Chapter 2

Two

The heavy doors of Rosings flew open with a resounding crash as Colonel Fitzwilliam, aided by faceless villagers, stormed into the grand hall, carrying Darcy's lifeless body. Hurried footsteps and frantic voices filled the room, but for Lady Catherine, time seemed to freeze. Her eyes widened at the chaotic scene, yet despite the urgent voices pleading for her to step aside, she stood firm.

No one told Lady Catherine de Bourgh what to do. No one, especially in her own home, where she reigned supreme. Her formidable will dictated that she alone was best suited to oversee the unfolding crisis. Advancing toward the commotion, she was determined to make her own assessment of the situation.

However, seeing Darcy—her favorite nephew and the embodiment of her hopes and dreams—lying unconscious in such a wretched state was nearly too much for Lady Catherine to bear. All the color drained from her countenance, turning it a ghostly shade of pale. The sight of Darcy's ashen face and the crimson stains covering everything her eyes could see struck her like a physical blow. The usually immaculate manor blurred around the edges, the grandeur of the room fading into insignificance in the face of Darcy's condition.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, a proud, virile young man, now so fragile. He was as dear to her as a son, and in many ways, he had filled that role his entire life. She and her late sister, Lady Anne Darcy, had sanctioned him thus while in his cradle, planning his marriage to Lady Catherine's daughter, Anne, from almost the moment of their births.

With the untimely death of her husband, Sir Lewis de Bourgh, Lady Catherine had come to rely on Darcy much more than she did anyone, even her own brother, Lord Edward Fitzwilliam, the Earl of Matlock, practically empowering the young man with the management of her vast estate, Rosings Park. It only made sense, for he was to become its rightful owner upon his marriage to Anne, was he not?

With her worry tugging at her, she suffered cracks in her stoic fa?ade. She loathed this picture of herself—this unfamiliar sensation of helplessness, as much as she feared losing Darcy. Weakness of any kind was her abhorrence, even in the face of such a tragedy. She had not shed a tear in the wake of her own husband's passing.

"What if my dear, dear nephew does not recover? What is to become of us?" the grand lady questioned aloud. "What is to become of my daughter, Anne?" Her voice trailed off as tears welled in her eyes. The gravity of the situation loomed over her.

It was rare to see the usually domineering and confident woman so vulnerable. Overwhelmed by hopelessness and despair, her body sagged, drained of all energy, as a cold sweat dampened her skin. Her limbs went numb, her legs buckling until she collapsed under the crushing force of her fears.

A voice called out, "Lady Catherine!"

Is it my nephew Fitzwilliam? Her ladyship wondered, wanting to ask and know, yet she struggled to respond. But it was all in vain, for her body betrayed her: her mouth was dry, her tongue heavy and thick, leaving her unable to speak.

The surrounding voices became even more indistinguishable as her heartbeat pounded in her ears, loud and rapid, drowning out all other sounds. Lady Catherine's vision dimmed, the world fading into a silent abyss as she slipped into unconsciousness, her last thought a desperate plea for Darcy's survival.

As Colonel Fitzwilliam took charge of the chaos, his military instincts kicked in, prompting him to act decisively. Memories of past battles surfaced briefly in his mind—of limbs and lives lost—but the split-second decisions made under fire had prepared him for moments like this, a moment no less critical here in the exquisite halls of Rosings than on the smoke-filled battlefields.

With both Lady Catherine and Darcy unconscious, he needed to act swiftly to secure the best medical attention for them. As he checked Lady Catherine's pulse and glanced over at Darcy's still form, thoughts of his cousin Anne invariably crept into his mind.

A grim expression settled over his face, causing the muscles in his jaw to tighten. He could not help but imagine how Anne, with her delicate constitution, would endure such a tragedy. The possibility of losing one or both of her loved ones, who were so essential to Anne's life, would surely shake her to her core. He could only hope she had the strength to withstand it all should the worst unfold.

Thoughts raced like wild horses through his mind, each one more unsettling than the last. The cause of Darcy's accident was clouded in mystery, haunting the colonel with its uncertainty. Was there any hope for his survival? Would he be able to pull through, or was death on the verge of claiming him? Darcy, who was like a brother to him—his closest friend in the world.

And Lady Catherine, lying motionless—the shock of seeing her favorite nephew in such dire straits clearly had been too much for her.

Colonel Fitzwilliam's head shook slowly from side to side, his mind heavy with personal concerns yet determined to push them. The stately rooms of the manor seemed to vibrate with tension, their walls echoing with frantic footsteps and the distant sounds of medical preparations. Despite his dread, the colonel forced himself to focus on the task at hand, acutely aware of the ticking clock and the lives and livelihoods of so many hanging in the balance. But amidst his steadfast actions, one haunting question lingered in his.

What if it is already too late?