The tracks turning left, he squinted as he moved with them, the wind for once providing help as it shoved him onward into the last moments of day. The eerie blue light reminding him of the need to hurry.
“A little longer, Elizabeth,” he whispered as he stumbled again, his legs at first refusing to stand. “I… I promise you.”
Growling as he heaved himself to his feet, Darcy plodded onward, his stomach dropping as he realized he had lost all trace of his former path. The wind, or his own carelessness, had stolen it.
Eyes moving across the snow laden earth for some sign, his hope died.No prints. Only a darkening world and no light to guide him.Lifting his head, he squinted; the snow softly drifting toward his face, the harsh wind which had raged so long no longer driving the powdery flakes.
“Lord,” he murmured toward the sky. “Give me strength.”
Feeling the weight of Elizabeth in his arms, Darcy gazed down at her.He made a promise, but even if he had not… he loved her.Squeezing her, he whispered his promise again and continued forward in the direction he last recalled seeing tracks.
Time without meaning he continued on, few memories lingering save his search for Elizabeth and however long he had been carrying her.Years was it? It seemed as such. Years and years threatening to run into decades.
Nearly falling flat on his face, Darcy’s brows lowered as he sought to take another step, a strange pressure on his waist blocking his progress. Shifting Elizabeth, he stretched out his arm until his hand stilled. Lips curling, Darcy pulled Elizabeth to his chest. “We are there! We are safe, my love. The ropes we set out will see us safe back… a moment longer. That is all.”
Taking the rope in hand, he hesitated but a moment as he wondered which direction to take as he recalled the places they had strung the ropes.Right? Unless they were standing by the rectory, right would see them there.
“Fitz! Bingley!” he shouted hoarsely as he continued along, a light which surely came from the house meeting his gaze. “Fitz! Reverend! Bingley!”
A figure with a light rushing toward them, Darcy hurried as fast as his unsteady legs might carry him, his cousin’s face at last visible as they met.
“Darcy!” Fitz exclaimed as he took Elizabeth, Bingley appearing but moments later. “Bingley! Help Darcy… We must get them warm.”
Within a minute Darcy stood blinking at the brightness of the roaring fire as Elizabeth’s sisters and Miss Umbridge tended to her, his cousin offering guidance where needed.
“Come, let us go into my study so you can take off these wet things,” the Reverend suggested as he led him there, his instructions to the two drivers lost to Darcy as the Reverend and Bingley worked off the many soaked layers he wore before wrapping him in a warmed blanket and sitting him by the fire.
“A nice, hot cup of tea should be just the thing,” Bingley said as he handed him a steaming cup, the warmth painful as feeling began to return to Darcy’s fingers.
“Are you alright?” Fitz questioned as he entered the study, the voices of the ladies in the room beyond echoing unintelligibly.
“How is she?” Darcy asked, ignoring his cousin’s question as he came to his side.
Arms crossed, Fitz’s eyebrows raised. “I will not lie to you, she has been through the wars, so to speak. Though I had her sisters examine her fully and her skin, though pale, showed no signs of discoloration; a physician need not take any drastic measures.”
“Drastic measures?”
“It is unimportant as there are no signs. She would do well with a physician though; I have seen exposure like this once before, but other than warming her, I know very little. One of our camp surgeons who tended them did not agree with the practice of rubbing the patient or warming them too quickly, though not many would approve his view.”
“Was the patient harmed by his treatment?”
“Not at all,” Fitz answered, a hint of surprise evident in his voice. “In fact, when our second surgeon at last arrived, he marveled at the rate of recovery.”
“What else did he do?” Darcy urged, Elizabeth’s cries heard from the other room.
“I was not there the whole time,” Fitz remarked, his eyes lifting toward the ceiling, “but I do recall he wrapped hot bricks in thick cloth and slowly began to introduce them beneath the blanket the man lay under.”
“Is that being done for Elizabeth?”
Spinning on his heels, Fitz moved toward the door. “It will be now!”
“The drivers are in the kitchen,” Mr. Moore rushed, “I have a large supply of warming bricks for the more delicate members of my parish on a Sunday; I will have them begin warming them immediately.”
“Bingley,” Fitz ordered as he paused in the doorway, “put another log on the fire and then boil some water; we will all need some tea before the day is done.”
∞∞∞
Staffordshire, England – 1812 – Day 16
