Chapter Six
Darkness pressed in on every side.
It was not merely the absence of light, but something heavier—closer—like a burden upon his very breath.
Darcy became aware of it first as sensation rather than thought: the rough scrape of fabric against his face, the suffocating closeness of it, the faint, stale scent of damp and something sour. A sack. It covered his head entirely.
He tried to move. Pain answered at once. It struck from behind his eyes, sharp and insistent, spreading outward in pulsing waves that made thought itself a labor. He drew in a breath—too quickly—and the motion sent another jolt of agony through his skull.
A low sound escaped him, half groan, half attempt at speech.
“Help—” The word was swallowed by the cloth over his mouth, muffled into something unrecognizable. He stilled, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to think.
Quickly, Darcy took inventory of his body. His hands—his hands were bound. He tested them, carefully at first, then with increasing urgency. Coarse rope bit into his wrists, drawn tight behind his back, the angle unnatural and already beginning to ache with a deep, persistent throb.
Where? What…what happened? He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Memory came in fragments.
A road. The rhythmic motion of his horse beneath him.
The wind against his face—cool, controlled.
He had ridden ahead. The carriage would follow.
There had been— A sound? A movement? The horse had shied violently beneath him.
He remembered the sudden loss of control, the sharp jolt as he was thrown—
And then… Nothing. Darkness again. Darcy forced himself to draw a steady breath, to push past the rising surge of panic.
Take account. He must continue to take account of his condition.
He shifted, testing his limbs. His coat—gone. His attire—gone. What remained was rough against his skin, ill-fitting, the fabric coarse and scratchy as though fashioned with no regard for comfort. They were not his clothes.
His boots— Still there, but everything else—Gone.
Even his signet ring was missing. A chill crept through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.
He strained against the bonds, twisting his wrists, attempting to find some slack.
The rope held fast. It had been tied with skill—tight, deliberate, unyielding.
His breath quickened despite his efforts to remain calm. Where am I? The thought came sharp and sudden. Where had he been taken? How long had he been—
A sound broke the silence. A door. The scrape of it opening, followed by the faint echo of footsteps upon stone. Darcy froze. Instinct stilled him, every sense sharpening despite the pain.
The footsteps came nearer, then stopped.
A voice spoke. “Awake, Mr. Darcy?”
The tone was wrong. There was an affectation to it—a strained attempt at refinement that did not quite succeed in disguising its origin. A tradesman, perhaps, trying on the speech of a gentleman and finding it ill-fitted.
“Good,” the man said lightly. “I had begun to wonder if my colleague might not have his wish after all. You were unconscious for some time.”
Darcy forced his voice past the dryness in his throat. “Where—am I?”
A low chuckle answered him. It held no warmth. “You would like clarification.”
“I demand it.”
The man laughed then, more openly. “Demand?” he echoed. “You are in no position to demand anything, sir.”
Darcy drew himself as upright as his bonds would allow. “If you have any sense,” he said, his voice gaining strength, “you will release me at once. Do you know who I am?”
“Oh, I know very well who you are. And you would know me had your pride not prevented our forming a business partnership. So many letters I sent, requesting a meeting.” There was a pause.
Then, “You would be dead, if I had my way.” The words fell with a terrible calm.
“That is the fate that befalls anyone who stands in my way.”
Darcy stilled. His befuddled mind struggled to make sense of what the man’s words meant.
“It is much cleaner,” the man went on. “No complications. No risk of loose ends.” A faint note of irritation entered his tone.
“But one of my partners—ah, he is a man of delicate conscience. He would not have your blood upon his hands. Loyalty, he calls it.” A mocking sound followed. “I call it weakness.”
Darcy’s pulse pounded. “Then release me,” he said sharply. “If your associate objects to violence, then this—whatever this is—must be resolved at once. You will answer for this.”
Another laugh—low, mirthless. “Removing you from the equation was the only way to get what I want. I found a way to do it without shedding your blood,” the man said. A pause. “And where you are going, Mr. Darcy, you will wish I had not.”
Cold settled into Darcy’s bones. “You will not escape this,” he said, though the words rang less certain than he intended. “You will be found out. My family—my connections—”
“Have no power here.” The voice hardened, losing its pretense. “The great Fitzwilliam Darcy is no more.” A step backward, then the sound of the door. It slammed shut with finality. Silence rushed in once more.
Darcy strained against the ropes again, more desperately now, twisting, pulling, forcing his wrists against the rough fibers until the skin burned.
It did no good. The bindings held. His breath came fast, uneven.
Think. He must think. Panic would serve him nothing.
He forced himself to still, to lie back against the hard surface beneath him, to draw in slow breaths despite the pounding in his head.
Elizabeth. The thought came unbidden. Her face rose before him—clear, vivid. The warmth evident in her expression, the luminescence in her eyes, and the serene conviction of her voice were striking.
Two weeks. He had said it. He had promised.
Georgiana. His sister’s gentle smile, her trust—so complete, so unquestioning. He could not fail them. He would not. “I will return,” he murmured, the words barely audible through the sack.
Time passed. Or perhaps it did not. There was no way to measure it—no light, no sound beyond the faint echo of his own breathing. Hunger came first. A dull ache, easily ignored at the outset.
Then thirst, sharper and more insistent. His head throbbed without respite, each movement sending new waves of pain through him. He drifted—between wakefulness and something less defined—clinging always to the same thoughts.
Elizabeth. Georgiana. Home. He must endure. He must survive.
At length, a sound intruded into his thoughts. The door again. It opened without warning. Hands seized him—rough, unyielding—dragging him upright before he could brace himself. He staggered, his legs weak, unsteady.
“The papers are in order,” a voice said—the same voice as before. “The boat awaits.”
Boat. Darcy’s pulse surged. “Where are you taking me?” he demanded, struggling against their grip. The answer was a fist driven hard into his stomach. Air fled his lungs in a violent rush, leaving him doubled, gasping, unable to speak.
“Quiet,” the man said coldly.
They dragged him forward. The air changed. It was cooler, and Darcy could feel the open space around him, the faint shift, the movement of air across his face through the coarse weave of the sack. It was dark. That much he could tell. No warmth of sun. No brightness pressing against the cloth.
Night. How long have I been here? They forced him onward, his steps uneven, his strength failing.
Then, suddenly, he was confined again. It was sudden, crushing confinement.
He was shoved into a space so small it drove the breath from him once more.
Wood pressed against his sides, his back, his knees.
A crate, or perhaps a trunk. The lid slammed shut. Darkness within darkness. He could not move. His breath came fast, shallow, the air already stale.
Think. He must think. Hoofbeats sounded, distant at first, then nearer.
The sound of wheels upon cobblestone. He was being transported.
His shoulders burned, the strain of his bound hands becoming unbearable.
His head swam, hunger and thirst gnawing at him until thought became difficult.
Time lost all meaning. The motion slowed and stopped. The lid was wrenched open.
Hands seized him again, dragging him out, forcing him upright though his legs could scarcely support him.
“Farewell, Mr. Darcy,” the voice said lightly. “Good riddance.”
Darcy tried to speak—tried to demand, to protest—but no words came.
They hauled him onward. The ground beneath his feet shifted—uneven, unsteady. It felt like wood beneath his feet. It was swaying lightly. A path that moved beneath him.
A gangplank, his befuddled mind supplied. A boat. Realization struck, sharp and immediate.
He was at sea or would be soon. He struggled, sudden panic rising, but his strength failed him. Darcy was dragged forward—then released, falling hard. The impact jarred him, leaving him breathless once more.
Then came the sound of a hatch shutting above him. Darkness returned. Only now, there was movement. Not of carriage wheels or firm ground—but a slow, relentless sway.
He could hear voices above, and footsteps. There was the creak of wood. Disbelief warred with the fear inside him. He was aboard a vessel, bound and helpless, and he did not know where he had come from. Nor did he know where he was being taken.
Time passed, again, unmeasured. The hatch opened at last. Light—faint, distant—filtered through the sack. Hands seized him once more.
“Up,” a voice barked.
He tried to stand and failed. A blow struck him again, forcing what little breath remained from his lungs.
“Move.”
He was dragged, half-carried, his feet barely touching the ground. Cold air struck him, sharper now, and salt-laden. He stumbled over uneven ground—rocks, perhaps—unable to steady himself.
Then he was thrown onto something hard, the impact rattling his weakened body. A door slammed and locked, and they began to move.
There were voices outside. Fragments of the conversation reached him.
“…spy…”
“…treason…”
“…liar… thief…”
The words made no sense. None at all.
The conveyance moved steadily. He drifted again, hovering at the edge of consciousness. At last, it stopped. Darcy was hauled out once more. The air had changed again. It was cooler, still. Footsteps echoed differently now, as if they were walking across stone rather than wood or ground.
Darcy was half dragged as they walked. Soon, he lost track of their direction. There were so many turns, corridors, and staircases. He knew they were going down, but to where? All sense of direction was lost.
At last, he heard a door open. His attackers forced him into a chair. His bonds were cut. His arms fell forward, numb, lifeless, pain exploding through them as sensation returned in jagged bursts.
The sack was torn from his head. Light flooded his vision.
He flinched, blinking against it. Shapes formed slowly as his eyes adjusted to the bright light.
He was in a room with stone walls. A simple desk was positioned in front of the chair he occupied.
Behind the desk was a man, grizzled and weathered.
His teeth crooked, his expression one of rough amusement.
He glanced down at a set of papers in his hand. “Welcome to Yarmouth Castle, Mr.—” He paused. “Thomas Gray.”
Darcy’s breath caught. “What—”
“I understand you will be with us for some time,” the man continued, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy,” Darcy said hoarsely.
The man's hand slammed down upon the desk. “And I be the Prince Regent,” he snapped. “Shut up.”
The force of it silenced him.
The man leaned forward. “You are who and what I say you are.”
“A worthless criminal. A treasonous dog.” He leaned forward. “And I have all the power here. Power to make your life a living hell.”
Darcy said nothing, could say nothing. He dared not. His hands trembled as he rubbed at the scruff upon his face, the unfamiliar heft of it a small, disorienting detail amidst the greater horror.
“You may call me Warden,” the man said. “Now—how about a proper welcome?”
Two men seized Darcy once more, dragging him upright. What followed, he did not fully comprehend. Only fragments remained. Pain, sharp and relentless. Then darkness again. When he became aware once more, he lay upon cold stone.
He was in a small space, bare except for a straw pallet in the corner. A sound—a metallic clatter—drew his attention. A bowl rolled toward him, coming to rest within reach.
A voice spoke from beyond the door. “Food once a day,” it said. “Bucket emptied same time.”
Darcy turned his head slowly.
“If yer bowl ain’t at the door,” the voice continued, “ye’ll get no food.”
A pause. Then the solider huffed, “best remember.” The door shut and locked, and silence fell.
Darcy lay there, bruised, bleeding, and alone. For a long moment, he did not move, did not think.
Then the magnitude of it settled upon him. All of it. Elizabeth, Georgiana, Pemberley.
Gone. Everything torn from him without warning, without reason. A sound rose in his throat—unbidden, uncontrollable. He pressed his hand to his face. It did nothing to stop it. Darcy wept.