Darcy leaned heavily againstthe wall, his breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. His right hand began to tremble uncontrollably, a cold shiver running down his spine as the familiar, dreaded sensation crept through his body. It had happened before—this harbinger of something worse, something that had left him on the floor, helpless and alone, with no recollection of how he had ended up there.
He could not allow that to happen again, not here, not under Wickham’s roof. The very thought of it sent a wave of nausea crashing over him. He knew Wickham was a liar, a manipulator, but what if... No, he could not put himself at Wickham’s mercy, not in this state. He needed to leave.Now. But his carriage would not be ready for nearly an hour, and he could not afford to wait.
Darcy’s eyes darted around the halls and up the stairs, searching for any sign of Bingley. If he could just find his friend, perhaps Bingley could help him, could offer him the assistance he so desperately needed. But he knew, with a sinking heart, that Bingley was still abed, blissfully unaware of the agony that Darcy was enduring.
The spasms in his arm began to spread, crawling up his neck and down his spine, tightening like a vise around his rib cage. His eye twitched uncontrollably, and his vision blurred. Panic clawed at his throat as his breathing became more ragged, more desperate.
He had to get out, had to find somewhere—anywhere—he could go where he would not be seen, where he could ride out this storm in relative privacy. But the stairs seemed aninsurmountable obstacle, and he knew he would never make it back to his room without collapsing.
Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a maid passing through the door that led to the kitchen. In that moment, he knew he had no other choice. The servants—discreet and used to handling matters quietly—would be his only hope. He could trust them to hush up his troubles if he asked them to. While they might inform Wickham after the fact, at least he could pass through the horrors of the moment out of sight, away from prying eyes.
Darcy pushed himself off the wall, stumbling toward the door. His legs felt like lead, every step an agony. His arm jerked involuntarily, his hand twitching as though it had a mind of its own. He could feel the spasms intensifying, the muscles in his neck and chest tightening painfully.
He barely made it to the door, almost collapsing against the frame as he pushed it open with his good hand. The kitchen was bustling with activity, the warmth of the fires and the scent of freshly baked bread hitting him like a wave, but all he could focus on was finding a place to hide, a place where he could endure this torment in peace.
The maid looked up, startled to see him there, her eyes widening in concern. Darcy managed a weak, strained smile, trying to appear more composed than he felt.
“Please,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, “help me... somewhere private...”
The maid nodded quickly, her expression one of understanding and discretion. Without a word, she led him toward a small room off the main kitchen—a pantry, dark and cool, with a single chair against the wall. Darcy all but collapsed into it, his body trembling violently, as the door closed behind him.
He closed his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and prayed that whatever was about to happen would pass quickly—and that no one else would find him before it did.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Elizabeth watched in frustrationas her horse, seemingly done with her struggles, yanked its head free of her grasp and wandered off, flicking its tail with a clear lack of concern. “Off with you then! Run off and get lost!” she fumed. “See if I care when you are turned into glue!”
She leaned heavily against a nearby tree, the bark rough against her palm, her ankle throbbing with each pulse of her heartbeat. The wetness from the mud clung to her gown, the cold seeping through the fabric and into her bones. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in sheer frustration. She had not come this far just to be stranded outside, muddy and helpless.
Elizabeth surveyed the area around the house, desperately trying to think of what to do next. The workmen who had been speaking with Mr Wickham were nowhere to be seen, and the house itself seemed quiet—too quiet for her to count on some other distraction. She needed to find a way inside, but she could not very well limp up to the front door in this state. What would she say? How could she even hope to find Mr Darcy without causing a scandal?
As she leaned against the tree, contemplating her increasingly dire situation, she caught sight of a young servant boy—no more than thirteen—making his way from the kitchen to the woodshed. It was a risky move, but Elizabeth saw no other option.
“Help!” she called out, her voice a hoarse yelp in the quiet of the morning. The boy stopped abruptly, dropping the wood in surprise as his eyes darted around in search of the source of the cry.
He hesitated, squinting into the trees, before cautiously stepping closer. As he approached, his eyes widened in recognition of her muddied gown and dishevelled appearance. “Miss? Are you... are you hurt?”
Elizabeth mustered a weary smile, grateful that he had come to her aid. “I need your help,” she said, leaning more heavily on the tree. “I cannot walk on my own. Can you assist me to the house?”
The boy nodded, still wide-eyed, and quickly moved to her side. “Shall I fetch the master?”
“No!” Elizabeth’s response was sharper than she intended, but she could not risk Mr Wickham discovering her. She softened her tone. “Please, no. Could you take me to Mrs Nicholls instead? I remember her to be a very clever woman, and she will know how to help me.”
The boy looked uncertain but then nodded again, more firmly this time. “Of course, Miss. I can do that. Lean on me, and I’ll get you inside.”
Elizabeth gratefully accepted his offer, draping her arm around his shoulders as he carefully supported her weight. Together, they made their slow, painful way towards the house. Each step was a jarring reminder of how foolish her plan had been, but she clung to the hope that once inside, she might yet find a way to speak with Mr Darcy—if she could only avoid Wickham.
The boy led her through the servant’s entrance, his brow furrowed with concentration as he carefully navigated the narrow passageways. Elizabeth focused on putting one foot in front of the other, her breath coming in short, laboured gasps as they neared the housekeeper’s quarters.
When they finally reached the door to Mrs Nicholls’ domain, the boy gently knocked, his voice still trembling slightly as he called out, “Mrs Nicholls, it’s Tommy. There’s a lady here who needs your help.”
Elizabeth limped into thewarmth of the kitchen. Her ankle throbbed with each step, the pain sharp and unrelenting, but she bit back any sound of discomfort. The last thing she needed was to collapse into a heap before even setting eyes on Mr Darcy.And heaven help her, she was going to see him—somehow, some way—if it was the last thing she did today.
As soon as Mrs Nicholls appeared, her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of Elizabeth—muddy, dishevelled, and clearly in pain. Without a word, the housekeeper hurried forward, her hands gently but firmly guiding Elizabeth to a nearby chair. “Oh, Miss Bennet, you’re hurt!” Mrs Nicholls quickly knelt beside Elizabeth, gently lifting her injured foot and propping it up on a nearby stool.
Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment, struggling to focus on anything other than the throbbing pain in her ankle and the dishevelled state of her appearance. The mud-caked hem of her gown, the sodden fabric clinging to her skin—everything about her screamed impropriety. “I am sorry, Mrs Nicholls,” she rasped. “I am tracking mud all over your clean kitchen.”
The housekeeper clucked her tongue, her sharp eyes taking in the full extent of Elizabeth’s bedraggled state. “Never mind the floor, Miss,” she said briskly, her gaze lingering on the front of Elizabeth’s gown, where the snowy mud had created an embarrassing slush that made the garment cling to her like her own skin. “I’ll send for an upstairs maid to see to your clothing, though I fear we have nothing suitable for a lady of your station. We shall have to wrap you in blankets until we can send for fresh clothing from Longbourn.”
