Mrs Reeves emerged from the kitchen passage at a half-run, sleeves pushed above her elbows, cap askew. A woman of fifty whom Darcy had brought from Pemberley six weeks before—she had been under-cook in Mrs Reynolds’s kitchen for twenty years and agreedto the northern posting because her husband was dead and her daughter Nan was her only remaining responsibility and she was pleased to keep Nan near her. She took one look at the woman in Darcy’s arms, and her face took on practical competence rather than exclamation.
“The parlour, sir?”
“The parlour. Is Mrs Bannon clearing it?”
“She is, sir. I have water on the range and more heating. Martha is fetching linens. What do you need me to do first?”
“Carry the blankets ahead of me. I need her laid down and wrapped before anything else. The bleeding has slowed but not ceased.”
“At once, sir.” She was past him and down the passage before he finished speaking.
He followed. The passage was narrower than he remembered—or had become narrower because he carried a body that resisted being carried. Miss Bennet’s splinted leg cleared the walls by inches—he had to tilt her, angle her, watch each step carefully for doorframes and uneven flags.
At the parlour door, Mrs Bannon hauled the linen press away from the bed-frame with more force than Darcy had ever seen her apply to any task, and Mrs Reeves was already at the frame, spreading blankets across the thin pallet on the slats. The loom stood in the corner, shoved aside but not removed—there was no time, and the loom would have to be borne. The window lacked curtains, and the grey light was flat. No fire had burned in the grate for months. The air smelled of dust, cold stone, and the faint mineral edge that seeped into every room of the house from the valley beneath.
Mrs Reeves folded back the blankets, and Darcy laid Miss Bennet upon them. He forced himself to release her. His arms had braced so long for her weight that, when it was gone, they did not at once remember emptiness. He straightened. His shirt was dark down the front, and his hands were slick with what she had left upon them.
“I need a fire in this room. Mrs Bannon, can you get one started?”
“I can get one going, sir.”
“Then do. Mrs Reeves, she must be warmed. Her clothing is soaked through.”
“I know, sir. Step outside, please.”
He turned toward the door.
“No.”
The word came thin and torn. Miss Bennet’s hand clutched at the blanket as she tried to shift herself higher against the pillows. The attempt broke her. Pain went through herso violently that her whole body arched, and a low, raw sound escaped her clenched teeth. Fresh blood welled beneath her and spread, bright and immediate, over the turned-back blankets.
“Do not move, miss!” Mrs Reeves said, catching her shoulders.
Miss Bennet’s breath came in shallow, broken pulls. Her face had gone white to the lips. Still, her eyes found his.
“My bag,” she whispered.
He stared at her. Just then, the thing meant nothing. The ice, the dark, the labour of getting her out alive, all had made such a trifle beneath notice.
Another spasm seized her. Her fingers knotted in the blanket. Blood marked the linen again. When she spoke this time, the plea was hardly more than air forced through pain.
“Please. You left it on the ice.”
Mrs Reeves looked up sharply. “Sir, go. I will see to her.”
But he did not move at once. She was half senseless with agony, staining the bed under her, and still she spent what little strength remained on that bag. Whatever lay in it had crossed the lake with her, and nearly gone under with her, and mattered enough now to survive pain that should have driven every other thought from her mind.
“I will fetch it,” he promised.
Something within protested that the woman upon the bed had not left his sight for an hour, and he was unprepared to put her out of sight now. The protest availed nothing. He stepped through the door, pulling it closed behind him, and went back into the dark for what she could not bear to lose.
Martha came down the passage then, arms full of folded sheets and a bundle resembling a winter cloak. She was fourteen, the kitchen girl from the village, hired in early December because Mrs Bannon refused additional work herself. Her face was pale. She had seen the blood on Darcy’s shirt.
“Go in with Mrs Reeves. Help her. Do as she directs.”
“Yes, sir.” She slipped past him into the parlour and he closed the door again.
He stood in the passage. Inside came the low voices of women and the rustle of wet fabric, then Miss Bennet’s voice—thin, controlled, saying something indistinct—and then silence. The fire had yet to catch. The cold killed faster than the blanket could warm her. Each second mattered and he could do nothing from the passage.
