Chapter 35
READING BETWEEN THE LINES
Darcy did not join her in returning to Longbourn House—anxious, he said, to prepare the inhabitants of Netherfield for the arrival of his sister with Lord and Lady Matlock.
Elizabeth was convinced that rather, he was eager to begin his own search for Miss de Bourgh and determine for himself that she was nowhere near their neighbourhood.
Not for a minute did she believe he meant to leave the hunt entirely in the hands of his uncle and cousin.
“Good gracious,” Mrs Bennet said from the drawing room as she spotted Elizabeth removing her coat in the entry hall.
“You were outside ever so long! But where is the earl? Did that disagreeable Mr Darcy chase him away? What can he mean by being so tiresome as to always be coming here, requiring us to entertain him?”
Thankfully, Elizabeth noticed, their visitors had departed, and were not there to hear, and remark upon, the frequency of Elizabeth’s ‘entertaining’. Still, her mother’s epithets truly vexed her.
“Obviously, Mr Darcy heard his uncle was searching for him and came to find him. They have gone to Netherfield together. By the way, he was very complimentary in his opinions of your rose walk, Mr Collins,” she said, not hesitating to perjure herself in pursuit of deflecting from their true conversation.
“He believes that when they begin to bloom, it will be the talk of the neighbourhood.”
“So kind! Such a great man!” Mr Collins, at least, did not find Mr Darcy annoying in the slightest.
Jane was holding a stack of mail, thumbing through it.
“Oh, Lizzy—you have a letter. It is marked as missent elsewhere, but I am not surprised. The direction is written remarkably ill.” She handed the envelope over, and Elizabeth saw that Jane was correct.
Her name was legible enough, but the sender had crossed out the original direction and sloppily scribbled ‘Longbourn’ beneath it. Everything within Elizabeth stilled.
Beneath the scores and crosses, she could easily see the word ‘Stoke’. The sender not only knew of her former home, but had identified her current one. It had been posted from London, doubtless to make it as difficult as possible to be traced.
She was certain she had never seen this writing before in her life. Who else could it be from, except Anne de Bourgh?
The earl and Darcy need not keep watch for her at the posting inns for new arrivals; plainly, she had already been here—quite recently, in fact—and performed her reconnaissance.
Meryton was too small for a stranger to hide for long.
However, it was a popular stop along the Great North Road, giving travellers a choice of three different inns.
Several times per day, carriages disgorged their passengers for meals, fresh cattle, and respite; it would have been easy for Miss de Bourgh or even her companion to stay for an hour or two and make enquiries.
Since Elizabeth was currently the talk of the neighbourhood, obtaining the information would not have been at all difficult.
She might, even, have visited more than once, since the sender had discovered that Elizabeth was no longer at Stoke shortly before mailing her letter.
“Who is it from?” Jane asked with mild curiosity, but at that moment Lydia entered, wailing to Mr Collins about her urgent need for a new ballgown, and with all attention upon her youngest sister, Elizabeth was able to slip from the room unnoticed.
Once in the privacy of her own chamber, she carefully unfolded the envelope. She did not know exactly what to expect, but supposed it to be recriminations or perhaps even threats of violence.
It was not.
It read, instead, as an excerpt from a story. She brought the pages nearer the window, that she might better see in the fading light of afternoon, and began to read:
“Histrionics do not become you,” Manfred warned, his beloved voice harsh and bitter. “You know that I shall always love you, Theodosia. But you cannot give me what I require most. My properties, my wealth, my family name—it is for naught without an heir.”
“A son,” Theodosia spat angrily. “All this, eternal damnation even, for earthly reward. You believe you can murder me without consequence, but be warned, Manfred. I do not go easily to my grave. I swear to you upon my mother’s soul, I shall never leave you.
My spectre shall remain here, watching, watching.
When you close your eyes at night, know that I shall be here, a wraith in the chilled whisper of the castle’s draughts, a phantom in the whistling wind, a finger’s touch to the tingling of your spine, a crawling shadow raising hair on the back of your neck.
I shall poison your seed, so that nothing lives long that grows of it, so that it slays those who bear it.
Your lands and gold shall avail you nothing, and you shall die alone, forgotten, without even a tombstone to mark your passing. ”
He laughed at her. “You are but a female, and a barren one at that. I gave you all that I have—my name, my home, and expected but one thing of you in return. You could not even give me that, and now you believe you can control my fate from the grave? You possess such power over life and death that you can oblige the future to obey you, when your own body will not?”
Her face crumpled, and she did what she had vowed she would not do—beg.
“Manfred, please! I know you have lain with her already—I realise she is growing big with your child. Bring her to me—we will go to the country, she and I, and I will return with a babe. I promise I will raise it up as my own, as our own. You shall have your heir, and no one will be the wiser!”
His expression remained implacable, unmoved. “I will not change my mind. This is how it must be.”
Acidic resentment revived her fury. “It is not simply the child, then, as you pretend. You wish for her fortune as well as her body. Your craven desires are a festering wound, devouring honour and corrupting your soul.”
He only smirked in response, igniting her fury. Still, when he opened his strong arms, she practically flew into them, hungrily returning his kisses, his passion, their lips melded and sealed together.
And suddenly she was falling, falling from the castle heights, her face white against the darkened stone walls, surprise and horror in her eyes as she realised what he had done—tossed her from the battlements like so much offal.
She had not even time to scream before her body hit the stones below, breaking against their unyielding strength and his unyielding will.
Elizabeth was glad she had read it in the privacy of her room; she could feel astonishment and anxiety in equal measure as she set the pages aside.
Of only a few things was she completely certain—Anne de Bourgh’s fondness for Gothic novels, for romance, and for drama were obvious.
It was probable that she looked upon Darcy as the pitiless Manfred, tosser of wives off castle walls.
But was Theodosia representative of Anne herself?
Or did she serve as a warning to Elizabeth?
Or Darcy? Or both? Or were all her writings simply the ravings of a disturbed mind?
It was impossible to say, but she wished Darcy had not departed so quickly to pursue his own search, and could instead help to convince her that it was nothing to worry about.
Surely it meant nothing at all, except foolish black words on a white page.