Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A s they ascended, Elizabeth felt an odd sort of tingle shiver through her body, from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Somehow, it brought to mind her dream from the night before, a soft recollection of her nighttime wanderings, though she could not articulate precisely why that should be. I suppose it is more the setting than the sensation.
The staircase was too narrow for a pair of fully grown adults to walk abreast, so Darcy led the way to the room at the top. After pushing open the trapdoor and climbing through, he turned back to assist Elizabeth, then closed it behind them. “One can never be too safe. I recall Fitzwilliam falling through once when he was not minding his feet.”
“Oh dear. Was he terribly injured?”
Darcy shrugged. “Only his head—no great loss.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I take it you and your cousins spent a great deal of time here once?”
Darcy was standing in the direct centre of the room, spinning in a slow circle as he took in the scene. When he replied, his voice was somewhat distant, as if speaking from another time. “Yes, we used to come here to play at every annual visit while the adults talked up at the house. Anne was our damsel in distress, and we—Fitzwilliam and I—her daring knights. I cannot tell you how many times we defended her honour from dragons and trolls, only to return to Rosings for dinner and look on helplessly while her own mother relentlessly badgered her.”
Elizabeth went to him and wrapped her arms about his waist, resting her cheek against his shoulder. “I wish I had taken the time to know her better when I visited before. I feel as if I have missed out.”
Darcy’s arms came up, and he returned the embrace, pressing a kiss to her bonneted head. “Anne was delightful but also very shy, much like Georgiana. Worse, she was often quite ill and not up to conversation even if she wished to make the effort. When you knew her, she was almost as bad as I had ever seen her—though that did not prevent Lady Catherine from redoubling her efforts to see us engaged.”
“Poor girl.”
After another kiss, this time a soft peck to Elizabeth’s lips, Darcy stepped back from her and began to more thoroughly examine the room. Following his example, Elizabeth wandered in the opposite direction to allow him the time he required to regain equanimity; it had been her experience that her husband sometimes needed a moment to himself to achieve this endeavour.
While Darcy bent to inspect one of the bookcases, Elizabeth wandered aimlessly, searching without particular purpose. She could understand why Anne would have loved this place; it was light, bright, and sparkling in a way that Rosings Park was not. The entire room was bathed in a warm pink glow and shimmered with the stained-glass pattern cast upon the floor. No doubt she had spent as much time here as her health allowed, out from under Lady Catherine’s imperious eye.
A glimmer of movement caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she turned. There, next to the desk, she thought she saw—but no, it could not be. A trick of the flickering light had made her believe for a moment that Anne was there with them in the tower. She was again assailed by a spontaneous quiver, though perhaps this time the cause was not so mysterious. You are beginning to see things, Lizzy.
“Elizabeth?”
Shaken, she turned to her husband, who was peering at her with a queer expression. Realising that she must have gasped or otherwise betrayed her amazement, Elizabeth was quick to reassure him. “Dust caught in my throat. I am well.”
“Do you wish to go back down?”
“It is only dust. I dare say I can struggle on.”
With a playful roll of his eyes, Darcy returned to perusing the book—a tome about the Holy Grail, she noted—splayed open in his hands.
Trepidation and irrepressible interest warred within her as she roamed the tower room, touching and observing everything except that desk. It had featured prominently in her dream, which was perhaps why it cast a siren’s lure upon her now, teasing and taunting her with glimmering visions. Yet, no matter how she rationalised, her eyes frequently strayed to it, tempted by it or perhaps oddly hoping to catch a glimpse of some ethereal figure. She did not really believe in ghosts— Or do I? —yet she half expected to see a young woman in a long white nightgown appear there at any moment, beckoning her nearer.
At length, curiosity won out over caution, and she tentatively approached the desk. It was placed directly below the stained-glass window and, as a result, was dappled in multicoloured light that shimmered like sunshine on Pemberley’s lake. There, in the lower right-hand corner, were Anne’s initials; Elizabeth traced them with the tips of her fingers.
The surface of the desk was clear, save for Anne’s quills and ink pot—long dried up—patiently awaiting the return of their owner. Was there anything concealed within? Her skin prickled as she reached for the drawer set into the centre and slid it open. She peered inside, her pulse beating at a quickened pace as her anticipation mounted.
Therein lay an innocuous tome, bound in white leather with a length of pink ribbon marking a page somewhere in the final third of the volume. It had no title stamped across the front or any other distinguishing marks to suggest its contents. Doing her best to temper her expectations— a favourite novel, surely —Elizabeth picked it up and opened it to the inside cover.
January 1, 1812
The new year begins dreary and cold, as I suppose one must expect in the winter months. Mother has complained ceaselessly about the rain, though even she must acknowledge that the weather means her no personal affront. Regardless, she drones on endlessly about it as if it is the fault of some unknown person who seeks to undermine her authority on the proper amount of rain one might reasonably expect this time of year. Mrs Jenkinson says…
As recognition of what she held in her hands arose, Elizabeth trailed her fingertips down the handwritten text, full of astonished wonder. She could not help but consider, however impossible the notion, the likelihood that she had been somehow led to this discovery by unseen forces. Miss de Bourgh?
The baby jumped inside her womb, startling Elizabeth from her reading. She cried out—more of a soft ‘oof’ than anything—drawing forth Darcy, who was at her shoulder in moments. “Is something the matter?”
“No, I was merely surprised by a sudden kick.” She rubbed her belly for emphasis. Mindful of worrying her husband, she dispelled any ghostly ruminations for the present; she might ponder at leisure when she was less likely to alarm Darcy with her distraction. “Look here. I believe I have discovered our cousin’s diary.”
Darcy took the journal from her hands and leafed through a few of the pages, nodding. “I believe you have. I had no notion that Anne kept a diary.”
“It seems she stored it here rather than at Rosings. I found it inside the desk.”
Closing it, Darcy regarded the pale cover thoughtfully. “I wonder whether she kept others. If so, there might be mention of her will in one of them, possibly even a clue as to its location. ”
“You do not think it would be in this one?”
Darcy opened it up to the first entry and tapped at the date at the top—January 1812. “Given when it was penned, I suspect this is her most recent one. I cannot see why she would discuss her will in it unless she expected to die. As we know, her death came rather suddenly.”
Elizabeth took the diary from his hands and blindly perused the page. Anne had a fair, if unsteady, hand as she described the tedium of Rosings Park in the winter. “I suppose not, but perhaps someone ought to read it just in case?”
“It could not hurt, though I doubt it will provide much assistance, and I would rather not…” His words faded, his countenance overspread with sadness.
Tucking the journal against her chest, Elizabeth used her free hand to rub his back. “Of course it would cause you pain, and presumably the colonel as well. Why not let me read it? And any older ones we might find.”
“If you are certain…”
“Quite certain.”
Ding-dong, ding-dong .
The church bells rang the hour, and Darcy proclaimed that it was time to depart. Elizabeth’s stomach was beginning to grumble riotously, so she was not inclined to object. With Anne’s diary tucked beneath her arm, she allowed her husband to assist her through the trapdoor and down the stairs.