Page 19 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
Miss Elizabeth stumbled forward, landing on one knee and a hand, then pushed herself back up and shot forward, but the floor itself was lifting up from the earth before her. Darcy barely had time to register what was happening before he saw her slide backwards a few inches, then scrabble forward and slip backwards again. His heart seized with terror.
“Miss Elizabeth!”
With a surge of motion, he flung himself forward, the ground beneath him still steady for now. The jagged remnants of the rising floor formed an unstable obstacle between them, the angle near impassable, but he grasped the stone of the floor that was now at the level of his waist and hoisted himself atop to straddle it.
There she was, struggling, grasping at loose stones, her fingers scrabbling against the dust-slicked surface.
Darcy did not think—he acted.
He stretched himself out, prone along the ridge of the floor, securing himself with one arm and leg. Above him, the domed roof was tipping, sliding, before it rode the tops of the tipping columns back towards the woods, flying away from them and into the trees, instantly crushing the entire grove to kindling in an ear-splitting explosion of splintering branches.
He stretched his free arm out, reaching for the woman who was struggling to find purchase. “Take my hand!”
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her dark eyes filled with terror, yet she did not scream. She reached for him, but her footing crumbled beneath her, and she slid further.
“Miss Elizabeth, jump—now!”
With a final, desperate lunge, her fingers brushed his, and he bent farther than he ought to catch her wrist, his grip closing around it like a manacle. He clenched his jaw, every muscle in his arm straining as he clung to the remains of the floor, fighting against gravity. Miss Elizabeth clung to him with both hands now, her own grasp fierce, her feet still attempting to find purchase along the stone. He tried to straighten and pull her up with him. One inch. Another. Her hand slipped and he leaned down again to strengthen his grip.
The folly’s stones ground together. The fractured floor shifted, dropped a bit. Stone grated against stone, the grinding sound filling his ears.
He grunted, pulled—she was reaching out one hand to grasp the edge of the stone he was still lying across. As the tips of her fingers curled over the edge, a crack appeared at the part of the floor furthest from them. Everything seemed to slow as it continued to travel across the stone. Straight towards them.
Straight for Miss Elizabeth.
Somehow, she seemed to hear it coming for her. She met his eyes, and he could see from the sorrow and the resolution in her expression that she knew what was about to happen. She grabbed at the top of the stone, and he grasped her gown at the back, tried to pull her up into his arms and throw them both backwards and to safety—but the crack reached them first.
He grasped her to him just as the world turned sideways.
He attempted to hold on as they slid wildly down one side of the breaking floor and then were tossed into the darkened pit below.
Something hard struck the side of his head, and he lost his hold on her.
Darcy hit the ground hard. The breath was driven from his lungs, his body jolted by the impact. For a heartbeat, there was only silence, save for the settling of loose stones. He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again and took a wheezing breath, the air was thick with dust. For a moment, Darcy could not discern if he yet lived, for his body behaved in a manner most unnatural, and his senses reeled, overwhelmed by the tumult of their fall. One leg was dangling over a precipice, while the rest of him was laid flat on his back on a small outcropping that protruded from the side of a cavern.
Then he heard a breath, shallow and pained, unmistakably near.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he rasped, the sound barely carrying in the eerie silence. The sound hurt his head. He forced himself to move, to pull himself back from the edge, though each motion sent a fresh wave of pain through his ribs. His back throbbed from the force of their descent, and when he attempted to brace himself upon his arm, his head swam. Yet he must move—he must see her.
Once he had hauled himself back as well as he could, he saw a dim sort of light filtering through the ruined folly above, parts of the fractured remains of the floor now forming an uneven cover some twenty feet above their heads. Loose stone littered the earth, but the larger pieces of the floor had not crushed them—though they were embedded in the soil, and Darcy could not trust the earth to remain solid beneath them.
He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. He could just make out a form. It was only a few feet away but was half obscured by dust and darkness. It stirred.Shestirred. A sharp pang of relief coursed through him, though it did little to ease the pain in his head.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he tried again, reaching for her though his shoulder protested. “Are you injured?”
Foolish question. He ought to have asked how badly.
She drew a breath, then coughed, pressing a hand to her chest as she attempted to rise. The effort cost her—he could see it in the way she braced herself against the uneven ground, the fine tremble in her limbs. She was able to sit up but no more.
“I am—” She faltered, swallowing thickly before attempting again. “I am not so injured as I might have been.”
Darcy exhaled, unsteady with the force of his relief. “Thank God.”
She shifted once more, then gasped, her hand flying to her side. Even in the dim light, he could see the tension in her frame, the stiffness with which she held herself. He reached for her instinctively, his fingers brushing over the torn fabric of her sleeve, where a gash marked her arm.
“You are bleeding,” he said, his voice sharper than he intended. He had not meant to sound accusing, but the sight of her injury set his nerves alight with an urgency he could scarcely contain. Damn his aunt. Damn his family for ignoring his warnings. Damn this poorly conceived, poorly built folly.
