Page 134 of Ashes and Understanding
Elizabeth pressed the back of her hand to Darcy’s cheek. “You are safe,” she murmured. “You are safe now, Darcy.”
His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused, but then they locked on hers. A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You are all right?” he rasped.
She nodded, tears spilling freely now. “Yes. We are all right.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam straightened and turned to look down at her, his face grim and smudged with ash. “Le Corbeau—the one with blue eyes—is bound and under guard near the stables. Sir William and Colonel Forster are already en route. The second twin—the one at Netherfield—is locked up as well. I never thought…” He shook his head. “Twins.”
Elizabeth stared at him, still struggling to process the full weight of what had happened. “He said it was his last job. That he would disappear after it.”
“He nearly succeeded.” Fitzwilliam’s voice was low. “But you stopped him.”
“I did not,” she said quietly, looking down at Benjamin’s sooty curls. “We did. All of us.”
From across the lawn, Mr. Bennet came running toward them, his face lined with worry. Behind him trailed Jane, her skirts muddy, and behind her—Mrs. Bennet wailing, “My poor baby, my poor Lizzy!” though she made no move to approach.
Elizabeth met her father’s eyes, and his steps slowed.
“I knew you would save them,” he said, voice rough with emotion as he reached her side. He dropped to his knees and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I knew.”
She closed her eyes, letting herself finally lean against him for just a moment.
Then Wickham handed her Benjamin, who whimpered and clung to her as though he might never let go. The tiny noise he made was the sweetest sound she had ever heard— evidence that he was still alive.
“It is over,” she whispered hoarsely to him.
But even as she said it, she knew it was not. Not entirely.
There would still be questions. There would be aftermath. The threat had been stopped—but not without scars.
Still, the sun had risen.
And they had survived.
∞∞∞
Darcy stirred, the dry rasp of breath against his throat pulling him from sleep. His chest ached, his head throbbed dully, and the air in his lungs felt like it had been dragged across sandpaper. He coughed—a shallow, grating sound—and winced.
A flurry of motion came from the corner of the room.
“Oh, thank heavens, sir! You have woken!” cried Bates, his valet, bustling forward. The man’s usually stiff composure had cracked with visible relief.
Bates turned and flung the chamber door open. “Tell them Mr. Darcy is awake,” he barked into the hallway, then shut the door behind him with a sharp click.
Darcy’s lips parted. “Eliz—” His voice broke on the first syllable, dry and cracked beyond recognition.
“Do not try to speak, sir,” Bates urged, hurrying to his side. “You must be parched.”
Darcy moved to sit p, but then realized he was already half-reclined on a large stack of pillows. He shifted into a better position as Bates took a glass of water from the bedside table and held it to his lips.
“Small sips,” he instructed.
The first swallow burned. The second was only marginally better. Still, the moisture eased the burning in his throat.
“What happened?” Darcy rasped after a few moments.
“You took in a fair amount of smoke, sir, and struck your head during the fall down the stairs,” Bates explained. “You were brought back to Netherfield in a cart yesterday morning and lost consciousness along the way. You have been asleep ever since, though you were coughing quite a bit in spite of not being sensible to the world.”
Darcy's brow furrowed. “Elizabeth?” he managed.
