CHAPTER 8 – Blood and Marble
Elizabeth sat abruptly in her bed, her heart pounding.
She rubbed her face with her hand, striving to steady herself.
The room lay in complete darkness and, for an instant, confusion seized her.
Was she in Hunsford? Or at home, in Longbourn?
A flash of lightning lit the chamber, revealing the unpleasant truth: she remained in Rosings.
With a weary sigh, she fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep once more. Again, piercing screams cut through the storm—not hers, not born of some fevered dream, but issuing from another beyond the sanctuary of her chamber.
Other voices rose to join the commotion. Quick steps rang out upon the marble floor outside of her door. What was happening? Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she hesitated only an instant before opening her door to face the uproar.
Near the landing of the main staircase stood a chambermaid, trembling, her hands pressed to her face, her whole frame convulsing with sobs.
A footman hastened to set a pair of torches into the sconces, their sudden glow bringing some clarity to the scene.
Elizabeth stepped forward, seeking to soothe the poor girl and discover what had so terrified her.
Doors flew open, and astonished faces appeared—Charlotte and Maria among them—all striving to grasp the raw shock of it all.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, half dressed, one hand clutching at his slipping breeches while the other fumbled with his suspenders.
He wore them over his nightshirt and his hair was tousled as though he had sprung from his bed at the first cry.
Maria, also clad in her nightclothes, upon seeing a grown man unrelated to her so informally dressed, hid behind her sister.
Indeed, he wore less than Elizabeth had ever seen on any man herself, but she was too stunned to be embarrassed.
“What is the matter?” He made his demand with sharp, urgent authority.
The maid, barely able to form words between hiccups, managed to whisper, “The mistress. . . She is dead!”
For a heartbeat, the colonel stood frozen, eyes wide open and mouth slack. Then, without a word, he strode towards his aunt’s chambers, two doors further.
Before long, the gallery teemed with an assorted assembly of servants and guests, all drawn by the maid’s anguished sobs.
Confusion soon gave way to speculation. Elizabeth, as shaken as the rest, tried to piece together the unfolding tragedy.
Lady Catherine must have suffered an apoplexy in the night for the poor girl found her lifeless.
But as the young servant regained her composure, the horrifying reality surfaced.
“I went to tend the fire,” the chambermaid sobbed. “I always do. But when I approached the bed, I saw her! So much blood—she was covered in blood!”
Blood? She could not imagine the gruesome scene. A collective gasp rippled among those nearby.
“Murdered!” someone whispered. “The mistress was murdered!”
A footman clutching his cap whispered, “God have mercy on her soul.”
At that moment, Mr. Darcy appeared clad in the same dishevelled garments Elizabeth had noticed earlier in the gallery: his cravat missing and his clothes wrinkled as though he had slept in his them. His pale, dire expression confirmed the gravity of what she had just heard.
His face grew even whiter as the maid described the ghastly scene. “Has anyone entered the room yet?” he asked.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Charlotte replied. “He rushed in as soon as he heard the news.”
“And Miss de Bourgh?” Mr. Darcy’s voice faltered. “Has she awakened?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “She remains in her chambers.”
“She must not see her mother thus.” Mr. Darcy’s gaze went between Charlotte and Elizabeth. “Someone. . . Pray, someone must go to her at once.”
Elizabeth nodded, grasping the urgency. With that, Mr. Darcy proceeded into Lady Catherine’s chambers.
Miss de Bourgh’s apartments were situated at the far end of the passage, and the young lady was likely undisturbed by the maid’s cries, the thickness of the walls and the storm’s violence muffling the sound.
“We should summon Mrs. Jenkinson,” Charlotte suggested. “She is most attached to Miss de Bourgh and will know best how to comfort her.”
Elizabeth agreed, and they asked one of the footmen to wake Miss de Bourgh’s companion.
“Mrs. Collins!” The parson appeared at the top of the staircase, flushed and breathless. “I have just heard what happened! My noble patroness—dead! What a tragedy beyond expression! We must ensure she receives a burial befitting her rank and that Miss de Bourgh is treated with the utmost care.”
Charlotte nodded. “Mrs. Jenkinson has just been summoned. Once Miss de Bourgh is roused, you may offer her whatever spiritual comfort she requires.”
Mr. Collins assumed a measured stance. “Indeed. As a man of the cloth, I am best suited to this task.”
What a tragic night. On Easter Sunday, of all days—a time meant for rejoicing, not mourning—such horror had descended upon them.
Would Mr. Collins prove equal to so delicate a task?
As a parson, he was competent enough, yet his excessive formality might render him inadequate for so tender an office.
Better that she, Charlotte, and Maria stand ready should his solemn words fail to bring any true comfort.
Together, through their companionship, they might better sustain poor Miss de Bourgh.
***
Darcy stood with Fitzwilliam beside Lady Catherine’s bed, gazing down at his aunt’s lifeless form. The room was dim, yet the horror before them was plain enough. Blood stained the sheets and had dripped to the floor. A great deal of blood.
“I have not seen such carnage since I served with Wellesley in Spain,” Fitzwilliam’s eyes swept over the mangled corpse. “She was stabbed at least five or six times—straight to the chest. The murderer must have truly despised her.”
His stomach lurched. He pressed a fist to his lips and turned aside, lest he disgrace himself before his cousin. Unlike Fitzwilliam, he could not bear the sight—or the smell—of blood with the same stoicism. “We must report the crime immediately. Do you know who the local magistrate is?”
“Surely some bourgeois landowner who has never encountered a corpse in his life.” The colonel carelessly threw a blanket over the body. “He will probably summon some thief taker or coroner from the mainland to help him solve this matter.”
“We shall have to wait until morning and see if it is safe to ride to the village or set sail for Ceredigion.”
His cousin glanced at the window, which shook with the wind. “Sail? Not in this tempest. I shall not risk drowning in the sea for her, nor shall I send anyone to their death. We must wait until navigation is safe.”
Taking a deep breath, Darcy pulled back his shoulders and forced down the bile and disquiet that surged in his throat, adopting a stronger deportment. “But who could have done this? Who hated her enough to commit such an act?”
Fitzwilliam’s tone hardened. “She had enemies enough. Her ruthless ways had already claimed the life of a young boy, and even her own household had long harboured resentment towards her. I wager everyone in this house—from the lowliest undergardener to any one of us—has, at some time, entertained the desire for her demise. Can you truly say the notion never once crossed your mind? Earlier today, you very nearly lost your composure. ”
He stared back at his cousin, and for a moment, silence reigned between them.
Shifting his gaze back to the bed, Fitzwilliam remarked with something akin to amusement, “Two corpses in a single night. Unusual, is it not?”
“Show some respect,” Darcy replied coldly. “It is your aunt who lies dead before you.”
“Forgive me; war has rendered me callous.”
“We must assemble everyone. No one shall leave this house until the magistrate is informed.”
“We must speak to the butler to get an account of who might have been wandering about the mansion, or if anyone saw any unusual occurrences.” Fitzwilliam paused and eyed him keenly. “What happened to you? You look as though you have not slept at all.”
He raked a hand through his unkempt hair. “I drifted off in the armchair; brandy proved more comforting than bed.”
“I faced a similar plight,” Fitzwilliam said with a dry edge. “Though I at least had the presence of mind to undress.”
“Indeed,” Darcy glanced at his cousin’s attire, and a faint smirk broke through tension. “Did all and sundry bear witness to your scandalous state? The ladies must have been shocked.”
“I rather think their minds were elsewhere.” His voice sobered again. “Come, Darcy. We must now tell everyone what has passed.”
***
The entire household was huddled together in the ballroom.
Elizabeth, like the rest, stood waiting to hear what the cousins, now in charge of the house, would say.
Around her rose a murmur of whispers, suspicious glances, and dread.
The servants scarcely spoke, each wary of the other, as if behind every face lurked a potential murderer.
Could the killer be there among them? Or had he already fled the mansion, concealed by the raging storm?
“I believe you all know why we are gathered here,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone carrying both authority and unsettling calm. “Lady Catherine is dead.”
The colonel continued, giving orders and warnings.
With the murderer still at large, the servants were to remain vigilant and report any unusual occurrence without delay.
His voice conveyed both serenity and firmness, and he appeared remarkably composed.
Surely his military experience had hardened him to death and violence, but even so, Elizabeth would have expected a little more dismay from a nephew who had just lost a close relation.
A simmering unease stirred within her. Mr. Darcy’s demeanour had set her nerves on edge, perhaps more so than his cousin’s.
Earlier that night, shortly before Lady Catherine was found dead, she had met him in the gallery, pale and shaken, his composure in tatters.
Now, he appeared tense, his posture rigid, his gaze furtive, as if even the briefest glance might betray a far darker intent.
A man in mourning? Or a man with something to hide?
Elizabeth’s mind raced. Many in this house had reason to wish Lady Catherine ill, but who had the most to gain?
His gaze found hers—steady, cold. A prickle of trepidation crawled over her skin.
She was no longer certain whether she beheld a grieving nephew—or a guilty man.