Chapter Thirteen
Safe now… Safe
The cold clung to Elizabeth like a funerary pall, damp and unyielding, a smothering mantle forged in the bowels of the underworld. It was not just the chill that gnawed at her flesh, but a profound, baleful frost that penetrated her marrow, as though her soul was being siphoned into the ravenous jaws of the underworld. The river before her was no mere body of water; it was a malignant force, a black maw seething with wickedness as if it had hungered for her since time immemorial.
The water coiled around her as a monstrous serpent must, its scales invisible but felt—each tightening loop strangling her will, dragging her toward its watery grave. She could feel the toothed rocks below, like the talons of some ancient demon, wrapping around her ankles in cruel clutch, their sharp edges slicing into her skin as they shackled her to the depths. Her limbs, once supple and quick, were now leaden, as though the river had cursed her flesh to stone. Each frantic thrash of her body seemed only to tighten the river's stranglehold as if it relished the slow, inevitable process of her undoing. Time itself had twisted and warped, each second stretched into an eternity of dread, fragile and cold as the glassy surface above her.
That surface glimmered far overhead, a mocking sliver of light, thin and taunting. It danced and shimmered, a pale illusion of hope just out of reach, a reminder of the life slipping through her fingers like grains of sand. Her eyes, stinging with cold, blurred the world beyond into a distant mirage, twisting the gleam into a ghostly, unattainable dream. Her lungs burned with a fire more torturous than any hellish blaze, and every desperate gulp for air filled her with nothing but the biting cold of the deep. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, but the river rushed in, flooding her with a frozen, suffocating kiss that stole the last breath from her lips.
It was a scream lost to the abyss, a cry stifled by the void.
Her mind, teetering on the cusp of oblivion, floated on strange, disjointed thoughts—thoughts that whispered like phantoms in the night, neither urgent nor panicked, but disturbingly calm. So this is what it feels like to drown, she mused, as though she were a spectator of her own demise. Not agony… not terror… but surrender. A slow, inevitable surrender to something far older and darker than herself. The river was no longer her adversary, but her master. She had become its thrall, her body a hollow vessel adrift on its merciless currents, a mere plaything for the depths that called her home.
She looked at Darcy, her beloved Darcy. How deeply she loved him, and how she regretted not telling him more often how honourable, how brave, how utterly extraordinary she knew him to be. But now it was too late. The words she had withheld could no longer reach him.
Elizabeth clung to her husband, her grip fierce, as if she could tether him to life by sheer will. His handsome face was hauntingly still, his eyes softly closed, dark curls gently floating around his temple, and his lips—once so full of warmth and wit—now motionless, drained of breath. He looked as though he were simply sleeping, caught in some peaceful dream beyond her reach. She prayed he had felt no pain, no fear—only a quiet release.
With trembling arms, she pulled him closer, her heart aching with a grief too deep for words. Then, with one last fragile breath, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the darkness, letting the silence take her as she joined him in the eternity that awaited.
And then, out of the blackness, there came a violent crack, sharp and jagged, like the sky itself had split open. Her fog-shrouded mind cleared for a heartbeat—just long enough to feel it.
A hand!
A hand—solid, real, and so warm it burned like fire against the biting cold. It latched onto her waist with a brutal, iron grip, as if defying the river's merciless pull. The sharp pressure of fingers, each digit pressing into her skin with unnatural strength, felt like claws sinking deep into flesh. Her body, frail and half-submerged in delirium, trembled under the overwhelming sensation, her mind teetering between panic and surrender.
Beneath the water, the river roared in fury, its freezing currents clawing at her legs like invisible talons. The stones, jagged and heavy, which had anchored her feet in their stony vice, suddenly released their grip in a violent rush. The force tore through her limbs, like knives scraping against bone as she was ripped free from the river's icy jaws. It felt as though the river itself recoiled from the intruder, an unseen horror that dared to defy its hunger.
Her chest screamed for air, her lungs burning as if on fire, and the once-agonising cold of the water began to gnaw deeper into her bones. But the hand would not be denied. It gripped at her with resolve and heaved her upwards, tearing her from the river's cruel grasp like a piece of prey snatched from a predator's jaws.
The pale light of the surface grew nearer, but it was no longer the soft shimmer of hope. Instead, it was sharp and cold, a moonlit scythe cutting through the darkness, casting jagged shadows across the rippling water. The surface seemed almost too distant, unreachable, inches above her scraping fingertips that rose, longing to scratch air.
She wanted to fight, wanted to scream, but the pull of the hand was too strong, too violent. Her muscles seized with something beyond fatigue as her body—once so heavy, so burdened by the water's crushing weight—now felt weightless, her limbs limp like a broken doll.
And then, with one final surge, she broke through.
With one final, brutal surge, she pierced through the surface. Water exploded around her in a chaotic rush, droplets glittering in the moonlight like shards of glass.
The air above was not the gentle caress she had dreamed of—it was a sharp, biting cold that sliced against her skin like a blade. The night sky loomed overhead, vast and endless, indifferent to her struggle. She gasped as she was flung onto the riverbank, her body colliding with the wet earth with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. For a moment, she lay still, her cheek pressed against the mud, feeling its cold, unyielding embrace, as though the earth, too, sought to claim her.
Then, with a sudden convulsion, her chest heaved violently, forcing the river's water from her lungs in a dreadful torrent. She choked and gagged, her throat raw and burning as she coughed up the last remnants of the river's spleen. The sensation was agony, each breath a battle, but with it came a flicker of life—a desperate, fleeting relief that she was still breathing.
"Breathe, madam, breathe," came the voice through the tempest—soft yet insistent. Firm hands, dripping with rain, grasped her drenched form, turning her with practised precision onto her side, guiding her head to rest on the sodden earth. Each breath was a savage struggle, her lungs burning as air, sharp and biting forced its way back in. Where icy numbness had once gripped her, a fierce, searing fire now raged—an agonising, elemental need to survive. It was as if every fibre, every sinew, rebelled against her, wrenching itself apart with the raw effort of breathing. Her body spasmed in violent shudders, her limbs twitching in betrayal, utterly drained of strength. Yet the world did not still for her, swirling around in a storm of noise and fury, a reflection of the tempest within her soul.
Above her, the storm rampaged, untamed and unrepentant. Rain crashed down in relentless sheets, each drop like a bullet, hammering the ground with such force it seemed the earth itself might splinter beneath it. The heavens split open with every whip of wind, the gales howling through the trees like some primal creature unshackled from its chains, snapping branches with a vicious crack that echoed like breaking bones. Beside her, the river snarled, its waters fat and angry, thrashing against the banks with a wild, untamed rage that threatened to consume everything in its path.
Elizabeth blinked, her vision blurred by exhaustion and the ceaseless assault of rain that stung her eyes. But through the shifting veil of water and shadow, she discerned figures—blurred, frantic, moving with an urgency that mirrored her own struggle.
Mrs Reynolds, the housekeeper, appeared through the driving rain, her apron snapping violently in the wind as if it would tear away and be lost to the storm. Her usually placid face was now distorted in desperation, her voice strained and ragged as she shouted, though her cries were drowned in the storm's deafening roar. She darted across the slick riverbank, her soaked skirts clinging heavily to her legs, dragging her down like the earth itself conspired against her.
And there was Mr Ehle, the butler, his tall, stoic figure drenched to the bone, his hair plastered to his skull, clothes clinging to his lean frame. His voice, normally measured and calm, now soared above the storm as he shouted orders to the other servants, though the words were snatched away by the howling wind. His face, typically a mask of composed duty, was etched with steely determination, though a flicker of anxiety betrayed the fear gnawing beneath. His hands gripped the thick rope stretched taut from the riverbank, guiding the quaking servants as they clung to it, their only tether to safety against the river's formidable power.
The scene was one of barely controlled chaos—desperation hanging thick in the air. The servants, pale and wide-eyed, fought against the river's violent grip. Their hands, slick with rain and mud, slipped precariously on the ropes, fingers raw and torn from the brutal fight to hold on. Their muscles strained and trembled as if every sinew in their bodies might snap under the pressure, while the river, like a hungry beast, seemed determined to drag them into its murky depths. The terror was tangible, a raw, palpable thing, as they waged their fragile resistance against the storm's greedy appetite.
Elizabeth's body, wracked by relentless shivers, felt entirely depleted, as though her very bones had been hollowed out by exhaustion. Yet deep within her, something primal stirred—an unquenchable flicker of survival. The storm could rage, the river could howl, but she had been pulled from its clutches, torn from the maw of death itself. And even as her vision blurred again, as the heavy pull of exhaustion threatened to smother her consciousness, she clung onto one beautiful fact—she was still alive. Or was she?
Suddenly, a discordant battle cry slashed through the storm—sharp, urgent, a sound that sent a jolt of fear straight to her heart. Elizabeth turned her head, every muscle screaming in protest, and through the driving rain, she saw him—a lone figure plunging headlong into the river. A rope was knotted around his waist, the line held tight by the desperate hands of the servants. Their shouts of alarm echoed through the downpour, but even before they reached her, she knew. She knew who it was.
"Francis..." The name escaped her lips as a breathless rumour of uncertainty, lost to the storm.
She smiled weakly.
He had not deserted them. He had not run away. He had gone for help.
God bless him.
But then a fear, more hopeless than anything she had felt, surged through her veins. What was he doing? He was no match for the river's wrath. The current would swallow him whole, as it had tried to do with her, yet there he was—throwing himself into the black, frothing waters without hesitation as if his life mattered less than others. Darcy would stop him. Darcy would save him. But where was he? Where was her love? She tried to rise, to scream for Francis to stop, to be careful, but her body was useless, paralysed by exhaustion and the weight of her ordeal.
Time stretched unbearably slim, each second dragging out as the storm's fury swelled around her. The river's roar seemed to grow louder, more ominous, drowning out the frantic shouts of the servants. Her heart pounded a frantic, uneven rhythm, each beat a terrible echo of dread as her eyes remained fixed on the river's black surface. She willed herself to see, to know, but every second felt like an eternity of waiting—waiting for something she could not bear to see.
Then, through the din, she saw it—a shadow moving beneath the water, shifting through the darkness. Her breath caught in her throat, her entire body tensing with dread as Francis broke the surface, dragging a limp figure behind him. Her heart stopped as recognition dawned, cold and brutal. Darcy. His body, pale and lifeless, was cradled in Francis's arms as they struggled against the river's furious pull.
"No..." The word came out in a ragged gasp, her voice lost to the storm as her worst fear unfolded before her eyes. Darcy's face, drained of all colour, was a death mask—his body a motionless weight in the rushing water. The sight of him, so still, so empty, shattered her.
Francis, gasping for breath, finally reached the bank, collapsing onto the soaked ground beside Darcy's still form. His hands shook uncontrollably as he pressed his ear to Darcy's chest, his eyes wild with desperation. "Breathe," Francis pleaded, his childlike voice hoarse, broken by exhaustion and fear. "Please... brother… breathe."
Elizabeth's vision blurred, tears mixing with rain, as she watched helplessly. Her body refused to move, weighed down by the agony of seeing Darcy like this—lifeless, unresponsive. The storm seemed to fade, the roar of wind and rain becoming a distant drum as exhaustion as she slipped once more into unconsciousness. But through the growing darkness, she could hear Francis—his voice soft, trembling, the only thing tethering her to the moment.
"Safe," he murmured, his hands shaking as he pulled thick blankets over Darcy's body, then over hers. His touch was gentle, full of a tenderness that dared to defy the violence of the storm. "Safe now. Don't go."
Elizabeth felt the warmth of the blanket, the solid presence of Darcy's body beside hers, but it all seemed to slip away—fading into the storm, into the night. Her eyelids trembled, heavy, too heavy to lift, as her breath slowed and her body sank into the weight of her ordeal. Darkness closed in around her, soft and all-encompassing.
She was awake, but was she alive?
She was so confused. She was so tired.
Yet even as she slipped into unconsciousness for a second time, Francis's voice followed her, a faint thread that wound through the blackness and tethered her to this world.
"Come back," he begged, his words a prayer, an aching plea that called to them both. "Come home... safe now... safe."
Elizabeth's eyelids fluttered open, as though burdened by the weight of forgotten reveries, the kind that slip through the fingers of the mind like smoke. The fog of sleep still clung to her, thick and unyielding, wrapping her in its haze like the last tendrils of mist at dawn, reluctant to release its hold. She lay motionless, caught in that fragile space between waking and dream, where the edges of reality blurred and everything felt insubstantial. Her gaze fixed upon the ceiling, its familiar plasterwork patterns curling and twisting, yet today, they seemed distant, as though she were observing them through a stranger's eyes. There was a disquieting shift in perspective as if her mind had not quite settled back into her own body.
Sunlight filtered sleepily through the curtains, casting a thin, honeyed light across the room. The glow was soft, almost tender, bathing everything in a golden warmth. The silence in the room was intense, far too deep to be natural after the clamour of the night before. All she could hear was the distant song of birds outside the window, their melodies delicate and lilting, a jarring contrast to the tumult that swayed at the edges of her fractured memory. The storm—yes, she vaguely remembered a storm, fierce and unrelenting, but it had been swept away, leaving behind an eerie calm, a blankness where nature's tantrum had once raged.
Yet in that peace, something malevolent lingered, like a breath held too long. It was an absence too perfect, a void where the world should have been alive with noise and motion. The birdsong seemed too sweet, too pristine, and in their harmony was a murmur of something darker—of words unsaid, of moments unremembered. The room held its breath, and in the corners of her mind, shapes began to stir, shadowy fragments of dreams that refused to fade. Something was missing, something vital, yet she could not grasp it, could not even name it. The calm felt wrong, like a mask worn over something far more ominous.
Her body felt leaden, as though some unseen force pinned her to the bed. Each muscle ached with a dull, persistent throb, as though she had been dragged through some unspeakable ordeal. The pain was not sharp but deep, a weariness that reached into the marrow of her bones, as if the very essence of her had been wrung dry. She blinked, trying to make sense of it all. Flashes of something—dark water, a cold so intense it pierced the skin—danced at the edges of her mind, but they were fleeting, dissolving like shadows at dawn. She could not piece them together, and it left her hollow, adrift.
A faint rustle beside her stirred her from the haze. With great effort, she turned her head, her neck protesting the movement as though it had forgotten how to bend. Her gaze fell upon Jane. Her dear sister sat close, perched on the edge of the chair as if she had not left it in hours, perhaps days. Jane's hands were clasped tightly in her lap, the knuckles white, her fingers interlaced in a grip so tense it seemed to be all that held her together. Her face, usually so serene, was pale and drawn, her features drawn with worry. The skin beneath her eyes was swollen, her cheeks streaked with the traces of tears long dried.
The moment Jane saw her stir, her breath hitched audibly, her hand flying to her mouth in shock, as though she could scarcely believe what her eyes beheld. In the next instant, Jane was at her side, leaning forward and wrapping Elizabeth in a fierce, desperate embrace, her arms encircling her sister with a strength that belied her fragile appearance.
"Oh, sister," Jane whispered, her voice broken and trembling with the weight of her emotion. "My dearest, darling sister. You are awake. Thank God, you are awake."
Elizabeth's body, still sluggish and uncooperative, responded as best it could. She lifted her arms weakly, returning the embrace with a tentative, almost dreamlike motion, as though testing the solidity of the world around her. She rested her head against Jane's shoulder, the familiar scent of lavender from her sister's dress wrapping around her like a comforting memory. And yet, even in this closeness, there was a lingering disorientation, a sense of something amiss.
Elizabeth glanced around her once more. The room was familiar—the drapes, the furniture, the soft oak that framed the windows—but it did not feel like her own. There was an unfamiliarity to the space that set her heart pounding, though she could not say why. Fragments of repressed memories swim around her subconscious. There had been a storm—she was certain of that. The howling wind, the rain lashing against her skin, and the dark, swirling river. Yes, the river.
And then—Darcy!
The name sent a shock through her, her heart tightening painfully. A flood of fragmented memories rushed back, filling her with a sudden, bone-deep panic. The storm. The darkness. The water, cold and unforgiving, devouring her whole. But more than that, she remembered a voice calling her name—his voice. Darcy. The thought of him hit her like a physical blow, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.
"Where's Darcy?" she rasped, her voice raw and unused, yet urgent, almost pleading. She turned to Jane, her chest tightening with fear. "Where is he?"
Jane froze, as if the air around her had turned to stone. Her arms, still wrapped loosely around Elizabeth, went rigid. The silence that followed was unbearable, stretching into a suffocating eternity. She did not move, her body unnaturally still, except for her hands, which trembled as if trying and failing to hold onto control. Her regard fell to the floor, avoiding Elizabeth's at all costs. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged—only a breath that hitched in her throat. Silent tears brimmed in her eyes, spilling down her already tear-streaked cheeks in helpless, endless rivulets.
"Oh, Lizzy," Jane whispered, her voice breaking under the immensity of those two small words. There was no comfort in them, only sorrow—deep, crushing sorrow.
A cold dread settled in Elizabeth's chest, spreading like ice through her veins. She felt it now—the absence, the emptiness in the air. Darcy was not there. The realisation hit her with a force that made her stomach lurch. Her mind, still clouded by the remnants of sleep and the disjointed fragments of memory, grasped for understanding, but all it found was fear. A fear that tightened around her heart like a vice, constricting her breath.
"Jane...," Elizabeth said, sitting up abruptly, her strength replenished by her terror. "Where is he? Where is my husband?"