Page 4 of Shadows beneath Rosings (A Darcy and Elizabeth Quick Read Interlude #5)

I t was very cold. And why was she lying on the cold floor?

Elizabeth shook her head muzzily. It was very cold.

No, I just thought that . She must not keep repeating her thoughts.

It was dank and dark and cold, and she was on a hard — a very hard — floor.

And her head ached. She had a bitter taste in her mouth. Laudanam!

She jerked up to sitting, and stared round wildly as flashes of memory returned. But she could see nothing. The inky blackness pressed in on her, not the slightest light, and she raised her hand to her eyes. There was no blindfold, so where was she?

She had been having tea with a sullen Miss de Bourgh, and the few sips of tea she took tasted vile. Then the memory returned of a footman holding her onto her chair while Mrs. Jenkinson dripped more of the bitter liquid into her mouth.

Elizabeth was a fool. Why hadn’t she said sooner that she was ill, walked away from those people, before she had started feeling too disoriented to do anything? And now …

She took a few deep breaths. It was important not to sit and feel sorry for herself.

They wouldn’t just leave her here to be found; she knew too much.

But the silence pressed in on her, and the mustiness of the air told her that whatever cellar or storeroom she was in, it had not been used or visited for a very long time.

But she doubted they — whoever they were — would bring her water and a meal, and she stifled a rather hysterical laugh. She shook her head again. Why was she stifling all noise? Perhaps someone might hear her.

“Hello? Hello!” But the tremble in her voice and lack of any echo frightened her, and her voice petered out.

There was an echoing dampness muffling her call.

And the silence beyond the cellar was eerily too silent.

Tentatively, she reached out, feeling all around her for anything to touch, anything that would make this whole thing seem real.

The floor was bare, and rocky. And cold. She must be a long way under the main house, if she was even still at Rosings. Then her hand touched something. It felt like an old bent nail. Rough to the touch. Rusty, perhaps.

Elizabeth clutched at it. It was the only thing she might be able to use.

Perhaps she would find that the door was rotten and she could use the nail to damage it further and attempt to break a corner of it away.

She held onto the nail, and crawled a few feet further.

Her head made contact with the wall and she muttered a word that Jane would never dream she knew.

Jane. Would she ever see her sister again?

Elizabeth shook her head. Worrying about it would not get her out of here.

She crawled along the edge of the wall. Her gown was unlikely to survive intact, she thought.

Lady Catherine would be disgusted. That lightened her mood, and she was pleased to discover a door quite soon.

But, as she settled down to try to scratch away at the planks that formed it, she began to feel discouraged. The door was very solid, and the wood was very hard.

How long had she been here, scraping the nail down the plank? It seemed like hours, although in the utter darkness and the cold, Elizabeth could not tell if it was night or day, or the passing of time.

What she would give for a cup of tea — or even just the mouthful from one of Lady Catherine’s oh-so-elegant porcelain cups!

She was very thirsty; but not so thirsty as to draw her fingers down the damp wall and suck the moisture from them. She must escape before she was reduced to that.

She was tired, though. Maybe it was the effects of the laudanum still.

She ran her fingers through the long scratch she had made in the door.

Many of her attempts had missed the main damage she had tried to do to the door, and she knew, dismally, that she might not manage to make a large enough gap to escape through.

So tired. She was so tired. But she must explore a little further. Why had she not checked more carefully before expending her strength where it might do no good?

Clutching the nail tightly, she crawled to the other side of the doorway. Perhaps that side would have a rotten plank. That would be easier to dig through. No, it was as strong as the other side. Dismayed, she turned and sat back, leaning against the door.

What would Charlotte think when Elizabeth didn’t return?

What would Mr. Darcy think? Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.

She would die here, and no one would ever know what had happened to her.

She rubbed her hand across her face. Why was she concerned with what Mr. Darcy thought?

Surely she should be more concerned with Jane’s feelings of loss, should she not?

A sudden yawn surprised her, and she realised she had been asleep. But she must not; she must escape this prison. Then she smiled. It was more like a dungeon. She blinked hard, opening her eyes widely between each blink; it would help her feel more awake.

Then she noticed it. A sliver of light, almost too dim to notice. And yes, a slight feeling of cooler air moving against her hand.

Before she could stop herself, she was crawling right across the cavernous space, towards the promise of hope the pinprick of light and the draught offered. She barely noticed when she collided with a corner, but realised that was what had stopped her noticing it sooner.

It was another door. This one led to the outside world, Elizabeth was convinced of it.

Perhaps it was a delivery door for supplies, or something of the sort.

Elizabeth bent her head closer to the tiny light.

She could smell the fresh air, she was sure.

She must be able to escape this way. Then Miss de Bourgh would not find her.

But she was somehow sure that Mr. Darcy would.

She took no time to wonder why she was thinking of him, except for the fact that he was strong and could carry her to safety and away from those at Rosings who would wish her harm.

Her hands explored the door. Yes! This one was warped and some of the timber was spongy under her fingers.

The weather must have affected it over the years and this would benefit her.

Her precious nail helped, and she began to think that soon she would be free. She was very thirsty. Outside she would find water to drink. Perhaps it would rain, and she pictured herself with her head back, allowing the water to wash away her fear and anger while she drank.

But it was going to take a long time, she knew.

And she was so tired; still, even after just waking.

Her head was aching, and even the hard floor would not stop her from resting.

Perhaps she could close her eyes again for a little while — still making sure she could smell the little draught of fresh air close beside her.