. Darcy was once again called into action, leaving Elizabeth standing alone to wrestle with emotions she could not yet accept or define.
While he dealt with what was left of the fire, Elizabeth turned to the crowd gathered outside the falling mansion.
Servants, tenants, villagers, all stood in silent devastation.
For most, this was not merely the loss of a building, it represented the end of all they had ever known.
Despite Lady Catherine’s cruelties, Rosings had been their home, their livelihood.
Those who had depended on its existence now faced an uncertain future, watching as the flames consumed their past.
Standing apart from the others, Charlotte stared at the burning ruins with eyes brimming with tears.
Elizabeth’s heart ached with grief at the sight of her dear friend—stoic and yet fragile, her composure on the brink of breaking, struggling to appear unshaken while her world crumbled before her eyes.
Undoubtedly, for her, the loss was even greater.
She had married and come to Rosings seeking happiness and stability, with a firm belief that she had made the prudent choice.
But now, stripped of illusion, Charlotte Collins faced a grim reality: she was no longer the wife of a respectable parson, for now her name would be forever tied to a man whose sins had sealed his fate—and hers.
Maria's hand found her sister's, and Charlotte clung to it, as if anchoring herself against the crushing weight of grief and shame. Elizabeth could not help but sympathize. What was to become of her friend now?
She could not merely watch them grieve together, so Elizabeth joined them and wrapped her arm around her friend’s shoulder. Charlotte responded with an anguished smile. No words passed between them—for what words could ever undo such pain?
And before them lay Rosings—once a fortress of power and tyranny, now scattered to the wind, reduced to rubble and ash.