The men who had tackled Mr. Witting pulled him up to a seated position. One man stood behind him; his grasp was hot and firm on Mr. Witting's arms and shoulders, a fierce pressure that threatened to break his bones with each squeeze. His muscles were tight, flexing in unison as he kept Witting in place.

Mr. Witting felt his heart racing as another man, obviously the most senior of the three men, grabbed his shirt, lifting him to his feet in one swift motion. He could feel the man's hot breath on his face and hear the rage in his voice as he spoke.

"Who are you? Why are you here?" the man shouted, slamming Mr. Witting against a tree.

Witting remained silent, unsure of how to respond. He knew any answer he gave would only make matters worse. The man's grip was like iron, and he saw that there was no way out of this situation without violence. The other men stood silently around them, watching as their leader continued to interrogate Mr. Witting with ever-increasing intensity and ferocity. Witting did not answer any of the questions the man asked, instead looking around, searching for a way out of this situation. The atmosphere was intense, as if they were all holding their breath to see what would happen next.

The other two men were taken aback as Mr. Witting suddenly lunged forward, shoving their leader away from him and sending him sprawling to the ground. Before they could react, Mr. Witting was up on his feet, eyes wide with terror, and sprinting through the trees. He heard their boots pounding the earth behind him as he ran, faster and faster in a mad dash for freedom. The gibbous moon provided some light in the dark forest, and Mr. Witting prayed that it would be enough to make his escape successful. If he could get far enough away, they wouldn't be able to easily spot him in the dark. The men were gaining on him, and he could hear their heavy breathing. He would not be able to keep up this pace for much longer, however.

The attack came without warning, as one of the men slammed into Mr Witting with great force. The others moved in on him like a pack of hungry wolves, raining down vicious punches and kicks that shook his body with each impact. Mr. Witting fought with every ounce of strength he had. His body screamed in pain as he fought, struggling against his captors with every ounce of strength he had left. Despite the agony, he refused to give up, clinging to the hope that he could find a way out.

With a powerful surge, he broke away from the grip and started running with desperation. Suddenly, he felt a heavy thud against the back of his skull as if something had struck him from behind. His vision started to blur, and within moments, he lay still on the ground, unable to move.

Suddenly, the silence was shattered by another man's horrified voice, demanding to know what was going on. The other men's voices were hushed, but their words were urgent and desperate as they recounted what had happened. The familiarity with which they addressed the other man, Art, made it clear that he was part of their group.

Witting yearned to run away, but even as he willed his limbs to move, nothing happened. Fear coursed through him as he listened to the men discussing what to do with his body. The fourth man grudgingly complied. Mr. Witting felt rough hands tugging and yanking on him as he was pulled away from his captors and thrown into some sort of wagon or cart. He sensed a hatred in the touch of the men, as if they were disgusted by the presence of his body. The musty blanket was cold and rough against his skin, and the force with which it was flung over him makes him wish to shudder in fear.

A moment later, he heard the faint sounds of murmurs, but he could make out the words. The cart began to move, to roll slowly on its axle, bumping and rattling as it moved along the woodland path.

Mr. Witting lay motionless in the back of the cart, his limbs unresponsive to the orders he gave. He felt a heavy weight pressing down on him and his heart raced with anxiety. He was trying to come up with a plan to get out of this situation, but nothing seemed workable. Time moved painfully slowly, and it felt like an eternity before the wagon finally stopped. He heard a high-pitched whine, and he felt rough hands under his body as he fell from the cart. His head hit against the ground, and he let out a groan.

"Dear God, you are alive." His captor's voice was deep and hoarse, as if every syllable was dragged through sandpaper. It was heavy with disbelief and horror. "What am I to do?"


The first beams of the morning sun's warm light shone down onto the disfigured remains the once prominent outbuildings. Jane and Elizabeth mournfully beheld the ruins. Everywhere they looked, all that remained were jagged pieces of wood, shattered glass, and sharpened metal protruding from the ground like hostile daggers. It was hard to envision that such a place had ever been so vibrant with life as it once was. Elizabeth, followed by Jane, noticed two figures in the corner of the broken structure - Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy, both searching through the wreckage.

"Heavens!" Jane exclaimed in surprise.

Elizabeth ventured forth cautiously towards the pair, her feet treading lightly on the ashes. It was indeed them, albeit not how she was accustomed to seeing them. Their clothing was dirtied with soot and their expressions sorrowful; evidently preoccupied with their pursuit, neither one seemed to notice Elizabeth and Jane yet.

Suddenly, one of the men paused his search and lifted his eyes towards them, brows furrowed in confusion at the sight of them.

"Good day, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth," Mr. Bingley offered politely, his voice tired yet sincere.

"Good day," they replied.

Mr. Darcy, his countenance rather serious, began to explain their task at the desolate ruins of what had been. "We are here to learn what may be salvaged from this terrible affair," he declared.

Elizabeth's emotions were torn as she glanced over the sad landscape; her heart was ever filled with a deep sorrow and a sense of sorrow increased in her bosom as the minutes passed. Her respect for Mr. Darcy could not be suppressed; his selfless determination to help his friend had touched her deeply. A cut above his eyebrow made him seem lost and imperfect, yet the compassion emanating from him moved Elizabeth profoundly. He had always seemed like an unfeeling gentleman to her, but witnessing him surrounded by such desolation filled her with empathy towards him.

Elizabeth hesitated for a moment before saying, her voice laced with apprehension. "Might we be of any assistance?"

Mr. Darcy was taken aback by the offer and was about to refuse, but he paused instead. "We could not ask you to take on such an arduous task," he said slowly.

Elizabeth shook her head as she forced herself to make the offer again, despite her doubts. "It is the least we can do after all that has happened here."

Mr. Bingley smiled gratefully at Elizabeth's kind offer, his gratitude quelled her fears somewhat. "Thank you, Miss Elizabeth. We could certainly use the extra hands."

As Elizabeth worked diligently amongst the wreckage, her fingers stumbled upon something shiny, and she immediately felt a stirring of excitement deep within her. On closer inspection, she realised it was a small silver locket with a miniature painting of a woman inside. Jane noticed Elizabeth's discovery and looked curiously at her sister. "It's beautiful," she said quietly. "I wonder who it belongs to?"

Mr. Darcy peered over her shoulder; his eyes drawn to the locket. "It could belong to anyone," he said quietly.

"We should ask Sir William if anyone has reported it missing," said Jane.

The others agreed. This proposal was generally approved, and Mr. Darcy forthwith wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief, secreted it in his pocket. There was nothing much more to find in that barn, and Mr. Bingley suggested they begin on the next.

"Have you got any rest at all?" Jane asked her beloved with worry in each word.

Mr. Bingley shook his head and Elizabeth saw the fatigue written on every line of his face, a shadow of sadness that disappeared as soon as he noticed her looking at him. She felt a pang of sympathy for him; she knew the feeling well. "Maybe it's time to take a break," Elizabeth suggested gently. "You won't be much help if you keep going without sleep."

Mr. Darcy glanced up at her. "I believe Miss Elizabeth is right. We can search again later after we have recovered our strength."

Mr. Bingley seemed to waver between consenting and arguing about it for a few moments before ultimately agreeing with them both. "It seems you both are right; I should not have pushed myself beyond my limits."

The group returned to Netherfield, where Mrs. Nicholls had breakfast ready for them. Not that anyone could taste it, as their stomachs were filled with tension and fear from the previous night. As they sat around the table, Elizabeth pondered Mr. Witting and couldn't shake off the feeling that there was some connection between his sudden disappearance and the fire. She spoke her mind aloud and Mr. Darcy's features hardened. "I'm afraid you are correct," he said solemnly. "My cousins were at Mill Hill yesterday and today; where the rioters caused more destruction than ever before - destroying any machine they could find, vandalising multiple barns, even dragging out the mill owner into the street so they could beat him."

Elizabeth gasped at the brutality of the situation. "How could they do such a thing?" she asked in disbelief.

Mr. Darcy's expression darkened. "They believe we, and anyone else using machines, are their enemy, Miss Elizabeth. In their eyes, we are the ones taking away their jobs and their livelihoods."

Elizabeth shook her head in dismay, unable to understand the desperation that would drive people to such violence. "But this is not the answer. Violence solves nothing."

Mr. Darcy nodded his agreement. "Indeed, it only perpetuates the cycle of suffering."

As they sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts, there was a sudden knock at the door. Mrs. Nicholls went to answer it and returned, looking flustered. "There is a gentleman here to see you, Mr. Darcy," she said. "He says it is urgent."

Mr. Darcy stood up immediately, his voice sharp with concern. "Who is it?"

"He did not give his name, sir," Mrs. Nicholls replied. "But he said he has information about Mr. Witting's whereabouts."

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged concerned glances as Mr. Darcy strode out of the room. Elizabeth's heart beat quickly in her chest, and Jane looked pale and worried as she struggled to keep pace with Mr. Darcy. The three hurried through the foyer's tall doors, where a tall, wiry man with rough clothes stood waiting, his eyes darting nervously around the room.

"Who are you?" Mr. Darcy demanded, his tone brooking no argument.