E lizabeth awoke with a start, her cheeks warm and her heart beating far too quickly for the peaceful quiet of the morning.
Good heavens, what sort of dream was that?
She pressed a hand to her temple, willing her thoughts to still. It had not been improper— not truly —but it had been… intimate. The feel of a hand clasping hers, a gaze so intense it seemed to strip her bare, lips pressing gently on hers in a kiss—tender and tentative, and so real that her lips still tingled with the memory of it in the morning light.
“I must be losing my mind,” she muttered aloud, flinging back the covers and stepping down onto the rug. “It was only a dream.”
The fact that the man in question was someone she actually knew—Fitzwilliam Darcy, of all people—was enough to send her fleeing from the house altogether.
She dressed quickly and quietly, glad Jane was still asleep and no one was yet bustling about the halls. The air in the house felt heavy after the uneasy events of the previous night, and Elizabeth needed space. Air. Clarity.
A brisk walk to the top of Oakham Mount should do it.
She donned her boots and a warm cloak and slipped outside without troubling Hill or any of the other servants. The November air was sharp against her skin, but welcome, too—it scoured away some of the heat still burning on her cheeks. Her steps carried her quickly past the edge of the village, up the well-trodden path she had climbed a hundred times.
With each step up the incline, her breathing evened, and the chaos of her thoughts began to find shape.
Darcy…
It was impossible not to think of him. He had surprised her so many times, like in London during the fire—without hesitation, when the soldier had shouted at her. He had stood beside her when no one else had, had protected her dignity in a moment when she had barely thought to guard it herself.
Then at the Meryton assembly, when she had thought him proud and above his company. But then minutes later, he had taken her herbs with such a quiet, vulnerable gratitude that it had struck her breathless. And later, instead of asking for more—indeed, he had needed to be convinced—so as not to take what her sister might need.
What kind of man tries so hard not to burden others that he practically collapses before asking for aid? What could have made him this way?
How odd that a man who seemed so guarded could still be capable of such simple, honest thanks. And how telling, too, that he had been hesitant to accept any help at all. It was clear, painfully so, that he had no one to lean on. No one he trusted with his weakness.
He noticed the simple things, like when he had lent her a book when she was stuck at Netherfield. And then, in a repeat of London, he had shielded her from Mr. Smithson’s overreaching questions without hesitation. Both times, he had seen she was uncomfortable and acted.
That is not nothing.
The thought of Mr. Smithson caused her to shudder. Darcy had spoken with such authority to Mr. Smithson, with the weight of his name and his uncle's title behind it. But what could he truly do? Could he protect the Gardiners? Or Benjamin?
Could he protect her ?
And would he even want to? He was so far above her in wealth and station, and he could do much better than a simple country miss.
She knew she should not hope, but she could not help herself. An image of him from the Gardiner’s card party came to mind, and a flutter rose unbidden in her chest. She could still feel the echo of his voice, the storm in his eyes, the firm line of his jaw as he had stood against that odious man. As though it had cost him nothing to do so, even though he scarcely knew the Gardiners.
That, too, was not nothing. Did he do it for her? Or because he was simply a gentleman?
Her boots crunched on the path as she reached the top of the mount, the wind tugging at her shawl. Below her, the whole of Hertfordshire spread out in winter colors—bare trees, pale skies, golden stubbled fields.
Elizabeth folded her arms tightly across her chest and stared down at two men on horseback in the field below, a strange heaviness pressing against her heart. For what seemed like an eternity, she was lost in the freedom the riders represented—galloping fast and far, unconstrained by duty or doubt or fear.
If only I could ride like that. If only I could outrun all of this.
Another gust of wind bit through her shawl, and she shivered, acknowledging her foolishness in climbing to such a high elevation this late in the autumn. The bracing air had done little to clear her thoughts. If anything, the silence only sharpened them. Reluctantly, she turned from the view she adored and began to make her way back down the path.
As she did so, memories of the card party at Stoke House came to her mind. The sight of Mr. Smithson thrashing against the footmen’s grip, his eyes wild and unrepentant, made her stomach twist anew. That he had broken into the Gardiners’ home—into the nursery —was beyond terrifying. He had been seeking something. Or someone.
Does it have something to do with Benjamin? she wondered again, her steps growing slower. He’s just a baby. An unknown orphan of dubious birth, abandoned by his mother’s friend in the middle of the fire. Why on earth would he be of interest to a man investigating an insurance claim?
She was no stranger to the ways of the world. For all the adoration her family gave the baby, it did not make him a legitimate member of the Bennet family.
But those were problems for far the future. For now, there were more pressing concerns. What if Smithson truly believed the Gardiners were somehow involved in starting the fire in London?
What if my waking early has made them suspects?
A lump rose in her throat. The thought of her aunt or uncle facing accusations—worse, arrest—because she had roused the house so quickly, because she had urged them to flee—it was unbearable.
She had always imagined scandal might touch her family through Lydia or Kitty—some flirtation gone too far, some indiscretion in a shop or a dance hall. Never her honorable uncle. Never the most level-headed man she knew.
And if there is scandal—if whispers begin to circulate about the Gardiners or Benjamin—what then? What of the estate? What of their children? What if they lose everything?
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to quell the sick fluttering there. A week ago, she would have laughed at the idea of her ordinary little family being caught up in a web of mystery and danger. Now, she could not laugh.
At the bottom of the path, the wind picked up again, swirling around her ankles. She pulled her shawl tighter and quickened her pace.
At the bottom of the path, the wind picked up again, swirling around her ankles. She pulled her shawl tighter and quickened her pace.
A sudden sound—low and wet—reached her ears.
Elizabeth froze.
There it was again. A soft groan, followed by the unmistakable crunch of footsteps on the damp leaves littering the path.
She turned, heart thudding. Nothing but trees behind her, their bare branches scratching against the sky. Still, the hairs at the back of her neck prickled.
Do not be silly, she scolded herself. It is probably a tradesman, or a tenant cutting through on his way to Meryton.
But Wickham’s warning came back to her with vivid clarity. “Not all of them are gentlemen. Best not to assume red coats always mean safe company.”
The revelry from the card party—the laughter, the shouting, the sound of that vase shattering—flashed through her mind. The way one soldier had leered at Kitty. The way another had tried to pull Lydia into a dance that was not proper in any drawing room, let alone their aunt’s parlor.
Elizabeth quickened her pace again, causing the toe of her boot caught on a tree root. She stumbled but kept her footing, heart racing now. She was on the main path to Longbourn, surely close enough that someone would hear if she cried out.
Then the sound shifted.
The footsteps were ahead of her.
Not behind. Ahead.
She stopped short, every muscle taut. No, she thought. No, no, no—how did they get ahead of me?
Panic surged in her chest. Her breathing came faster as she took a cautious step forward, the trees narrowing around her with every pace. She rounded a bend in the trail, her eyes wide and searching—
—and collided into something solid.
She gasped and recoiled with a cry.
The man before her staggered backward, moaning. His coat was soaked through with blood, his face deathly pale, his eyes glassy.
Smithson.
Elizabeth screamed.
She stumbled away, her hands raised instinctively in defense—but he did not lunge. He did not speak. He just stood there for a moment, swaying where he stood… then collapsed forward onto the ground.
His hands, slick with blood, pressed weakly against his stomach. He tried to speak, but it came out as a choked, rattling gasp. “H-help me…”
Elizabeth stood frozen, breath ragged and chest heaving, every instinct screaming at her to run.
But if I leave him, he will die. And what sort of person would that make me?
Still trembling, she forced herself forward. “Do not move,” she whispered, falling to her knees beside him. “Do not try to move, just—just let me see.”
Blood oozed between his fingers. His shirt was torn open at the waist, and beneath it, the wound was deep—too deep.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered. “Oh Lord, oh Lord…”
She tore frantically at the buttons of her pelisse, scarcely noticing the blood that had transferred from Smithson to herself when they ran into one another. She yanked up her skirt and reached for the layers beneath. Her fingers found the hem of her petticoat, and she ripped it free with a violence that surprised her.
She pressed the wadded fabric hard against the wound, her fingers becoming slick as the blood oozed around the makeshift bandage. Smithson groaned, his whole-body shuddering.
“Stay with me,” she begged. “Please, stay with me!”
His hand grasped weakly at hers. “Tell… raven…” he gasped. “Tell… the raven… it was the crow…”
“What?” she said, leaning in. “What are you talking about? What does that mean?”
But his eyes rolled back in his head.
“NO!” Elizabeth shouted, pressing harder against the wound. “You mustn’t—do you hear me? You must stay awake!”
His body sagged.
She looked around wildly. There was no one. Not a soul in sight. Her own breathing was ragged, almost loud enough to drown out the growing chorus of birdsong in the trees.
Then she did the only thing she could.
She screamed.
“HELP!” her voice cracked. “HELP! PLEASE—SOMEONE, HELP!”
She screamed again, and again, until her throat ached with the effort, until her voice echoed through the bare woods like a cry in a nightmare.
And then she listened, breath heaving, heart racing, hands soaked in blood.
Waiting for an answer.
Waiting for help.
∞∞∞
Darcy had not realized how much he needed the ride until they were well into it.
The brisk air stung his cheeks, the late autumn sun casting long shadows over the gently sloping fields. He let his horse stretch into a steady canter, the rhythmic pounding of hooves under him stirring something long dormant in his chest. His lungs burned—but not with pain. It was a clean ache, one of exertion, not desperation.
Remarkable, he thought. The herbs truly are helping . Since his own supply had arrived from London, he had been taking them more regularly—though not as religiously as Elizabeth would likely have prescribed.
Elizabeth.
The name echoed in his mind as he crested the next hill beside Bingley. His eyes drifted upward toward the ridge in the near distance, and a fond, wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Oakham Mount, they called it.
Darcy chuckled softly. “Mount,” indeed. It was a pleasant hill at best—not even worth the name compared to the jagged heights of Derbyshire.
But his amusement faded as his eyes fixed on a small figure at the top of the incline, silhouetted against the pale sky. A woman, shawl wrapped tight against the wind, her posture unmistakable.
He knew who it was. He knew without needing to see the curve of her brow or the color of her eyes. No other woman in Hertfordshire—or perhaps in England—would be so bold as to climb Oakham Mount alone at this hour, with the wind cutting and the ground damp with last night’s frost.
Elizabeth.
Bingley noticed his gaze and followed it. “It appears we are not far from Longbourn. We ought to pay a call, do not you think?”
Darcy gave him a sidelong glance, his tone mild. “Ah. You are desirous of seeing Miss Lydia’s latest bonnet?”
“What? No—”
“Then it must be Mrs. Bennet. Eager to hear the latest gossip, are you?”
“Certainly not—I only meant—” Bingley stammered.
“Not either of them? Then perhaps you are hoping for a game of chess with Mr. Bennet? Or a spirited discussion of Fordyce’s Sermons with Miss Mary?”
Bingley spluttered, tugging his reins a little too sharply. “What? No—of course not! I only—Darcy!”
But then he caught sight of Darcy’s expression—amused, faintly smug—and let out a breath of laughter. “You are teasing me. You are actually teasing me .”
Darcy merely raised a brow, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “It seems I am.”
“Well,” Bingley said, grinning as he shook his head, “You’ve been far less grim of late. I daresay I prefer you this way.”
Darcy was about to reply when the air split with a scream.
Both men froze, listening, but there was nothing save an ominous echo that died away.
Darcy’s blood turned to ice. He knew that voice. Even distorted by wind and distance, he knew it.
Elizabeth.
Without another word, both men spurred their horses forward, tearing across the field toward the trees.
The scream had come from the wooded paths that wound between Longbourn and Oakham Mount. As they reached the treeline, three paths branched ahead of them. They reined in sharply, breathing hard, horses stamping.
“Which one?” Bingley asked. “The one that goes towards Meryton is the most traveled—it would be more likely.”
Darcy’s eyes scanned the narrowing trails, his heart hammering. If it truly was Elizabeth, then she would have taken the least-worn path up the mountain. But the middle path also veers that direction.
Indecision haunted him—the wrong choice, leading them further away from the person in distress, could mean the difference between life and death.
The wind rustled the trees, and for a breathless moment, there was only silence. Even the birds had gone still. The seconds ticked by as Darcy furiously attempted to make up his mind.
Then another cry came: “Help! Help! Please—someone help!”
Darcy turned his horse toward the narrowest path without waiting for agreement. “This way!”
They plunged into the underbrush, branches whipping past them, hooves thundering on the damp earth.
And Darcy’s only thought—burning hotter than the cold air in his lungs—was, Let me be right. Let me find her. Let her be safe.
∞∞∞
The pounding of hooves struck the path like thunder, rising from the trees ahead.
Elizabeth turned sharply, still pressing against the sticky, blood-soaked fabric beneath her hands. Her heart surged with wild hope. Someone had heard. Someone was coming.
Please, please—
Two horses burst through the underbrush, their riders silhouetted in the pale morning light. Relief hit her like a wave as she saw two riders galloping down the path toward her.
Darcy.
And Bingley, just behind him.
Relief flooded her so swiftly it almost stole her strength. She sagged forward, but forced herself upright again.
Her breath caught in her throat, and for the first time since the horror had begun, she let herself believe everything might be all right.
Darcy saw her, and his expression—half panic, half fury—was almost more than she could bear.
“Elizabeth!” he called, vaulting off his horse before it had fully stopped. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head, voice ragged. “No—no, not me—him. Smithson. He’s—he’s—”
Bingley had dismounted more slowly and stood frozen, staring at the crumpled, bloody figure on the ground.
Darcy did not pause. “Bingley, ride to Longbourn. Fetch Mr. Bennet, and as many footmen as they can spare. Then go for Mr. Jones—the apothecary. Quickly.”
That snapped Bingley from his trance. He gave a sharp nod, mounted again, and tore off down the path.
Darcy turned back and dropped to his knees beside her.
Elizabeth could feel him studying her, trying to assess her condition—his breath visible in the cold air, his chest heaving from the ride.
“Are you certain you are unhurt?” he asked, quieter now.
“You are not coughing,” she said in wonder.
He gave a sharp bark of surprised laughter. “No, thanks to you and your magic herbs. Leave it to you to think of someone else at a time like this. Are you hurt?”
“I am fine,” she managed, “but he’s still bleeding.”
Darcy reached for her hands.
“No! He—he’s still bleeding. I cannot move my hands.”
“Let me help,” he said.
She turned her face toward him, eyes wild, voice frayed with panic. “If I let go, he will die. I cannot stop!”
He paused, drawing back slightly, not in retreat but in recognition. Then, gently, with a slowness that made her want to weep, he shifted forward and knelt close—closer than propriety would ever allow under ordinary circumstances.
“I will not take your place,” he murmured. “But I can help.”
He reached down and covered her hands with his own, pressing with her, grounding her. The warmth of his grip was immediate, steadying, powerful.
“I have got you,” he said, his voice low, urgent. “You are not alone, Elizabeth. I am here. You do not have to do this alone.”
She did not answer, but she did not fight him either. His hands stayed with hers, steadying them both, his presence anchoring her in the storm.
Their heads were bent together over the wound, breath misting in the cold air, hands slick with blood but unmoving. Time passed—seconds, years, she could not tell. Her arms trembled, her knees ached from the cold earth, her mind drifted.
Time blurred.
Then—the sound of rattling wheels.
Bingley’s voice called through the trees, and she looked up in a daze to see a cart rolling toward them, flanked by footmen and Mr. Bennet, pale and panting. The footmen jumped down, carrying a board and blankets, and Mr. Bennet rushed to her side.
“Lizzy!” he cried, crouching down. “You’ve done more than enough. Let us take over now.”
Her hands were pulled away as others replaced them. She staggered to her feet, dizzy, the blood on her fingers no longer warm. Everything felt distant, muffled—like looking through glass.
Her knees buckled slightly, but her eyes did not focus.
“Elizabeth?” Mr. Bennet exclaimed in alarm.
She turned toward the sound, tried to respond—but the world tilted, the trees swayed, and everything went black.
And then there was nothing.