Page 95 of Ashes and Understanding
Darcy cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should take advantage of this time to speak of more pressing matters.”
A bit surprised at his severe tone, Elizabeth turned her full attention towards the man at her side. There was something in his expression—a tension not quite concealed behind the calm exterior—that made her pulse quicken.
Is he…jealous?
The thought flashed through her mind, and she pushed it to the side to contemplate later. Darcy was correct: they needed to use this time together wisely.
“I agree,” she said slowly, her tone shifting. “In fact, there is something I have been meaning to mention since yesterday.”
She glanced between the two men. The colonel’s brows lifted slightly, attentive. Darcy leaned forward almost imperceptibly, as if bracing himself.
“When I found Mr. Smithson,” she said quietly, “he spoke to me. Just before he lost consciousness. I did not think to mention it at the time—I was too shaken—but it has been haunting me since.”
“I had forgotten,” Darcy said, “but I wrote to you about it, Fitzwilliam. His words reminded me of our childhood.
The colonel straightened. “Yes, that was actually part of what spurred me here so quickly. Miss Elizabeth, can you tell me exactly what he said?”
Elizabeth hesitated, remembering the rasp of the dying man’s voice. “He said— ‘Tell the raven it was the crow.’”
A silence fell over the room. Darcy’s jaw tightened. The colonel, frowning, drew a slow breath.
“I thought perhaps it was nonsense,” Elizabeth added, “some fevered delusion. But the phrasing was so deliberate. And now that I know more of what was at stake—of who he truly was—I thought it might mean something.”
Darcy’s eyes were fixed on the colonel now. “Does it?”
The colonel did not answer at once. His gaze drifted past them, unfocused, as though seeing something far beyond the drawing room—as if somewhere far away a memory played itself out in shadows and smoke. His fingers, which had been casually tapping the armrest, stilled.
Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Darcy, her chest tightening at the sudden shift in the colonel’s manner, but neither dared interrupt the stillness that had fallen.
When the colonel finally spoke, his voice was quiet—hollow with memory.
“Yes,” he said. “It means everything.”
And then, without another word, he rose from his seat and walked to the window, staring out into the darkened fields beyond.
“For you to truly understand, we… we must go back. Back to when everything changed.”
Elizabeth sat upright, her attention wholly fixed on the colonel. She and Darcy waited for what seemed an eternity in silence. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft murmur of quiet conversation from Bingley and Jane.
Back to what?she thought.To the fire? To the death of that poor woman—Deena? To France?
But she dare not speak.
At last, the colonel drew a deep breath and began his chilling narrative.
Chapter 22
It began in Spain.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had been stationed at a windswept garrison near the Pyrenees, on the fractured border between order and chaos. Officially, he was part of a diplomatic liaison, shuttling intelligence to British commanders from partisan informants.
Unofficially, he was one of a growing number of shadow agents operating for the Home Office—men who moved without uniform or rank, who knew how to listen more than speak, who could follow a whisper as though it were a map.
The war was not only one of uniforms and artillery—it was one of whispers. One of shadows.
Napoleon’s forces were everywhere and nowhere at once, and British agents were dispatched with more questions thananswers, always one step behind some vanishing trail of parchment and blood.
Fitzwilliam had already proven himself—first in Cadiz, then in Lisbon. Clever, composed, and fluent in several languages, he was offered a position under General Wellesley’s auxiliary command. But it was not tactics they needed from him—it was secrets.
