Page 66 of Ashes and Understanding
The name echoed in his mind as he crested the next hill beside Bingley. His eyes drifted upward toward the ridge in the near distance, and a fond, wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Oakham Mount, they called it.
Darcy chuckled softly. “Mount,” indeed. It was a pleasant hill at best—not even worth the name compared to the jagged heights of Derbyshire.
But his amusement faded as his eyes fixed on a small figure at the top of the incline, silhouetted against the pale sky. A woman, shawl wrapped tight against the wind, her posture unmistakable.
He knew who it was. He knew without needing to see the curve of her brow or the color of her eyes. No other woman in Hertfordshire—or perhaps in England—would be so bold as to climb Oakham Mount alone at this hour, with the wind cutting and the ground damp with last night’s frost.
Elizabeth.
Bingley noticed his gaze and followed it. “It appears we are not far from Longbourn. We ought to pay a call, do not you think?”
Darcy gave him a sidelong glance, his tone mild. “Ah. You are desirous of seeing Miss Lydia’s latest bonnet?”
“What? No—”
“Then it must be Mrs. Bennet. Eager to hear the latest gossip, are you?”
“Certainly not—I only meant—” Bingley stammered.
“Not either of them? Then perhaps you are hoping for a game of chess with Mr. Bennet? Or a spirited discussion of Fordyce’s Sermons with Miss Mary?”
Bingley spluttered, tugging his reins a little too sharply. “What? No—of course not! I only—Darcy!”
But then he caught sight of Darcy’s expression—amused, faintly smug—and let out a breath of laughter. “You areteasingme.You are actually teasing me.”
Darcy merely raised a brow, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. “It seems I am.”
“Well,” Bingley said, grinning as he shook his head, “You’ve been far less grim of late. I daresay I prefer you this way.”
Darcy was about to reply when the air split with a scream.
Both men froze, listening, but there was nothing save an ominous echo that died away.
Darcy’s blood turned to ice. He knew that voice. Even distorted by wind and distance, he knew it.
Elizabeth.
Without another word, both men spurred their horses forward, tearing across the field toward the trees.
The scream had come from the wooded paths that wound between Longbourn and Oakham Mount. As they reached the treeline, three paths branched ahead of them. They reined in sharply, breathing hard, horses stamping.
“Which one?” Bingley asked. “The one that goes towards Meryton is the most traveled—it would be more likely.”
Darcy’s eyes scanned the narrowing trails, his heart hammering.If it truly was Elizabeth, then she would have taken the least-worn path up the mountain. But the middle path also veers that direction.
Indecision haunted him—the wrong choice, leading them further away from the person in distress, could mean the difference between life and death.
The wind rustled the trees, and for a breathless moment, there was only silence. Even the birds had gone still. The seconds ticked by as Darcy furiously attempted to make up his mind.
Then another cry came: “Help! Help! Please—someone help!”
Darcy turned his horse toward the narrowest path without waiting for agreement. “This way!”
They plunged into the underbrush, branches whipping past them, hooves thundering on the damp earth.
And Darcy’s only thought—burning hotter than the cold air in his lungs—was,Let me be right. Let me find her. Let her be safe.
