Chapter 33 The Rose Cottage Trap
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE ROSE COTTAGE TRAP
Elizabeth’s head throbbed from where it had been struck, and her wrists were still bound when a man dressed as a skeletal ghoul removed the hood from her head. She blinked at the scene in front of her, not at all surprised. So, this was the endgame.
She had been brought to the very place where her parents had died—where her life had changed course before she was old enough to remember it. Seated on a settee in Rose Cottage’s main room, she was surrounded by a collection of masked refugees from Caroline’s All Hallows’ Eve Assembly.
Martha Wickham loomed before her in the black robes and white face paint of a grieving widow—an ironic choice, Elizabeth reflected, considering the woman had likely created more widows than she had ever been one herself.
George Wickham lurked in the shadows, his pirate costume now seeming less dashing than menacing in the flickering candlelight.
Most disturbing was Thomas Rumsey, garbed as Death incarnate with skeletal face paint and a hooded black cloak that made him appear to have stepped directly from a medieval morality play.
Madame Evro, the fortune teller, stood near the fireplace, warming her hands.
Across from her sat none other than her father’s cousin, Mr. Collins. He was tied to a chair and looking as though he might expire from sheer terror.
“Well, Mr. Collins, what a pleasant surprise to find you here,” Elizabeth greeted. “Is this some sort of impromptu prayer meeting? Though I must say, the decorations are rather more Gothic than I would expect from a man of your theological sensibilities.”
Collins’s mouth opened and closed several times before any sound emerged.
“M-Miss Elizabeth! This is most irregular! I have been abducted and held prisoner by that ghoul. Summoned as an honest clergyman to minister to a dying widow. Lady Catherine would be most severely displeased if she knew of such treatment of her clergyman!”
“Enough chatter,” Martha interrupted, clapping her hands sharply. “The bride has awakened, and the altar awaits. We have preparations to make and little time to waste.”
Bride? Elizabeth’s mind raced through implications, settling on the obvious: they intended to force her marriage to George as soon as the clock struck midnight, when she would be of legal age. She was outnumbered, but she had her wits, and she was sure Darcy would eventually come to her rescue.
“Martha!” Elizabeth exclaimed with such warmth that even she was impressed by her performance. “My dearest nursemaid! I don’t understand. Why am I back in the cottage where I was born?”
Martha startled, clearly having expected tears, pleading, or outright hysteria. “Miss Elizabeth… You remember this… cottage?”
Elizabeth’s eyes suddenly widened, her gaze shifting to focus on something beyond Martha’s shoulder. Her expression became distant, almost trancelike, causing even the formidable Martha to glance nervously behind her.
“I see him,” Elizabeth whispered, her voice taking on an ethereal quality.
“My father. Such dark hair, like polished mahogany. His brow furrowed with concern as he reads by the fireplace—a true gentleman, even in his moments of quiet study.” Her hand lifted, pointing to an empty corner of the room.
“And there—my mother. Reddish-brown curls falling about her shoulders, laughing at something he’s said.
Her eyes… They’re like mine, aren’t they? Quick and observant.”
Martha’s face had drained of what little color remained beneath her white paint. George shifted uncomfortably, while Rumsey’s skeletal visage betrayed the faintest flicker of unease.
“And there,” Elizabeth continued, her finger drifting to indicate a space by the imaginary figures, “stands a young nursemaid. Loyal and patient, with soft blue eyes—like yours once were, Martha—and honey-brown hair that catches the firelight.” She tilted her head as if listening.
“The same coloring as young George. How curious, I never noticed that before.”
Martha’s composure cracked momentarily. “You cannot possibly remember such things. You were an infant.”
Elizabeth blinked, returning from her apparent vision with a confused smile.
“Was I? How strange that I should see it so clearly. Perhaps the cottage remembers, even if I do not. But, pray tell me, on this night when the veil between worlds grows thin, when spirits walk among the living seeking peace or vengeance—is it not fitting that I should return to where my life began and was forever altered?”
She glanced toward the window, where darkness pressed against the glass. “All Hallows’ Eve, when the departed seek communion with those they left behind. My parents’ spirits must be restless indeed after twenty years of injustice.”
Mr. Collins, pale as parchment, muttered frantic prayers under his breath. “Lord preserve us from spectral visitations and unholy communications with the dead—for it is written in Samuel that ‘a woman with a familiar spirit’ is an abomination—”
“Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth interrupted with gentle reproach, “surely even you must acknowledge the sacred nature of this night? Even the Church recognized these ancient observances, merely transforming them into All Saints’ Day.”
Martha watched this exchange with growing impatience, yet Elizabeth could see curiosity warring with suspicion in her eyes.
“I would like to see it all,” Elizabeth continued, her voice softening to wistful longing.
“The rooms where they lived, where they loved, where I began my life. Tell me, Martha, were John and Rose very much in love? Did they beseech you to save me that dreadful day? While the fires raged and smoke covered their lungs, were they thinking only of me? I seem to recall… how brave you were, my nursemaid.”
“You always were a bright child,” Martha said, her posture relaxing slightly. “Even as a baby, you seemed to understand when I spoke to you.”
“Yes… I can see it now.” Elizabeth closed her eyes and did her best rendition of Madame Evro.
“The fire started in the kitchen. The orange flames licking the curtains… smoke, thick and choking… My mother’s eyes and my father’s hands, and you…
so brave… bursting through the door. A true heroine, putting your own life in danger to bring me to Longbourn. ”
Martha’s expression shifted from confusion to cautious pride. Twenty years of silence about her greatest achievement had clearly left her with an audience hunger that overrode her suspicion.
“It was nothing any dedicated nursemaid wouldn’t have done,” she said with false modesty that didn’t quite conceal her satisfaction. “When I realized what was happening, I knew I had to act quickly.”
“Madame Evro.” Elizabeth floated toward the fortune teller. “Can you see them? The killers standing over my parents? Can you tell me what you see?”
The middle-aged woman shook her head. “I left my crystal ball in the tent. I have no visions, only shadows.”
“You told me the evidence is at the place they died. My parents would want me to know before I can move on.” Elizabeth insisted, her voice trembling with carefully manufactured emotion. “I seek their blessing in showing me what I need to know.”
Mr. Collins struggled against his bonds. “Spirits? Blessing? Miss Elizabeth, I must protest most strenuously against such pagan notions. The dead do not linger to bestow blessings upon the living.”
“It’s All Hallows’ Eve, Mr. Collins,” Elizabeth protested, spearing Madame Evro a pleading glance.
“We must tour the rooms where my dear parents spent their final hours. I cannot proceed without seeing every corner of this sacred place. If I am to be a bride tonight, I must have my dear parents’ blessing on this auspicious night. ”
Martha had no choice but to comply. She could hardly refuse such a reasonable request without appearing suspicious. “Very well, but quickly.”
“How beautiful this is,” Elizabeth murmured, positioning herself to block Martha’s view as she examined the ornate clock atop the mantel. “My parents must have looked at this very clock on their final evening.”
With sleight of hand learned from childhood games with her sisters, Elizabeth quietly moved the clock’s hands backward by a full hour. If her captors were relying on this timepiece to determine when midnight arrived, she had just purchased herself precious additional time.
As they moved through the cottage’s modest rooms, Elizabeth maintained a stream of admiring commentary while her eyes searched for useful details. In the kitchen, she paused before the sideboard.
“This must be where they took their final meals.” She turned back to Martha. “Did you say the fire started in the kitchen? Was it truly an accident, as some maintain? Doubtless, your quick thinking saved my life.”
George shifted uncomfortably in the shadows. “Mother, we don’t have time for storytelling. Midnight approaches, and we must—”
“Hush, George,” Martha snapped, clearly relishing Elizabeth’s attention.
“The girl deserves to know her history.” She turned back to Elizabeth with obvious pride.
“It was indeed a masterful operation. I knew the cottage would be… compromised that evening, so I made certain to retrieve you beforehand.”
“How thrilling! And my parents—did you try to warn them as well?”
Martha’s expression grew calculating. “Your parents were beyond help. John Darcy had made enemies through his interference in matters that didn’t concern him. Some lessons can only be taught through… permanent consequences.”
“This is preposterous,” Collins pronounced. “We’re talking about murder. The sixth commandment says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Rumsey interrupted, his skeleton costume rendering his harsh features even more sinister. “The ceremony must be done before George can whisk his bride to the next county.”