Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
The door struck the wall hard enough to leave a mark. Darcy could only stare at it in a hazy sort of stupor—his hand had occasioned the violence, but his mind was still too sluggish to gentle his movements.
The sound echoed down the corridor, sharp enough to draw a gasp from Elizabeth beside him. She caught the edge of the door as it bounced back, glancing helplessly at the damage done to the wall. “Are you…?”
“I can walk.”
The words emerged thin, scraped raw on the way out. His chest answered them with a tight, unyielding pressure that made each step an act of balance rather than intention. The floor had stopped moving, but he was not certain how he was connected to it. He reached for the wall, missed it, corrected.
Elizabeth’s hand lifted in reflex, hovering near his sleeve before halting short. “Mr Darcy—”
“No!” He swallowed and forced the rest through more evenly. “Do not… Please, do not.”
She withdrew her hand at once. The space between them felt abruptly colder.
Behind them, the library lay open and ruined: the overturned chair, the scattered porcelain, the darkened patch on the carpet where wax had been stamped and ground into the pile.
Smoke lingered faintly in the air. Darcy forced himself to look at it properly, to take note. Evidence required attention.
A shout sounded from the stairs. Another answered it—this one sharper, alarmed.
Elizabeth gaped after the sound in some horror. “We… we have awakened the house.”
“Yes,” he said. “That is to be expected.”
Footsteps pounded along the corridor. A door opened somewhere with a crack like a snapped branch. The house was coming apart into noise and motion, servants calling to one another, voices raised in the careful urgency of those trained to act without panic.
Darcy took one step forward and very nearly lost the second.
Elizabeth caught her breath, stopped herself again from wedging herself under his shoulder. He almost wished she would. Kill him with her mercy and have done with it.
Her face had gone pale beneath the flush left behind by the shock, her loose braid had begun to come undone at the nape. And in the light of the hall, he could see now how hastily done up her gown was, sleeves rumpled as though pulled on without care.
The realization struck him with a sudden, mortifying clarity. Matters did not look… innocent.
He straightened at once, though his spine gave way with a painful twinge that nearly buckled him. His hand remained pressed flat against his chest, fingers splayed, as though he could contain what remained unruly beneath them by force alone.
Voices rose nearer. “Darcy? Where are you?”
Bingley’s, unmistakably. Footsteps hurried along the passage, then slowed, uncertain.
Darcy turned just as Bingley came into view, candle held high enough to throw light across the corridor in a wavering arc. He wore his dressing gown half-fastened, feet still bare, his expression shifting rapidly from relief to astonishment as his gaze took them in together.
“Thank God,” Bingley began—then stopped. His eyes flicked from Darcy to Elizabeth and back again, polite instinct wrestling with a conclusion he was determined not to voice.
Elizabeth moved first, stepping back a pace, as though the space between them had suddenly become improper rather than dangerous.
“There was a disturbance.” Her voice held steady, but her hands were clenched in her skirts. “The library—”
“I felt it,” Bingley said quickly. “The whole house. Are you injured?”
Darcy shook his head once. The motion sent a sharp reminder through his ribs, but he kept his expression composed. “No. But there may be damage. I require the servants brought together at once.”
Bingley blinked, then nodded, relief seizing eagerly upon the practical. “Of course. I’ll—”
A crash interrupted him—glass, somewhere beyond the hall. A woman cried out.
Darcy did not wait. He moved past Bingley into the passage. Each step jarred, but he kept his pace sedate. Appearances, now, were necessary.
In the main hall, the house had transformed.
Candles flared in every direction, flames bobbing as servants hurried through the hall. A footman knelt near the far wall, brushing shards of glass into his apron. Water sloshed somewhere.
Darcy raised his voice. “Attend.”
It cut through the confusion at once. Heads turned. Movement slowed.
“Has anyone been injured?” he demanded.
A murmur of answers followed—no, sir; only fright; a fall; some porcelain shattered, one priceless vase toppled, but no broken bones. Relief flickered briefly through him.
“The west corridor must be examined at once,” he continued. “Chimneys first. Then ceilings. No one is to re-enter any room where stone has shifted until it is cleared. Bring lanterns. Secure the fires. If there is further movement, you will evacuate to the courtyard without hesitation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Bingley appeared then at the foot of the stairs, pale beneath a hastily applied sheen of white cream that caught the candlelight oddly along her cheek.
Her hair had been braided for the night and now clung to her greased temples.
She took in the scene in a single sweep—and then her eyes found Elizabeth, standing just behind Darcy.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, the civility she prized so carefully already fracturing. “Why are you here?”
Darcy made no response to Miss Bingley, but turned as a maid rushed up to him. “The library rug is burned,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “I know I put those candles out myself, but there is melted wax and a large scorch—”
“I will see it,” Darcy replied. “For now, have it covered. It was not your fault.”
Miss Bingley’s voice rose again. “A candle at this time of night? How could—”
“Caroline.” Bingley’s tone carried warning, gentle but unmistakable.
Darcy drew a careful breath, straightened, and spoke again to the servants, already cataloguing what must be done before thought could intrude where it was least welcome.
Behind him, he was acutely aware of Elizabeth’s presence—still there, still silent, still not touching him.
She stumbled on the last stair and caught herself on the newel before anyone else noticed.
“Elizabeth!”
Jane was there at once, her hand firm at Elizabeth’s elbow.
“I am well,” Elizabeth said, because Jane’s face required it. “Truly.”
Jane did not loosen her hold. “You look as though you have been dragged through the night itself. Where were you?”
Before Elizabeth could answer, Miss Bingley’s voice cut in, sharp as snapped thread. “Yes, indeed. Where were you, Miss Elizabeth? We were all abed when the house decided to tear itself apart.”
A servant appeared, breathless, lantern raised. “If you please, ladies, Mr Darcy requests you gather in the west withdrawing room. The walls are stone. It is thought safest in case there are more tremors.”
“There will be no more tremors,” Elizabeth said.
The servant blinked at the certainty. Jane tightened her grip.
“Hush,” Jane murmured. “You cannot know that.”
Elizabeth did know it. The knowledge lay quiet and immovable beneath her lungs, like a settled weight. She swallowed it back. This was not the moment.
They were urged forward together, a small procession shepherded along the passage and into a low-ceilinged room whose thick walls smelled faintly of cool lime and old hearth smoke.
Lanterns were set along the table. Windows shattered open to the December chill.
A maid tried to close the door, but the latch had broken.
Elizabeth sat because Jane pressed her down.
Only then did she feel the tremor in her hands—not fear, but aftermath. Her skin still held the echo of heat, of closeness gone too far. The memory of Darcy’s breath against her cheek rose unbidden, and with it the awful, lucid knowledge of what her wanting had done to him.
She folded her hands together until the shaking ceased.
Jane knelt before her. “Lizzy. You frightened me.”
“I know.” The words came out thin. She tried again. “I am sorry.”
“For the fright?” Miss Bingley interjected, positioning herself with intent near the lantern light. “Or for the impropriety?”
Jane looked up sharply. “Miss Bingley! What has my sister done to merit—”
“I think we may as well speak plainly,” Miss Bingley said.
“Since circumstances have already stripped us of every other comfort. A lady under my brother’s care is found wandering the house at night, half-dressed, in the company of a gentleman not her relation.
And during an earthquake, no less! One is forced to wonder whether the illness that so conveniently confined her earlier was not… exaggerated.”
Elizabeth lifted her head. “You are welcome to wonder.” Her voice surprised her with its steadiness. “But I will not answer it.”
Miss Bingley’s brows rose. “How very convenient.”
Jane rose to her feet. “You forget yourself, Miss Bingley!”
“Do I? I think rather that I am remembering the obligations of hospitality. And propriety. And my brother’s position, his rather convenient friendship with a single man of large fortune who seems to lose his composure whenever she is about!
I believe that is twice now you have managed to throw yourself in his way with this strange ailment of yours. ”
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a brief instant. The darkness soothed her. When she opened them again, she looked not at Miss Bingley, but at the stone wall beyond her shoulder—solid, unmoved, unanswering.
“I did not fake my illness,” she said quietly. “I would not know how.”
“And yet you appear remarkably recovered. One might almost say entirely revived! How strange that Mr Jones could find nothing amiss.”
Jane’s hand found Elizabeth’s shoulder.
Elizabeth did not shrug it off. She leaned into it instead, just enough to borrow strength without admitting the need. “Appearances are unreliable. I should think recent events have demonstrated that.”
Miss Bingley drew a breath to reply—and stopped when a strange look crossed Elizabeth’s face.