Page 133 of Ashes and Understanding
“You must!”
“I cannot do this—” she sobbed, trying again to lift him while still holding Benjamin. “Do not make me choose between him and you.”
“Choose tolive, Elizabeth! Go, before it is too late.”
He could scarcely speak between gasps for breath, and she closed her eyes, fighting back the tears streaming down her cheeks, mingling with sooty ash.
I have to. God forgive me, but I have to go.
She rose to her knees, holding a prone Benjamin in her arms. Turning from Darcy, she began to crawl, attempting to stay down below the smoke. But then, through the haze in front of her—a figure.
Red.
A soldier.
No! How is he still here?
She turned back to Darcy, shielding Benjamin again with her body. Through the roar of the fire above, she heard a faint call.
“Darcy! Miss Elizabeth!”
It was Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Not Le Corbeau.
Another man moved beside him—Wickham.
“Oh, thank God,” she sobbed.
Wickham gently took Benjamin from her arms. The colonel hauled Darcy upright with a grunt of effort.
“You are all right?” Fitzwilliam asked, his voice sharp with concern. “Can you walk.”
Elizabeth nodded, too choked to speak.
“Come,” he said. “This way.”
And through the smoke, they went—together, alive.
Once through the door, she blinked against the bright sun just peeking over the horizon to the east. She nearly collapsed, but Wickham held her tighter. “Just a little further now. We are nearly there.”
But Le Corbeau is out here. Benjamin!
“It was him,” she choked out. “Le Corbeau. They are twins.”
“We know,” the colonel said behind her, staggering under the weight of Darcy’s frame. “The fool did not anticipate that I would already be here when he left the house. Wickham and I were able to apprehend him just as he reached the edge of the garden,” the colonel finished grimly, his voice hoarse with smoke and fatigue. “He will not be going anywhere now.”
Elizabeth stumbled again, and Wickham adjusted his grip to keep her steady, the baby still cradled against his chest. “Easy now,” he murmured, “You did it, Miss Elizabeth. You kept him safe. You kept both of them safe.”
The words nearly undid her. Her knees buckled, but she forced herself upright. Benjamin whimpered softly, still buried against Wickham’s shoulder, his small face blotched with soot.
Colonel Fitzwilliam lowered Darcy gently onto the dewy grass. The tall man slumped back, his eyes closed, chest heaving with shallow, labored breaths.
“Darcy,” Elizabeth whispered, sinking to her knees beside him. She reached for his hand—it was warm, but his face was pale, and each wheezing inhale sent a spike of fear through her.
“I need a physician here now!” the colonel bellowed toward the cluster of servants and townsmen who were pouring water onto the smoking remains of the barn. “Where is Mr. Jones?”
“Gone to retrieve more supplies,” someone shouted back.
