Elizabeth’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Oh, believe me, I would rather watch yours. It does such amusing contortions when you lie. I daresay it is your best skill.”
Her words stung, and Wickham’s eyes narrowed, a flash of anger crossing his features. He moved again to grab her, but Mr Bennet thrust his arm out, his voice hard with resolve. “Back away, Wickham. You have no business here, and even less with my daughter.”
Darcy, struggling to stay upright, forced himself into Wickham’s line of sight, his presence a steadying anchor amidst the chaos. “You will not touch my future bride,” he rasped, every word a strain. “She stays where she is.”
Wickham paused, frustration clear in his expression. He was losing control, the fire’s heat now almost unbearable, the smoke choking. His gaze flicked from Darcy to Elizabeth, calculating. She met his stare with unwavering defiance, her posture rigid, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as if ready to strike.
“You think you can command me, Darcy?” Wickham snarled, his bravado slipping. “You, who cannot even stand without shaking?”
Darcy did not respond, but Elizabeth’s voice rose again, sharp and mocking. “At least Mr Darcy stands for something, Mr Wickham. Unlike some who slink about in the shadows, preying on the vulnerable.”
Wickham’s face twisted with rage, but Elizabeth did not waver, her gaze steady and unflinching. The fire’s roar was getting louder, the heat oppressive, but she would not be cowed by him.
“Enough of this,” Wickham finally barked, his composure slipping as the situation grew more dire. “You will all come with me, or we will see how long your defiance lasts in this inferno.”
Elizabeth took a step back, moving closer to Darcy and her father. “We will take our chances here,” she said calmly, a final note of defiance in her tone. “At least here, we are not at the mercy of a coward.”
Wickham hesitated, his face a mask of fury and indecision. The flames crackled louder, and he could see his advantage slipping away with every moment. For a moment, he seemed about to strike, but then he stepped back, his gaze still locked on Elizabeth.
And then, without another word, he turned and stormed out, leaving them alone in the smoke-filled room.
Darcy could feel the tremor in his own legs, the unsteady wobble that threatened to betray him at any moment. He could not keep this up much longer—his body was nearing its limit, and the fire was spreading too quickly. But he kept his gaze locked on Wickham’s retreating back, refusing to show any sign of weakness until the blackguard had gone.
Elizabeth rushed to Darcy’s side, her face pale, and eyes wide with concern. “Fitzwilliam!” she cried, her hands moving to steady him, “We need to get you out of here.”
Darcy nodded weakly, struggling to stay focused. The heat was becoming unbearable, and the smoke was choking him. “The back door,” he murmured, barely able to get the words out. “We need to get to the back door.”
Mr Bennet nodded, quickly taking charge. “This way,” he urged, moving toward the nearest hallway. “We can make it if we hurry. Keep low and stay close to the walls.”
Elizabeth hooked an arm under Darcy’s shoulder, helping to support him as they began to move. The servant stayed close behind, ready to catch Darcy if he faltered. The smoke was thick and acrid, stinging their eyes and filling their lungs, but they pressed on, driven by the need to escape.
The group moved through the darkened corridors, the heat intensifying with every step. Flames were visible now, licking at the edges of the wooden beams and creeping along the walls. The crackling of burning wood was a constant, ominous presence, a reminder that time was running out. Darcy’s breath was coming in ragged gasps, his strength fading rapidly. He stumbled, his vision swimming, but Elizabeth held him firm, her grip strong and unwavering.
“Almost there,” she urged, her voice steady despite the fear she could feel gnawing at her insides. She could see the faint outline of the back door ahead, a small sliver of hope in the midst of the chaos.
As they neared the exit, a sudden burst of flames erupted from a doorway to their left, the heat scorching their skin. Elizabeth shielded Darcy as best she could, her own fear forgot in her determination to protect him. The servant pushed forward, kicking the door open with a forceful shove, revealing the cool night air beyond.
“Go!” Mr Bennet shouted, ushering them through the doorway. “Get him out of here!”
Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. She half-dragged, half-carried Darcy through the door, feeling the cool rush of air on her face as they stumbled into the night. The servant followed close behind, slamming the door shut to slow the spread of the fire.
They were outside, but the danger was far from over. Darcy sagged against Elizabeth, his body trembling with the effort it had taken just to get this far. His head was pounding, each beat of his heart sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. But they were out. They were safe.
“Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth murmured, her voice thick with emotion, “stay with me. Just a little longer. We need to get you away from here.”
Darcy nodded, though he was barely conscious. He could feel the darkness closing in, his body finally giving way to the exhaustion that had been clawing at him for so long. But he forced himself to stay awake, to stay alert. He could not leave Elizabeth now. Not after everything.
“We… we need to move,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath. “Cannot… stay here.”
Mr Bennet joined them, his expression grim but determined. “He’s right. Wickham and Mortimer are surely waiting for us to emerge somewhere. There’s a path around the side of the house that leads to the stables. Perhaps his carriage is still there to get us further away, and in the chaos of a house fire, I doubt Wickham will be able to spare his energies for us.”
Elizabeth nodded. “Then let us go,” she said, tightening her grip on Darcy’s arm. “Come, my love. Stay with me.”
He managed a lopsided grin—at least, it felt like it was probably lopsided because the right side of his mouth did not respond as he would have liked. “As you wish, Mrs Darcy.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The carriage rattled overthe uneven road as Elizabeth tried to wedge her shoulder up under Darcy’s to steady him. Her mind was still reeling from the chaos at Netherfield, the thick smoke, the shouts of the servants, and the heat of the fire. But above all, it was the sight of Darcy—his face half-paralyzed, his movements sluggish—that tore at her heart. His hand trembled slightly in hers, and his eyes had grown unfocused.
