“I felt it,” Bingley said quickly. “The whole house. Are you injured?”
Darcy shook his head once. The motion sent a sharp reminder through his ribs, but he kept his expression composed. “No. But there may be damage. I require the servants brought together at once.”
Bingley blinked, then nodded, relief seizing eagerly upon the practical. “Of course. I’ll—”
A crash interrupted him—glass, somewhere beyond the hall. A woman cried out.
Darcy did not wait. He moved past Bingley into the passage. Each step jarred, but he kept his pace sedate. Appearances, now, were necessary.
In the main hall, the house had transformed.
Candles flared in every direction, flames bobbing as servants hurried through the hall. A footman knelt near the far wall, brushing shards of glass into his apron. Water sloshed somewhere.
Darcy raised his voice. “Attend.”
It cut through the confusion at once. Heads turned. Movement slowed.
“Has anyone been injured?” he demanded.
A murmur of answers followed—no, sir; only fright; a fall; some porcelain shattered, one priceless vase toppled, but no broken bones. Relief flickered briefly through him.
“The west corridor must be examined at once,” he continued. “Chimneys first. Then ceilings. No one is to re-enter any room where stone has shifted until it is cleared. Bring lanterns. Secure the fires. If there is further movement, you will evacuate to the courtyard without hesitation.”
“Yes, sir.”
Miss Bingley appeared then at the foot of the stairs, pale beneath a hastily applied sheen of white cream that caught the candlelight oddly along her cheek. Her hair had been braided for the night and now clung to her greased temples. She took in the scene in a single sweep—and then her eyes found Elizabeth, standing just behind Darcy.
“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, the civility she prized so carefully already fracturing. “Why are you here?”
Darcy made no response to Miss Bingley, but turned as a maid rushed up to him. “The library rug is burned,” she said, voice trembling slightly. “I know I put those candles out myself, but there is melted wax and a large scorch—”
“I will see it,” Darcy replied. “For now, have it covered. It was not your fault.”
Miss Bingley’s voice rose again. “A candle at this time of night? How could—”
“Caroline.” Bingley’s tone carried warning, gentle but unmistakable.
Darcy drew a careful breath, straightened, and spoke again to the servants, already cataloguing what must be done before thought could intrude where it was least welcome.
Behind him, he was acutely aware of Elizabeth’s presence—still there, still silent, still not touching him.
She stumbled on thelast stair and caught herself on the newel before anyone else noticed.
“Elizabeth!”
Jane was there at once, her hand firm at Elizabeth’s elbow.
“I am well,” Elizabeth said, because Jane’s face required it. “Truly.”
Jane did not loosen her hold. “You look as though you have been dragged through the night itself. Where were you?”
Before Elizabeth could answer, Miss Bingley’s voice cut in, sharp as snapped thread. “Yes, indeed. Wherewereyou, Miss Elizabeth?Wewere all abed when the house decided to tear itself apart.”
A servant appeared, breathless, lantern raised. “If you please, ladies, Mr Darcy requests you gather in the west withdrawing room. The walls are stone. It is thought safest in case there are more tremors.”
“There will be no more tremors,” Elizabeth said.
The servant blinked at the certainty. Jane tightened her grip.
