Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
W hen they arrived back at the manor house, the Darcys found the place in uproar.
“What is going on?” Darcy demanded to no one in particular, but he was disregarded by the various servants crossing to and fro through the hall. From upstairs, he could hear his aunt screeching, but her words were unintelligible and informed him of nothing. She could be on her deathbed or irritable over some imagined slight; he could not know without context.
Fortunately, Fitzwilliam appeared on the top landing just then to provide it. He rapidly descended the staircase, looking harried. “Darcy, the next catastrophe is yours to manage, for I have done my fair share.”
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked, her eyes fixed upon the upper hall from whence Lady Catherine’s strident tones issued.
“Our dear aunt tripped over something in her room—a footstool, or some such—and has badly twisted her ankle. Nichols is with her now, but I suspect he wishes he were anywhere else.”
“Goodness, Lady Catherine has suffered a great deal of mishaps lately,” observed Elizabeth with a frown.
Fitzwilliam laughed and shook his head. “Teacups flying about, pictures falling upon her head, tripping over footstools… If I believed in such things, I would think she was cursed.”
Elizabeth appeared struck by this notion, her face paling a shade.
“Curses, indeed,” Darcy grumbled as he carefully observed his wife. She had complained of hunger on the way back, so perhaps that was to blame for her waning colour. When she showed no signs of immediate faintness, he asked his cousin, “Is there aught you need from me?”
“No, it is all well in hand, though I am certain Lady Catherine will be expecting a visit to her sick room at some point—she is not to leave it for at least a week or two. If I were you, I would wait for Nichols to administer the laudanum before paying your call.” He issued this suggestion with a wink.
After refreshing himself and dutifully paying a sickroom visit to Lady Catherine—who had at last been silenced by the anticipated dose of laudanum—Darcy sat down to eat a simple meal of cold meats, cheese, and bread in one of the lesser dining rooms with Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam. It was smaller and more modestly decorated than the one his aunt insisted upon using, enabling their party to converse at an easy distance rather than from yards away from one another .
“Elizabeth discovered something interesting in Anne’s tower.”
After swallowing down his bite of ham, Fitzwilliam replied, “Oh?”
“Our cousin kept a diary,” said Darcy, setting his napkin atop his empty plate. “She found only the most recent volume, but there is a decent chance that there are others.”
“Were they not stored in the tower with the one you found?”
“I am afraid not. I perused the bookshelf and discovered naught but Anne’s favourite novels and poetry—mostly the ones she kept hidden from her mother.”
Fitzwilliam laughed. “I recall bringing her a copy of one of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels once and going to extraordinary lengths to prevent Lady Catherine from seeing it. I resorted to dropping it out of the window into the shrubbery when she walked in upon my presenting it to Anne.”
“That would explain the stains.”
“I thought we were safe! Lady Catherine never goes into the library. I dare say I have not seen her in there either before or since—it was just ill luck. Had you been distracting her properly?—”
“Oh no, do not lay the blame at my feet,” Darcy objected with a hearty guffaw. “I am not responsible for your lack of foresight.”
Elizabeth’s gaze moved between Darcy and Fitzwilliam as if she were watching a tennis match, allowing them their banter as she steadily ate her meal. To Darcy’s satisfaction, she had nearly cleared her plate, even though she had not piled it as high as he might have wished. He would make sure that she took more refreshment in an hour or two.
“In any case, I thought we might search Anne’s room for more journals. If they exist, they might aid us in locating her will.”
“If that even exists. I am beginning to believe it conjecture.”
After ensuring that Elizabeth had eaten her fill, the trio travelled upstairs and into the family wing to where Anne’s former chambers resided. They were situated directly across the hall from Darcy’s usual guest suite—a contrivance Lady Catherine had once hoped might lead to a speedy engagement. It had not occurred to her, apparently, that the sounds of Anne retching into her chamber pot throughout the night were not much of an enticement.
When Darcy opened the door and tried to wave Elizabeth through, she stopped just short of crossing the threshold, an expression of consternation on her face. “Is something wrong?”
She shook herself and presented him with an easy smile. “Not at all. I just oddly feel as if I have been here before.”
With a hand to the small of her back, Darcy guided her inside and shut the door behind them. Fitzwilliam was already within and looking about. “It is so similar to our own chambers that it is little wonder that you should feel so.”
It was true. Save for the colour scheme—Anne preferred pinks to blues—and a view of the courtyard, the rooms were nearly identical. There was a turreted fireplace against one wall guarded by a pair of knights, a cosy window seat from which one could enjoy the babbling cadence of the fountain—not that it had been functional in years—and the furniture was of the same heavy, old-fashioned variety.
“That must be it,” Elizabeth agreed absently, her eyes wandering slowly about the space as if in a dreamlike state. Darcy touched her elbow, and she startled back to herself. “Forgive me, I was wool gathering. Let us divide and conquer.”
They separated to search different parts of the room, with Elizabeth going directly to the table beside Anne’s bed and Darcy to the set of low bookshelves on one side of the door. Fitzwilliam had disappeared into the dressing room. They were all quiet save for the shuffling of fabric and the sliding of drawers.
Darcy perused the whitewashed bookshelves and found more of the same as he had encountered at the tower, albeit nothing that would provoke Lady Catherine’s ire. There were some slim volumes of poetry, a handful of unobjectionable novels, historical texts, and one particularly thick tome of Arthurian legend. The nameplate inside read ‘Sir Lewis’, making him smile. Otherwise, the shelves were relatively empty, especially near the top where several books lay haphazardly on their sides. He leant closer and found a subtle void in the dust where a line of folios might have once rested, but he could not be sure. All he knew for certain was that Anne was a great reader, having little strength to take pleasure in much else, and the bareness of her shelves bothered him.
Fitzwilliam emerged from the dressing room, declaring, “ Nothing but gowns and some empty bottles of tonic. Any luck out here?”
Elizabeth sat on the edge of Anne’s bed, cradling a silver bell in her cupped hands as she stared solemnly at it. Her reply was soft and absentminded. “No, nothing.”
“I think they might have once resided here,” Darcy said, lightly tapping the bookshelf with his index finger, “but they are certainly not there now.”
Fitzwilliam turned his gaze to the fireplace, narrowing his eyes with suspicion. He strode towards it, picked up the poker from its stand, and began prodding at the ashes in the grate. “I think someone has been burning something here.”
Darcy walked over, resting his hand against one of the turrets as he bent to inspect Fitzwilliam’s findings. “Anne has been dead for nearly a fortnight now. Why would it still be this dirty?” The fireplace was absolutely filled with ash and blackened detritus; it had obviously not been swept clean after its last use.
Fitzwilliam’s jabbing with the poker unearthed a piece of leather, which might have once been white, curled in on itself like a shrivelled flower. A bit more sifting uncovered a few bits of singed paper. He picked one up and brought it closer to his face. “I think we might have found the journals.”
“What?” Darcy held out his hand for the scrap, and Fitzwilliam carefully laid it upon his palm. There was not much left of the page, but a single word—‘Mother’—in Anne’s hand was scrawled across it. “Why on earth would anyone burn Anne’s journals?”
Fitzwilliam stood, dusting ash from his hands. “Perhaps to protect our cousin’s privacy? It is not unknown for a loving relative or devoted servant to burn letters after someone has died, and journals would certainly fall into the same category.”
Shaking his head, Darcy said, “Mrs Jenkinson was let go well before Anne died.”
“Then her maid, or Lady Catherine herself. In fact, given the state of the hearth”—Fitzwilliam waved his blackened hand at the unclean fireplace—“I should say our aunt is the most likely culprit. Why she did not order someone to tidy up after her, I cannot say.”
Darcy nodded along; it sounded plausible to him. “That is unfortunate.”
“We at least have her most recent journal,” Elizabeth said. “It is just across the hall in our chamber. I can begin reading it today, if you like.”
Taking her nearest hand into his possession, Darcy lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “No hurry, but I thank you for your earnest desire to help. Read it at your leisure and let us know what you find.”
Elizabeth’s eyes were drooping again, and she fought to prop them back open. Perhaps it had not been the best idea to begin Anne’s diary before bed, but the rest of the day had been consumed with assisting Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam in the search for the missing will.
After promising that she would not lift anything heavier than their lamp or wander off on her own, the gentlemen had allowed her to accompany them to the attic to explore the possibilities therein. They had sifted through a great deal of old furniture—much of which was somehow older and uglier than that adorning the public rooms downstairs; the de Bourghs could not, as a whole, be described as arbiters of good taste—and various knickknacks before discovering a wealth of old documents in a far corner. Many of them were dated well before Anne’s lifetime, but a few crates would require further scrutiny. Darcy had ordered them all carted down to the library, where he and the colonel might sort through them in greater comfort on the morrow.
By the time this task was completed, dinner was imminent, and they had all gone down to change out of their dusty clothes before partaking in a light meal in the same small dining room they had utilised at midday. After that, Elizabeth’s fatigue overcame her, and she excused herself to bed, leaving the gentlemen to their port.
Now exhaustion was creeping in, and she felt she could not continue reading. After one too many nods that she jerked herself awake from, Elizabeth conceded defeat, marked her page with the provided pink ribbon, and set the diary aside for the night. Within minutes, she was deeply asleep.
Elizabeth stirred and sat up, blinking about at the curved stone walls and decorative windows of Anne’s tower. She was reclined upon the ivory sofa in her nightgown and bare feet as if she had intentionally fallen asleep there. Unlike previously, she was fully aware that she was dreaming, having expected it after the previous nights of fantastical jaunts.
As if to confirm her suspicions, there was Anne, standing beside the desk across the room, glimmering in the faceted moonlight streaming through the window behind her. The shards of coloured light seemed to pierce her form, which did not seem entirely solid, providing no barrier to the pattern casting itself upon the floor. She smiled at Elizabeth, but it was wan and tired.
“Good evening. We discovered your diary today. Did you…mean for me to find it?”
Yes.
Elizabeth felt a thrill at having guessed correctly. Her next words came with eager rapidity. “I hope you do not mind that I have perused it a little. Your cousins are hunting for your will and hope the journal might contain some clue as to its whereabouts.”
Anne nodded, though whether in assent or simple understanding Elizabeth could not say.
Given that her older volumes had been reduced to ash, perhaps at Anne’s instruction, Elizabeth felt it imperative to declare, “I promise to keep your secrets. You need have no fear of my sharing any of its contents. I shall even destroy it after reading it, if that is your wish.”
A hasty, urgent shake of the head— No!
“You do not want me to read it?”
No —a bemused pause— Yes.
“If you are unsure…”
More emphatic shaking. No, no, no.
Elizabeth was still not entirely clear what Anne wished for her to do. It must have shown on her face, for the incorporeal lady waved her hand over the rosewood desk, and the diary appeared upon its surface. She tapped it emphatically with one finger.
“The diary is important…” Elizabeth surmised aloud. “You wish me to read it?”
Yes!
“And then…give it to your mother?”
Anne clutched at her lifeless heart, horror writ plain upon her pale face.
Frustrated, Elizabeth asked plainly, with a touch of a whine to her tone, “What do you want me to do?”
Anne swallowed deeply and opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. She shook her fist, then calmed, apparently ready to try again. She closed her eyes and appeared to turn her meditation inwards. Elizabeth watched, fascinated, as a soft light began to emanate from her form. It was most concentrated at a singular point in her throat.
When her mouth opened again, a single, echoing word issued forth: “ Tell. ”