His smile was faint yet filled with a tenderness that made her breath catch. They stepped closer to each other. They stood together for a long moment as if nothing else mattered: the chaos, the flames, the weight of death and destruction—all faded into the background.
But a loud crash split the air and Mr. Darcy was once again called into action, leaving Elizabeth standing alone to wrestle with emotions she could not yet accept or define.
While he dealt with what was left of the fire, Elizabeth turned to the crowd gathered outside the falling mansion. Servants, tenants, villagers, all stood in silent devastation. For most, this was not merely the loss of a building, it represented the end of all they had ever known. Despite Lady Catherine’s cruelties, Rosings had been their home, their livelihood. Those who had depended on its existence now faced an uncertain future, watching as the flames consumed their past.
Standing apart from the others, Charlotte stared at the burning ruins with eyes brimming with tears. Elizabeth’s heart ached with grief at the sight of her dear friend—stoic and yet fragile, her composure on the brink of breaking, struggling to appear unshaken while her world crumbled before her eyes. Undoubtedly, for her, the loss was even greater. She had married and come to Rosings seeking happiness and stability, with a firm belief that she had made the prudent choice. But now, stripped of illusion, Charlotte Collins faced a grim reality: she was no longer the wife of a respectable parson, for now her name would be forever tied to a man whose sins had sealed his fate—and hers.
Maria's hand found her sister's, and Charlotte clung to it,as if anchoring herself against the crushing weight of grief and shame. Elizabeth could not help but sympathize. What was to become of her friend now?
She could not merely watch them grieve together, so Elizabeth joined them and wrapped her arm around her friend’s shoulder. Charlotte responded with an anguished smile. No words passed between them—for what words could ever undo such pain?
And before them lay Rosings—once a fortress of power and tyranny, now scattered to the wind, reduced to rubble and ash.
Chapter 16 – The Healer
Dawn was almost upon them when the small group walked the road towards Hunsford’s parsonage. The skies had cleared and the wind had ceased, signalling that the storm that had lashed the island for three full days had finally come to an end—a welcome respite after so much misery.
The night had been long and exhausting. They had all remained by the manor, assisting those still battling the flames and salvaging whatever could be saved. Once the immediate danger had passed, the gentlemen ensured that the rooms containing the most valuable objects were locked, preventing opportunists from looting what remained. Only then did they finally rest.
Despite her grief, Mrs. Collins had the presence of mind to offer lodging to the displaced family from the manor house. The parts of the mansion that had not burned were now uninhabitable. Soot and dust had settled over every room, and no one could be certain whether the remaining structure would hold after the fall of the eastern wing. The parsonage, though modest, offered warmth and comfort—far preferable to sleeping in the barn with the servants of Rosings.
Once home, Charlotte Collins displayed admirable composure, directing her surprised servants to prepare a quick breakfast and ready every available room for Rosings’ guests. Clean clothes were offered with the hope they would fit, and pitchers of warm water were brought to the makeshift bedrooms so they could freshen up.
***
“Darcy,” said the colonel, “you must take care of that wound.”
Darcy glanced at the bandage Ferguson had hastily wrapped around his hand. It was black with soot and dried blood. “I should wash it.”
The men excused themselves and headed to the kitchen. Darcy sat at the table while Fitzwilliam took a seat opposite him.
“I did not have the chance to thank you for coming to my rescue,” He winced as his cousin unwrapped the cloth. “You saved my life.”
Fitzwilliam inspected the wound carefully. “You would have done the same for me.”
“Yes, but that does not lessen the merit of your actions.”
The colonel gave him a quick glance and accepted the praise with a curt nod. Darcy smiled. His cousin’s military experience had hardened him against what he deemed unnecessary or overdone gratitude, yet it was well deserved.
The cook placed a basin of warm water and a bar of soap on the table. It was a nasty wound. The flesh of his palm was cut open, and part of the skin had peeled away, clinging to the hand by a thick strip. There were several cuts on his fingers, and part of a fingernail was missing, but overall, the injuries were not life-threatening. Still, there was always the risk of infection. If untreated, Darcy might lose more than a finger—perhaps even his hand.
“Can you handle the pain if I wash your hand in hot water?” Fitzwilliam asked. “I see no other way to remove all this dirt.”
“If I could fit inside,” Darcy smirked, “I would gladly crawl into that basin right now. All I want is a hot bath and a bed.”
“It has been a long night.” Fitzwilliam produced a flask from his pocket and offered it to him. “Take a sip. You will need it.”
He took several gulps and looked away as his cousin submerged his hand into the basin. The pain was great, but he endured it without crying out.
“Ah, Miss Bennet,” Fitzwilliam said with a grin when he saw her at the door. “Just in time! A charming lady’s presence is sure to ease my cousin’s suffering.”
“I. . . I brought some clean linen. I thought you would need it.” She stepped closer.
At the colonel’s request, the water was changed, and Fitzwilliam repeated the process until he was satisfied the wound was clean. He dried Darcy’s hand and pressed the skin back into place.
“If this heals well, you will have nothing more than an unattractive scar. The muscle does not appear damaged—though I fear your beautiful handwriting could suffer.”
Darcy managed another smile. “It will still be neater than yours.”
