Page 73 of Ashes and Understanding
What if we had taken the more worn path?
What if we had been minutes later?
The relief he had felt when Mr. Jones had come down from examining her and pronouncing her unharmed—it was only then that he had allowed himself to breathe.
And later—later she had spoken with clarity and calm before the magistrate, recounting everything she had seen. No hysterics, no dramatics. Just the truth, clear and composed. Brave.
He had always known Elizabeth Bennet was different. But now he understood something more profound: she was the kind of person who ran toward the fire. Who pressed her hands to a dying man’s wound. Who stayed.
And what do I offer her?
George Darcy’s voice came into his mind:Nothing. You offer her nothing. You are weak. What could a pathetic man like you possibly have to offer such a strong, courageous woman?
He curled his hands into fists, fighting off his father’s harsh admonishments that would echo in the empty halls of Pemberley time his son succumbed to a coughing fit.
No, I am not. Icanhelp her.
She had been brave today.
It was time he matched her courage.
Tomorrow, he would begin. He would uncover the truth—whatever it cost—and protect her, no matter the risk to himself.
For now, he crossed the room and doused the lamp. The fire burned low, casting flickering gold across the desk and the unspoken vows left lingering in the air.
He could not say the words aloud.
Not yet.
But in the quiet of his heart, Fitzwilliam Darcy knew one thing with certainty.
He would keep Elizabeth Bennet safe.
Whatever it took.
Chapter 17
Darcy ran.
The smoke was thick—black, choking, and acrid. Each breath seared his lungs, each step a struggle. He stumbled through streets he half-recognized: Gracechurch Street twisted into some nightmarish corridor of fire and shadow. Every building burned. Every window shattered and rained glass down onto him. The streets ran with ash and water and panic.
Somewhere ahead, she was crying out.
“Help! Please, help!”
Elizabeth.
Darcy pushed forward, the weight of his own body unbearable. His coat felt like lead. He tried to yell, to tell her he was coming—but the moment he opened his mouth, a violent fit of coughing seized him. His knees buckled.
He fell, wheezing against the ground, his vision spinning.
“Help me!”
Her voice was closer now—so close, in fact, that when he looked up, he could see her through the smoke just in front of him. He could hear the child’s sobbing…but there was something wrong. It was too low. Guttural.
Did the smoke damage the babe’s lungs?
“Help me,” she begged him, reaching out to him.
