Chapter
12
Darcy was donning his cape and
gloves from the butler when the he heard the housekeeper calling his name. In a
very agitated manner, the old woman told him what she had heard from the maid.
“In Miss de Bourgh’s rooms? Are you certain?”
“Aye, sir,
that is what she said.”
The cape fell behind him as Darcy
sprinted towards the main staircase. If Collins was his aunt’s murderer
and for some particular reason he was after Ann, his young cousin was now at
the mercy of this killer.
As he approached the landing, he
perceived an unusual smell in the air. Smoke. Not the
pleasant, woody scent of a hearth being started, it was much richer and
heavier, similar to the one he smelt years ago, when Pemberley’s
barn burned down to ashes. He looked up the staircase and even through the
growing darkness he could discern the thin cloud of smoke advancing over the
gallery.
“For heaven’s
sake,” he cried, “Fire!”
A moment of complete chaos followed,
were servants ran through corridors shouting instructions to other servants
that were too confused to know what to do. Darcy took the lead in organizing
the household and ordered the men to bring buckets with water and wet blankets
to put the fire out. All those who were not devoted to the task of
extinguishing the fire should leave the manor immediately.
“Ferguson!” Darcy told his manservant
when he met him in the corridor. “Do you know if Miss de Bourgh is still upstairs?”
“I believe she is, sir.”
“Take the ladies out of the
house, to a safe place.” Darcy ordered as he climbed the stairs. “They
are in the west sitting room. I will go to the upper rooms to see that there is
no one there.”
Though Darcy could not see flames
once he reached the gallery, the smoke was growing thicker towards the eastern
wing and apparently it was coming from his cousin’s rooms. He tried to
open Ann’s door, and finding it locked from the inside, he banged it
forcefully with his fist.
“Ann? Are you there?” He
insisted. “Ann!”
There was no answer. He tried the
door to her dressing room, but it was also locked, leaving him with no other
choice but to attempt to heave it down with the weight of his body. It was for
naught. The door was made of solid oak, thick and heavy like the door of a
prison and if he insisted on this, he would end up with a broken shoulder.
“Damn Rosings
and its eternal walls,” he muttered while grabbing the spear from an armour that stood in the corridor. He introduced in
between the door and the frame with the hope of breaking the lock and, using it
as a crowbar, he succeeding in pushing the door open. The heat instantly
reached him and cloud of smoke blinded him. The room was hell.
“Fire?”
Mrs. Collins asked in shock.
“Yes, madam,” said the
manservant. “Mr. Darcy requested that I escort you and the other ladies to a safer
place until the fire is put off. Please accompany me.”
“Mr. Darcy?” cried Elizabeth. “Where
is he?”
“He is upstairs. I believe he
went for Miss de Bourgh.” Ferguson replied as he urged the ladies out
of the room, “Pray, madam, we must leave the house as soon as may
be.”
Once in the corridor, Elizabeth could discern
the smoke advancing over the stairs. “We cannot leave him here, someone
must help him!”
Ferguson was firm in his resolve to make
them leave the house. “Do not worry, Miss, he is well. We must go.”
They stopped at the cloak room,
where they gathered several coats to protect themselves from the colder weather
and hurried towards the front gardens where they stood, at a loss of where to
go or what to do. Should they leave for Hunsford and
wait in the comfort of the parsonage while Rosings
burned? Should they stay and help those who were trying to stop the fire? There
they remained, staring at the house with apprehensive eyes, knowing that there
was nothing else they could do but pray for those who were still inside.
“Ann!”
“Help me!”
On hearing the faint voice of his
cousin’s cry, Darcy narrowed his eyes as he tried to detect her figure
through the fire that had taken over the room. He finally saw her, standing in
the other end of the bedroom, standing against the vanity, staring horrified at
the flames surrounding her.
“Do not move, Ann,” he
shouted, “I am coming for you.”
“William!”
The scene in front of him was
terrifying. The tapestry, the curtains, the furniture, the entire room was in
flames. The fire was now climbing up to the ceiling and Ann’s bed burned
like a giant torch. The smoke was so dense that he could barely see through it
and the air was becoming almost impossible to breathe. Avoiding the burning
spots, he cautiously walked the way to his cousin and upon reaching her, he
found her paralysed in with fear and shock.
“Ann,” Darcy grabbed her
by the arm. “we must go, come with me.”
But Miss de Bourgh
did not move. With wide eyes, she lifted her arm and pointed at something lying
on the floor a few steps away from her.
“He tried to kill me,”
she said with a shaky voice. “He killed my mother and now he wants to
kill me.”
Confused, Darcy looked at the
direction in which her finger was pointing and saw the body of the Mr. Collins
laying on the floor.
“Collins!” he cried and
walked towards the parson to see if he was still alive. “Ann, what
happened?”
“He came into my rooms …
he said I had to die,” sobbed Ann. “He put his hands around my
neck, he was choking me … I hit him with the oil lamp. Then the fire
started and I …”
Darcy saw that his cousin was
trembling and went to comfort her. Collins was unconscious and he would have to
rescue him too but first he needed to take Ann to a safer place.
He looked around, contemplating his
escape routes and with dismay he realized that the door through which he had
entered was now blocked by the flames. His options were reduced to only two
exits, none of them entirely satisfactory to him: through the balcony or
through Ann’s dressing room, which he could only reach if he ran over a
carpet of fire. He chose the first one, hoping that he could re-enter the house
through a neighbouring room.
With a chair, Darcy broke the glass
and stepped outside to study the territory. As he had thought, the balcony
extended toward the adjoining chambers, but the railings had a yard separation
in between and though he knew he would have no trouble jumping it, he doubted
that Ann would be able to surpass the wide severance. He returned to the room with the hope that
his other exit was still viable.
“This way, Ann,” he
grabbed his cousin by the arm.
Miss de Bourgh
stared petrified at the carpet of fire in front of her, making no attempt to
move. The flames, fuelled by the wind coming through the broken window, were
now roaring with renewed intensity, making their escape almost impossible.
“We must leave now!
Ann!” On seeing that she was not reacting, Darcy had no choice but to
lift her and throw her body over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
Though the additional weight was
making his escape much slower, he finally reached the door, and after
struggling with the lock for a moment, he crossed the dressing room and walked
towards the gallery, which, to his despair, was now being caught by the flames
too. He deposited Ann on the floor and they both ran down the stairs.
“Get out of the house!”
said Darcy on reaching the front door. “Stay with the others, find
shelter in a safe place.”
“Where are you going?”
Ann noticed that he was going back inside.
“I must save Mr.
Collins.”
“Leave him! He is a
murderer!” she shouted, “William!” But her cousin was already
gone.
Once outside the house, Miss de Bourgh stood with the others to contemplate her burning
home.
Darcy climbed the stairs and joined
the line of servants that were trying to detain the fire with wet blankets and
water. Though Rosings was built of stone, this
particular part of the manor had been remodelled several years ago, decorated
with the latest French fashions, covered with ornamental fabrics, tapestry and
rugs, therefore making it much easier to burn. The fire was climbing up the
walls and the thick rafters that supported the ceiling were caught by the
flames. It was just a matter of time until the entire wing would fall under its
own weight.
“Everyone must get out of
here!” Darcy told the butler, who was coordinating the servants’
actions. “We cannot stop this wing from burning but at least we can
prevent the fire from taking over the rest of the house. I will go for Mr. Collins.
This is my last chance to find him alive.”
“Do I remove the mistress from
her chambers?”
Darcy had been too preoccupied with
the latest events to recall that his aunt’s dead body was still in the
house. Her rooms were surely burning and he saw no point in risking the
servants’ lives on such an ungrateful and pointless task. “No, let
her be. There is nothing we can do for her now.”
The butler assented and handed him a
wet blanket which Darcy threw over his back before
heading to Ann’s dressing room, hoping that that route was still safe to
use. The dense smoke immediately made him cough and pressing the wet cloth over
his nose and mouth he carefully walked the burning path towards Ann’s
bedroom. The parson was still on the floor and the flames were getting
dangerously close to him.
“Mr. Collins!” Darcy
tried to wake him up. The parson moaned and slowly regained consciousness. “Collins!”
Collins slowly opened his eyes,
apparently unaware of the inferno burning around him. After a moment, though, he
recognized the danger surrounding him and clutched Darcy’s arm in fear.
Darcy helped him up and together
they headed towards the door to the dressing room. But before they could cross
the threshold, the masonry over the door collapsed, forcing them to reconsider
the way. It looked as if hell had come up to the world to claim its ownership
over Rosings. Off they ran to the terrace, with the
hope that they could re-enter the house through an adjoining room. When they
reached the stone railing, Darcy told Collins his strategy to escape the fire.
“Tis
an impossible jump!” the parson looked down at the precipice below them. He
turned to Darcy and cried in an accusatory voice. “She sent you to get
rid of me!”
“What?” asked a confused
Darcy.
“She is the devil!”
Collins stepped back. “Her mother’s evils have possessed her. She
must be detained!”
“Ann?” Darcy walked
towards Collins. “That is why you killed my aunt, that
is why you tried to kill her?”
“No!” With a terrified
look in his eyes, he walked further back, and back, until his legs touched the
stone railing. “You must understand! She is the devil! She must be
stopped!”
At that moment, they heard the loud
noise of stone collapsing. Darcy looked at the house and saw the roof of
Ann’s bedchamber crumbling in a cloud of dust. They had no more time
left. “We must leave now, before it is too late.”
But the parson was blinded with
fear. In his struggle to avoid the gentleman’s hold, he had pressed his
body against the railing. Some of the lose stones gave in to his weight, making
him lose his step and fall back into the abyss.
“Collins!”
Darcy leaned over the balcony to see if the parson had fallen down the
cliff. He saw him a few feet bellow, hanging precariously from some rocks. Without
an instant to lose, Darcy lay on the floor and tried to reach him. “Give
me your hand!”
There was not time for doubts. If
Collins once thought that Darcy was there to harm him, the hand he was offering
him was his only chance to escape from a sure death. Knowing he would not be able to hold onto the slippery
rock much longer and without a firm footage on which he could support himself,
the parson balanced his body and stretched his hand to reach Darcy’s. His
first attempt failed.
“Take my hand!” ordered
Darcy. “Now!”
His second attempt was
successful. They both held tightly, but
the moistness of their hands, the blood of their cuts, the exhaustion played
against them and the parson’s hold quickly lost strength as his hand
slipped from Darcy’s fingers.
“Hold on!” cried Darcy
on seeing he was losing him, “I’ll lift you!”
Darcy tried, he really tried, but as he pulled
up, Collins’ hold weakened and his own fingers stretched as they became
the parson’s only support. Collins’ hand slipped further down, and
down, until only their fingertips where touching. Suddenly, the pressure was
gone and all the effort was for naught. The parson fell down the cliff, his
body bouncing grotesquely against the stone until it was swallowed by the dark
waters of Rosings
Island.
Sick of so much death and destruction, Darcy rolled onto his back and fought
the wave of nausea that overcame him. He was so tired. He wanted to lay down and sleep, rest for the first time in days. But he
knew he could not stay there forever. He still had his own life to fight for.