As they neared the main staircase, a sharp scent hit him: smoke. Not a pleasant, woody aroma, but something heavier, acrid, redolent of charred wood and oil. The smell struck him with chilling precision, conjuring the vivid memory of the night Pemberley’s barn had burned to the ground.
He looked up. A thin veil of smoke crept along the gallery.
“Fire!” he cried, scarcely believing his own voice. “The house is ablaze!”
His first instinct was to seize Elizabeth’s arm and steer her towards the front door. “You must leave—now.” Then, turning to Ferguson, he said, “Take Miss Bennet and the other ladies outside. Get them clear of the house at once then find plenty of men to assist with the bucket line.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “No! I can help!”
Darcy gripped her shoulders, his gaze locking with hers. “Elizabeth, listen to me. Pray, do as I say. Leave the house at once. I must find Anne.”
Her eyes brimmed with anguish. “Pray, take care.”
“Come, miss,” Ferguson urged. “The smoke is spreading fast. We’ve no time.”
Elizabeth allowed Ferguson to guide her away, her gaze lingering on Darcy as she hurried down the hall. He offered one last, steadying smile, then turned and took the stairs at a run.
Chaos followed. Footmen raced through the house, shouting orders to bewildered servants. He took command, ordering the men to fetch buckets, wet blankets, anything they could use to quell the flames.
The smoke thickened as he reached Anne’s bedchamber. Finding the door locked, he struck it with his fist. “Anne! Open the door!”
No answer.
He seized a spear from a nearby suit of armour and wedged it between the door and the frame. With a mighty thrust, he forced it open—only to be met by a wall of smoke and blistering heat.
Through the flickering haze, he saw her—pale, trembling, and trapped.
Darcy squinted against the smoke and lowered his body to find clearer air as he crossed the burning chamber, dodging flares that came from all around him. Anne stood frozen by the window, her wide eyes locked on the blaze.
“Anne!”
She turned her head slowly and lifted a trembling hand towards the dressing table.
“He tried to kill me,” she cried, voice breaking, “He k-killed my mother. He tried to kill me.”
He followed her gaze and saw Mr. Collins sprawled on the floor, flames crawling ever closer. He strode towards the parson and searched for signs of life. The parson’s chest still rose and fell in shallow breaths.
“He said I had to die,” Anne sobbed. “He came at me. I pushed him away, then the lamp. . . It fell. The fire started.”
“We must leave. Now!” Darcy grasped her arm and looked around, weighing his options. Escape through the main door wasnow impossible as the inferno had blocked it. He flinched as the glass in the doors to the balcony shattered behind him, and a violent gust burst through, whipping the flames into a frenzy. The bed ignited like a torch; the ceiling groaned above them. Fire was already surging towards the dressing room and their access to that way out narrowed with every heartbeat. The path was doable for him; Anne’s skirts, though, could catch fire before she made it through. But it appeared to be the only way.
Without hesitation, Darcy swept her into his arms.
“Hold tight.”
Dodging flames and falling debris, he reached the side door that led to the dressing room, shielding her as embers rained down and flames tore at the frame. The gallery door came into view. He kicked it open, and a rush of cool air struck him like a wave.
He set Anne down just beyond the threshold. “Run. Get out of the house!”
“Where are you going?” She clutched his sleeve.
“I must go back. I cannot not leave him there.”
“William, no!”
“Go!” he shouted, pushing her away.
She stumbled down the gallery, coughing as she fled towards the staircase.
