“Miss Darcy,” Elias Bennet called, striving to keep his voice calm and reassuring amid the exertion, “hold fast—I am coming.”
The young gentleman’s arm encircled the young lady’s waist at last, strong and steady, providing the support her exhausted limbs could no longer sustain. With careful strength Elias Bennet turned them both toward the nearer bank, battling the drag of water and sodden clothing until his feet found purchase upon the muddy bottom. Summoning the last of his reserves, the young gentleman lifted Miss Georgiana clear and bore her to the grass, sinking to his knees beside her, both of them trembling from cold and the violence of the rescue.
Miss Georgiana coughed, drawing in great gulps of air, her body shaking as warmth and safety gradually returned. She turned toward Elias Bennet then and met his gaze with eyes wide not merely with gratitude, but with something deeper—a recognition born of fear answered by courage.
“You came,” Miss Georgiana whispered, her voice faint yet imbued with wonder and a tremor of lingering fear, as though the simple fact required confirmation, and Elias Bennet’s presence alone had restored her faith in the world’s kindness.
“I could not have done otherwise,” the young gentleman replied softly, his hand still resting lightly upon the younglady’s arm, steadying her as much as himself, his voice low and fervent with the emotion Elias Bennet could no longer entirely conceal. Water dripped from the young gentleman’s darkened hair; his breath came quickly; yet Elias Bennet’s eyes held Miss Georgiana’s with a gentleness that spoke more than any declaration, revealing the depth of concern that had impelled him into the water without thought for himself.
The young lady reached out then, her chilled fingers brushing the young gentleman’s sleeve in a gesture of instinctive trust—fleeting, yet unmistakable. For a heartbeat they remained thus, the surrounding quiet allowing the gravity of what had passed to settle between them without words.
“I am… indebted to you beyond any repayment,” Miss Georgiana murmured at last, her cheeks flushed not solely from the cold, but from the awareness of how completely Elias Bennet had placed her safety above all else.
“Your safety is repayment enough,” the young gentleman answered, his tone hushed and earnest, the words carrying a tenderness that lingered in the air between them like a promise yet unformed.
In that suspended instant, with the soft summer light gilding the grass about them and the distant shouts of pursuit fading upon the wind, all barriers of rank and reserve dissolved. There remained only the incontrovertible truth that the young gentleman had risked himself without hesitation for the young lady’s sake, and that Miss Georgiana, in the vulnerability of near peril, had seen revealed the quiet strength and tender courage of Elias Bennet’s heart—a revelation she knew, even then, she would carry with her always: a seed of affection planted in the richest soil of gratitude and admiration, destined to flourish long after the chill of the water had faded.
For a few moments they remained thus, the world hushed about them, the soft summer light resting upon the grass. Elias’s hand still steadied her arm; Georgiana’s breathing grew more even, though her fingers had not yet withdrawn from the sleeve of his soaked shirt. No words were required. What had passed between them—fear answered by courage, distress met with unhesitating aid—needed neither explanation nor declaration.
Then Georgiana gave a long, shuddering sigh. She bent one knee awkwardly, tried to shift her weight, and the effort proved too much. The composure she had so carefully maintained slipped away at last, and she began to cry—softly at first, then with quiet, helpless sobs.
Elias, alarmed, leaned closer.
“Do not cry, Miss Darcy,” he said gently. “It is over now. Nothing more can harm you. You are safe.”
She shook her head, attempting a watery smile through her tears. “But I am entirely soaked,” she said miserably. “And I have lost one of my shoes in the lake. How am I to walk back like this?”
For the first time since the plunge, Elias smiled—relieved, genuine, almost boyish.
“Do not trouble yourself on that account,” he replied. “I shall carry you. I am accustomed to it.”
Georgiana looked at him, startled into laughter despite herself. “Accustomed to carrying young ladies who have fallen into lakes, Mr. Bennet?”
“No,” he admitted readily. “Other hardships in life have made me stronger. And you”—his smile widened—“are no heavier than a basket of apples.”
Her laughter broke free at last, light and breathless. “You are fortunate, Mr. Bennet,” she said, brushing at her eyes. “I happen to like apples very much. Therefore, I forgive you.”
And with that—still smiling, still trembling slightly from cold and reaction—she allowed him to lift her, trusting without question that he would carry her safely where she could not yet carry herself.
***
The moment Miss Darcy’s strength faltered—when the faint, uncontrollable tremor that follows sudden peril and shock stirred through her at last—Elias Bennet acted at once. Seeing that Georgiana could no longer stand, and judging delay more dangerous than any concern for appearance, he bent and lifted her with deliberate care. He placed one arm firmly beneath her knees and the other behind her back, drawing her weight close to his chest so that it might be carried securely. Her body lay diagonally across his, her head falling naturally against his right shoulder, while her arms, weak and unsteady, rested loosely about his neck not in embrace, but for balance alone. She could barely make an effort to hold herself; the burden was entirely his.
There was nothing hurried, nothing careless in the motion—only the instinctive precision of a man acting under necessity. He adjusted his grip once, ensuring her legs were supported and her back protected, then moved forward at a steady pace, his attention fixed not on how the act might appear, but on the simple fact that she must be removed from danger without delay.
They were on the bank nearer Hunsford, and the decision therefore required no discussion. Miss Darcy’s condition allowed for no needless distance. Rosings lay farther off, beyond the grand park—and worse, lay open: still occupied with guests not yet departed, still observed, still governed by a household in which every incident was magnified before it was understood. To carry her there, soaked and shaken, would have invited attention before explanation.
Hunsford, by contrast, offered immediate shelter and discretion. Its mistress could be trusted to act swiftly, to summon assistance without alarm, and to preserve Miss Darcy’s dignity until her brother might be informed. What might have become spectacle at Rosings could remain, at Hunsford, a matter of necessity quietly addressed. Elias therefore turned without hesitation toward the parsonage, guided not by appearance, but by judgment.
James rejoined them shortly, his breathing hard, his coat disordered, one hand clenched tightly behind the back of the man he propelled forward with relentless force. Wickham stumbled more than once, protesting breathlessly, swearing sporadically, yet James did not slacken his grip, his face set in a determination that admitted no mercy for the scoundrel who had wrought such peril. There was no violence in the restraint, only purpose, born of a brother’s fury tempered by justice.
“Are we going to Hunsford?” James asked briefly, as Elias looked toward him; it was less a question than a confirmation of what both had already resolved in silence.
Elias nodded, his expression conveying both agreement and relief at the wisdom of the choice. “It is the wiser course,” he replied, his voice low yet firm, acknowledging James’s quick judgment amid the chaos.
They moved quickly, without speech, Elias setting his pace to what he could manage while carrying Miss Darcy, whose slight weight seemed no burden in the face of her vulnerability, while James steered Wickham forward with a grip that admitted no negotiation, the captive’s protests falling unheeded upon the air. The distance, mercifully shorter, passed in a blur of gravel and clipped hedges, of breath drawn and held, the only sounds the crunch of footsteps and the distant call of birds undisturbed by human turmoil.
Hunsford Parsonage came into view like refuge, its modest façade a promise of quiet discretion amid the storm.
