CHAPTER 17
"Look!" Mr. Darcy's voice rang with sudden excitement, a rawness of hope in it she had not heard from him before. "I believe that is a farmer's cottage."
Elizabeth followed his outstretched hand, squinting into the distance, her heart lurching with a hope she almost feared to let herself feel, until she made it out at last, a low roof, a thin curl of smoke against the pale sky. "Oh! I see it! Thank God! Mr. Darcy, we are saved!"
"Then let us make haste!" He was already moving as he said it, his exhaustion seeming to fall away from him all at once, replaced by something bright and urgent.
The clearing brought them to the edge of a steep drop, where the stream they had followed fell away in a short cascade over a jumble of great boulders, landing in a pool below and throwing up a fine, cool mist that caught what little light remained in the sky.
Elizabeth's heart, so lately lifted, sank a little at the sight of it, one more obstacle, when she had thought herself so nearly delivered.
Mr. Darcy studied the descent a long moment, his eyes moving over the boulders with the same careful, assessing look she had seen him turn on their captors' door and window both, working out the safest and swiftest route down.
"Miss Elizabeth, there, I see a way we might climb." He pointed it out to her precisely, tracing the path with his finger. "I shall go first, and help you after."
He did not wait for her answer, moving at once to the spot he judged best, descending the boulders with a sure, easy agility that spoke of some boyhood spent scrambling over rock rather older than his London manners generally let on.
He stopped upon a large stone, bracing himself against it with one hand, and called back for her to follow.
She sat first upon the edge of the drop, gathering her ruined skirts as best she could with one hand, and extended her leg as far as she dared reach, until her foot found purchase on the boulder below, her whole body trembling faintly with the effort of trusting her own weight to it.
Mr. Darcy coloured deeply as her skirts rose with the movement, offering a brief glimpse of stocking and bare knee before he turned his head sharply away.
Elizabeth, catching the abruptness of his movement, drew her hem down toward her ankles at once, uncertain how much he had seen, though she suspected it was rather more than she would have wished.
A dress, she reflected with some mortification, was hardly suited to scaling boulders.
Goodness gracious, she has lovely legs. The thought popped into his head, and he could not help himself.
Yet, as soon as it entered, Mr. Darcy forced himself to tuck that thought away and school his attention back towards his task, which was to help his lovely Elizabeth down a steep ledge, so they may escape their horrid situation.
When she risked a glance at him again, she found his cheeks still faintly coloured, which set her own blushing in turn, and she found she could not meet his eye, fixing her gaze instead upon his boots as she continued her slow descent.
As she drew near, he extended his hand, and she took it, still unable to look up, sliding down to share his footing, rather nearer to him than she had anticipated.
He cleared his throat, released her hand, and turned at once to the next stretch of boulders.
Without further word, the two worked their way down together with growing ease, and within twenty minutes had reached the bottom, standing in the cool spray of the falling water.
The trees thinned here, allowing them a clearer view toward their destination.
Idyllic as the spot was, they did not linger, pausing only to drink a little before pressing onward.
Mr. Darcy led them on through the hedgerows toward the distant cottage, still some way above it upon the hillside, the little house set in the valley below like something out of a dream she scarcely dared trust. Near it, Elizabeth marked a narrow lane that appeared little travelled, and wondered fleetingly what manner of people lived so far from any main road.
"Where can we have come to?" she wondered aloud.
"I have not the least idea, but we shall know soon enough," he responded in kind.
Suddenly, a dog's bark sounded from somewhere behind them, faint, but unmistakable, and both froze at once, every muscle going rigid.
They exchanged a look, then turned in unison to glance back the way they had come, each understanding the same thing in the same instant, without need of words. The hound had found their trail again.
Darcy's head snapped toward the sound, his whole body going taut, before he turned to Elizabeth, his hand already closing about her wrist. "Elizabeth!
They have found us. Run!" He pulled her forward into a sprint, her feet stumbling to match his longer stride before finding their own desperate rhythm.
Elizabeth’s heart hammered with panic, each breath tearing at her chest as she cried out, "Shall we make it?"
"We shall! Keep running!" he answered, breathing hard himself now, his grip on her wrist never loosening.
That wretched dog! Elizabeth thought, bitterness flaring through her fear. Why did I ever follow it in the first place?
She blamed the whole of their misfortune upon the creature that had first led her into the clearing where Wickham's men had found her, knowing even as she thought it how little the blame mattered now.
Mr. Darcy judged their pursuers still some distance off, likely only now reaching the falls, but closing steadily, the bark growing incrementally louder with every minute that passed.
They gained good ground in their flight, drawing nearer to the cottage, close enough now that Elizabeth could see smoke rising properly from its chimney, when she felt her foot catch on a loose stone.
She cried out in surprise, pitching forward, and his arm caught her hard about the waist before she struck the ground.
"Elizabeth! Are you hurt?" The question tore out of him before he had even fully caught her, his voice cracking with a fear he made no effort to disguise.
"A cramp! In my foot!" she gasped, doubling over despite his hold, clutching at her calf, her foot lifted uselessly from the ground, pain shooting white-hot up through her leg.
He swore under his breath, low and vicious, and she looked back at him, helpless, tears of frustration pricking at her eyes.
"Mr. Darcy!" she cried again, unable to keep the desperation from her voice.
"Come. We must not stop." The words came before she could say more, clipped short, his voice sharp with something very close to fear.
He moved to her side at once, bracing his hip against her and wrapping a strong arm about her waist, half lifting and half dragging her forward toward the cottage.
She moaned with the pain of it, but he did not slacken his pace, driving them around the last hedgerow until a small stable came into view, and with it a sturdy Welsh pony grazing just outside.
We shall take the pony; the new plan seized him at once.
"Elizabeth, we are nearly there, nearly there," he said, though she scarcely registered the words, consumed entirely by the effort of fighting through the pain still gripping her foot, aware only that they meant to stop, and that stopping might bring some relief.
They came onto a rough, stony lane, the noise of their approach startling the pony into a sharp cry of alarm, its head tossing in warning.
Darcy, who had handled horses all his life, knew it was hardly the most promising introduction, but he knew too that Welsh ponies were hardy creatures, his cousin Fitzwilliam had ridden one himself as a mounted officer in an early engagement of the wars.
Reaching the animal, he freed its tether and all but lifted Elizabeth onto its back.
Riding without a saddle would be no easy matter, but he did not doubt he could manage it.
He jumped, attempting to swing his leg over, and failed.
He tried again, with the same result, cursing under his breath as his frustration mounted, before a third attempt finally succeeded, and he settled himself behind her, arms braced around her waist and thighs as he leaned forward to seize the reins.
"Oy! What d'ye think yer about!" a voice called from the cottage, only a few hundred paces off.
"Sir, forgive us, we are in the direst need of your pony. I give you my word, it shall be returned!" Darcy called back, already urging the animal forward onto the lane.
"Come back, ye thief!" the farmer shouted after them, but Darcy did not look back. Elizabeth clung to the pony's mane for dear life as he pushed the animal into a full gallop, her foot still throbbing, her heart pounding wildly.
Sighting the road ahead, Darcy veered right, with no notion of where it led, only the hope of finding some place of safety for her.
They had gone only a little way along it when the sharp report of a pistol rang out behind them, followed by the whine of a ball striking the stone wall lining the road ahead.
"Good heavens! They are firing upon us! Elizabeth, get down!"
Elizabeth was already bent low over the pony's mane when the shot came, and at his frantic command she pressed herself down further still, her face nearly buried against the animal's neck.
She screamed despite herself as she felt his weight come down over her, flattening himself as best he could against her back, his ragged breath loud in her ear.
Terrified beyond words, she could do nothing but cling to the pony and pray.