Darcy nodded, heart sinking; with the storm raging, he would have no method of alerting Elizabeth. Being comfortably settled at the small but hospitable carriage inn in Belper, dry and warm in front of the blazing fire with steaming mugs of coffee and a platter of roasted lamb with sautéed vegetables did little to ease the ache in his heart. Richard prattled on in his typical humorous fashion, the room was lively with other waylaid travelers and a country fiddler in the corner, but Darcy volunteered little. Eventually he would relax, make the best of a troublesome situation, and even join in a game of darts that Richard won, naturally.

The bed was comfortable and clean, welcomed by a weary Darcy even if it was the fourth night of sleeping alone. He tossed a bit, always finding it difficult to settle now that he was so dependent on his wife’s warm and soft body molded into his, but finally drifted asleep. He dreamt happily, confident that he would see their beloved faces, kiss their beloved lips, and hold their beloved bodies close on the morrow.

He had no way of knowing that he was wrong.

The blizzard raged all through the dark hours of the night. Wind screeched wildly in tones reminiscent of fighting tomcats or a woman in pain. It was one of those rare storms that old men would talk about in decades to come: “Remember the blizzard of 1817? Ushered in the new year with a vengeance, that one!” Temperatures dropped to alarming levels, with negative consequences to some livestock and vegetation that would be felt in a variety of ways. Snow fell in record amounts, the landscape as white as an untouched canvas. It was the singular object that marred the otherwise pristine surrounds; vague flashes of brown tree trunks, the multihued bricks and stones of buildings, and partially frozen blues of waterways and lakes the only spots of color between the lopsided blown drifts of powdery snow.

Darcy woke hours before the dawn, shivering under the pile of blankets. It required an exceptional cold to cause his internal furnace to dampen, evidenced further by visible mist with each shuddering exhale. He rose, struggling into trousers and a thick robe to aid the apparently useless nightshirt in warding off the chill. With a sleep numbed mind, he jerked to the dead fireplace, shaking as he set about the familiar task of building a fire and sending a thankful prayer heavenward for the competent Pemberley staff that he knew would not allow his family and friends to suffer unduly from the extreme weather. Without the slightest doubt, he knew that fires would be raging in all the occupied bedchambers, especially those of his wife and son.

In minutes he had a steady blaze going, chafed hands practically touching the flames in order to absorb the heat. He sat on the hearth, momentarily too cold to think of rising and checking the outside. It was yet too dark anyway, but he could tell that the violent wind had died down somewhat and the furious tinkling of icy flakes hitting glass was no more. Darcy’s lifetime of dwelling in Derbyshire told him what he already needed to know without the necessity of gazing upon the countryside: the snow would be deep. Whether his faithful and vigorous mount could trudge through the banked flakes was not the question; it was whether the storm had abated enough to allow for travel. He sighed deeply, closing weary eyes for a moment and leaning his head onto the warming stones. The worst of the winds and thrashing snow may have dissipated, but he knew the storm continued.

Anger rose in his chest, aiding in warming his flesh but causing fists to clench and fresh shaking to erupt. I must get home! Darcy had never been the type of man to suffer from bouts of impatience, being generally reasonably long-suffering, but at the present, his impetuosity consumed him. With forced effort he inhaled deeply numerous times, struggling with eventual success to calm the turbulence. Oddly, he discovered that meditating on Elizabeth’s face, envisioning her sitting placidly with Alexander at her breast, aided his serenity.

The hours passed as the obscured sun slowly rose. Darcy eventually lit several lamps, passing the time in relative peace with book in hand as he sat near the fire. He must have dozed off without realizing it because the sudden earsplitting scream which rent the silence jolted him from his chair. He grasped the chair arm to steady himself, moving toward the door seconds later.

The hallway was rapidly becoming a mass of surging bodies and rising noise as doors opened all along the passageway. Servants and inn guests appeared by the dozens it seemed, confusion abounding as all eyes swiveled to the hysterically shrieking maid embraced by a middle-aged man wearing a robe where they stood blocking a widely open door near the end of the long hallway. From Darcy’s room some forty feet away, nothing in the room could be seen, but from the antics of the maid and pallor of the gentleman, it must be bad.

He stood under the jamb observing the mayhem in silent bafflement and started slightly when Richard spoke into his ear. “What is going on?”

“No idea. Fix your hair.”

Richard ran fingers through his unruly russet locks absently, glancing at Darcy who was attending to the chaos at the end of the hallway. “Tighten your robe.” Darcy did so, flushing faintly at the realization that his entire upper chest was exposed, but no one was looking their direction, and all the abruptly roused guests were in varying states of undress.

At that moment, the innkeeper, Mr. Allenton, appeared on the landing, voice raised loudly as he inquired as to the upset. The maid had calmed somewhat, no longer yelling, but now sobbing uncontrollably in the obviously dazed man’s arms.

“What is all the fuss?” Mr. Allenton asked, waving and nodding apologetically to the agitated guests. “So sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Please accept my apologies for the disturbance. So excitable these young girls are. Please excuse me. Pardon me, sir. Now, Alice, what is the meaning of this unseemly display? Quite horrid of you! Really should be more control…”

At which point he glanced into the room and halted with a gasp and hand raised to his mouth. Instantly, all the blood drained from his face. “Merciful God! Spare us!” He whispered.

This supplication was followed by a fresh screech from a woman who had eased herself through the crowd to peek over Mr. Allenton’s shoulder. “She is dead! Saint’s preserve us! A girl, dead!”

At that proclamation, pandemonium broke loose. Yells and cries, bodies backing into each other in a frantic effort to escape, frightened eyes suspiciously gazing at their neighbor, and families grasping onto loved ones to ensure their existence. Nothing remotely resembling order prevailed; even the innkeeper was paralyzed in the doorway.

A shrill whistle pierced the uproar. All voices fell, the silence abrupt and complete. Darcy swiveled to his cousin who seemed to have grown taller and added years in a matter of seconds. A uniform was not necessary for all instantly to sense that here was a man of authority.

“Listen here!” he commanded forcefully. “You all must return to your rooms and stay inside until the matter can be appropriately dealt with. Now!” Only a heartbeat’s hesitation before every last soul responded to the directive, shuffling hastily and quietly. In seconds, the corridor was empty of all but Colonel Fitzwilliam, Darcy, Mr. Allenton, a handful of servants, and the befuddled gentleman comforting the weeping maid.

Richard approached the innkeeper, Darcy trailing behind. “Mr. Allenton, I am Colonel Fitzwilliam if you recall. This is Mr. Darcy of Pemberley. Perhaps we may be of assistance.” He looked into the room, expression unchanged as he returned his attention to the innkeeper.

Mr. Allenton peered into Richard’s face blankly for a moment, the man clearly stunned. “I do not… What?”

“Get a grip on yourself, man! You, sir, whom might you be?” Richard said, the latter addressed to the older man holding the maid.

“I am Carlyle, Colonel. Room nine, here, across the hall. I heard the girl and responded first. She, well, she is obviously distraught.”

Richard nodded crisply. “You there!” He gestured to a servant, a boy of approximately fifteen. “Take Miss Alice to the common room. Give her some warm tea and a shot of brandy. No one is to leave this establishment, do you understand?” The boy nodded, eyes round and frightened. Richard turned to Mr. Allenton. “Who of your staff is the most trustworthy? We need to send for the Sheriff.”