Chapter Ten
Five years. Darcy carefully examined the deep grooves in the wall, carved there day by day to mark the passage of time.
It had been five years, give or take a few days, since his imprisonment.
In that time, he had suffered in every imaginable way.
His desire for revenge against Hargrave and his coconspirators settled deep in his soul, festering and hardening.
The days were long and lonely. He did his best to remain active, but often the melancholy overtook him, and he sat on his pallet, unmoving.
The silence pressed upon him in those moments, so complete and unyielding that it seemed to dull even the sharpest thoughts.
There were times he wondered if a man might simply fade away in such a place—not by hunger or violence, but by the slow erosion of purpose.
It was on a day such as this that a strange noise drew his attention. It alternated between scraping and light tapping. Frowning, Darcy moved to the wall opposite his pallet. “Hello?” he called nervously.
The tapping stopped. “Are you by the wall?” came an accented voice.
“I am.”
“Move away.” The voice was muffled.
Darcy complied, backing away from the spot where he crouched.
There was a scraping sound, and a large stone moved out of the wall.
Darcy helped to shift it. Another came loose and, following its removal, a man crawled out of the space.
He had long hair and an even longer beard, both unkempt and streaked with gray, though his eyes were sharp and keen despite his disheveled appearance.
Darcy offered the man his hand, helping him to his feet and out of sight of the door.
“Thank you,” he said. He sounded French…or possibly Italian. Darcy was unsure.
They stood blinking at each other before the man threw his arms around Darcy.
Rather than stiffen as he might have five years ago, Darcy returned the embrace.
It was the first human contact he had experienced since his imprisonment, and the simple act of being touched—of being acknowledged as something more than a forgotten creature—struck him with unexpected force.
“Come, sit.” He beckoned the man, and they sat upon Darcy’s straw pallet.
“Thank you,” the man repeated. It was impossible to guess his age, though he moved like a man in his sixth decade.
“Who are you?” the words tumbled from Darcy’s lips, going against all the training of his youth.
“My name is Lucien Villard,” the man replied. “You?”
“Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
“Darcy? From the Norman D’Arcy, I assume.” The man—Lucien—stroked his beard.
“Yes, I have Norman roots.” Speaking felt awkward after so long in silence, but there was also relief in it—an easing of something long held tight.
“Then we are cousins after a fashion. “I am from Savoy. When last I was free, it was under the dominion of Sardinia, near the French border.”
“What is your crime?”
“Direct. I like that very much. One cannot mince words in a situation such as this. I was arrested and accused of espionage in 1805. I was but four-and-twenty.” Lucien shook his head.
“Napoleon was taking over and my country was at risk. I left, intending to go to England to seek asylum. Instead, I was thrown into prison.”
“I am sorry for you.” Darcy frowned. “I can understand why my countrymen acted as they did. Fear of invasion was at its peak then. I was two-and-twenty then, so we are of an age.”
“One cannot tell under all this.” He tugged on his beard once more and grinned. “Now, I had thought your cell to be empty. How long have you been here?”
“It has been five years. That seems such a short time compared to you. How have you managed a decade here?”
“It has been very lonely, I confess. The guards treat prisoners as if they are made of the same stone used to construct the castle. Most are kept in other corridors, from what I gathered by listening to the soldiers talk. I thought I was the only one here.”
“Perhaps this area is for spies.” Darcy shook his head.
“You, a spy? I can tell by your speech that you are someone of standing. Surely, you were not so foolish as to support Napoleon.” Lucien laughed.
“On the contrary. I have been imprisoned for a crime I did not commit, all because I refused to satisfy another man’s greed.”
“That sounds like a story worth telling. I should like to hear it. We have some time before the guards bring our food. I must be back in my cell by then.”
He learned from Lucien that they were on the Isle of Wight. Over the years, the guards had withheld that information. Somehow, it brought clarity.
Darcy spent the next half hour or so telling his new friend how he ended up imprisoned.
As he spoke, memories long turned over in silence found voice again—each detail sharpened by repetition, each injustice no less keen for having been endured so long.
When he finished, he hung his head, despair pressing upon him.
“This man, Hargrave, sounds like the very devil. I am sorry you were so ill-used. But we can now help each other. It took me seven years to dig from my cell to here. I had hoped this would be an outer wall, but it appears my calculations were incorrect. It is a mere four meters from here to our freedom, and I believe we can dig it in a year. Perhaps less.”
Darcy blinked. “You mean to dig from my cell to the outer wall? What if there is a drop off? We cannot know what is out there.”
“You would rather stay here until you die? No, I shall take my chance scaling a cliff if that means I can escape this wretched place. I am no spy, and neither are you. And when we have escaped, I shall split my fortune with you.” Lucien grinned.
“Fortune?” That would be helpful, for Darcy would have no access to the money that was rightfully his. I shall take my revenge on Hargrave and any other who helped put me here.
“Yes, though that is a tale for another day. I must go or I shall not be back in my cell for dinner. After the guards do their final night check, I shall return. We must plan our escape.” Lucien lowered himself into the hole, and Darcy carefully put the blocks back in place.
The spot was not visible from the door, which made concealment easy.
Darcy sat on his pallet, staring at the place where Lucien had emerged.
An unfamiliar feeling filled him, one he had thought lost.
It is hope, he realized.
They began digging the next night. Time passed faster now, thanks to having a congenial conversationalist and hope of an escape.
Lucien did not possess refined manners, for his family had not moved in finer circles.
Thus, Darcy spent time teaching the other man how to speak and act like someone from London society.
In return, Lucien taught Darcy the Savoyan dialect, the geography and history of the area, and information about the ruling class.
There were several family names that had been lost to time.
“Valdieri, Dantès, Benoit, Bellier… Why? What need have you for a new name?”
“I intend to take revenge on those responsible for my imprisonment. I shall need a new identity, one of power that cannot easily be confirmed.” Darcy chipped away at the stone, passing a chunk back to Lucien.
His friend was silent. Then, “Darcy, I know you were wronged—as was I. Revenge is not the answer. Such actions will only poison your soul.”
“I have spent hours contemplating what I might find when I return to London. If Hargrave went through the trouble to see me imprisoned, I must assume he got what he desired, and has mined Pemberley’s land into ruin. Is it so terrible to wish for justice—for the return of my rightful property?”
“That is far different from revenge. It is possible to expose a crime without losing your soul in the process.” Lucien took a rock Darcy passed back.
“Then you will have to show me how it is done.” The rage still burned hot in Darcy’s chest. “For I have every intention of claiming what belongs to me.”
“There is likely more to be discovered. You will need all the pieces in place. But let us speak of happier things.”
Darcy told Lucien about life at Pemberley, his family, and Elizabeth. He seemed very interested in the latter and asked all manner of questions about the young lady who held Darcy’s heart.
“She sounds like a treasure. I can hardly wait to meet her.”
Darcy shook his head. “She has likely married. Her family situation would have required it.” The thought pained him, for Elizabeth had been his match in every way.
“If she is as you paint her, I cannot imagine it being so.”
“If it is, then I shall never marry. There can never be another to me as Elizabeth is.” Darcy treasured thoughts of the young lady who had captured his heart in Ramsgate.
“Do you not believe she will feel the same way? Surely, if you captured her heart, she will find it difficult to love another.”
Darcy scoffed. “Love has little to do with it when it comes to security. Elizabeth must be nearing five-and-twenty now. She likely married long ago to secure her future.”
“That does not seem in line with the woman you have described, my friend. From what you have told me, I expect this Elizabeth is a woman of great loyalty, one who gives her love readily and does not easily grant the same gift to another. I suppose a marriage of convenience is the next best thing for a woman who has lost her love, for she would not be expected to lose that organ again. It is a safe path to take. Still, your Elizabeth does not seem the type.”
“Your suppositions are accurate based on what I know.” Still, Darcy wondered if his beautiful, vibrant Elizabeth could resist another man’s attention. She could not help her manifold attractions.
As the weeks turned to months, and the months into something more enduring, their work proceeded with steady purpose. Each handful of loosened earth, each stone shifted from its place, brought them closer to freedom—and to whatever truths awaited beyond these walls.
Even as Darcy labored, his thoughts often turned inward.
Why had he been brought here, rather than simply killed?
The question lingered, persistent and unresolved. Hargrave was not a man inclined to half measures, and Darcy lived—imprisoned, silenced, erased. There must have been purpose in it.
Control. Power. Some motive not yet revealed.
Lucien’s earlier words returned to him with insistence. There is likely more to be discovered.
Darcy began to consider not only what had been done to him, but what had been gained.
Pemberley. Georgiana. If he had been declared dead—or simply vanished—what protections remained? His cousin Richard would have taken guardianship. Even that, however, could be circumvented with careful manipulation, with influence, with deceit.
Marriage. The thought struck him with sudden force. If Georgiana had been persuaded—coerced—into a marriage advantageous to another…
Darcy’s hands stilled. “No,” he murmured, though whether in denial or determination, even he could not say.
He forced himself back to the work, each movement sharper now, more urgent. He would not remain here—he could not. There was too much at stake, too much left unfinished.
That night, when exhaustion at last claimed him, Darcy lay upon his pallet, staring into the darkness.
As he had done countless times before, he chose a memory.
Elizabeth.
He recalled the curve of her smile as she teased him, the brightness of her eyes when she laughed, the warmth of her voice when she spoke his name. He remembered the feel of her hand in his, light and certain. She had trusted him without reservation.
He took that moment—one small fragment of time—and turned it over in his mind, examining every detail, preserving it against the erosion of years.
Again and again, until it was perfect and unchanging.
Until it belonged to them alone.
She was all he held on to. For her, he would endure; he would survive. For her, he would return, even if she were lost to him forever. It was enough to know she existed somewhere beyond those walls, walking beneath the same sky.