Page 31 of Secrets Across the Sea

Staffordshire, England – 1812 – Day 15

Entering the rectory with the Reverend, Darcy shoved the door closed behind them, the room lit by a candle, but no fire in the hearth. Strange.

“Did you see Elizabeth?” Jane asked, her eyes drifting to the door as she wrung her hands.

“She is not here?” Darcy all but shouted, his head whipping about the room to no avail. She was not there.

“There was no wood for a fire. She said she had seen some at the far end of the house, but she has been too long gone. It has been all I could do to keep Mary from following after her.”

A single nod and he turned toward the door. He would find her!

He had to.

“Wait,” the Reverend called as he strode toward the door. “Let me go with you.”

Shaking his head Darcy motioned toward the ladies. “There will need to be a fire; when the others return then a rope can be strung from the door to your stockpile of wood. This is your home, you know where everything is, how best to keep everyone safe here. Stay.”

Brows pulled, Mr. Moore appeared at war with himself. “Very well. Here, take my coat. It never did fit me well, perhaps it can go over yours. Do not concern yourself over me, I have a worn, but serviceable one up in my room.” Sighing, he glanced about the space. “A pity I did not keep my housekeeper on while I was away. In any case, wait but a moment to leave. You ought to take a lantern… we can bind a blanket to your back–Miss Elizabeth may need it when you find her. Oh, and that hat you are wearing is insufficient; I have an unfashionable fur one, and a scarf for your face.”

Within four minutes Darcy, wearing as many layers as they might manage, with a blanket tied to his back, a scarf wrapped over his nose and mouth, and a lit lantern in one hand, made his way to the door, the rest of the men returning as he left. Ignoring the questions of his cousin, Darcy pressed between them and out into the raging cold.

Tufts of wind-swept snow pressed into the cracks and crevices of the stone walls, a cold wrapping as soft and delicate in appearance as a fur muff as Darcy sought to follow the edge of the house toward where Elizabeth had been headed.

Faint traces of what had once been footfalls appeared more as slight imperfections in the snow than anything else, though he followed them all the same, his breath continually stolen by the wind as it whipped one way then another.

“Elizabeth!” he shouted into the wind, his words flung back at him with a far greater force than he had managed. “ELIZABETH!”

Would she even be able to hear him?

Reaching the edge of the house, the faint tracks led back, at first nearer the wall than they had been, then jutting away.

“ELIZABETH!”