He hurried down the gallery, reviewing the destruction. The fire was consuming the rafters; it was only a matter of time before the rest of ceiling caved in entirely.
His mind raced. His cousin was a resourceful, tenacious man. If still alive and capable, he would have sought an alternate escape route from that hell. The only viable option was the balconies along the cliff.
With Lady Catherine's apartment ablaze, he entered Sir Lewis’s former chambers. Smoke had begun to gather within, yet the room was still navigable.
The colonel paused for a moment to scrutinise the room. The firelight seeping through the window cast a dim, flickering radiance, just enough for him to discern the details within. He was struck by the fact that, despite the chambers having been shut since Sir Lewis’s death, some objects appeared recently disturbed. The small desk near the window was one of them—the inkstand and pens were ready for use, and some drawers were partially opened. Stacks of papers, letters, and assorted documents were scattered across the surface, one bundle bound with a ribbon of blue satin.
It was strange. Perhaps his aunt, known for her twisted mind and morbid inclinations, had become a frequent visitor to her husband’s chambers after his death, rummaging through his things for reasons only she understood.
A sinister notion, yet everything about Rosings was sinister.
Fitzwilliam shook off these pointless conjectures. Every second counted; his cousin’s life was hanging by a thread. He strode towards the balcony just as Darcy attempted his ill-fated jump.
The colonel watched in horror as his cousin tripped. A portion of the railing gave way, leaving him dangling over the edge, clawing for a hold.
Fitzwilliam stopped in his tracks. For a single heartbeat, unbidden thoughts flickered through his mind. He stood transfixed, watching as Darcy struggled to find purchase.
An impulse anchored him in place—then instinct seized him.
He ran to his aid.
“I have you, Darcy,” Fitzwilliam said, gripping his cousin’s arm.
A wave of relief washed over Darcy’s face. With Fitzwilliam’s help, he scrambled onto the balcony and fell onto his back, gasping for breath.
“How did you—” His voice was hoarse. “I thought you had sailed.”
“I saw the fire and returned. Miss Bennet told me you were inside.” Fitzwilliam gave him a once over. Darcy was coated in dust and ash. “Can you walk?”
Darcy nodded, though he was still unsteady.
“Then we must leave. Now.”
The two men bolted towards the main staircase, reaching the front doors just as the eastern wing came crashing down behind them.
***
Outside, Elizabeth’s breath caught as the ceiling caved in. She barely registered Miss de Bourgh’s hysterical cries before her gaze snapped to the front door.
The colonel came out first.
Then, through the dust and smoke, another figure emerged.
Mr. Darcy.
Relief surged through her. He was alive—grimed with soot, bent with exhaustion, but alive. A thousand emotions assailed her at once: joy, anguish, disbelief, and the desperate urge to run to him, to throw her arms around him and never let go.
Instead, she stood frozen, unable to move, ashamed of her stillness, even though her heart was racing. He bent over, hands braced on his knees, coughing violently as he tried to clear his lungs. Mr. Ferguson appeared beside him, patting his back, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.
Still, Elizabeth remained motionless. She was so foolish—utterly foolish. If only she could just make her feet run to him.
At last, she shook herself from her stupor. She fetched a bowl of water and stepped forward, pressing it gently into his hands.
Mr. Darcy drank as though his life depended on it.
“Thank you,” he said.
Without thinking, Elizabeth reached up and stroked the soot from his cheek. Her fingers lingered, trembling with the force of all she could not say. “I thought I had lost you.”
