Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
E lizabeth lay splayed on the ground, both arms cradling her abdomen in a protective stance, and groaned. Her shoulder hurt, as did the knee and hip she had landed upon, but the pain did not feel like the lingering sort. More importantly?—
She breathed a shuddering sigh of relief when the baby moved, wriggling about in what felt like an anxious panic. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut a moment, tears wetting her lashes, and willed her own terror to subside.
Another groan from a short distance away reminded Elizabeth of her precarious position, and she scrambled upright, scuttling away from the prone form of Lady Catherine where she lay crumpled upon the hearth beneath the bulk of a pair of gleaming knights. She had struck one with her cane in her vicious pursuit of Elizabeth, causing it to topple over into the other and both of them to land atop herself. Most of her body was concealed by the pile of armour, save for a single twitching hand and the volume of her skirts. A trickle of blood seeped from the mound, puddling into a gruesome lake of glistening crimson.
Less than a minute after Lady Catherine had met her fate, and well before Elizabeth could adequately comprehend what had happened, the door to the hall was flung open, and Freddy burst into the room just ahead of Darcy. “Elizabeth—dear God, are you well?”
Her courage of the last quarter of an hour dissolved at the entrance of her husband, and tears poured forth. She clumsily rose to her feet just in time to throw herself into Darcy’s arms and bury her face in his cravat, sobbing his name.
Darcy set her away from him, eyes wild and breathing heavily. “You must tell me now, are you hurt? The babe?”
Elizabeth shook her head emphatically. “No more than a bruise or two, I promise, and I believe the child is well. It is moving even now.” She drew Darcy’s hand to her belly and witnessed the relief on his face at the flutter beneath his palm. How differently he acts towards the baby now that he has felt it move.
She turned to the heap of metal and twitching limbs upon the hearth. “But Lady Catherine…”
The colonel was crouched over his aunt’s prone form, working to dig her out from the dismantled armour. Lord Matlock stood at his son’s shoulder, frozen in apparent shock. Between his waxen pallor and white-blond hair, he looked as much a ghost as Anne.
Darcy used his finger to gently tip Elizabeth’s face back in his direction. “What happened?”
Falteringly, Elizabeth described how Lady Catherine had arrived at the door shortly after Darcy had left—her ladyship must have been watching for his departure, she belatedly presumed—and forced her way inside. “I was so stupid! I never meant to go against your wishes, I swear it. I thought it was you come back from your walk and…and…”
Darcy hushed her with soothing words and gentle circles upon her back. “There now, it is over, my love. Do not berate yourself so harshly.”
Once she had collected herself, Elizabeth proceeded with her explanation of how Lady Catherine had attacked her, resulting in a merry chase about the room until she had struck one of the knights and…well, the rest was fairly obvious.
“I had always known her to be intractable and difficult, but she is entirely mad. What could she have been thinking?” mused Lord Matlock from where he stood out of the way, observing as his son directed the servants to carry his sister to her own rooms. So far, she was still breathing, but she had not stirred, nor was she responding to any attempts to rouse her.
Darcy gathered Elizabeth to his chest and pressed a kiss to her crown. “Some things defy rational explanation.”
Although he would have preferred to tuck Elizabeth into bed, Darcy did not wish to expose her further to the calamity in their chambers. Thus did they adjourn to the library, where she would be most comfortable.
They were still there an hour later, Elizabeth curled up in his lap while Darcy stroked her back and whispered endearments into her hair, when Fitzwilliam and Lord Matlock appeared. Freddy, more on guard than was her usual wont, stood and growled at the newcomers until Darcy told her to stand down. She did but kept a suspicious eye on Lord Matlock as he collapsed into an armchair; Fitzwilliam she allowed to pet her without complaint.
“She yet lives,” Lord Matlock said wearily, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. When he dropped his hand into his lap, he continued, “For now, at least. The apothecary—Jules?”
“Julius,” corrected Fitzwilliam, equally as jaded as his father.
“Yes, him. Mr Julius says it could go either way, but he cautions us to expect the worst.”
Fitzwilliam snorted, and Darcy was tempted to do the same. The ‘worst’ case would be to have Lady Catherine survive and make another attempt on Elizabeth’s life. Not that they would remain at Rosings long enough for her to try; tomorrow, rain or no rain, he would be returning his wife to the comparative safety of London. There, she could be properly looked after with no lethal tonics or bludgeon-wielding maniacs in sight.
“Her housekeeper wanted to call in Nichols for a second opinion, but I have already sent the magistrate after that lout. He is the law’s problem now. Ours is to decide what to do with Catherine, should she wake from her coma.”
Fitzwilliam slammed his fist against the arm of his own chair. “We ought to hand her over to the magistrate along with her quack! She should hang for what she did to Anne, and potentially to Sir Lewis as well. Do you recall how sudden his death was?”
“To say nothing of poor Mr Stephens,” said Elizabeth, speaking for the first time since their relations entered the room. When Lord Matlock regarded her with a blank expression, she reminded him, “The local solicitor. The one whose offices burnt down with him inside. Lady Catherine all but confessed to me that she had ordered it set aflame. We are fortunate that only one person was killed and additional damage to the village was prevented.”
The earl grimaced. “Even if she is guilty of all this and more, it does not alter the fact that society does not look kindly upon the kin of murderers. We shall all be ruined if her transgressions are widely known.”
Objections were immediately—and loudly—raised by both Darcy and Fitzwilliam, but Lord Matlock quieted them with a barking order. “Enough of that! I am not saying that Catherine ought not to be punished, only that we do so discreetly. She has obviously gone mad, so ensconcing her in some decrepit little cottage where she can be properly supervised is not so outrageous.”
“You only mean to protect your precious reputation,” spat Fitzwilliam.
Lord Matlock levelled his son with a chilling glare, though Fitzwilliam seemed unperturbed. “Do not speak to me that way, boy. You might have your own estate now, but you will require my help to bring it up to snuff.”
“Your own estate?” queried Elizabeth, a crease of confusion between her eyebrows.
Fitzwilliam nodded, a sharp, tight gesture. “Anne left everything to me. I do not know whether to thank or curse her for it, but Rosings is now mine to do with what I will. At the moment, I am tempted to burn the entire pile to the ground and salt the earth.”
Darcy perfectly comprehended the colonel’s feelings but knew that he spoke primarily out of anger and disgust, emotions which would pass with time. When he was ready, Darcy would be at Fitzwilliam’s disposal to help him either repair or sell the old place; Anne’s final gift to a beloved cousin would not go to waste.
“All of this plotting is for nothing until we know whether Lady Catherine lives or dies. Time alone will tell us that.”
The lot of them grumbled agreement to Darcy’s concise summary. Brandy was passed round to the gentlemen, chocolate—not tea, never tea—was procured for Elizabeth, and the church bells rang their heavy knells in the distance.