by Anne Morris
“Save me,” Wickham faintly cried.
Darcy made no answer, but it seemed that whatever the hound represented, Darcy did not like the fate that had been meted out for George Wickham. But there was a lunge by the hellhound, and the two men moved; Darcy leapt forward pulling Wickham with him. They swung their bodies around to ensure that their backs were not available to the dog.
Fitzwilliam wished he could clasp his cousin who was just out of his reach now as Darcy and Wickham had switched places. Darcy was only about a yard away.
“Save him,” Elizabeth pleaded. Fitzwilliam knew there was no help for the dead men, but worried that he and Elizabeth were too close to the battle, with that hellhound bearing down on all four of them. Fitzwilliam turned his back on the dog and the dead men and faced her.
He did not make another plea to Elizabeth to return through the portal; Fitzwilliam made the decision for her. He braced his tired feet and picked her up, bracing her body against his chest.
“What? Colonel?” Elizabeth cried.
The colonel took two steps forward, his feet reaching the planks of the bridge, though they made no noise when he planted them there.
“Forgive me,” Fitzwilliam said to her ear. “Forgive me,” Fitzwilliam repeated, and placed a kiss on her cheek just beside his whispered words and then threw her into the portal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Elizabeth had been so numb that she almost had not felt the colonel’s hands on her when he picked her up. It had only been some internal sensation that her body was not carrying its own weight which made her look down and realize that her feet were not on the ground. That his hands were on her and it made her call out—
“What? Colonel?”
Before Elizabeth heard his words in her ear and felt his kiss on her cheek; she was not so entirely numb that she could not feel those lips pressed against them. Elizabeth panicked because she knew exactly what he meant to do. She felt herself thrown with a force she could not imagine through the air and into the portal to land on the other side, in her own world.
She found tears again.
Elizabeth landed on her backside with her feet out in front of her. She landed roughly on the wooden plank bridge, hearing something in her dress tear as she landed, hurting somewhere; she had been numb for so long that Elizabeth could not identify the hurt. Her arms had been thrown back, and Elizabeth had stopped herself with her hands. A few splinters worked their way through her gloves.
But the air was warm. The light stung her eyes through her tears.
There were indications that it was late afternoon, nearing twilight, althou]gh not the bleak and perpetual twilight of the other world. Elizabeth looked across the plank bridge. There was no portal above it. She squinted her eyes until they were almost shut, hoping that she could discern some impossible glimmer, some hint that it was still there—that the angle of the sun was playing a trick on her eyes. There was no gateway. Somehow, it had shut behind her. Elizabeth wept all the harder then, thinking that had been a farewell kiss from the colonel. How had Fitzwilliam known that he and Darcy were to be trapped there? Elizabeth thought of his sacrifice, of going with her in the first place. She would not have made it as far as she had without his help.
Elizabeth could only sit in the sunshine with her limbs splayed around her (as they slowly warmed) and cry. She sat on that rough-hewn, homemade bridge, and wondered what was to become of her. Part of her wanted to sing with joy at coming back to light and life. But Elizabeth had not been able to fulfill her task and fetch her beloved home; it was a cold, broken hallelujah.
***
Fitzwilliam watched as Elizabeth passed through the portal, then he watched as the gateway shimmered and faded. Fitzwilliam was not sure why he had expected that both of them could not pass over, but he was at peace that Elizabeth was safe.
The colonel turned back to peer at the other three figures. Darcy still had a loose sort of hold on Wickham’s arm, his hand on a red coat-sleeve. The hellhound was in front of them and swung its head back and forth from one man to the other. The creature seemed to consider them equals, in terms of prey, as it moved a paw and bristled with aggression; the hair stood up on its shoulders.
“No! Here!” shouted Fitzwilliam, who swung his arms up in the air as if to make himself look bigger (like a cat hunching his back). It was all bravado, and he knew it; Fitzwilliam was really terrified. He was always terrified in a battle, and was this not one?
Those eyes and that dark muzzle turned towards him, and Fitzwilliam charged forward. He knew he could not touch the hellhound, but sought to drive it back. The dog retreated two steps as the seasoned army man moved between Darcy and Wickham as a shield.
Thick mist slithered out of that black cavity in the river behind him. Tendrils crept up over the riverbank as if alive, part of a creature down below, one which was seeking prey. Fitzwilliam threw a glance over his shoulder and realized how close he was to the edge though that fog obscured the boundary.
The hellhound lunged towards Wickham leaping around to Fitzwilliam’s right. Darcy moved and pulled Wickham away, behind the colonel again. The dog then leapt to the party’s left, landing quite close to Darcy. It growled in that inaudible, teeth-baring way. Wickham broke free of Darcy’s grasp; he took a few steps beside the bank, then faltered.
Fitzwilliam reached out for him even though such a gesture was useless, but that mist had curled up around his ankles, snaking up one leg to a knee, and tripped Fitzwilliam. He fell backwards; his feet rendered useless by the fog. Fitzwilliam could feel himself falling into the void, but then there was a tug on his arm which just tipped the balance, and his body fell forward. Fitzwilliam rolled as he landed, coming to rest on his back so he could keep track of his enemy.
Darcy stood over him, but he was cut off from Wickham by Fitzwilliam’s body. They could only watch as the hellhound leapt ably over to Wickham’s other side, rounded him against the mist-shrouded edge, then lunged at him without quarter. Wickham fell backwards, and mist swallowed him as a sea creature might a man who has fallen off of a ship.
The dog immediately moved to stand before Darcy, who turned to keep the hellhound in his sights. Fitzwilliam still lay on his back, but by instinct, put his hands up, one to protect his face, the other to protect his belly. Darcy’s light shone brilliantly, a beacon in a place of despair, as Fitzwilliam looked up at his cousin. Somehow the encounter with this creature of the netherworld had charged Darcy--charged him with energy and light and life.
The hellhound stood vigilant over Fitzwilliam and stared at Darcy. Fitzwilliam could feel his heart beating thunderously in his chest against an enemy for which he had no weapon. Fitzwilliam was in no position to protect Darcy as he lay crippled on the ground, his legs numbed by that mist. He could only hope that the mist was retreating into the void as it had done before; the hole in the river closed up now that it had swallowed its victim. Fitzwilliam dared not look away though. The hellhound growled again, and Fitzwilliam could sense the vibrations of that growl, even if there still were no sound.
Fitzwilliam watched as Darcy stood a little straighter and held his arms up in front of him. It was that same gesture of supplication which Wickham had performed. Fitzwilliam thought it less of a plea and more of a sign of Darcy’s innocence. The hellhound apparently agreed as it turned without warning and went loping off, a dark blur, out of his sightline.
Fitzwilliam pushed himself up to sitting.
“What was that?” hissed Darcy, who slowly lowered his hands.
“A creature from Hell,” answered Fitzwilliam.
“Why? Why was it here?” asked Darcy, who studied his cousin intently.
Fitzwilliam remained on the ground. His feet and lower legs still felt paralyzed, and he wondered if they might be permanently affected by that hellish fog. “I’m sure it was to see Wickham to his fate,” Fitzwilliam answered as he leaned back on his elbows. His heart still thundered as his breath came unevenly.
“What
was his fate?” pressed Darcy.
“Not a pleasant one,” was his answer. Fitzwilliam had to lie back completely for many minutes to recover some semblance of strength. He focused on his breathing, flexing his feet and ankles, and blocking out his cousin who appeared not much the worse for the encounter. Or at least, better off than he.
It was the most Darcy had spoken since they had left Uncle Darcy’s side. Fitzwilliam wondered if this turn of events hadn’t done Darcy some good—Darcy’s attempt to spare Wickham his ultimate fate. It had given Darcy a strength Fitzwilliam hoped would get him through the rest of the journey. Darcy was more conscious, ready to return to the living world, less the ghost of a man Darcy had been when they had initially headed back with Miss Bennet by their side. Darcy was no longer transparent, less disoriented—more alive.
“Why did you wish to help out a blackguard such as Wickham?” Fitzwilliam asked suddenly as he sat up. He was almost ready to move on, but Fitzwilliam looked at Darcy standing patiently next to him.
“His behavior to Georgiana was almost unforgivable, but Wickham did not succeed there. And his insults were atrocious, true. But an insult is one thing, but to be condemned to eternity for them?” Darcy’s dark eyes shone with sympathy. Fitzwilliam thought him a better man than he, as Fitzwilliam wasn’t certain he could have any sympathy for Wickham.
Standing was a chore, but the colonel must carry on. A soldier keeps going, so Fitzwilliam stood and tested his feet and legs. They would work, though his left leg pained him, particularly the knee.
“We should keep going and search for a portal,” Fitzwilliam announced.
“Yes,” agreed Darcy.
They eschewed the river and moved up the road with the river on their left. Darcy set a faster pace than the living man would have liked, but Fitzwilliam kept an image of a burning hearth in his mind, a remembrance of what heat felt like in this barren and cold place. It warmed his limbs as he knew the end was near. There was less than a mile to cover to that first bridge where he and Elizabeth had first crossed over. Fitzwilliam dragged his reluctant and pained leg along. Darcy seemed to be like a horse who knew how close to the stables he was, as Darcy quickened his pace, pulling ahead of Fitzwilliam.
“Darcy!” called Fitzwilliam. “Wait. Don’t cross over without me!” Panic coursed through him though it gave him no energy to spur him along to walk faster.
Darcy reached the crossroads where the road led into Meryton. He did not stop but moved towards the bridge. From where Fitzwilliam was on the road, he could not discern if a gateway beckoned the two of them.
“Darcy!” Fitzwilliam called again, just as his cousin reached the edge of the river. This time Darcy stopped and turned back to look at the colonel. “We need to cross together,” puffed the colonel. The pain in his one knee was gloriously wicked, but he dared not slow down. “I fear the portal might close if we cross one after the other.”
“I see,” said Darcy, though he seemed impatient.
Fitzwilliam came up next to his cousin, so that they stood shoulder to shoulder. “Ready?” he asked. Fitzwilliam had said a silent prayer, moments ago, that there was indeed a shimmering gateway over the bridge—and there it stood, waiting for them. They were crossing east to west, but he did not worry that it was the wrong direction. Fitzwilliam knew they were crossing home.
“Let us go,” asserted Darcy, again with that impatient tone in his voice.
“Yes,” agreed Fitzwilliam, and they marched across. As soon as warm air struck his face, he knew Darcy was no longer by his side; Darcy had disappeared. Fitzwilliam could only hope that did not mean Darcy was stuck in the other world—that Fitzwilliam had somehow stepped a wee bit faster, and had out-maneuvered his cousin through the portal. The gateway was gone as Fitzwilliam turned to look for it. He wasn’t sure how he knew it would not be there.
Fitzwilliam squinted as the sun made his eyes tear up, and as warmth returned to his bones. He walked back over the bridge, his footfalls making noise now as Fitzwilliam crossed a second time. Sound had returned, and he heard a cacophony of it around him, making him almost wish to cover his ears against the onslaught—the pain. Fitzwilliam made his way back towards Netherfield Hall, feeling confused and disoriented. He wondered if that was how Darcy had felt when they had first left Uncle Darcy’s side.
The colonel came to a little area of tenant cottages where also sat a public-house, The Farmer’s Boy, with open doors. In front of it was a little trap, and Elizabeth Bennet was being helped out of the back by a farmer.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Elizabeth sat for an eternity until she had no more tears to shed. Then, with the warmth in her limbs reminding her that she still lived, Elizabeth picked herself up from her position at the end of the bridge. Her right hip ached; there was a twinge as she put weight on it. Elizabeth’s breath came quickly as she took tentative steps, but she managed to cross back over the bridge in an effort to return home.
Elizabeth wondered if someone was inside that cottage. It looked desolate and empty despite her being back in the living world. There was a small fence which created a sort of separation between the path that wound off of the bridge and the dwelling. Elizabeth perched on its rails as she worked the splinters out of her gloves and considered her predicament.
It was miles to home, and she had paced many more in the other world. Elizabeth would need to get herself home. The portal had closed up, swallowing Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam with it, no savior was coming for her. She pulled her gloves back on her hands, tapped her thighs, and set off at a slow pace down the road. Elizabeth chose not to follow the path beside the river—she had had enough of meanderings by a river to last a lifetime.
Her senses came awake as her body warmed with the exercise, and being back in the living world. Sound assaulted her ears in a manner which made every gust of wind, every bird trill, every insect hum a shout, and it would startle her, making her turn around. The light similarly affected her, and Elizabeth was thankful for her bonnet and its brim to shade the angle of the sun.
“Miss Bennet!” called a voice. Elizabeth started and lost her balance. Her heel caught on the hem of her dress. She heard the sound of more tearing.
“Oh dear!” said that voice. Elizabeth looked up to see one of Mr. Goulding’s tenant farmers. She thought that his name was Mr. Cole, though she was not as familiar with other tenants as she was with Longbourn’s.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, Miss Bennet,” he announced.
Elizabeth wondered how she could not have heard the sound of a pony and trap, and yet Mr. Cole had come riding up behind her in his small vehicle. Her ears were still sorting through all the surrounding sounds and getting used to working properly again, it seemed.
“Hello Mr. Cole,” said Elizabeth as she dusted her sore hands and stood. “I fear I was lost in thought.”
“You’re a bit far of field,” commented the farmer from up on his seat.
“Yes. I had some things on my mind, and took myself out for a long walk,” she replied, without offering anything more.
“Should you like a ride for part of the way back?” he asked.
Relief ran through her warming her even more. “Yes, Mr. Cole that would be helpful!”
The farmer hopped down and helped Elizabeth into the back of the trap. The horse began walking again.
“You’ve picked an interesting day to go for a long walk. ‘Spect you’ve missed all the local gossip,” Mr. Cole said after a few minutes of silence between them.
“Gossip? Is there local news I should know about?” asked Elizabeth. She was thankful it was a trap and that she sat on the little seats behind him and wasn’t perched next to him so she could not see his face (nor could the farmer could see hers and its expressions).
“Oh yes miss, though perhaps it isn’t the most genteel of news. There was a duel fought this morning between a gentleman and one of Colonel Forster’s officers. The colonel is quite upset about it. He’s threatened to clap all o
f his officers in chains for knowing about it and attending. Forster doesn’t hold to duels as honorable. Some say they are, but the colonel does not,” asserted Mr. Cole.
“People are talking about it?” Elizabeth couldn’t help her voice rising as she asked her question.
“Oh yes miss. Sounds like you’ve heard the news?” pressed Mr. Cole.
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered. “I am acquainted with Mr. Darcy.”
“Right sorry I am,” said Mr. Cole. “I’d heard tell that Mr. Wickham owed money to a lot of tradesmen hereabouts, and now they’re all stuck with the bills. Not that I’d wish anyone dead.”
“No,” Elizabeth whispered. “No,” came out so faint Mr. Cole couldn’t possibly have heard it. Somehow though, men had died. And another colonel had gone with her to the other world because she had not accepted that Darcy had died and now Colonel Fitzwilliam, essentially, was dead as well. It felt as if the deaths of three men were her responsibility. But Elizabeth had no more tears and did not wish to cry in front of this kind man who was saving her legs a mile or two of road.
“And why do I have the pleasure of your cart?” she asked the farmer instead.
Mr. Cole explained that he had been making a delivery to Hemel Hempstead, and Elizabeth had caught him coming home from the market. The farmer discussed his crops and chickens and his children as they turned away from the river and towards Meryton.
When they reached the bridge, Elizabeth had glanced with a small amount of hope towards it (that original one which she and Colonel Fitzwilliam had crossed), but she was unable to tell if a portal shimmered above it because of the angle of the road. They finally pulled in front of a public-house; a group of men was already seated in front with tankards in their hands. A youth came over to hold the horses while Mr. Cole jumped down and went to the back to help her down.
