Page 20 of Mr. Darcy's Folly
“As are you,” she countered, her gaze flickering over him, lingering upon his own undoubtedly battered form.
Darcy lifted his hand to the side of his head, and it came away wet. He was of no mind to argue, though the pain in his ribs remained, irking him with each breath. He did not think they were broken, but they were surely bruised. It was nothing short of a miracle that neither had been knocked entirely senseless—or worse.
He forced himself upright, gritting his teeth against the protest of his head and back. His coat was torn, his breeches coated in dust and grime, but none of that mattered. Their peril had not yet passed.
He cast his gaze about their surroundings, assessing the stability of their position. They had landed upon a narrow peninsula of shifting rock and softened earth. Rubble had fallen in great heaps around them, some pieces large enough to crush a man outright. A scant few feet before them was the drop that Darcy had narrowly avoided, and perhaps twenty feet back and to the right side from where they sat, a great slab of the folly’s foundation had collapsed at a fortunate angle, forming a crude shelter against falling debris. He could see that it was settled against another large piece of stone.
“We cannot remain here,” he said grimly, glancing upwards at the jagged remnants of the folly above. More of the structure might yet collapse, and they were exposed.
She nodded, though she did not move immediately. He could see the way she held herself as though any motion would bring pain. Yet she would not complain. Of that he was certain.
With some effort, he shifted to his knees and crawled back in her direction. When he reached her, he extended his good arm. “Come. We must make our way to firmer ground.”
She hesitated only a moment before rolling to her knees. As she did so, she inhaled sharply. He steadied her as best he could, mindful of her injuries, though his own pain was difficult to manage.
Together, they inched their way towards the more stable shelf of dirt and rock closer to the side of the hole, then to the right towards the angled slab of stone. His head ached fiercely, but he cared not for his own discomfort, not when Miss Elizabeth was beside him, her own progress faltering, her breath uneven with pain.
At last, they crawled to the relative safety of the tilted slab, its sturdy presence offering some protection from further collapse. They settled at the very end of it in case it should move again. Darcy exhaled, the pain subsiding somewhat now that he was settled. He turned to Miss Elizabeth, his eyes, now adjusted to the dark, searching her face for any sign of worsening distress.
She met his gaze, her expression weary yet composed. “We are not yet free of our predicament,” she murmured.
“Indeed we are not,” he agreed. “But we are alive.”
Chapter Seven
Elizabethinhaledslowly,drawingbreath through trembling lips as she relaxed. She coughed, pressing a hand to her ribs at the sharp pain the motion provoked. It was only then, as the first tremors of her shock ebbed away, that she truly began to feel the full measure of her injuries.
Her left arm throbbed, a deep, insistent ache that drew her attention to her forearm. As Mr. Darcy had remarked, her sleeve was torn and damp with blood. The sting of it was sharp. One side of her face was tender, the skin stretched tight and sore. It would likely swell—something hard had struck her as they fell, though she could not say what. Her back, too, was bruised from the impact, and her ribs protested each slight movement. Her left hip, sore and stiff, ached beneath the weight of her own body. And yet, as she tested her limbs, curling her fingers and shifting her legs, she realised with a wash of relief that nothing appeared to be broken. Bruised, battered, and bloodied as she was, she remained whole. And she thought it likely that the reason was Mr. Darcy.
Beyond their ledge, the cavern dropped sharply into deeper darkness. The earth had collapsed unevenly, forming a jagged slope that vanished into a void below. The depth of the pit was uncertain; the dim light did not reach far enough to reveal the cavern floor. However, the faint trickle of loose gravel and the occasional distant echo suggested a greater chasm beneath them.
To their right, another slope led upwards then pitched down, and she wondered if it continued down or headed back up at any point. An attempt to discover where it led might be possible but would certainly be treacherous.
The cavern walls themselves were rough, a mixture of natural limestone and disrupted earth, with places where the folly’s foundation had embedded itself into the soil. The stones bore fresh cracks from the collapse, and thin streams of dust still trickled from above.
The remains of the folly lay scattered like toppled chess pieces, some pillars snapped clean in two, others still partially upright but leaning at precarious angles. Large slabs of the floor, their polished surfaces now fractured and uneven, jutted from the earth at unnatural angles, creating treacherous ledges and deep crevices where darkness pooled.
Mr. Darcy’s voice, low and steady, drew her attention from her observation and discomfort.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he murmured, his tone far gentler than she had ever heard it. “Tell me truly—how badly are you injured?”
Her gaze lifted to meet his, and she found him studying her, his expression searching, his features drawn tight with concern. In the dim, fractured light filtering from above, she could see him more clearly now, and what she saw made her stomach twist.
There was a long, thin slash just above his right eyebrow. Another gash trailed along the same side of his head, and blood matted his dark hair. The wounds bled freely, though they could not, she thought, be too deep, for he remained as alert as ever. Or nearly so. His gaze, though sharp, bore the faintest edge of weariness.
“You are hurt,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended. She had noticed before, but it bore repeating.
He exhaled, a brief, unamused sound. “It is nothing.”
“It is decidedly not nothing,” she countered. “You are bleeding.”
“And yet I live.”
“As do I,” she said pointedly.
His jaw tightened, but before he could respond, she shifted, drawing herself more upright despite the pain it caused. His hand twitched as though he wished to steady her, but he did not move, watching instead as she settled herself against the wall.
He continued to regard her, his concern evident in every careful movement. He spoke to her as though she were a frightened animal, as though any sudden motion might send her fleeing. She found herself strangely touched by the consideration, for had she not been convinced of his indifference?
