Page 33 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Then the ground shuddered.
She barely had time to catch her breath before another ominous groan rumbled through the earth beneath them. Dust floated over them from the makeshift ceiling above.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Mr. Darcy—”
“I hear it.” His voice was taut, strained, his eyes already sweeping their small, makeshift shelter. The once-stable position had grown more treacherous, the stone above them teetering a bit. Another jolt sent her heart into her throat, and a crack splintered through the loose rock above them. Elizabeth barely had time to flinch before Mr. Darcy threw himself over her and a chunk of stone struck the earth not two feet from them.
“We must move,” she cried. “Now!” She tried to rise as he stood, but her hip had stiffened as they sat in one place, and it did not support her.
Mr. Darcy did not hesitate. He reached for her, his fingers closing around her upper arm as he pulled her up and away from their temporary refuge. Pain shot through her from her arm and hip and nearly everywhere else, but she knew it was the same for him—and at least she was upright.
No sooner had Mr. Darcy pulled them clear than the stone that had been providing them a guard against the rubble slid back and then fell. With a resounding thump, it hit the uneven ground, breaking into two jagged pieces and sending up a fresh cloud of dust. Elizabeth coughed, pressing a hand to her mouth as she turned to look at the place where they had just been sitting. The space was gone, buried beneath the weight of the collapsed rock.
A shudder passed through her—not from the cold, nor from fear, but from the stark realisation of how close they had come to being crushed. Mr. Darcy’s grip tightened briefly on her arm, his chest rising and falling with exertion. He, too, was staring at the wreckage, his expression unreadable. Then, with a steadying breath, he turned his gaze to her.
“Come,” he said, his voice low but firm. “We are not yet safe.”
The slope ahead was difficult to see—but from this new vantage point, it appeared to dip down and then rise again. Elizabeth stifled a cough as they edged forward, each of them moving with an urgent sort of caution. Mr. Darcy led the way, testing the ground before he would allow her to follow. Each of their steps sent small rivulets of earth trickling down, and she could hear the ominous groaning of shifting stone, as if the walls themselves were warning them away.
“Stay close,” Mr. Darcy murmured, though he did not need to warn her. The press of the earth around them was suffocating, the darkness threatening. She had no desire to be left behind.
Then—more shaking.
This one was more violent, a sudden, wrenching shift in the very bones of the earth. With only one good arm and a weakened leg she could not steady herself, and Elizabeth lost her footing. She stumbled forward with a cry.
Mr. Darcy caught her in one strong arm, pressing her back to the wall and covering her with his own body.
More debris tumbled around them. Mr. Darcy grunted and his knees began to give way before she embraced him with both arms about his waist, pulling him to her, and he straightened.
A sharp rock grazed her other arm, but she scarcely felt it. A deeper, more primal fear had taken hold: the fear of being buried alive.
After a few seconds that felt much longer, the rumbling stopped.
Elizabeth could not see Mr. Darcy’s face, but she could hear his jagged breaths. He was in pain, though whether from old injuries or new, she could not say.
“We must continue,” she said gently, her mouth near his ear.
He remained motionless, pressed against her and the wall. “Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth turned her head slowly to the left. The slope twisted down and widened ahead, then wound upwards, ending in a small, flat space covered with broken stone about eight or ten feet below where the sunlight entered their cavern. There was not a great deal of room to escape—the stones had fallen over most of it, but they might be able to call out and be heard from there. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “You are right.”
As he stepped gingerly around her and to the side, a muffled sound echoed down to them from above. A man’s voice—distant but unmistakable.
“Darcy!”
Elizabeth’s heart leapt.Rescue.
Mr. Darcy straightened, his grip on her good arm still firm. “Fitz!” he bellowed, his voice raw from the dust and strain. He grimaced and shut his eyes for a moment. Elizabeth noted somewhat dully that his hair was white with rock dust. She supposed her own must appear the same.
The answer came at once. “Hold on! We are digging—there is a way through!”
“Be careful!” Mr. Darcy shouted back. “Your digging is causing more debris to fall!” He must have spied the same little area that she had, for he glanced back at her. “Are you able to continue?”
“Of course,” she said. The relief that had surged through her was fleeting, for they were not out of danger yet.
Mr. Darcy led her forward, assisting her carefully over and around bits of fallen stone as she tried to manage with a slight limp.
