Chapter 21 Unreliable Witnesses #2
Elizabeth felt as though the floor beneath her feet had suddenly shifted. First, Molly with her talk of two bodies instead of three, and now Mrs. Winters claiming to have seen all three Darcys alive after the fire allegedly started?
“That’s impossible,” Georgiana protested. “Everyone knows they died in the fire.”
“Everyone knows what they were told to know,” Mrs. Winters replied with a sniff. “I’m only telling you what these eyes witnessed. They left that very night, heading for the southern road. Took one of the best carriages.”
“But why would they fake their deaths?” Elizabeth asked, struggling to make sense of this new narrative.
“Fear, miss. Pure fear.” Mrs. Winters lowered her voice. “Master John had discovered something dangerous—something that threatened powerful men. Men like his brother and Benjamin Bingley.”
Again, the connection to the Bingleys. And now an explicit accusation against William Darcy.
“What had he discovered?” she pressed.
“Smuggling on a grand scale. Using the Darcy shipping business as cover for moving contraband—French silks, brandy, tobacco, even weapons.” Mrs. Winters’ eyes darted nervously to the door. “The Pemberley fortune nearly doubled during those years, and not from honest trade.”
“And the bodies found in the cottage?” Georgiana asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Winters shrugged. “Convenient corpses are not difficult to find if one has the resources and lack of scruples. Vagrants, perhaps, or unlucky souls from the workhouse. Who would question the identification when the faces were burned beyond recognition?”
The callousness of this suggestion made Elizabeth’s stomach turn, yet she couldn’t dismiss it entirely. The story had a certain dark logic to it.
“And the baby?” Elizabeth asked, her throat suddenly dry. “Little Elizabeth Rose?”
“Taken with them, of course,” Mrs. Winters replied, as if it were obvious. “Though I’ve often wondered if she survived what came after. Being on the run with a child so young…” She shook her head doubtfully.
“Is there anyone else who might have seen them leave?” Elizabeth pressed, grasping for anything to corroborate this extraordinary claim.
“Martha Wickham.” The name fell from Mrs. Winters’ lips like a curse.
“She played the part of the grieving nursemaid beautifully. Collapsed in hysterics, she did, claiming all was lost in the flames. A performance worthy of the London stage. But she was seen at the carriage house, carrying their cloaks.”
Elizabeth felt a chill run down her spine. If this account were true, Martha’s current story about saving baby Elizabeth was a complete fabrication. And if her parents escaped, where were they? Had they left her in the basket at Longbourn with the locket and note?
No, she couldn’t believe they would leave her.
“Has anyone heard from them?” Elizabeth asked.
“Never again,” the woman replied stiffly. “Perhaps they went to America. It’s said their trunks were heavy. Burned down the cottage to fake their deaths, I say.”
“You seem very certain of all this,” she observed, studying Mrs. Winters’ face for any sign of deception.
“I know what I saw,” the woman replied stiffly. “What you choose to believe is your own affair, miss.”
They left the stillroom shortly after, Mrs. Winters having made it clear that she had said all she intended to on the matter. Elizabeth’s mind buzzed with the contradictions between the accounts she had heard.
“Let’s look for Mrs. Reynolds,” Georgiana said. “Molly’s account was confusing, and Mrs. Winters’ is unbelievable, almost as if she worked out a gothic novel in her mind, but the head housekeeper can certainly shed more light.”
Elizabeth agreed, falling silent as they approached Mrs. Reynolds’s domain. The housekeeper was not in her room, but a passing footman informed them she could be found in the linen storage, overseeing the airing of winter blankets.
They found her there, a dignified woman with white hair and an air of quiet authority, directing several maids in the careful unfolding of woolen blankets.
“Miss Georgiana,” she greeted them. “And Miss Bennet. How may I assist you?”
Georgiana performed the introductions again, explaining Elizabeth’s research interest.
“I remember your aunt Rose very well, miss,” she said. “A breath of fresh air in this house. Master John bloomed in her presence, like a plant receiving proper sunlight.”
“I understand they were happy,” Elizabeth said, touched by the poetic description.
“As happy as two people could be,” Mrs. Reynolds confirmed. “And so delighted with their little girl. Master John would walk the floors with her for hours when she was teething, refusing to hand her to the nursemaid.”
“Martha Wickham was the nursemaid?” Elizabeth asked innocently.
“Not the wet nurse, no. That was Sally Dixon from the village. Mrs. Wickham was a nursery maid—responsible for the baby’s daily care, not feeding.” Mrs. Reynolds’s tone cooled noticeably. “Though she often neglected those duties.”
“I’ve heard she was… friendly with the butler who was dismissed,” Elizabeth ventured. “Rumsey, I believe his name was?”
Mrs. Reynolds’s posture stiffened. “You seem to have heard a great many things for someone merely researching family history, Miss Bennet.”
“My father had connections in Derbyshire,” Elizabeth improvised. “He mentioned certain… irregularities surrounding the fire. I merely wish to understand the circumstances of my aunt’s death.”
The housekeeper studied her for a long moment, then dismissed the maids with a quiet word. When they were alone, she spoke in a low voice. “If you’re truly Rose Bennet’s niece, my advice to you is to let sleeping dogs lie. Some secrets are too dangerous to uncover.”
“But if there was foul play—” Georgiana began.
“Then those responsible have likely prospered these twenty years without consequence,” Mrs. Reynolds interrupted. “And would not hesitate to ensure their continued prosperity by whatever means necessary.”
The warning sent a chill through Elizabeth. “You believe we might be in danger if we pursue this?”
“I believe,” Mrs. Reynolds said carefully, “that after twenty years, one should not stir up old ashes…”
“Thank you for your candor,” Elizabeth said quietly. “I promise we’ll be careful.”
“See that you are.” Mrs. Reynolds’s gaze shifted to Georgiana. “Your brother would never forgive me if I allowed either of you to come to harm through careless talk.”
They left the linen storage and emerged into the bright autumn sunshine.
“We need to speak with Rumsey,” Elizabeth said. “He’s the key to understanding what really happened that night.”
“But Mrs. Reynolds warned us—” Georgiana began, her earlier enthusiasm tempered by the housekeeper’s ominous words.
“She warned us to be careful, not to abandon the search entirely.” Elizabeth squared her shoulders. “If Martha Wickham and Thomas Rumsey were involved in my parents’ deaths, I need to know. Not just for my inheritance claim, but for justice.”
Georgiana studied her with newfound respect. “Then we will be careful, but we will persist. Together.”
Elizabeth’s hands smoothed the borrowed muslin as she contemplated this unexpected alliance. Here was a girl raised in luxury and privilege, yet willing to risk her comfortable position to seek justice for relatives she never knew.
“My father counseled much the same as Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth admitted. “He urged me to abandon this inheritance quest entirely.” A wry smile touched her lips. “Although he wanted me to marry a bumbling fool and forget that I could be a Darcy.”
“How dreadful, but I believe you are my cousin,” Georgiana insisted. “Even if—by some strange circumstance—you’re not, I should like you to be my sister.”
“You do know what that means, don’t you?” Elizabeth asked, arching an eyebrow, though her tone remained light. “It would require either you marrying one of my brothers—except I haven’t any—or…”
“You marrying Fitzwilliam.” Georgiana’s voice rose with such excitement that several birds took startled flight from a nearby bush. “My brother regards you, Elizabeth. I know it.”
“Indeed?” Elizabeth found herself oddly captivated by the girl’s romantic notion. “And you discern this from his decided avoidance of my company and abrupt departures whenever I attempt conversation?”
“That’s precisely how I know!” Georgiana insisted with the conviction of the very young. “He tries to hide it behind his formality and dignity, but you should have seen his sour expression when Mr. Bingley tried to take your arm yesterday. I thought he might crush his wine glass.”
Elizabeth wasn’t sure why Georgiana’s observation gave her such unexpected pleasure.
She certainly hadn’t traveled to Pemberley to secure a husband, least of all the current master whose position she might legally challenge.
She had come to claim her birthright, to seek justice for parents who had suffered horrible deaths at the hands of murderers who had prospered in their absence.
And yet, unbidden, the memory of Darcy’s gentle voice in the portrait gallery returned: Never apologize for genuine feeling. How did a man so rigid in his formality, so guarded in his manner, know exactly the right words to offer comfort in her moment of vulnerability?
“You’re smiling,” Georgiana observed with evident satisfaction. “You like him, too.”
“I find your brother a complex study in contradictions,” Elizabeth replied diplomatically. “But my presence at Pemberley has a purpose beyond analyzing its master’s character.”
“Of course,” Georgiana agreed, though her smile suggested she remained unconvinced. “Our investigation continues. Where shall we go next?”
“Perhaps in the library,” Elizabeth suggested. “Who knows what secret notes might be tucked between the pages of a book of poetry.”
“You read that one too?” Georgiana raised a finger excitedly. “The Purloined Book of Sonnets?”
“I confess it’s one of my favorite mysteries. My father calls such novels ‘horrid nonsense,’ but I find them wonderfully entertaining.”
“Life imitating art,” Georgiana said with surprising insight. “Though I hope our adventure ends more happily than poor Miss Ravenscroft’s.”
“Indeed.” Elizabeth’s smile dimmed. “Gothic heroines often faced terrible dangers before achieving their happy endings.”