CHAPTER 7 – Monster’s Ball
That night, the Hunsford party was accommodated in various guest rooms of the mansion, on the same floor where the family’s apartments were situated.
The staircase, with its creaking floorboards, seemed to whisper secrets of the past. Guided by the circumspect butler carrying a single candle, the group traversed the long, dark gallery in silence, flanked by rows of dusty armour and watched over by the unyielding gazes of long-dead ancestors whose portraits adorned the walls.
A sudden shiver raced up Elizabeth’s spine as she reached the top of the stairs, a sensation that had little to do with the chill in the air.
This wing of the mansion was entirely new to her, yet the situation seemed uncannily familiar.
The hush of the gallery, the ruthless storm beyond the windows, even the flicker of the candle in the butler’s hand seemed to belong to the memory of something she had never lived.
A brief, wistful moment came upon her: had her voracious reading before her trip to Wales somehow blurred the lines between fiction and reality, stirring her imagination in unexpected ways?
What a fanciful notion. She would have laughed at it, but Rosings was too steeped in shadow for jest to find a place within its walls.
A maid led her to the room that would be hers.
The chamber was austere and moderately sized, its plastered walls marked by time and neglect.
An old tapestry, still dignified despite its faded colours, hung opposite a window that offered a view of the tempest beyond.
The other walls lay bare, devoid of ornaments or decoration, their silence echoing the room’s solitude.
A musty odour mingled with the damp notes of rain, and the constant murmur of wind that rattled against the window frames underscored the manor’s ancient character.
She would have shivered due to the setting but for the fire: at least the hearth had been lit earlier in the day, lending a gentle warmth that softened the cold, humid air.
A white nightgown had been laid out on the bed.
Her lips curved upward as her fingertips brushed the fresh linens.
Despite its simplicity, someone had taken care to prepare the bed for her with great thoughtfulness, a kindness she could only attribute to Miss de Bourgh.
Lady Catherine would never have shown her such courtesy.
Elizabeth resolved to thank the younger lady for her hospitality when they next met in the morning.
Once she had changed into the nightgown, she stood by the hearth, hands stretched towards the warmth of the fire.
Outside of her chamber, doors opened and closed as servants prepared the rooms for the guests or carried trays for the family.
A gentle knock at her door preceded the arrival of Charlotte’s grim face, soon joined by her sister.
“Lizzy, I came to see whether you were well settled,” Charlotte said.
“I am. Pray, do come in.”
“My room is much larger and prettier than this one,” Maria remarked as she settled on Elizabeth’s bed.
Charlotte’s expression turned sombre. “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Lizzy,” she said in a strained voice. “The boy who was injured today. . . he died.”
“Dear Lord!” Elizabeth cried. “Bless his soul! When did this happen?”
“A servant came looking for Mr. Collins a moment ago. He was required to go to the servant quarters to comfort them and their families. I believe Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam have also been informed.”
“This is entirely Lady Catherine’s doing!” Maria burst out, cheeks aflame. “She allowed him to perish like. . . like an animal! Had she only summoned the surgeon—”
“Maria,” Charlotte said, keeping her composure, “it is neither prudent nor fitting to censure those upon whom we depend. As my husband’s esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine is entitled to the deference due her station.”
“But she is cruelty itself! A man lay at death’s door while she fretted over the state of her carpet!
And look at how she treats poor Miss de Bourgh!
This is the most cheerless, desolate place I have ever set foot in—and it is all because of her.
Imagine you and Mr. Collins, free from her ceaseless meddling.
You would be so much happier. We all would.
Miss de Bourgh and the colonel might even—”
“Maria!” Charlotte’s warning tone contained a note of reproach. “Pray do not speak of her in such terms.”
“But they are in love!” Maria persisted, indignation lacing her words.
“It is unjust! How can Lady Catherine compel Miss de Bourgh to marry that odious Mr. Darcy? How can she wish such misery upon her only daughter? I long to leave this wretched place, though it pains me to part from Miss de Bourgh, who is an excellent lady and a friend I hold in the highest esteem. I believe the feeling is mutual—she is so gracious to me, to all of us.”
“Indeed,” said Elizabeth. “You seem particularly dear to her. I dare say she values your friendship more than that of Mrs. Jenkinson. Perhaps you could correspond with her after we depart. She may even invite you to return someday.”
“I would not place too much hope in that prospect,” Charlotte said soberly. “Lady Catherine tolerates our presence only when it suits her amusement. We must not forget our proper place, Maria. I would hate for you to be disillusioned.”
“Tell me about your room—you say it is larger than mine?” Elizabeth asked.
“Much larger—and closer to Miss de Bourgh’s,” Maria replied.
They conversed for more than half an hour.
Their hearts were still heavy with the sad news, yet they did their best to turn to more pleasant subjects.
They spoke of their longing to return to the parsonage and of the latest news from Hertfordshire until Maria’s yawn at last reminded them of the late hour.
“We should return to our rooms,” Charlotte said. “My husband could be back and wonder where I am.”
Elizabeth walked them to the door. “Sleep well, my dear friends. Tomorrow will be a brighter day, and we shall return to the parsonage.”
“I hope so,” Mrs. Collins managed a weak smile. “I truly hope so.”
The door closed, and Elizabeth returned to her modest bed.
In the quiet darkness, her reflections were tangled with the unrelenting string of misfortunes wrought by the mistress of the manor.
One death, and wickedness spreading far and wide—no one had been spared from her ladyship’s tyranny.
Even the proud Mr. Darcy had been ensnared, and was now at the mercy of his aunt’s whims.
His situation was almost comical, had it not been so grave.
For a man who had lived his life striving to avoid the slightest weakness that might expose him to ridicule, he had committed his fair share of errors.
Lady Catherine’s accusations weighed heavily; yet the fact that he had not denied them spoke volumes—if not of guilt, then of indifference, or perhaps of a weary complicity that unsettled Elizabeth more than she cared to admit.
What would Miss Bingley think now of the gentleman she admired so much? Superiority of mind, indeed!
In light of what she had heard, her conjectures turned—as they inevitably would—to the scandal involving Miss Darcy.
Though Elizabeth had little notion of the precise details, whispered hints of negligence, secret correspondence, and a near elopement further darkened her already poor opinion of the proud, impulsive young lady.
Mr. Wickham’s accounts had painted a portrait of selfishness and reckless folly, and Mr. Darcy’s own inattentiveness had revealed the dangers of indolence—especially with a ward so susceptible to flattery.
Yet even these faults paled beside the cold, calculated malice of Lady Catherine.
Her readiness to exploit others, regardless of blood, consequence, or basic decency, left Elizabeth profoundly disconcerted.
Here, in this grand and isolated estate, cruelty wore the guise of righteousness, and power was exercised not to protect, but to control.
Elizabeth shivered, though not from the chill in the room.
Outside, the storm raged on, a relentless symphony of wind and rain battering the ancient walls of Rosings. Elizabeth could not help but question, with a trace of dark humour, whether the mansion would ever yield to the tempest’s fury.
“Rosings was built to stand forever,” she murmured to herself, “and so too is the evil lodged within its walls.” The comment brought a smile to her lips, as if mocking her own fleeting fancies.
Sleep eluded her. Lying on her side, she attempted to slow her mind by watching the small candle on her bedside table flicker in the draft, its yellow flame dancing in time with the howling wind.
Gradually, the growl of the storm blended with the creaks and groans of the old manor.
Hours—or perhaps mere minutes—passed in a haze of half-formed dreams and fragmented thoughts.
Then, as if jolted by an unseen hand, her door began to shake vigorously, dragging her from the fragile boundary between sleep and wakefulness.
“Who’s there?” she whispered into the oppressive silence. When no answer came, a shiver of unease replaced her drowsiness. Determined to confront her mounting fear, Elizabeth snatched her candle and stepped out of the bedchamber.
The gallery lay cloaked in darkness, the only light the feeble glow of her candle.
The wind’s mournful howls reverberated down the soulless passage.
Shadows danced erratically over the walls and furniture, their forms shifting like restless phantoms. As she advanced, a nagging sense of being watched crept over her—a presence lurked just beyond the edge of perception, as if someone, or something, was hidden in a distant corner.
Then, in a sudden flash of lightning that bathed the gallery in stark white, she saw him. Not more than five yards ahead, the outline of a man emerged, silhouetted against the wall.
Recognition flashed before her.
“Mr. Darcy!”
The gentleman’s face was ashen, his features contorted with shock. In that brief, suspended moment, he bowed hastily while Elizabeth curtseyed in equal haste. Without a word, they parted ways—each retreating into the shadows, haunted by the same inexplicable terror that had gripped them both.
***
Elizabeth awoke to the joyous strains of “Voi Che Sapete,” her favourite aria from The Marriage of Figaro, drifting softly through the quiet of the night.
A surge of alarm struck her: she was terribly late for the ball.
With little time to spare, she sprang from her bed and hurried out the door.
During her descent down the grand staircase, it seemed as though she was almost weightless, as if the usual creaks of ancient wood had been silenced, while the mansion, usually mantled by shadow, now shimmered with an unexpected air of refined grandeur.
Before her, the grand salon unfolded like a vision of opulence.
Golden chandeliers suspended from a lofty ceiling bathed the room in a warm, flickering glow.
Dozens of candles danced in their light, illuminating a ballroom where muffled voices mingled with the lilting strains of music, the beat filling her inside as if she too had the dance in her heart.
Faceless dancers moved gracefully across the polished floor, their silhouettes merging elegance with a quiet, measured rhythm.
“Miss Bennet.” Mr. Darcy’s voice broke through the melody as he stepped forward, his gaze steady and intent. “Would you honour me with the next two dances?”
For a brief moment, Elizabeth hesitated. “For a man who professes a disdain for dancing, you are remarkably persistent, Mr. Darcy,” she said with playful defiance.
He offered his hand, his smile both enigmatic and sincere. “Yet we have only danced once. Pray, why do you keep refusing me?”
“I have my reasons.” She accepted his hand.
As they moved towards the centre of the room, Mr. Darcy said, “A wise woman once advised me against hasty judgements. Perhaps you might benefit from taking your own counsel, for you seem predisposed to swift conclusions.”
“Your aunt will disapprove of our pairing. Are you not concerned about her influence?” Her tone was guarded.
“I am not afraid of her—and neither should you be.”
Their dance continued amid the graceful swirl of skirts and the soft clatter of polished shoes. Yet beneath the elegance, a tension simmered. Elizabeth’s composure began to fracture as memories of the day’s sorrow mingled with the intimate closeness of the dance.
Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. “She withholds dangerous information that could ruin your reputation, yet you dismiss her threats with contempt! You have neglected your duty as a guardian, and your inattention has exposed your sister to scandal!”
Mr. Darcy’s expression tightened, his features shifting into something more unsettling. “My choices regarding my sister are none of your concern.”
“But your actions affect us all!” Elizabeth retorted, her words bound with emotion. “How could you be so ruthless as to tear Jane away from Mr. Bingley?”
He sneered. “I did what was best for him, and I take pride in that decision.”
“You are a monster!” she cried, the intensity of her accusation echoing across the dance floor. “Mr. Wickham warned me of your heartlessness, yet I chose to ignore him!”
In that instant, the vibrant ballroom seemed to shatter.
The elegant scene fractured into a series of grim, disjointed visions: Jane, weeping alone in a shadowed corner; Charlotte, on her knees, scrubbing crimson stains from the marble floor; the colonel, lounging carelessly in an armchair with Miss de Bourgh sitting forlornly on his knee, mirrored by Maria Lucas on the armrest. At the far end, Lady Catherine reigned like a dark queen, her eyes gleaming with malevolent triumph, while Mr. Collins hovered at her side, whispering in her ear.
Panic seized Elizabeth as the revelry dissolved into chaos and despair.
The strains of a piercing scream shattered the music.
She tried to run, but her feet were anchored by unseen weights.
Mr. Darcy’s grip tightened on her wrist, urging her to remain steadfast while her mind swirled with images of horror and betrayal.
Then, as abruptly as the vision had overtaken her, everything faded. Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. She was in her bed, tangled in the sheets. Yet the anguished screams lingered, echoing through her thoughts like a nightmare that refused to vanish.