Chapter 21
Twenty-One
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Come Clean
Screams ripped through the ballroom as Darcy dropped Miss Jeffries’s hand and ran from the dance floor toward where he’d seen
Lizzie just moments earlier. People were scattering every which way, and Darcy had to shove his way through, not caring who
he bumped into. All he cared about was Lizzie. Lizzie, who’d been standing beneath the chandelier. Lizzie, whom he could no
longer see.
“Lizzie!” he shouted. Most of the candles had been extinguished in the fall, leaving the room suddenly much dimmer than it
had been only moments earlier. Candle smoke wafted in the air lazily as Darcy searched. “Lizzie!”
“Here,” came her voice, and he spun around to find her on the floor just beyond the chandelier, hem ripped and skirts splattered
with candle wax.
He strode over to her and fell to his knees. “Oh, thank God!”
“She pushed me,” Lizzie sputtered. “I bet she’s been wanting to do that for a year at least, but she didn’t have to . . .”
Lizzie’s voice trailed off as she looked beyond him, and Darcy turned to see what had caused the color to drain from Lizzie’s face.
She scrambled to her feet and ran to where the chandelier had fallen.
It lay like a felled beast in the middle of the ballroom, and beneath it was a pile of peacock blue . . .
Caroline.
“Help!” Lizzie yelled. “Someone call for a doctor!”
Caroline was beneath the chandelier. The outer edge of the behemoth had knocked her flat. Blood pooled underneath her, soaking
into the brilliant blue of her gown. Lizzie’s hand went to her neck and horror overtook Darcy. He felt as though he were watching
the scene from outside his body, as if it were a dream. But then Lizzie turned and said, “I think she’s breathing—Darcy, help
me get her out from under this thing!”
He lurched into action, reaching for the frame. He lifted it a few inches, wincing at the musical clink of all the crystals
sliding about. It was enough for Lizzie to drag Caroline out from under the weight of the felled chandelier. She ripped at
the hem of her already torn dress for a wad of fabric to stop the bleeding—Darcy could see now the terrible gash on the side
of Caroline’s head, turning her blond hair dark red. But Lizzie’s bandage wasn’t enough. He dropped the chandelier with a
loud thunk and shrugged off his jacket. “Here,” he said, wadding it up and handing it to Lizzie.
“Caroline!”
Darcy looked up to find Bingley running toward them, panic on his face. He dropped to his knees and reached out to his sister. “No, no, no—Caroline, can you hear me?”
Behind Bingley, Jane appeared. Her hands flew to her mouth when she saw the amount of blood on the ballroom floor, and she
turned and ran for help.
All around them, guests were fleeing. A few lingered, watching wide-eyed in shock, but then the whispers started up. Darcy
heard more than one person say the word curse, and he shuddered. This was the third accident to befall their party since they’d arrived at Netherfield Park.
Either he’d have to start believing in curses, or someone in the house wished them ill.
“She’s breathing,” Lizzie assured a panicked Bingley. “Let’s get her up.”
Darcy and Bingley lifted Caroline and Lizzie held Darcy’s jacket to the wound on her head. They carefully maneuvered around
the spilled candles and stray crystals that had broken off from the chandelier, out of the ballroom and into the foyer, where
guests were pouring out the door. They headed for the stairs, and Charlotte ran up to join them. “Mr. Thomas has gone on his
horse to fetch the doctor,” she said. “And I ran to the kitchens and told Sally to bring up bandages and hot water.”
They got Caroline to her bedroom and into bed, and Jane came up with bandages herself. “The guests?” Bingley asked her.
“Forget the guests,” Jane said. “They’re all running home as fast as they can, convinced that this place is well and truly
cursed. How is she?”
“Alive,” Lizzie said, looking up to meet Darcy’s eyes. He could hear the words she didn’t want to say: For now.
While the ladies tended to Caroline’s wound, Bingley paced and Darcy stood next to him, feeling utterly useless. It seemed
to take an age for the doctor to arrive, and Caroline neither stirred nor woke as they waited. Her breathing had settled into
a shallow rhythm, but it was a rhythm nonetheless. Sally eventually brought in hot water, and her eyes widened at the sight
of all the blood. Not long after, the men were shooed out so the ladies could change Caroline’s blood-soaked dress into a
fresh nightdress.
“I can’t lose her,” Bingley whispered as they stood out in the hall.
“You won’t,” Darcy said, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Of course, he had no way of knowing that for certain. But
what else was he supposed to say?
“This place is a death trap,” Bingley muttered. “Curse or no curse, I think we all ought to leave and not come back until
I’ve had every bit of it inspected. I suppose one should never look a gift horse in the mouth, but I am starting to wish Honoria
had never left it to us.”
“Gentlemen.” Darcy and Bingley turned to find Mr. Bennet striding toward them. He wore a serious expression, which was not
unusual for him, but there was something about this particular look, and his purposeful march, that made the hair on the back
of Darcy’s neck stand up. “How is she?”
“Alive for now,” Bingley said. “We’re waiting for the doctor.”
Mr. Bennet nodded gravely. Then he said, “There’s something you ought to come see.”
He led them downstairs. The foyer was empty, the last of the guests having fled into the night, and the double doors leading
into the ballroom were thrown open to reveal the chandelier at the center of the room, tilted over on the floor. Caroline’s
blood stained the parquet, and small crystals were scattered about. Around the ballroom, empty glasses were abandoned and
chairs were tipped over. But Mr. Bennet didn’t point to the wreckage in the room—instead, he led them to the side of the room,
where, concealed by a velvet drape, the crank to the chandelier protruded from the wall.
“Look at this,” he said.
Darcy saw instantly what he was referring to: One end of a tattered rope hung limply from the crank. Darcy stepped forward
and took a closer look, picking up the broken end. He spent a long, silent moment staring at it.
“This rope was cut,” he said. The end was not frayed or torn, like it would be if the rope had simply given out or the weight
of the chandelier had been wearing on the fibers over time. The cut was clean. The type of cut that had been done with a knife.
“I believe so, yes,” Mr. Bennet said tersely.
“But what . . . how . . .” Bingley appeared incapable of speech, so great was his shock. “Why would anyone do this?”
“That’s precisely what I would like to know.” Darcy had never heard Mr. Bennet speak in such a foreboding manner, and it caused a shiver of apprehension to run through him. He stared at Darcy, as if he could guess at the secret he was keeping.
“Mr. Bennet,” Darcy said. “I can explain—”
“Father?”
They turned to find Lizzie at the door, looking after them suspiciously. She was still wearing her torn, blood-smeared gown,
and it had an absolutely garish effect.
“Lizzie,” Mr. Bennet said, taking the end of the cut rope from Darcy’s hand, “I would like to know why someone cut through
the rope that was holding that chandelier in place.”
Lizzie went pale and approached them slowly, looking at the rope in her father’s hand as if it were a live snake.
“This place really is cursed,” Bingley said, looking up at the ceiling where the chandelier had hung not an hour earlier.
“I don’t believe in curses,” Lizzie said.
“Then how do you explain this?” her father asked.
“You don’t think Sally . . .” Bingley trailed off.
“I didn’t see her,” Darcy said. “Did any of you?”
They all shook their heads. Lizzie added, “She was belowstairs tonight, to avoid gossip. But I don’t think she would do this
to us—we saved her grandparents from jail.”
“Then who?” Mr. Bennet asked again.
Darcy looked to Lizzie. It was her secret to tell. And judging by her horrified expression, he guessed she was regretting
having kept it.
“Who else?” she said with a tired sigh.
Mr. Bennet needed no guesses. “Lady Catherine?” he asked, incredulous. Both Darcy and Lizzie nodded, and Mr. Bennet’s expression darkened. “Explain.”
In halting sentences, Lizzie recounted the note she’d received nearly a week earlier. Mr. Bennet took the news in with a stoic
expression, and when she’d finished, he turned to Darcy. “And you knew about this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you didn’t think to inform me?”
Darcy forced himself to meet Mr. Bennet’s eyes. He read anger in there, but disappointment, too. The disappointment was what
stung the most, because unlike when his own father was disappointed in him, Darcy cared very much about Mr. Bennet respecting
him. He swallowed. “Lizzie asked me not to.”
“Papa, it’s not his fault—”
Mr. Bennet held up his hand, and she went quiet. “You both decided to keep this to yourself, knowing full well that Lady Catherine
is dangerous and has made threats against us all. And in the face of multiple unsettling accidents and events, you decided
to hold your tongues.” He paused and shook his head. “What possibly could have possessed you?”
“I wanted to find out who the dead man was,” Lizzie said, her voice small. “And I wanted to find the killer and restore Jane’s
reputation amongst her new neighbors. I thought if we told you, you’d insist on leaving and that would only anger her. I had
every intention of telling you everything tomorrow . . .”
Darcy had never seen Lizzie so defeated before. He took her hand and squeezed it.
“Lady Catherine has infiltrated Netherfield Park?” Bingley asked. “But how?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Mr. Bennet said. “We must leave immediately.”
“I can’t move Caroline,” Bingley said. “You saw what state she’s in.”
“It’s me she wants,” Lizzie said miserably. “Everyone can stay here. I’ll go.”
“Nonsense. We will all go to your aunt and uncle Gardiner’s. I wrote to them of our troubles, and they’ve already extended
an invitation—”
“No.” Lizzie gently withdrew her hand from Darcy’s. “I won’t go anywhere I might endanger more people I love. You and Mama
and the girls should go to them, though. And Bingley, I’m truly sorry. I think you ought to send away all the servants except
those absolutely necessary. Only keep those you trust.”
Alarm spread through Darcy. “Lizzie, where do you plan on going?”
“I’ve given it some thought, and the Dashwoods have a spare room in their shop for me. I can keep a low profile while we—”
“No,” Darcy and Mr. Bennet said at the same time.
“You’re not venturing out alone, not with that madwoman at large!” Mr. Bennet said.
Don’t leave me, Darcy thought selfishly. But was it selfish to want to face whatever was ahead with her by his side?
“Where would you have me go that’s safe, Papa?” Lizzie asked. “I wouldn’t trust a sea voyage—Lady Catherine has too many connections aboard vessels, and who knows where her spies might be?”
“Perhaps Scotland—”
“Scotland!” Lizzie cried.
“You don’t have to go to Scotland,” Darcy said. “You don’t have to leave the country at all.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to go into hiding, Darcy, but—”
“Come to Pemberley.”
The words felt right the instant he spoke them. Everyone turned to look at him. “Pemberley is safe. I would trust everyone
on the staff with my life, and Mrs. Reynolds knows everyone who works under her—there’s not a chance that Lady Catherine could
infiltrate Pemberley. We’d be far from London but still in somewhat easy contact with Graves, and we can strategize our next
move in safety.”
“Pemberley,” Lizzie repeated. “But Darcy, your father—”
“Forget my father,” he said. “I don’t care what he thinks. I only care about your safety.”
“I don’t like the idea of you going off alone,” Mr. Bennet told his daughter.
“Oh, Papa,” she said. She crossed the few steps between him and took his hands in hers. “I’m not a little girl. Lady Catherine
isn’t going to forget me because I’ve managed to evade her. I know you’re scared for me, but please. Let me try to catch her
before it’s too late.”
Mr. Bennet was not a man of many words, but Darcy witnessed an array of warring emotions crossing his face—anger and sadness, stubborn resistance, and defeat.
What must it be like to have a father who cared as much as Mr. Bennet cared for Lizzie?
And not only cared for her but respected her.
If Darcy were to ever become a father, he’d only be so lucky to be like Mr. Bennet.
“All right,” Lizzie’s father said, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “But you must promise me—”
“I’ll be careful,” she said, and hugged her father. “Thank you, Papa.”
When her father finally released her, Darcy lowered his voice, casting a glance around the empty ballroom, strewn with the
detritus of an evening gone awry. “We don’t know who might be watching us. But if Lady Catherine or one of her spies is in
the house, then we must attempt to deflect attention. Send Mrs. Bennet and the girls to the Gardiners’, and send a carriage
back to London. I’ll leave for Pemberley, but make as if going elsewhere—Bath, perhaps. Pull the curtains of all the carriages
and keep it secret which one Lizzie takes. It likely won’t fool Lady Catherine forever, but it might buy us time.”
“What about Georgiana?” Lizzie asked. “I don’t want her to get hurt.”
“Pemberley is safe, trust me. Even if word gets out that you’re there, the staff can be trusted. We won’t let anyone on the
grounds. My father has more than just servants at Pemberley to watch over Georgiana, and they can keep you safe, too.”
He looked into her eyes and thought what he wanted to say: Don’t leave me. Let me stand by your side. Let’s fight her together.
“I have to say, I like Darcy’s plan far better than yours,” Mr. Bennet said gruffly. “The Dashwood sisters are no wilting
lilies, but what sort of protection can they offer you?”
Darcy expected Lizzie to protest. She was awfully loyal to her friends.
“However,” her father continued, “it is your choice.”
Lizzie held herself very still. Her eyes were fixed beyond them, on the fallen chandelier.
“All right,” she said finally. “Let us go to Pemberley.”