Chapter Twelve
Blow winds, and crack your cheeks!
Elizabeth awoke with a violent start, her breath snatched from her chest as if an icy hand had clasped her throat. She sat up, her breath shallow and fast, the stillness of the room in comparison to the chaos outside setting her nerves trembling. A feral gust of wind of wind, sharp and insistent, swirled down the chimney, extinguishing what few candles had remained alight. The small drawing room was plunged into an overpowering darkness yet again, heavy and unnatural, as though the very shadows pressed upon her skin. The hearth lay cold and desolate, its formerly warm embers reduced to pale ash, as though the life had been sucked from the room itself and outside the wind groaned, carrying with it the distant howl of something far worse than the weather.
Beside her, Darcy lay, his sleep anything but peaceful. His brow was furrowed in restless distress, the hand that rested on the arm of the chair twitching, fingers curling as though fighting some imaginary marauder in his dreams. Elizabeth's pulse quickened; the silence was not normal. It was alive—pregnant with foreboding.
She rose slowly, every rustle of her gown unnaturally loud in the deafening hush. The air felt wrong—charged with something unseen but keenly felt, as if a presence lingered just out of sight, waiting. Elizabeth swallowed hard, her mouth dry, her gaze flickering uneasily to the tall windows that stretched out like blackened voids on the far side of the room.
"Fitzwilliam," she whispered, her voice croaking from thirst.
Darcy stirred, his groan soft, as though caught in a nightmare he could not shake. His eyes opened slowly, bleary, unfocused. He blinked, disoriented, then looked to her, confusion darkening his gaze.
"Elizabeth?" His voice was hoarse, hollow, as though it, too, had been touched by the strange malevolence that seemed to seep through the air. "What hour is this?"
"I know not," she murmured, glancing towards the cold, lifeless hearth. "But just when we thought the storm inside was calming, look," she said, pointing to the window, "the tempest outside grows worse."
Darcy sat up, rubbing his hand over his face as if to dispel the vestiges of the troubled sleep that clung to him. His gaze scanned the room, and for a fleeting moment, there was only the silence between them, thick and smothering. They were both horridly tired. They needed to eat, to drink, to sleep. They needed to rest for hours, if not days, and then come into the light of a fresh morning, a sane morning, and reevaluate everything. But as yet, night was still upon them, refusing to dissipate and give them respite.
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may say
The gods themselves do weep!
Then Darcy froze, his expression changing in an instant, his eyes widening with the unmistakable sheen of fear.
"Francis," he whispered, the name falling from his lips like a curse.
Elizabeth's heart lurched. She followed his gaze, and there, where Francis had been reclining only hours before, was nothing. The chair stood empty. The blanket that had covered his legs lay discarded on the floor, crumpled and carelessly thrown aside. The door to the drawing room was ajar, a thin, wicked draught of air curling through the gap, making the curtains stir like pale ghosts in the dimness.
"Where is he?" Her voice broke the silence, but there was no comfort in it, only the sharp edge of dread.
Darcy rose swiftly, his face blanched of all colour as he strode towards the door. His hand hesitated on the edge of the wood, trembling, before he pushed it open fully, the hinges groaning in protest. The corridor beyond yawned before them, an empty maw of shadow and cold.
"He has gone," he said grimly. "He must have slipped away while we slept."
Elizabeth's legs felt weak beneath her, but she moved towards him, her pulse thudding in her ears. "Could he have gone back to his own room? Or another part of the wing?"
"No," Darcy said unequivocally, seeing that the large door at the end of the corridor leading to the stairs which made their way down to the main house was also open.
"But why? Where could he have gone, Fitzwilliam? To find someone? To find food? To explore the house?" And yet, as she said the words, she knew them to be full of false hope. "And in such weather? Surely he—"
Darcy's gaze was hard, but beneath the surface, Elizabeth could see the fear simmering in his eyes. "I do not know. I do not know what drove him to such folly." But then, he did something unexpected. He took his wife's hand and clasped it tight. "Do not worry, love. I will see that he is alright. I will see that all is well, that we are all well," he promised, and Elizabeth felt her heart stir. Dear Darcy, always thinking of others before himself.
Outside, a sudden, sharp thud echoed through the house. Both of them turned towards the window. The wind had risen once more, fierce and ferocious, shaking the panes with renewed fervour. The branches of the trees, now twisted and blackened in the night's gloom, scraped against the glass, their skeletal fingers clawing at the house as though trying to find their way in.
Elizabeth moved closer to the window, her heart racing wildly now. Beyond the glass, the grounds of Pemberley lay shrouded in darkness, but the landscape itself appeared altered. The mist clung to the earth like a second skin, crawling over the fields, suffocating the very air with its presence. Everything beyond the house felt wild, untamed—as though some force had taken hold, warping the familiar world into something far more sinister.
Darcy stood beside her, his breath shallow. "The storm is out to taunt us, to test us," he said, his voice low, barely audible over the wind's howl. "I fear something beyond nature stirs this night."
"It is like something Biblical," she whispered. "Or something from Shakespeare. A reckoning," she mused quietly.
"What are we to do?" Her voice trembled, though she tried to steady it.
Darcy's jaw clenched, his knuckles white as his fists tightened at his sides. "We must find him." His words were clipped, laden with an urgency that broke through the paralysis of the moment. He strode towards the door with a sudden resolve, as though waking from a dream of helplessness, each step swift, purposeful. "Whatever madness has seized him, we cannot abandon him to it. He is... not himself. If he's roaming the grounds—"
Elizabeth followed without hesitation, her mind staggering as her steps did.
But there was no time. No choice.
Quickly, they made their way through the house. When they reached the door, another explosion of wind crashed against the windows, and with it came a sound. It was faint at first, scarcely more than a murmur, but it ripped through the air like a thread of malice. A low, mournful cry—distorted, distant, yet unmistakably human—drifted on the wind.
Elizabeth froze.
Darcy's hand, poised on the doorframe, stilled. His face drained of colour as the sound came again—louder this time, and closer. It was a cry of anguish, of despair.
"Francis..." Darcy breathed, his voice echoing with dread. "He is in danger."
The night outside Pemberley was a pestilence of bedlam, the kind of storm that seemed to bleed from nightmares. Neither of them had ever witnessed anything like it before. The wind howled like a thousand unholy voices, tearing at the walls of the great house, shaking its sturdy frame as though seeking to pull it apart, brick by brick. Lightning split the sky with a vicious crack, flooding the grounds with an eerie, white light that rendered every tree, every stone, a spectral silhouette for the briefest of moments before plunging the world back into doomed blackness.
Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! Spout, rain!
The rain fell in relentless torrents, so thick and savage it felt like a punishment from above. It hammered against the windows with desperate, frantic urgency, as if warning all within that to venture outside would be to step into the jaws of some ravenous beast. The thunder that followed was no mere rumble—it was a roar, shaking the earth beneath their feet, the kind of sound that one might imagine heralding the end of all things. It was as if the rapture were upon them, when the heavens themselves would rage against the earth, and God would send his floods to consume them all, like he with Noah, and soon, it seemed the plagues would come in the time of Moses, one by one, to devastate them all.
I have seen tempests when the scolding winds
Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen
Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam
To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds;
But never till tonight, never till now,
Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.
Either there is a civil strife in heaven,
Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,
Incenses them to send destruction.
Within the relative safety of the house, Darcy stood by the door, lurching forward, on the brink of braving the madness.
"Elizabeth," Darcy began, his voice raw with urgency, more earnest than she had ever heard it. "You must remain here. To step outside in this storm is nothing short of madness." His gaze, dark and piercing, locked onto hers, and in those storm-tossed eyes, she saw something that twisted her heart—a terror he could barely contain, the kind of fear that strikes at the soul.
But Elizabeth, though a tremor of fear coursed through her, stood resolute. Her chin lifted in that unmistakable defiance, her resolve burning as fiercely as the tempest that raged beyond the walls.
"And you would have me stay?" she demanded, her voice unsteady, not from fear, but from the force of her determination. "You expect me to wait idly while you face whatever horrors may lie beyond? To stay behind, knowing what dangers may befall you?" Her hand found his, trembling but firm, her fingers weaving through his with quiet, unshakable strength. The touch of her ring—a promise, a bond—pressed against his skin. "No, I will not remain here. Not while you face this alone. We shall meet this terror together."
Darcy's breath caught, his lips parting to protest, to insist she heed reason, but the words withered on his tongue. In her eyes blazed a truth he could not deny—a fire so fierce it rivalled the storm itself. This was no woman who would cower in safety, no mere onlooker to be left behind. She was a force as dauntless as the wild night that beat against the house, her will unbreakable, her spirit unquenchable.
For a breathless moment, they stood on the edge of the unknown, the wind howling around them as if the world itself had gone mad. Every instinct within him screamed to protect her, to shield her from the darkness that lay in wait, but deep down he knew—no argument, no plea would sway her now. She was as bound to this as he was.
With a low, bitter sigh of resignation, he tightened his grip on her hand, pulling her closer, his forehead creased with both fear and reluctant acceptance. "Very well," he said, his voice stoked with dread. "But know this, Elizabeth—there is no turning back. Once we step into that storm, whatever fate awaits us, we face it together."
She reached up, drawing his head close until their foreheads nearly touched, her fingers threading through his hair with a tenderness that defied the storm inside her. "As it should be," she murmured, her voice steady, unwavering. "Together, forever, you and me."
He brushed his lips against hers. "Together forever, Mr and Mrs Darcy."
"I stay with you," Elizabeth repeated, her fingers curling around his. "This is our family now, yours and mine, and whatever storms we face, we face them together."
Outside, the sky wept and screamed in its frenzy, its deafening crescendo mirroring the wild, pounding rhythm of their hearts. There was the grim knowledge that, if they became lost out there, if the night claimed them, if they froze from hypothermia, or fell into a hidden trench and broke their necks, they might not live to see the dawn. And yet, even with that terrible truth hanging over them, there was no hesitation, no chance of retreat. They were bound to the path before them, and turning back was no longer possible. Not now.
"Very well," he conceded, at last, a faint smile on his lips. Taking off his now dry coat, he tightened it around her shoulders, as if they were adorning armour, bracing themselves for battle. His voice dropped to a low, grave tone. "But you must stay close to me."
Elizabeth nodded, and without another word, they plunged into the storm.
The moment they crossed the threshold, it was as if the night itself had swallowed them whole. The wind struck them with brutal force. The rain, cold as death, whipped against their faces, each drop a stinging blow. It was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead—the world beyond was a spinning, shapeless mass of black, punctuated by flashes of lightning that revealed a distorted landscape.
Blow winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout.
The ground beneath their feet had become a treacherous quagmire, each step a labour of limbs as the mud clung to their boots, pulling at them with a relentless, almost malicious force. What had once been the serene, stately grounds of Pemberley, where the Darcy twins had played as boys and Elizabeth had found a paradise of calm, now seemed transformed into something hostile and unforgiving. Every tree, every familiar path, now loomed with menace in the flickering shadows of the storm.
Elizabeth's grip on Darcy's arm tightened, her fingers digging into his sleeve as her pulse thundered in her ears. The cold wind whipped around them, fierce and unyielding, tearing at their cloaks as though it sought to wrench them apart and hurl them into the churning abyss of night. The once-beautiful estate had become an alien landscape, where even the air felt charged with threat, each gust of wind howling like some unseen predator stalking them in the dark.
"Where could he have gone?" she cried, her voice almost lost in the wind's terrible howl.
Darcy hesitated. His face, briefly lit by another flashing fork of light, was pale, his brow drawn tight with worry. And then, a memory rose—cold, unbidden, and steeped in dread. "The boathouse," he said, his voice low, barely audible over the wind. "Remember I told you? Years ago, there was an accident... Francis nearly drowned."
The words hung in the air, chilling her more than the storm could.
"Should one of us go back and fetch help?" Elizabeth suggested.
Darcy turned, but he could hardly see the house, and the wind pressed him on, propelling him forward towards the river.
"It is too late," he said, "If we do not go now, it could be too late."
Without further exchange, they pressed on, each step a struggle, the ground slipping beneath them. The river could be heard now, its roar unmistakable, growing louder and more menacing with each passing moment. Its waters, swollen with the relentless rain, churned with unnatural violence, as if enraged. Elizabeth's heart lurched at the sound, her mind racing with dread. Somewhere out there, in the midst of this chaos, Francis was lost.
At last, the crooked outline of the boathouse loomed before them, a dark outline against the agitated sky. The structure creaked and groaned, the storm battering it mercilessly, and the river beside it had risen perilously high, its once calm surface now a frothing, wild torrent.
Darcy reached the door first, flinging it open with a force that sent it crashing against the wall. Inside, the dim light revealed a figure huddled in the far corner. Francis.
He was pale as a ghost, his eyes wide and vacant, trembling uncontrollably. His clothes hung drenched upon his thin frame, clinging to his skin as if the very fabric had surrendered to the storm. His lips moved soundlessly, as though he was praying for deliverance.
"Francis!" Darcy's voice cut through the storm, firm and commanding. "We must leave—now. You cannot stay here."
But Francis only stared at him, his gaze hollow, as if Darcy and Elizabeth were spectres from some distant world.
"Please, brother," Darcy cried out.
Elizabeth reached out a hand. "Come with us. Come home!"
Rising to his feet, Francis moved towards them, but then a sudden cry escaped his lips, and in his terror, he stumbled backwards. His foot slipped on the slick floorboards, and in an instant, he was tumbling out of the boathouse—straight into the swollen river.
"Francis!" Darcy bellowed, leaping after him.
The river, a beast now untamed, seized Francis with monstrous glee, dragging him under its roiling surface. Within seconds, Darcy had dived into the freezing waters after him, his strong arms slicing through the current as he fought against the river's powerful wrench.
Elizabeth stood transfixed at the water's brink, paralysed by dread. The storm raged around her, tearing through the branches, but all sound seemed distant, drowned out by the deafening roar of the river. It surged forward, relentless, like a leviathan awakened from its depths, intent on devouring all in its path. Her breath caught, shallow and uneven, her chest tight as fear gripped her. Her gaze never wavered from Darcy. He was locked in a life-or-death struggle with the merciless current, each motion a wrestle between man and the elements as the river threatened to yank him under, its rising waters biting hungrily at his feet.
The river frothed and boiled, spitting up cold, stinging mist that lashed at her face, but Elizabeth barely registered it. Every thought, every sense was consumed by Darcy's fight against the river's treacherous pull. His figure, dark and blurred by the spray, moved desperately, his arms straining as he reached out for his brother, Francis, who floated limply in the eddying flood, a fragile form drifting in the torrent's grip. The seconds stretched agonisingly, each one a brutal weight pressing down on her, her fingers curling into tight fists, nails digging sharply into her skin as she silently begged him to hold on.
Then, with a final, lunging reach that seemed to tear the breath from her, Darcy's hand caught Francis's arm. A choked gasp of relief tore from her throat, yet it was edged with terror. She watched as Darcy, chest heaving, pulled his brother's lifeless form to the riverbank. They were safe—for the moment. Their bodies lay battered and soaked, but alive. A fleeting surge of hope flickered in Elizabeth's chest, only to be snuffed out as quickly as it had appeared.
Darcy collapsed to the ground, spent, and in that same instant, a sound rent the air—a sharp, ominous crack, like the earth itself was splitting open. Elizabeth's heart leapt into her throat as she saw the ground beneath him begin to give way, the saturated earth sliding dangerously. For a moment, it seemed time itself faltered. Darcy hovered on the precipice, suspended between life and death—then, with a sickening lurch, he plunged backwards. His body slammed into the jagged rocks, his head striking with a dull, bone-chilling thud before he disappeared into the roaring flood once more.
"Darcy!" Elizabeth's scream ripped through the night, full of anguish, but it was lost in the storm's fury, the wind and rain devouring her cry. Her heart shattered in that instant as if the very life had been torn from her. She stood there, momentarily paralysed, watching helplessly as the river swallowed him whole, the swirling water now a cruel, unforgiving abyss.
In the next heartbeat, without a second's hesitation, she jumped in. The shock of the cold was like a blade, cutting through her skin, her limbs seized by the icy water as she fought against the river's grip. The splashing walls of agitated water slammed into her with brutal force, pulling at her with a malevolence that threatened to sweep her off her feet. Her skirts tangled around her legs, waterlogged and heavy, dragging her down. But she fought on, each step a struggle against the crushing pull of the current. The river seemed alive, writhing and wriggling, tugging her further from the shore with each staggering movement.
I must reach him. The thought blazed in her mind, the lone light guiding her through the tempest of fear that raged around her. Darcy's name hovered on her lips, a desperate prayer, while her heart pounded frantically against her ribs. The freezing water clutched at her, leeching the strength from her limbs, leaving her body numb and heavy. But still, she fought on, the cold biting deep into her, gnawing at her bones, yet she refused to surrender, forcing herself forward, step by agonising step.
Through the darkness, a flash of movement—Darcy's head broke the surface for a fleeting moment. His face was a mask of pain, his eyes wide with desperation. "Elizabeth..." His voice was a rasp, barely audible above the roar of the river. "Get out... save yourself."
Her heart clenched at the sound of his voice, torn between his plea and her own desperate resolve. "I will not leave you!" she shouted, her voice bursting with emotion, cracking under the weight of her terror and love. The swell surged again, nearly knocking her from her feet, water rising higher, filling her mouth and choking her. She spat it out, gasping for air, but her resolve only grew fiercer.
"You must!" Darcy's voice faltered, the strength of his words fading as the water closed in around him, dragging him under once again.
"No!" Her voice was raw, her throat burning with the effort as the river tried to silence her. "I love you, and I will never leave you!" The words tumbled from her in a defiant cry, her hands stretching out toward him, fingers trembling in the freezing water. She could see him slipping away, and yet she could not—would not—let him go.
The river bellowed around them, its fury unyielding, but Elizabeth's will was unbreakable. She knew now how she felt. She loved her husband. She loved him with all her heart and soul because of the matchless beauty and bravery of his own heart and soul. He was the most wonderful man who had ever lived, and even if he had hidden the truth from her, she knew he had done it with the best of intentions. She longed to spend the rest of her days by his side, whether their time together was long or painfully brief, for without him, life held no meaning.
Her hands found his, clinging desperately as the river surged around them with a ferocious, icy force, its dark, frigid embrace tugging at them both, pulling them deeper into the unforgiving current. The cold was unbearable, biting into her skin like a thousand needles, numbing her limbs, but still she held on, summoning every shred of her will to keep her grip on him. They tried to move, but their feet were trapped between jagged rocks, held fast by the merciless riverbed, as though nature itself had conspired to drag them into the abyss.
Elizabeth's frantic gaze swept the riverbank, her heart hammering in her chest, her breaths shallow and laboured. Through the sheets of rain and the howling wind, she caught a fleeting glimpse of Francis—a shadowy figure, slipping further away into the chaos. His form blurred and distorted in the storm's fury, until at last, he was swallowed by the night, vanishing completely from sight. She longed to call out, to scream his name into the tempest, but the words died in her throat. She was too cold, too exhausted, and beneath that physical frailty, a terrible realisation gripped her: she did not want her husband's final thought to be one of failure. A silent, crushing truth passed through her like a death knell—they would never see Francis again.
The river's grip tightened, the swirling waters roaring louder, tugging them further into its depths, the current a monstrous force that sought to consume them whole. And then, in the midst of the storm's brutality, their eyes met—Darcy's fierce, unwavering gaze locking with hers. For a moment, the world around them seemed to still, the thunder and wind fading into distant echoes. In that fleeting, fragile heartbeat, all the chaos and terror dissolved, leaving only the two of them—bound by love so powerful, so raw, that no storm, no river, no force on earth could diminish it.
No words were exchanged, for none were needed. Words would have been utterly inadequate, pale shadows of the truth that lay between them. No poet, no grand profession of the heart could capture the depth of what they felt in that instant—a love forged through trials and bound by eternity. Her hand trembled in his, and in the silent fury of the storm, a final, unspoken farewell passed between them.
How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale?
How chance the roses there do fade so fast?
Darcy's cold, trembling hand reached up to her cheek, his touch a bittersweet comfort, and then, with a tenderness that belied the violence around them, his lips met hers. It was a kiss filled with all the urgency of the doomed, a final, stolen moment before the river claimed them. For a brief, breathless instant, they were together, suspended in the storm's wrath, their love defying the cruel currents. And then, like the breaking of a spell, the ravenous waters surged over them, engulfing them in a merciless embrace. Holding each other close, they closed their eyes, exhaustion taking over them.
Together, they were hauled away, swallowed by the river's relentless torrent, their bodies lost to the churning depths, carried far into the shadows of oblivion. The world above raged on, but they were gone—two souls bound by love now swept into the cold, dark unknown. After everything they had gone through, all their misunderstanding and mistakes, all their pride and prejudice, they had finally been united in life for a tragically short time, but the question was: would they be united in death?
Before anyone gets cross and shouts at me - they don't die.
Thanks again for your kind and thoughtful comments so far, they are appreciated. For those who leave rude comments, I recommend a cosy bath and candles to relax.
Happy weekend, all! :)