Chapter Seven

God Protect You!


Elizabeth clasped her hand over her heart. The racing of her vital organ of life and love too frantic to possibly be natural.

She deliberated on what to do.

Should she stay where she was; safe by the fire in the drawing room? Should she go to her bedchamber and lock the door?

No. She was no coward. Whatever was going on, she had to know, both for her sake and her sanity.

She stood slowly, rooted to the spot, and then… with one trembling step… she made her move.

Elizabeth shuddered as she made her way through the corridors of Pemberley, the candles shuddering in their sconces, their shadows fierce and frightened. The great house, usually so full of warmth and light, had taken on a foreboding air, the very stones seeming to resonate with the fury of the storm outside and the cold clandestineness within.

Thunder growled ominously in the distance, shaking the very foundations of the house, while the wind howled through every crevice, making the very air feel alive with malevolence. The rain battered against the windows with a force that threatened to shatter the glass, each drop like a drumbeat heralding some dark event yet to unfold. This house, which had stood and served generations, was surely about the crumble.

But it was not the storm that made Elizabeth's nerves shiver, though; it was the terrible cries and screams that had pierced the night, echoing through the empty passageways with a despair that chilled her to the bone. She had heard them distinctly, the sounds of agony and fear, rising above the chaos of the storm, and they had drawn her from the safety of the warm and reassuring fireside, despite the dread that clawed at her insides.

She then had an idea. Darcy had said that most of the servants had gone but perhaps there were still one or two left. She breathed a sigh of relief at the thought. Elizabeth then slipped through a side door and padded down to the lower quarters, her breath coming in short, anxious gasps. Her slippered feet scarcely made a sound upon the original Tudor flagstones. The cries had grown fainter as she descended, yet they lingered in her mind, urging her to press on. She must find help.

She reached the lower levels, where the servants' quarters lay. The roaring warmth of the kitchen fire should have been a comfort, but the room was eerily silent, save for the relentless drumming of the rain on the windows. Elizabeth paused in the doorway, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of life.

In the corner, sprawled upon a rough-hewn bench, was a footman, his head lolled back and mouth agape. An empty bottle lay beside him, its contents long since consumed. The sharp scent of spirits hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid smell of smoke from the hearth. The man was utterly insensible, lost to the world in a drunken stupor. Elizabeth felt a flash of anger, quickly followed by pity; he was of no use to her in this state, and the cries still echoed in her ears, driving her to seek aid elsewhere.

Her gaze then fell upon a trembling figure huddled beneath the kitchen table. It was Mary, one of the maids, her face pale as the linen she so often handled, her eyes wide with terror. The poor girl clutched a cross in her hands, her lips moving in silent prayer, though whether it was for deliverance from the storm or the phantoms that plagued their night, Elizabeth could not tell.

"Mary," Elizabeth called softly, approaching her with as much calm as she could muster. "Mary, there-there, do not tremble so. Do not worry, we will be well."

Mary looked up and sniffed pathetically.

"Look, Mary, I need your help," her mistress explained. "We must find out what is amiss in the house."

But the maid only shook her head adamantly, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Elizabeth's shoulder, as though she could see through the walls to the very heart of the storm. "I cannot, ma'am," she whispered, her voice thick with fear. "It is the end of days, surely! The devil himself roams these halls tonight—I dare not move!" And with that, she placed her hands over her ears and rocked back and forth.

It was no use. No amount of coaxing could budge her from her refuge beneath the table. Perhaps the poor lamb was best left where she was. Elizabeth moved on, she could not afford to waste any more time; the cries had fallen silent now, but the house was still filled with an oppressive dread, as if something unspeakable lurked just beyond the edge of perception.

Leaving Mary to her prayers, Elizabeth made her way to Mrs Reynolds' room, her heart heavy with the knowledge that the housekeeper, a woman of no small courage, was her last hope for assistance. She knocked urgently at the door, calling out the older woman's name.

"Mrs Reynolds! Are you there?" she called with no small degree of hope.

There were several seconds of strained silence while she waited.

At last, the sound of a struggle came from within, followed by Mrs Reynolds' voice, strained and breathless. "I am here, Madam! The lock—it has jammed, and I cannot get out!"

Elizabeth grasped the door handle, turning it with all her strength, but it would not yield. The wood groaned under her efforts, but the lock remained steadfast, trapping the housekeeper in her parlour. The storm seemed to roar louder in response, mocking her futile attempts.

"Stand back, Mrs Reynolds!" Elizabeth called, throwing her shoulder against the door, but it barely budged. "I shall fetch something to pry it open!" she promised, rubbing at her arm and wincing at the pain.

It was then that a flash of lightning, bright and blinding, illuminated the corridor, casting grotesque shadows on the walls, and as the thunder crashed, the sound from upstairs grew louder and more frightened, as though the very heart of the house was being torn apart.

Oh, it was no use. She had to do something. She was mistress of the house, after all.

Elizabeth pressed her hand against the door. "I will be back," she promised her housekeeper. "But I must go. I must find who or what is in distress."

"No, Mrs Darcy!" Mrs Reynolds cried from within her prison, her voice shrill with appeal. "I beg you, do not go alone! It is not safe," she cautioned. "The master would not like it."

But Elizabeth was already turning away, her decision made. Whatever horrors awaited her in the west wing, she knew she could not ignore them. The cries, the dread—they were leading her towards something or someone, and she could not rest until she had uncovered the truth.

"I must go, Mrs Reynolds," she repeated, attempting to sound wonderfully brave.

"I will return for you, I promise. I am sure this will all be over soon," she vowed. "But I cannot leave those cries unanswered."

There was a crackling pause. "Then God protect you, child!" came the housekeeper's voice, fraught with worry.

Elizabeth did not reply. She could not allow herself to think about what might await her as she made her way towards the west wing, where the shadows seemed to gather more densely, and the air grew colder with every step. The silence had returned, but it was a silence filled with anticipation, as though the house itself were holding its breath, waiting for the moment when she would cross the threshold into darkness.

It beckoned her. It enticed her. It lured her into its depths.

The storm outside raged with relentless fury, but within Elizabeth, a storm of a different kind brewed—one not of fear, but of resolute determination. The cries that had earlier echoed through Pemberley, so filled with anguish and dread, had drawn her from the safety of her rooms, compelling her towards the west wing, a part of the house long enveloped in mystery.

As she ascended the stairs, the air grew thick with an oppressive heaviness, each step echoing in the dimly lit corridor as though the very walls conspired to keep their secrets hidden. The distressed sounds grew louder, more distinct, yet they seemed to shift and move, as if carried by unseen currents, always just beyond her reach. There was a human quality to them—a raw, haunting pain that tugged at the edges of her resolve, but she would not be swayed. She had to know the truth.

Reaching the door to the west wing, Elizabeth paused just long enough to steady her breath. The key, cold and unforgiving in her trembling hand, slid into the warped lock with a reluctant scrape. The door groaned open, its hinges creaking with a sound that seemed to ripple through the very bones of the house. What lay beyond was not mere shadow, but a dense gloom that seemed to pulse with its own life—a living, breathing darkness that exhaled an icy breath, wrapping itself around her like a shroud.

The corridor stretched out before her, an abyssal void that devoured the feeble light of her candle, reducing it to a faint glow. The air grew ever more frigid with each tentative step, the walls seeming to press in, narrowing the passage as though they conspired to hold her back, to trap her within their suffocating embrace. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint, elusive cries that seemed to drift on the very breath of the storm, distant and indistinct, yet hauntingly persistent.

Holding her candle aloft, Elizabeth ventured into the corridor, her footfalls muted by the thick, age-worn carpet that lined the floor. Each step felt as though it carried her deeper into some unseen realm, where the air itself seemed heavier. The gloom closed in around her, the shadows no longer merely an absence of light, but something more sinister, something alive. And always, just out of reach, those ghostly cries beckoned her onward, pulling her inexorably towards a destiny she could neither see nor escape.

The corridor narrowed as it led to a steep, spiral staircase that twisted upwards like a serpent coiled in wait. The sight of it made Elizabeth's heart falter; she had to will her foot to move, to take that first tentative step into the unknown. The stone beneath her slipper felt cold, almost alive, as though it resisted her advance. As she ascended, the staircase seemed to tighten around her, the walls pressing closer with each turn, confining her within a stony embrace. The candle in her hand quivered, throwing jagged, monstrous shapes that danced upon the walls, their grotesque forms leaping out at her from every angle.

At the top of the staircase, she emerged onto a narrow landing, her breath coming in shallow, fearful gasps. Before her loomed a single, heavy door, its ancient wood darkened by age and secrets. The cries, now almost unbearable in their intensity, reverberated through the very air, causing her to shiver despite the oppressive heat that seemed to emanate from the depths of the house. The sound was a keening wail, piercing through her like a blade, and she felt a cold sweat break out across her skin.

With a deep, steadying breath, Elizabeth reached for the iron latch, her hand trembling as she gripped the cold metal. The door resisted her push at first, as though it too wished to keep its secrets locked away, but with a creak that echoed ominously, it finally gave way, swinging open to reveal the room beyond.

What met her eyes was a darkness so profound it seemed to swallow the light entirely, the solitary candle's flame reduced to a mere pinprick against the suffocating gloom. The shadows clung to the walls like creeping vines, thick and impenetrable, suffusing the air with a stifling sense of dread. The atmosphere was dense, heavy with the weight of countless unspoken horrors, and Elizabeth could scarcely draw breath.

Her gaze was immediately drawn to a figure huddled in the farthest corner of the room, its form obscured by the darkness that cloaked its hunched form. The cries had fallen silent, yet the oppressive stillness that had taken their place was far more terrifying, a silence that screamed louder than any sound. Elizabeth's pulse quickened, a cold slither running down her spine as she stood frozen at the threshold, her eyes locked on the motionless figure, waiting for whatever unspeakable revelation lay in wait.

With slow, measured steps, Elizabeth approached the figure, her breath caught in her throat. The person was wrapped in a dark cloak, their form indistinct, as if they were part of the very shadows that surrounded them. She could not imagine who might be kept in such a place, nor why they would be here, hidden away from the world.

Her hand trembled as she reached out, her fingers brushing against the rough fabric of their clothes. The figure stirred, and in that instant, Elizabeth's heart seemed to stop. The person turned abruptly, and Elizabeth found herself staring into a pair of wide, wild eyes, filled with a madness she could scarcely comprehend.

The candle flickered violently, casting wild shadows across his face as Elizabeth took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest. The storm outside howled, as if in response to the revelation, and the room seemed to close in around her, the truth too terrible to grasp.

There, in the west wing, Elizabeth found herself face to face with the man she thought she knew, transformed into something she could not yet understand.

She gasped, stumbling back in shock, the candle quaking in her grasp.

It was him.

It was Darcy!