Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
E lizabeth woke to the clear, resonating sound of a bell. She was uncertain how it had roused her at all, being so sweet and quiet, but it vibrated on the air as she sat up in bed. Beside her, Darcy slumbered on, apparently unconscious of any out-of-place sounds.
The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, bathing the bedchamber in an ambient glow. Even so, the room was chilly, and Elizabeth rubbed the goose-skin rising on her arms. It never felt so cold at Pemberley, not even in the winter.
Presuming that she had been roused by the tolling of the hour, Elizabeth dragged the covers up to her neck and edged closer to Darcy’s warmth. As she was beginning to recline, the bell chimed again from somewhere behind her.
Her spine stiffened, and she sat up rigidly straight, unaccountably fearful of what she would find when she turned round. Her pulse beat erratically at the thought, but she knew she must. The anticipation of the unknown was equally as frightening, if not more so, as facing whatever lurked in the shadows beyond her vision. Slowly, tentatively, she inclined her head until she was looking over her right shoulder.
The door to the hall stood wide open. Elizabeth knew very well that it had been closed before she and Darcy had gone to bed. The servants used the dressing room to enter and leave the chamber, so she doubted that either her maid or his valet were the culprits. Were they being spied upon by persons unknown?
Elizabeth jostled Darcy’s shoulder to wake him. He grumbled incoherently but did not otherwise stir.
“Fitzwilliam,” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder at the open door. A shadow appeared on the wall in the corridor, alternately stretching and contracting as it drew closer. She could hear footsteps now.
Elizabeth’s sense of alarm rose to new heights, and she whipped back round to her husband, redoubling her efforts to rouse him. “Wake up. Please, please wake up!” Still, Darcy remained deeply asleep.
Creak .
Petrified, Elizabeth held perfectly still, her only movement her heaving chest as she struggled to breathe.
Ding.
She swallowed, gathered her beleaguered courage, and turned to face the doorway.
Therein stood a small, willowy figure cloaked in brilliant white. She wore what appeared to be a nightgown, with her long, alabaster hair falling lank about her shoulders. She glowed brightly yet held no candle to account for her radiance, so Elizabeth knew that she must be in the presence of someone no longer living.
This notion was confirmed when she realised that she recognised the pale lady. She gasped out her unearthly visitor’s name. “Miss de Bourgh!”
Anne de Bourgh, save for her nighttime attire and unbound hair, appeared just as she had in life when Elizabeth had made her acquaintance the previous spring. Then, as now, she was so colourless as to be nearly translucent, with her milky pallor, white-blonde hair, and faint grey eyes. She was thin and small, almost childlike in stature, and generally withered in appearance.
Even as Elizabeth took in the wraith that was once Darcy’s dear cousin, her horror dwindled. Anne was no longer among the living, it was true, but there was no sense of danger about her either. She stood there placidly on the other side of the threshold, patiently waiting for Elizabeth to acknowledge her. She did not lunge, nor did she make any effort to frighten; she merely waited. As if she wanted something.
“Do-do you wish to speak to your cousin?” Elizabeth ventured, indicating the slumbering Darcy with a trembling hand.
Anne opened her mouth as if to reply, but no words were forthcoming. Her brow furrowed in consternation, and she tried again to no better success. At length, she resorted to a simple shake of the head— No .
Inhaling a deep breath through her nose, Elizabeth released it shakily. “Do you require something?”
Again, she moved her mouth as if intending to speak, but no sound emerged. She drew her lips into a thin line, visibly frustrated, then nodded— Yes .
It seemed that Anne, even if she had managed to pierce the veil and re-enter the living world, could not easily communicate. With this in mind, Elizabeth would have to compose her queries carefully to ensure that a simple yes or no would suffice.
Just to be certain of Anne’s purpose, Elizabeth asked again, “Are you here to speak to Mr Darcy?”
No .
“Do you wish to speak to me?”
Yes .
Elizabeth was taken aback. Although she had been acquainted with Anne prior to her death, no one would have ever accused them of a deeper connexion than that. It occurred to her with a start that perhaps this haunting was a consequence of her marriage. Was Anne restless in her grave because Elizabeth had ostensibly snatched Darcy away from her?
“Are you angry with me for marrying Mr Darcy?”
Anne seemed to laugh, though it was silent, and shook her head— No .
“So you are not here to punish me for stealing him from you?”
No .
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Do you wish me to pass on some sort of message?”
Anne stood there for a moment, face scrunched in thought, before offering a faltering nod— Yes .
“You did not wish to speak to Mr Darcy, so…Colonel Fitzwilliam?”
No .
“Lady Catherine?”
The light that set Anne aglow intensified, making her difficult to look at directly. Elizabeth shielded her eyes until her otherworldly visitor dimmed again. Once she had, she delivered an emphatic shake of the head— No!
“Is the message for your uncle? Or the viscount?” Elizabeth proceeded to list off all their common acquaintances, including the Collinses, but received a negative response for each. It was not long before she had exhausted all the possibilities and could conjure up no more. “Perhaps if I knew what the message was, I would know whom to deliver it to. Can you tell me what it is?”
Again, Anne made the effort to speak with no success.
“I forgot you cannot talk. Forgive me. Can you write it down?”
Anne slumped her shoulders, shaking her head in apparent defeat. Then she straightened and turned as if to leave, beckoning Elizabeth.
“You wish for me to follow you?”
Yes .
Elizabeth bit her lip, unsure whether she was willing to leave the relative safety of her bed and husband. Anne continued to linger patiently in the doorway, deciding Elizabeth in favour of going. The poor girl was watching her with palpable longing and not a trace of menace about her countenance; she seemed desperate for aid.
With one last glance at Darcy—as well as a quiet apology for doing something she knew he would disapprove of—Elizabeth climbed out of bed, slipped on her dressing gown, and approached Anne, who rapidly disappeared down the hall and out of sight. Elizabeth paused at the threshold, her heart fluttering wildly in her chest, and hesitated to follow. Recalling Anne’s pleading entreaty, she stepped out into the hall.
Elizabeth awoke with a start, her heart hammering within her chest and the babe in her belly fluttering wildly. Beside her, Darcy snorted and roused himself, crying out, “What is the matter?”
At first, Elizabeth did not answer him, for she was unsure of the truth. After he urgently prodded her to respond, she managed a raspy, “I-I believe I was dreaming.”
“Are you well?” Darcy asked, more urgently still.
“I—yes, I am well.” She placed her hand upon the protrusion of her midsection and felt the child calm beneath her fingertips. “It was only a dream.”
It had been an intensely vivid one, rife with intricate detail, but still only a dream. Anne de Bourgh had not escaped her tomb to visit in the darkness, nor was she attempting to convey any sort of message to the living. It was only a dream.
Beneath her fright, she found herself oddly disappointed, as if she had read a story to the end only for it to falter on the last page. As if the monster stalking the protagonist had turned out to be a man after all, one who merely sought to steal her dowry and not her living soul. A kinder conclusion but deeply unsatisfying.
Darcy drew her closer and pulled her head to his chest where she could hear his heart thudding stridently against his ribcage. He pressed a kiss to her temple and breathed out a relieved, “Thank God.”
They lay back, tangled together, and Darcy’s breathing evened out a short time later; he had fallen back to sleep. Elizabeth lay awake picturing the ghostly visage of Anne lurking just out of sight and jumping at every ringing stroke of the hour.