Chapter 13
… 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 lie
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.
The image of Rosings Manor from the
distance was intimidating. The house had never presented a welcoming sight but
tonight, with dozens of yellow spots appearing through the dark stone, it resembled
a diabolic vision created in hell. The skies around the towers were grey and
turbulent, the wind, unmerciful, fuelled the flames and spread the smoke beyond
the island’s shores, announcing to the world its victory over the once
invincible fortress. Rosings manor, built to stand forever, was about to fall.
Outside, a small crowd observed how
the house burned with the helplessness of those who had nowhere else to go. Half
of the manor was in flames and the other half was possessed by servants who,
like rapacious creatures, ran about the halls trying to rescue from the
fire -many of them, perhaps, for their
own benefit- what could still be saved.
For Elizabeth, who had no attachment
to Rosings and to those who resided in it, the experience was not less
anguishing. She may not have a husband inside the house like Charlotte, neither
was she about to lose her home like Miss de Bourgh, but her heart ached in
preoccupation for those who were still inside and, in particular, for a certain
gentleman who had returned to the house to save those who were still trapped. Oh,
how she would have liked to speak to him before he was gone! How she would have
liked to tell him how much she cared for him, wish him God speed before he
embarked on such a dangerous task! But fate had been against her almost since
she arrived on the island and Elizabeth
could not expect things to come out right this time.
“I should do something to help.”
Ann’s voice interrupted Elizabeth’s
thoughts, “My house is burning.”
“The servants are doing all
they can to stop the fire from spreading to the rest of the manor, miss,”
said the housekeeper who was standing closer to her. “Rosings’
invaluable treasures will be preserved.”
Ann assented quietly and allowed the
elderly woman to hold her as she continued with her helpless observation of the
house. Several servants appeared at the front door, most of them carrying
objects and clothing they had saved from the part of the house that was not in
flames. Charlotte, who had been a quiet witness all the time, inquired after
her husband.
“Have you seen Mr.
Collins?”
The footman looked at her, confused.
“The parson,” she
explained, “Mr. Collins.”
The man shook his head and returned
to the interior to help those who were busy with the same task.
“He is inside,” Ann
replied. “My cousin went for him.”
The two ladies looked at each other
and averted their eyes quickly; both troubled by the information they beheld
against the parson. One had recently become an orphan because of him and almost
became her second victim and the other, though still unaware of it, had just
become her widow.
The sounds of hooves approaching
them made them turn around.
“Richard!” Ann ran
towards him.
Fitzwilliam jumped off his horse and
the young couple embraced. “Ann!”
“Oh, Richard, you are
back!” she sobbed.
He tried to calm her. “I saw
the fire from the ship. I had to come back.”
The couple remained embraced for a
while, whispering endearing and reassuring words to each other. A moment later,
at the colonel’s request, Ann was telling him what had happened, of Mr.
Collins’ attempt to kill her and how that had started the fire. Charlotte listened with stunned
features.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth joined them on
seeing that Ann was not directing her tale to the matter that concerned her the
most. “Mr. Darcy is still inside the house. He brought Miss de Bourgh out
safe and sound and then returned to the house to help the others.”
“He is still inside?”
said the colonel. At that precise moment, they heard the loud sound of masonry
falling. “Darcy! I must go for him.”
“No!” Ann held his arm. “Richard,
do not leave me!”
Fitzwilliam shrugged her away and
ran into the house.
Darcy sat on the stone and came face
to face with the burning house. At his back, the tallest cliff of the island
and to his sides, the most unsafe balconies he had ever stepped on. He had come
to the terrace with the hope of being able to jump from one balcony to another,
though after seeing what happened to Collins, he feared that he would suffer
the parson’s fate when he landed on the other side. Everything at Rosings
was ill kept; every piece of stone presented a risk.
At least the fire was allowing him
to see the exterior properly. The separations between balconies was not as wide
as he thought and on a closer inspection, he detected that the stones were
attached to each other with mud, creating an indent in which he could introduce
the tip of his boot. If he could find a way to hold himself to the wall, he
could climb to it and walk the severance to the other balcony instead of trying
a jump that he was not sure he would be able to overcome. It was a dangerous
walk, the adjoining room might be in flames too, but at present it was the only
option he had.
After testing its resistance, Darcy
climbed onto the railing so he could introduce his foot in the indent, barely a
few inches above. It appeared to be firm enough, not as slippery as he had
thought it would be and there were roughness in the wall to which he could hold
onto. Without looking down, he advanced slowly. His foot slipped once, but he
managed to keep his body pressed against the wall until he was stable enough to
continue. When he was close enough to the other railing to make a safe jump
into the balcony, he jumped.
That was a mistake, a big mistake. The
landing was successful, but some lose tiles made him lose his footing and fall
back. His body hit the stone railing very hard, sending the lose pillars down
the cliff. Desperate, knowing that he was about to fall, Darcy struggled to
find something firm to hold on to. He managed to grab a pillar, which he held onto
tightly while his feet kicked the air in an attempt to find some sort of
support.
He tried to pull himself up, but he
could not find the strength. Hanging over the precipice, alone and exhausted,
he was suddenly possessed by anguish and despair. Was this the end?
Fitzwilliam dashed up the stairs but
stepped aside to give room to small group of frightened servants who were
abandoning the house.
“You must leave the house, sir,”
one of them shouted. “The ceiling is about to fall.”
“Have you seen Mr.
Darcy?” The colonel grabbed the man’s sleeve.
“The last time I saw him he
was entering Miss de Bourgh’s rooms, but those have collapsed
already.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam hurried down the
gallery to confirm what the servant just told him and found that the fire on
that area was already dying because of the lack of material to burn. Yet, the
rafters were still on flames and it was only a matter of time until that part
of ceiling would fall, too.
He had to think quickly. If Darcy
was still alive, which was probable, knowing his cousin’s cautious nature
and quick mind, either he was trapped inside the room or he had tried to escape
through the service corridor or through to the terraces which, though separated
by a certain distance, were not impossible to jump.
The room next to Ann’s was his
aunt’s. It was burning so the colonel tried the following one, Sir
Lewis’ former chambers. They were smoky but the fire had not spread into
them yet so he would have no inconvenience in crossing them.
This room was a novelty to him and
he paused for a moment to inspect it. It was evident that it had been closed
since his uncle’s death, surely it was opened once or twice a year for
dusting and airing, still certain objects appeared to be in use. The small desk
against the wall was one of them, as one of the drawers was partially opened. Perhaps
his aunt, known by her twisted mind and morbid inclinations, had become a
frequent visitor of her husband’s chambers after his death when it was
known that she had not admitted him in hers while he still alive.
But there was not time to waste
investigating his late uncle’s chambers when his cousin’s life was
still danger. He went to the dressing room, to the door that connected to the
servant’s corridor and upon opening it, he called his cousin’s name.
There was no reply save for the echo of his own voice and the sounds of the
burning wood. He returned to the bedroom and headed towards the balcony.
He reached the terrace the moment
Darcy landed from his unfortunate jump. Fitzwilliam saw him lose balance and fall
back and heard his cries as his body hit the stone. Part of the balcony yielded
with the impact and the colonel became the quiet witness of his cousin’s
struggle to find something to hold onto.
Fitzwilliam did not move. Thoughts
raced through his head with imagines of what would happen if Darcy did not
survive.
Darcy did not know how much longer
he would be able to hold on. His arms were aching, his hands were bleeding and
he was losing strength with every breath he took. But seeing his death so
close, he could not give in to the idea that this was the end. Not like this,
not at Rosings, not this day. What would become of his sister? Of his estate
and all those who depended on him? He thought of the charming Miss Bennet, of
his plans for courting her, of the family he would like to raise. He was young,
healthy, with an entire life ahead of him. Fitzwilliam Darcy was not one to
surrender easily, and he was not ready to give up yet.
With considerable effort, he managed
to encircle the pillar with his forearm, what gave him enough support to
stretch his other arm and grab the base of the railing. Now he only needed to
pull himself up a little bit more, until he could lean part of his chest on the
floor and then crawl up to the balcony. His first attempt was not entirely
successful, but at least, with both arms completely over the platform, his body
was in a position that would be much easier to lift. His fingers scratched the
floor and Darcy cried in agony and frustration when he found that there was nothing
to grasp. But in spite of the pain, he held on.
He was so close, one more try and he …
“I have you, Darcy,”
Fitzwilliam held his cousin’s forearm firmly. “I will pull you
up.”
Darcy recognized his cousin’s
voice and felt as if he had just reborn.
With Fitzwilliam’s help, he climbed onto to the balcony.
“Richard,” he panted as
he sat on the floor. “You are here.”
“I saw the fire from the ship.
Ann told me you were still inside.” Fitzwilliam examined his cousin
carefully. Darcy did not appear to be seriously wounded, except for the cuts on
his hands. “Can you walk?”
Darcy assented quietly. His mouth
was dry and he was still shaken because of the fear and effort.
“Come,” Fitzwilliam
helped him to stand up. “We must leave this terrace before it is too
late.”
Seeing that his cousin was still
unsteady, the colonel put Darcy’s arm around his neck and guided him to
Sir Lewis’s rooms, which, to their luck, shared the terrace with Lady
Catherine’s.
“How did you know I was out
here?” inquired Darcy as they crossed the smoky room.
“I had the feeling that you
might try to escape through the terrace. There is no other way to get out of
here. And Collins? Did you find him? Ann told me what he did to her.”
“He is dead. I tried to take
him out of the house but he fell down the cliff.”
Upon reaching the corridor, seeing
that he was rested enough to go on by himself, Darcy let go of his
cousin’s hold and the two gentlemen ran down the gallery towards the main
staircase. They reached the bottom just at the moment the ceiling of the
eastern wing collapsed, enveloping them in a cloud of dust and smoke.
Outside, everything was concern and
despair. Ann, on hearing the loud noise of the stone falling, shouted the
Colonel’s name and tried to enter the house. Elizabeth and the
housekeeper tried to secure her, but Ann, in hysterics, fought and kicked to
free herself.
The colonel appeared first and Ann
ran into his arms. The couple embraced and kissed but Elizabeth paid no attention to them for her
eyes were searching the interior for the figure of the man she was desperate to
see. And then, from inside a cloud of smoke, he appeared. He was covered with
soot and dirt, his clothes torn but he was still the most precious sight she
had ever seen. In one instant her arms were about his neck, his around her
waist, and they were both laughing in happiness and relief.
“I thought I had lost you.” She
whispered against his neck.
“I am here.”
What followed shocked them both. They
could blame their conduct to the tension suffered in the past days, to the
anguish and uncertainty they lived for the last few hours but what happened,
happened, and it was beyond their control. Darcy pressed his lips against
Elizabeth’s and kissed her with the desperation of someone whose life
depended on the nectar of life that came from his lover’s lips. She, if
initially surprised by his boldness and
the novelty of feeling a man’s lips against hers –this was, after
all, the first kiss she had ever received-
was frozen at the beginning but soon she responded to his kiss with
openness and ardour of a woman in love.
While the two couples were all
happiness and affection, the others around them had lost too much to express
the same joy. In spite of how much they hated the old mistress, for most of
them, Rosings had been their only home. They had lost their possessions, their
employments and now they would have to live with the uncertainty of those who
would have to start anew.
Yet, for one person in particular,
the tragedy was even greater. Charlotte Collins stood contemplating how
everything she had dreamed of came down in a pile of ashes. She had married a
man whose true disposition she barely knew with the hope of finding security
and stability; she had come to this island with the illusion of raising a
family, of having a comfortable home. But in a matter of minutes her hopes and
expectations had been taken away from her. She was no longer the respectable
wife of a parson, but the homeless widow of a cold hearted murderer.