Just as Elizabeth had suggested.Darcy pressed his palm to the stone. “And they were bricked up imperfectly.”
They followed the wall, searching for a break. Twenty feet further on, Darcy’s lamp caught somethingin the dust—a scuff, lighter than the surrounding grime, shaped as though the heel of a boot had scraped against the floor. Beside it, a narrow groove cut through the layer of ash and soot, as if something heavy had been dragged.
“This is fresh,” he said, pointing it out to the others. “And not the mark of one of us.”
Bingley swung his lamp towards the wall just above the marks. The beam revealed a narrow seam in the paneling—so fine it was nearly invisible except for the faint difference in color where the edge had been handled.
Darcy set his shoulder against it and pushed. The panel gave, but only an inch. He shifted his grip and pulled instead. With a low groan, the wood slid back on concealed runners, revealing an opening just wide enough for a man to pass through sideways.
Beyond lay darkness, deeper than before, but Darcy could smell fresher air—damp stone and earth, like a cellar with an open vent.
Mr. Bennet looked in, his face pale but determined. “This… I have never seen this passage before.”
“It was meant to be hidden,” Darcy said quietly. “And it has been used recently.” He nodded towards the marks on the threshold—clear impressions in the dust where a boot had stepped in, turned, and stepped out again.
They entered one by one, the lamps casting a wavering glow along the narrow walls. The passage sloped downward almost immediately; the floor here was less damaged but colder, the stones slick with moisture. The sound of their own footsteps seemed louder, echoing strangely as though the space curved away unseen.
Darcy’s heart pounded, not from the exertion but from the knowledge that they were closer now—closer to understanding how Elizabeth had been taken from under her family’s roof without a sound.
At a bend in the corridor, the floor leveled out and widened into a small junction. To the left, the passage ended abruptly in a heap of fallen masonry. To the right, the air stirred faintly, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of outside air—green and damp, like a garden after rain.
Darcy motioned for silence and crept towards the source. After ten paces, the wall on the right revealed another door, this one narrower than the first but fitted with iron hinges. It bore the same telltale signs as the door behind the ivy—mortar stains where it had once been bricked up, newer scratches along the edge from where it had been forced open again.
“This will lead out,” Darcy whispered.
Bingley’s voice was low but urgent. “If it leads out, then it also leads in.”
Darcy met his gaze. “Precisely.”
They braced themselves, hands on the door. The hinges creaked, a sound almost deafening in the enclosed space, and then the door swung open into a concealed alcove outside. The opening was screened by a tangle of overgrown shrubs, their wet leaves brushing against his coat. Beyond them lay the lower garden wall, and a narrow path leading towards the copse at the edge of the property.
Darcy stepped through, scanning the ground. The soil was disturbed in irregular patches, some shallow, some pressed deep—as though a man had stood here more than once, waiting.
Mr. Bennet emerged behind him, staring out towards the trees. “If someone has been coming and going this way, they could reach the road without being seen from the house.”
Darcy turned back towards the open door. “And bring stolen objects—or worse—to and from just as easily.”
Bingley’s grip tightened on the lamp handle. “So, what now?”
Darcy’s answer came without hesitation. “Now we search every inch of these old halls until we find where else they lead. If he—”his jaw clenched briefly, “—removed Elizabeth from this place, there is more than one way he can move about unseen. And I intend to find every last one.”
The others nodded, the flickering lamplight catching in their eyes. Together, they stepped back into the darkness, the door swinging shut behind them with a heavy, final sound.
Chapter Thirty-One
November 27, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabethfoughtlikealioness, but to no avail. Her captor was far larger and much stronger than she, and the grip of his calloused hands was like iron. He dragged her away from Darcy, whom he left lying unconscious on the filthy floor of the abandoned hallway. Her breath came fast and harsh in the blackness, and the pounding of her own heart filled her ears. It was very dark—so dark that she could barely discern the faint outline of the man hauling her forward.
The man moved without a lamp or candlelight, as though he had memorized every turn of this warren ofhidden passages. Elizabeth’s own flame had been snuffed out the moment he seized her; she thought she heard the sharp hiss as the candle struck the damp flagstones, followed by the faint scent of tallow and smoke. Blind in the dark, she twisted and pulled against his hold, trying to wrench her arm free, the nails of her free hand clawing at the coarse wool of his sleeve.
There was a sound to her left—a faint shuffling or the echo of a drip from somewhere unseen—and then he yanked her hard to the right, jerking her off balance. She stumbled into a narrower space, the stale air replaced by the faint smell of dust and candle smoke. A thin glow appeared ahead as he dragged her into a dimly lit corridor before shutting a door—or something heavy and solid—behind them. The muffled sound of the latch falling into place echoed in the confines of the passage, and a fresh wave of dread settled over her.
“Now, we can’t have ye wailing yer pretty ‘ead off,” the man said. His voice was low and rough, with the accent of a man accustomed to hard living. He pulled a long strip of cloth from his pocket. The material was rough and smelled faintly of mildew, and bound her hands with practiced efficiency. Before she could gather her breath to cry out, he forced a dirty handkerchief between her lips andtied it tight behind her head, the fabric tasting of stale ale and smoke.
