T he world returned to Elizabeth slowly.
Her eyelids fluttered, and she felt as if she were rising from the depths of a dream. It was confusing, filled with blood and shouting and desperation.
But there had also been safety… a voice speaking low in her ear, steady hands pressing down on hers, warmth and strength wrapped around her…
“Lizzy?”
She blinked, attempting to make the blurred images come into focus. Mrs. Gardiner sat beside her bed leaning forward with concern on her face. Beside her, Mary of all people was perched with a book closed in her lap, her forehead wrinkled.
“You are awake,” Mrs. Gardiner breathed out, reaching forward to touch her hand. “You certainly gave everyone quite a fright.”
Elizabeth swallowed. “What… what happened?” Her voice was raspy, and Mary quickly poured a cup of water from a pitcher by the washbasin.
“You fainted,” Mary said matter-of-factly. “Mr. Darcy carried you back to the house. He looked quite pale when he did so, I might add.”
Elizabeth blinked again, trying to make sense of it. “Carried me…?”
“You’ve been unconscious for several hours,” said Mrs. Gardiner gently. “I was paying a call when Mr. Bingley came tearing into the house, shouting for your father. When Mr. Darcy arrived with you, we sent for Mr. Jones. He told us you were merely in shock and to call him again if you did not wake soon—or if you were in any pain.”
“I am not hurt,” Elizabeth murmured, propping herself up on her elbows slowly. “Truly, I am quite well.”
She glanced down—and froze. Her gown was stiff with dried blood, the sleeves and bodice soaked through in a pattern too familiar to mistake. Her heart began to pound.
“Smithson,” she whispered, breath catching. “He was—he was dying—and I—”
“It is alright, Lizzy.” Mrs. Gardiner leaned closer. “Sir William is here now and wishes to speak with you, but there is no rush.”
Memories slammed into her: Smithson’s weight against her knees, his blood coating her hands, the eerie intensity in his voice as he rasped those cryptic words— Tell the raven it was the crow.
Her chest began to heave. She pressed a hand to her face, the tremors starting deep in her stomach and traveling to her fingers. “I did not know what to do—I thought if I let go, he would die—I could not let him die—”
“Lizzy,” Mrs. Gardiner said gently, calling her name again. “Lizzy. Breathe.”
She did, shallowly, until the tremors began to ebb. Mary stood and poured a glass of water, setting it on the side table with a surprising gentleness.
“You do not have to do anything today,” Mrs. Gardiner said. “We can delay the interview. Sir William will understand. Mr. Bennet is downstairs, and so are both of your uncles. Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley stayed as well.”
Elizabeth looked up, heart still pounding, but steadier now. “No,” she said after a moment. “I want to get it over with.”
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, wincing as the dried blood pulled against her skin. She tried not to think about it. “I need to change, at least.”
“You will need to speak to them as you are,” Mary said. “I told them they should not ask questions until you had awakened and had a bath, but they want you in the same condition as you were found. For… credibility, I suppose.”
Elizabeth grimaced. “Then let’s get this over with.”
Flanked by Mary and Mrs. Gardiner, Elizabeth went down the stairs to the drawing room. The men rose to their feet upon her entrance, and she was momentarily struck by the tableau they made—Sir William Lucas fidgeting anxiously beside a tea table and Mr. Gardiner near the hearth, arms crossed, brow creased in concern.
Bingley sat to the left of Mr. Bennet, his customary grin was missing from his face. Darcy stood at the window and turned around at her entrance. His expression was unreadable—except for his eyes, which were sharp and steady as they assessed her form. They traveled the length of her with a quiet intensity, lingering just a heartbeat too long below her neck before flicking back to her face.
“Lizzy,” her father said hoarsely, moving to her side in two long strides. He embraced her tightly, then drew back to look her over. “You gave us quite a scare.”
“I am sorry to have worried you, Papa,” she said, her voice low.
Darcy did not move forward, but there was something in the way he inclined his head that told her he had stayed for her. His hands were clasped tightly behind his back, as if keeping himself in check. The tension in his shoulders had not eased.
Elizabeth’s gaze flicked back to his for only a moment—but the warmth there, barely veiled beneath his usual reserve, made her breath catch.
Sir William cleared his throat and gave her a clumsy bow. “Miss Bennet—may I say how very grateful we are that you were not harmed further in such a horrifying ordeal. How are you feeling?”
“As well as can be expected,” she replied, steadying herself as she lowered into the nearest armchair. She dared another glance at Darcy. He still had not spoken. But he watched her as though nothing else in the room mattered—and for just an instant, she wished they were alone.
Sir William looked at Mary and Mrs. Gardiner and shifted awkwardly. “Er, I must ask—I hope it will not be thought unkind, but I believe it may be best if the room be cleared. At least for the time being. It is important that Miss Bennet speak without influence.”
Mary stiffened. “Influence? She’s not a criminal, Sir William.”
“No, of course not,” he said quickly, “but official business must—”
Mr. Bennet’s voice cut through, dry but steady. “My daughter has more than enough allies in this room to face any inquiry without fear.” His eyes flicked towards Darcy, then back again to the ladies. “I believe she will be in good hands.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked torn but finally nodded and pressed Elizabeth’s hand. “We will be just outside if we are needed.”
“Thank you, Aunt,” Elizabeth said.
When the door shut behind them, Sir William turned to Elizabeth with an expression of genuine regret. “Miss Bennet, I must ask you to recount what happened from the beginning. Anything you can remember—no matter how small—may be of help.”
Elizabeth folded her hands tightly in her lap and began. Her voice trembled at first, but steadied as she recounted the sound of groaning on the path, the terror of the moment she turned and saw Smithson, the instinctive way she had thrown herself to the ground to keep him alive.
“Did he say anything? Perhaps tell you who did it, or even just give you his real name?” Mr. Gardiner asked.
She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. He said very little—he was gasping for breath. But just before he lost consciousness, he said…” She hesitated, feeling foolish even as the words passed her lips. “He said, ‘Tell the raven it was the crow.’”
There was a long pause. Every man in the room looked utterly baffled.
“Raven?” Mr. Bingley echoed, frowning.
Darcy, however, had gone perfectly still.
“Sounds like the sort of nonsense one might say delirious with pain,” Sir William said, tugging at his collar.
“It sounded deliberate,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head again. “Urgent.”
Sir William opened his mouth to look as if he might argue, then seemed to think better of it. Mr. Bennet cleared his throat. “I am proud of you, my Lizzy,” he said in a rough voice. “I wish to heaven you had not gone through such a terrible thing, but I could not be more proud.”
The other gentlemen nodded and murmured their agreements. Mr. Bennet then gave a weak smile and added, “Your mother always said those long walks of yours were nothing but trouble. I just never imagined this sort. Of all my girls to prove Mrs. Bennet right…”
Chuckles filled the room, lightening the atmosphere. Even Darcy’s lips twitched slightly at Mr. Bennet’s wry humor.
But the levity faded when he then turned to Sir William. “Am I to understand, sir, that Miss Elizabeth is not a suspect?”
Sir William blanched. “Of course not! No—heavens, no. She’s a witness, not a—well, certainly not.”
“Then who is?” Darcy asked quietly. “Are there suspects?”
Sir William hesitated, then glanced at Mr. Gardiner. “There… there is some speculation,” he admitted reluctantly. “It is only natural to question everyone who had dealings with the deceased.”
Mr. Gardiner sighed and stepped forward. “I understand. He was sent to investigate me and my family. And he died here. You would be remiss not to consider me.”
“That is completely ridiculous!” Elizabeth burst out, rising to her feet. “Uncle, no one with sense would ever suspect—”
Sir William raised his hands. “Miss Bennet, I assure you, I take no pleasure in this. But I must follow protocol… although with friends and neighbors involved…” The usually jovial man’s words trailed off, and he shifted in his chair, clearly ill at ease.
“My late father was magistrate for a time,” Darcy said, watching to ensure Elizabeth resumed her seat. “I know it was always difficult when landowners and members of the upper class were involved.”
“Indeed,” Sir William replied gloomily.
Darcy hesitated, then said, “Would it be of use, sir, if I were to hire a Bow Street Runner or another official to assist in the investigation? That way, there would be an impartial voice, and you would not need to handle this alone.”
Sir William looked at him in astonishment. “Would you do that?”
Darcy gave a short nod. “I admit that murder is well outside of my area of expertise, and I assume the same is true for you as well.”
Sir William exhaled in obvious relief. “Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I would be most obliged.”
Elizabeth sank back into her chair, exhaustion settling into her bones. But somewhere beneath it, under the blood and the shock and the fear, was something else.
Gratitude.
Not just to her family, who believed her. Not only to her uncle, who bore suspicion with such grace.
But to Mr. Darcy, who had not flinched. Not from the sight of her, bloodied and dazed. Not from the weight of responsibility. And not from her.
When others might have looked away, his eyes had remained fixed on hers—steady, grounding, and unexpectedly tender.
She looked up, met his gaze again, and gave him the smallest nod of thanks.
His answering nod was slight, almost imperceptible—but his eyes softened. Just for her.
And for a single moment, despite the heaviness of the room, something warm and unspoken passed between them.
∞∞∞
The ride back to Netherfield was silent at first; both Darcy and Bingley were lost in their own thoughts. The rhythmic cadence of their horses' hooves against the damp earth seemed to echo the disquiet that had settled between them. Bingley finally broke the quiet with a disbelieving shake of his head.
“A murder,” he murmured, then spoke louder when Darcy asked him to repeat himself. “A murder, Darcy. In Meryton, of all places. This is a peaceful place, even if it is a little busy. Who could have imagined such a thing?”
“The village has been quite busy as of late, at least from what I understand,” Darcy replied. “A surfeit of homeless dock workers in search of a way to earn their bread appears to be the main cause.”
“It must be one of them, or even one of the new militia men. Certainly Mr. Gardiner is far too respectable a man to be entangled in something so… so nefarious.”
Darcy gave a curt nod. “Agreed. Whatever Smithson was involved in, it was not of Mr. Gardiner’s making.”
Bingley sighed, running a gloved hand through his disheveled hair. “And Miss Elizabeth... to have stumbled upon such a ghastly scene. The horror she must have felt.” He paused, his brow furrowing deeper. “At least she has a fair amount of spirit. I shudder to think of poor Miss Bennet in such a situation. It must be difficult for her, right now, to be unable of comfort her dear sister because of her ankle.”
Darcy made a noncommittal noise. Bingley continued talking, but his voice became little more than background murmur. Something Elizabeth had said earlier was tugging at Darcy’s memory—something important—and it urged him forward to Netherfield so he could put pen to paper.
Upon reaching the estate, the sun had begun its descent towards the horizon. Darcy and Bingley dismounted quickly at the stable yard, handing the reins to a waiting groom. The lad looked anxious, fairly bouncing on his heels as he looked around the fields.
Word of the murder must have already spread through the servants’ news network, Darcy thought. I wonder if any of them have a clue as to who could have done this .
Bingley looked up at the manor house and grimaced. “Caroline will be curious about our tardiness. We will only barely have time to change for dinner.”
Darcy gave a tired sigh. “Indeed.”
Upon entering the grand foyer, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint traces of honeysuckle greeted them. Descending the sweeping staircase was Miss Bingley, her gown a cascade of the finest silk, every movement calculated for grace.
“Mr. Darcy,” she purred, her eyes alight with a mixture of relief and something more possessive. “You have been out for quite some time. Such… stamina you must have! But you really must be cautious not to overtax yourself in helping my poor brother understand matters of estate. Do not let him drag you all over the property.”
“We were not touring the property the entire time, Caroline,” Bingley said. “We went as far as Longbourn.”
Her expression soured, lips pinching in annoyance. “Longbourn? You called there and are only just now returning? At this hour? Charles, really.”
“It is not as if we intended to make a social call,” Bingley protested defensively. “But that is neither here nor there. Caroline, might we sit down a moment?”
She blinked. “Sit down? What on earth for?”
“There has been an incident,” Bingley said carefully.
Darcy watched as Caroline’s face paled ever so slightly. “You are alarming me. What sort of incident? Louisa? Hurst?”
“No, no,” Bingley said quickly. “No one in this house is harmed.”
“Then why do you look so grave?” she demanded. “Have we had word from London? Mr. Darcy, is dear Georgiana alright?”
“No. It is not about Miss Darcy, Caroline. It happened near Longbourn. A man was stabbed—murdered.”
Miss Bingley looked between the two men, her face draining of color. “Murdered?”
Bingley nodded, guiding her toward a nearby chair in the hall. “Caroline, sit. Please. And—” He glanced toward a footman. “Bring Miss Bingley a small glass of wine.”
She allowed herself to be seated, albeit stiffly. “What happened? Who is dead?”
“A Mr. Smithson—you might remember him from when he came to speak with Miss Elizabeth here at Netherfield.”
“The rude man who came without an invitation?” She sniffed in disdain, then paled further. “Did… did someone from Longbourn kill him?”
“What? Good Lord, no!” Bingley startled. “Miss Elizabeth found him while on a walk. No one knows who actually committed the crime.”
“No one knows? You mean, there is a murderer on the loose here in Meryton? That’s it, I am finished with this savage place! We must leave for London at once!”
She stood and began to head up the stairs, calling for her maid. Bingley frowned and spoke in a firm tone, halting her progress. “We cannot leave, Caroline. Travel is often restricted following such events. Sir William will likely request that all potential witnesses and suspects remain until the investigation concludes.”
“ Suspects ?” she shrieked. “That is completely ludicrous! None of us would dare involve ourselves in something so heinous! And we are not witnesses, are we? You said Miss Elizabeth was the one to find them, and certainly she has nothing to do with us .”
Darcy's voice, calm yet authoritative, cut through the tension. “It would be prudent for everyone to stay until the magistrate provides further instructions.”
Miss Bingley pressed her thin lips together so tightly, they practically disappeared from her face, leaving her looking like a ghostly snake. She seemed poised to argue but apparently thought better of it, offering a terse nod instead.
Darcy inclined his head slightly. “If you will excuse me, I have pressing correspondence to attend to.”
As he ascended the stairs, he could hear her shrieking, demanding Bingley cut all contact with Longbourn so their reputations would not be tainted by association. He shook his head as Bingley’s calm tones quickly turned arguing.
Upon closing the door to his room, the sounds were sufficiently muffled for him to think. The memory of Smithson’s dying words fluttered through his mind, ominous and persistent. He reached for his pen and a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write.
Fitzwilliam,
I know you have not yet responded to my last letter, but this is urgent.
The man I spoke of before, the insurance investigator named Smithson, was discovered stabbed this afternoon by Miss Elizabeth. He succumbed to his injuries as she held pressure on his wound while calling for help. Fortunately, Bingley and I were nearby and were able to come to her aide.
During the magistrate’s interview, Miss Elizabeth shared the man’s final words: “Tell the raven it was the crow”…or perhaps it was falcon or vulture. I cannot quite remember. Odd, is it not? It put me to mind of the summer you became obsessed with ravens, claiming they were the most cunning of all the birds. Perhaps the knowledge you gained that summer could be of use in interpreting what the man was attempting to say?
Given the gravity of the situation, I am sending this letter via express courier in the hope that it reaches you with all due haste.
Yours sincerely,
Darcy
Sealing the letter with his personal crest, Darcy rang for Bates. “Send this posthaste with the fastest rider we have. It needs to be delivered to Colonel Fitzwilliam tonight.”
“Very well, sir.”
As Bates began to leave through the dressing room, he paused. “Sir… is it true… was someone actually found murdered.”
Darcy closed his eyes. “Yes, Bates, I am afraid it is true.”
“And no one knows who did it?”
“That is correct.”
“The servants are nervous, sir,” Bates said. “What shall I tell them?”
“Tell them everything is being done to apprehend the culprit.”
“Very well, sir.”
“And Bates?”
The valet paused again. “Yes, sir?”
“If you hear anything of use, anything at all, do not hesitate to tell me about it. If someone feels too afraid to speak with me, assure them of my discretion and generosity.”
“Of course, sir.”
The door closed behind Bates, and Darcy let out a sigh of relief. Alone at last. What a terrible day this has been .
He leaned against the edge of the writing desk, the chill of the windowpane brushing against his back. The dying light outside cast long shadows across the room, and for a moment, he let himself close his eyes.
He could still hear her scream.
It had sliced through the quiet like a knife. For that brief, horrible moment, he had feared the very worst—that she was lost, that she had been attacked, that he had been too slow to help.
Then they found her, kneeling in the dirt, dress soaked with blood. Her face had been pale and drawn, her voice hoarse from her cries for help.
She had said that she was unharmed, but when she had fainted, he became terrified that some of the blood was hers after all, that she, too was wounded and dying.
He could still feel the shape of her in his arms as he carried her back to Longbourn, the world blurring around them, every step sharpened by the dread that she would not wake.
He had imagined her gone. It was not a thought he had ever consciously allowed before—never dared to entertain—but in those harrowing minutes, he could not stop himself from seeing a world without her in it.
It was unbearable.
That absence, even imagined, had torn something open in him. Even now, he felt an ache in his chest at the danger she had been in.
He pressed a fist to his mouth, trying to contain the rise of emotion, but the questions came flooding through his mind.
What if Bingley and I had not gone riding?
What if we had taken the more worn path?
What if we had been minutes later?
The relief he had felt when Mr. Jones had come down from examining her and pronouncing her unharmed—it was only then that he had allowed himself to breathe.
And later—later she had spoken with clarity and calm before the magistrate, recounting everything she had seen. No hysterics, no dramatics. Just the truth, clear and composed. Brave.
He had always known Elizabeth Bennet was different. But now he understood something more profound: she was the kind of person who ran toward the fire. Who pressed her hands to a dying man’s wound. Who stayed.
And what do I offer her?
George Darcy’s voice came into his mind: Nothing. You offer her nothing. You are weak. What could a pathetic man like you possibly have to offer such a strong, courageous woman?
He curled his hands into fists, fighting off his father’s harsh admonishments that would echo in the empty halls of Pemberley time his son succumbed to a coughing fit.
No, I am not. I can help her.
She had been brave today.
It was time he matched her courage.
Tomorrow, he would begin. He would uncover the truth—whatever it cost—and protect her, no matter the risk to himself.
For now, he crossed the room and doused the lamp. The fire burned low, casting flickering gold across the desk and the unspoken vows left lingering in the air.
He could not say the words aloud.
Not yet.
But in the quiet of his heart, Fitzwilliam Darcy knew one thing with certainty.
He would keep Elizabeth Bennet safe.
Whatever it took.