A sensation had begun beneath her ribs, small at first and easily mistaken for restlessness. She shifted in her chair and tried to return to her sewing, but the needle slid oddly against her fingers, as though it resisted the path she set for it. The feeling spread, not pain, not weakness, but an insistence without direction, like an itch that could not be reached. She set the work aside and folded her hands in her lap, willing herself to be still.
Papa was speaking again, some gentle speculation about how Mary would find the weather at Hunsford, when the pressure sharpened. Elizabeth’s breath shortened without effort, her chest tightening as though the air itself had thickened. She stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping.
“Elizabeth?” Jane cried.
The fire leapt from the hearth.
Not a settling flare, not a wandering spark, but a sudden, violent surge out of the grate, tongues of flame snapping forward as though drawn. Heat struck her skirt, and she cried out, the sound torn from her before she could stop it. She stumbled back, slapping at the linen as it smoked and caught, the sharp sting of singeing cloth biting through the layers.
Jane was there at once, hands flying, beating at the flames with her shawl. “Hold still—Papa!”
Papa was already moving, gone in a rush toward the kitchen. Elizabeth fought the urge to bolt, stamping and striking at the fire with clumsy hands, the room tilting as the pressure inside her spiked and scattered.
Her father returned with a kettle and flung the water on her. Steam burst up around her, the flames dying at once, the skirt sagging heavy and dark. Elizabeth gasped, soaked through, shivering now as the sudden heat gave way to cold.
For a heartbeat, there was only the sound of their breathing.
Then the kettle wrenched itself from Papa’s grasp.
It lurched across the narrow space between them, metal screaming against air, swinging toward her head with a violence that stole what breath she had left. Jane cried out. Papa swore and caught at it, barely managing to wrench it aside before it struck her in the head. The kettle clattered to the floor and skidded, rocking wildly before settling at last against the hearth.
Silence fell again, broken only by the crackle of damp coals and the harsh rhythm of Elizabeth’s breath.
Jane’s hands were on her shoulders, steadying her. “Are you hurt? Elizabeth—are you burned?”
Elizabeth looked down. The skirt was ruined, blackened, and torn enough that she had to clutch it closed with one hand. Her skin, where she could see it, was unmarked. She nodded once, though she was not certain what she was answering.
Papa came closer, his face drawn and pale. “My dear… you are bleeding.”
She raised her hand to her face and felt wetness there. When she drew her fingers back, they were streaked red. No one had touched her. No one had struck her. The blood had come all the same.
Elizabeth stared at it, her heart hammering, the room very still around her, and thought dimly that whatever had been building had not passed at all.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The door was openedat Darcy’s direction, and the footman stepped aside to admit the Earl of Matlock. Darcy had been waiting near the table and came forward at once, bowing as his uncle entered. “I am obliged to you for coming.”
Matlock returned the courtesy and moved into the room. “Your note was explicit enough on that score.” He paused, then glanced past him.
Harrowe stood by the table, one hand resting among the open books and papers spread across it, his dress plain and clean but hardly respectable before such an audience, his manner unembarrassed by the room or its owner. He inclined his head when Matlock’s gaze met his, neither diffident nor familiar.
Matlock’s brows lifted slightly. “I was not aware you were receiving assistance.”
“I wished you to meet the person who has been advising me,” Darcy said. “Mr Aldous Harrowe.”
“Harrowe…?” Matlock repeated, the name slowing him now, his gaze lifting briefly before returning to the table—the annotated margins, the diagrams half-pinned beneath a paperweight, the signs of sustained inquiry rather than casual consultation. “ThesameHarrowe?”
“How old are you thinkin’ I am?” Harrowe grunted with the ghost of a twinkle in his eye.
Darcy grimaced. “A relative,” Darcy clarified. “His ancestor collected the ballads and the family has overseen the narrative ever since. Mr Harrowe has spent his life testing them against what survives outside the poetry.”
Matlock looked again at Harrowe, this time with sharper interest. “I see. And in what capacity are you assisting my nephew, Mr Harrowe?”
“I know what no one else thinks is true,” Harrowe replied. “And where to look.”
Darcy turned back to Matlock. “He has knowledge of certain records not readily available, and a willingness to follow them where they lead.”
Matlock regarded Darcy for a moment, then removed his gloves and handed them aside. “I see.” He took the chair Darcy indicated, his expression thoughtful rather than disapproving. “You asked me here, Fitzwilliam, because you believe something is soon moving beyond speculation.”
