Page 7 of Shadows beneath Rosings (A Darcy and Elizabeth Quick Read Interlude #5)

E lizabeth stirred and groaned, pushing herself to sit up. Where was she? Cold. Dark. Damp.

Memory returned slowly, muzzily. She was in a cellar below Rosings, she must be. Long unused, she thought, coughing in the dust she had just stirred into the air. Somehow, she sensed that she was very deep underground; perhaps there were several levels of cellars here.

And she also knew she had not slept long. The hard, uneven floor had seen to that. But she was awake enough, perhaps, to work on the door.

It was some minutes later that she noticed she hadn’t moved, but was leaning back against the door, remembering Papa’s voice long ago in her childhood. “One day, Lizzy, you’re going to get stuck in a tree if you keep trying to go higher.”

“If only you knew, Papa,” she whispered. “I could dream of being stuck in a tree outdoors again.” She sighed. Instead, she was trapped deep in an unused cellar. Her head throbbed, and the bitter laudanum taste was still on her tongue. Water would wash it away, as well as quench her thirst. Water.

But she wouldn’t get a drink down here. She must escape. Today. Surely she wouldn’t live long without water. She jerked to attention; she wasn’t holding the nail! Had she dropped it while she slept, and now lost it when she moved to lean against the door?

Her heart raced within her as she felt all round her, and extended her arm as far as she could.

The faint light from the bottom of the door was now barely there, cold and blue.

It must be night. Thank goodness there was some moonlight.

It might not be bright enough to let her see the nail, but it was enough to orient herself.

Her hand closed gratefully around the nail, ignoring the scratch down her palm as she grasped it, and she resolutely turned back towards the light.

Closer to the door, she could smell the freshness of the night air, the gentle movement of the air from outside. Outside! She longed to be the other side of this door. Nothing could be worse than being in here.

She set her jaw, and began to feel the corner of the door where the light was.

It was spongy to the touch and she thought it was where the wood was rotting.

Pushing away her disgust at the fungus that was probably growing on it, she continued to feel the planks, trying to find where she had been working before she slept.

She must not waste her energy again by failing to capitalise on what she had achieved yesterday.

“Ouch!” She snatched back her hand, her eyes filling with tears. It was too much. How could she do this?

She felt her finger cautiously, gently. The splinter was embedded deeply, and it hurt.

Oh, how it did. “Jane,” she whispered. “I wish you were here to soothe me and comfort me.” An almost hysterical giggle.

“No. I wouldn’t wish you here, my dearest sister.

But I must work on. I will see you again, I will. ”

She could feel the end of the splinter sticking above the skin and with her left hand, she tried, by feel, to grasp it and pull it out, hoping she could extract it cleanly. Perhaps she did, but the pain of any pressure on the place made her wonder.

She took a deep breath. If this was the worst that would happen, then it wasn’t so very bad. She felt for the nail beside her and turned back to the door.

After an endless time pulling away small fragments of wood and piling them up in a little heap, she thought she might be able to get her hand underneath the plank and perhaps pull away larger chunks.

The moonlight was slightly brighter - or was it that more was visible through the enlarged gap? She turned and could glimpse the pile of wood chips she had collected. It was not much, but it showed what she had achieved.

It was a silly thing to look at it proudly and another hysterical half-sob, half-giggle escaped her. “There you are, Mr. Darcy. I am accomplished — at destroying rotten doors.”

But she still had much to do. Her amusement deserted her as she looked at the door. So much to do. Perhaps she could rest for a few moments.

It felt like no time at all when she stirred again, groaning at the stiffness and pain right through to her very bones. If only her captors would have been so thoughtful as to supply a mattress, she might be able to sleep a little longer.

But she must work. Perhaps it was because her eyes had been closed, but it seemed as if the moonlight was a little brighter.

Energised a little, Elizabeth crawled closer to the door. It might soon be dawn, and she must escape. She would refuse to die — especially if Miss Anne de Bourgh had decreed it!

She gritted her teeth and wriggled her hands into the gap she’d made under the door. A thousand — well, at least several dozen — little splinters made her regret it, but she tried to ignore them and pulled up towards her as much as she could. It moved a little, she was sure of it!

Afraid to move her hands, she pushed and then pulled again. Still it didn’t break. But it must, surely it must if she kept moving it. And it would be much more effective than scaling away tiny fragments.

Her mind wandered as she pushed and pulled, pushed and pulled, until she could no longer recall why it was so necessary.

Mr. Darcy would be strong enough to break this.

No! Why was she thinking of him? Especially now?

She had to get herself free; no one was coming to rescue her in time.

Anyway, she didn’t need him. Obnoxious man.

He knew her favourite walks and kept disturbing her in her solitude.

She pulled on the door viciously. Don’t think about proud, disdainful characters now.

That would mean you’re weak and feeble, Elizabeth Bennet.

Suddenly, there was a loud rending noise, and the planks fractured, and Elizabeth fell backwards to the floor.

Light flooded in, seeming brilliant after the endless darkness, and Elizabeth moaned at the pain in her back after falling so hard. But she crawled towards the door, wondering if the gap would be big enough to get through without more hours of effort.

She peered out. It wasn’t a path. It was a vertical shaft and her heart sank. She looked down. The dust was not just dust, it was coal dust. She had broken her way out into a coal chute.

Before she could quite give way to despair, she looked through the gap, and around. Steps! Steps cut into into the side of the shaft. Roughly hewn and cut unevenly into the rock and shining with dampness, she would have to be careful not to slip. But hope rose wildly within her.

She was weak and thirsty; trembling with hunger and exertion. Her dress was wet from the dampness of the cellar, and torn to shreds; her hands were gashed and bleeding from a plethora of splinters, her fingernails ripped and bloody.

Fingernails. Nails. The nail! She looked round, seeing it discarded on the floor. She reached over and picked it up, tucking it securely in her pocket. She would keep it forever, and her eyes were suspiciously damp. She had triumphed! Well, nearly.

The gap she had made in the door was not big enough.

Her shoulders got stuck and for a few minutes she could not move either way, until, suddenly, a wave of fury went through her.

She would not give up, and she forced her way through, twisting and turning, grasping a tree root and using strength she didn’t know she possessed.

And then she was free. At the bottom of the shaft, the space where she crouched was quite small, but she could stretch out once she had climbed a few of the steps, she could see. Being in light was the greatest gift she could imagine, after so long surrounded by oppressive, unremitting darkness.

Before she could rest, she must reach level ground. Her feet were slipping on the wet rock forming the uneven steps, and if she did not reach the top before her strength quite gave out, she might not be able to climb them again.

At last, at long last, she was able to pull herself from the last step and crawl a yard further along the overgrown and narrow track.

It was dawn. As she brushed against the weeds and shrubs, the dew brushed against her, wetting her gown.

Elizabeth sighed happily, and turned her face up, brushing the branches with her hand.

As the dew dripped into her mouth, she was able to swallow some, and lick her dry and cracked lips.

She would always remember the joy of this exquisite and simple pleasure.

Then she heard a noise. The sound of a voice, although the hollow sound made the words incomprehensible. But it was echoing up the shaft! And the voice sounded angry.

Had her captors found she had gone? They would know where to find her.

She must move. But she was so worn out. The broken edge of the door had scraped down her body as she had struggled through the gap, and she could see blood seeping though the remains of her dress.

Her legs were sore from the scratches, and so were her arms and her body.

She tried to crawl, but she was so tired.

Finally, she rolled off the track and under a fairly thick bush, hoping it would hide her if there was a search.

Later, perhaps, she might be able to go further.

She waited as patiently as she could. Was she safe?

Perhaps she would be able to reach the parsonage tonight, if she could find the strength.

But she must rest now. Further on, the next bush still held dew on its leaves.

She would crawl there after she had rested.