CHAPTER 9 – Sympathy for the Mistress
Rosings was a place of strict customs and timeless traditions, unchanged for decades, if not centuries.
That morning, not even the sudden, violent death of the mistress had unsettled the servants’ routine.
Breakfast was served punctually, and although the table overflowed with an abundant spread, a quiet tension lay beneath the surface.
The servants moved about with sober faces and nervous hands, and the guests were ill at ease as they found themselves drawn into such a misfortune.
The two gentlemen did not appear for breakfast, leaving only the Hunsford ladies to descend to the morning room.
Weary as she was, Elizabeth would much rather have remained in bed, but courtesy obliged her to attend, if only out of respect for the dead mistress of the house.
Not that she could have slept: the moment she closed her eyes, unwelcome reminders returned—Mr. Darcy in the darkened gallery, the maid’s desperate screams, and Miss de Bourgh’s inconsolable sobs.
Sleep, though sorely needed, promised only further torment.
“Where are Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth asked Charlotte, stifling a yawn.
“In conference with Mr. Bevan, the local magistrate, I believe,” Charlotte replied. “He is a local gentleman, one of Lady Catherine’s tenants. You met him on Easter Sunday, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” Elizabeth recalled the plump, good-natured gentleman she had encountered during the festivities: genial, ruddy-cheeked, and far too fond of trifles. Certainly not the sort of man one might imagine unravelling the dark threads of a violent crime.
Who was she to judge his competence, when her notions owed more to Mrs. Radcliffe’s cryptic penmanship than to life itself?
With nothing useful to add, her attention returned to the breakfast table overflowing with delicacies that no one seemed eager to eat.
So much food would go to waste, especially considering that only three had come down and Colonel Fitzwilliam had specifically requested the household conserve resources until the storm passed and navigation was re-established.
No one could say how long the tempest would endure.
Isolated on the island and unable to reach the village for supplies, the household had resolved to limit its use of provisions and space, shuttering most of the manor until fairer weather returned.
Following their meal, only the drawing room and library remained open, further restricting the residents and guests.
The rest of Rosings lay in shadow. To Elizabeth, the storm was no longer a passing gale but more like a prison guard that held her captive within the manor’s walls.
After breakfast, the ladies retired to the drawing room by the fireplace. There, Charlotte broke the silence.
“I am so sorry, Lizzy, that you have to endure all of this because of me.” Her voice was charged with regret. “Had I known your visit to Rosings would be so unpleasant, that something like this might happen, I would never have asked you or Maria to come.”
“Oh, Charlotte, how could you have known? What happened yesterday is beyond anyone’s imagination. You must not blame yourself for events so utterly outside your control.” Elizabeth replied.
Charlotte sniffed. “No, Lizzy. I was well aware of her unkindness, but I never imagined she could be capable of such malicious behaviour towards you—or that she would meet such a violent end. I know not what will become of us. . . Of me!”
Maria, on the verge of tears, leaned in and grasped Charlotte’s hand to offer comfort.
They had Elizabeth’s sympathy, but they also sparked a touch of confusion within her.
Their discomfiture was understandable, but it seemed a bit disproportionate, especially in Charlotte’s case.
Always the pragmatic one, perhaps her friend’s concern could be more about her uncertain future than about Lady Catherine’s brutal demise.
“Do not distress yourself.” She offered her friend a reassuring smile. “I am certain Miss de Bourgh will keep Mr. Collins’s living secure. She is exceedingly fond of you.”
Charlotte sobered. “Yes, undoubtedly. Yet I, for one, do not wish to remain in this place any longer. Upon my word, Lizzy, if it were in my power, I would leave Rosings this very moment and never return!”
The forcefulness in Charlotte’s tone astonished Elizabeth.
What could trouble her so deeply? Lady Catherine’s death should have lifted a burden, yet Charlotte seemed only more afflicted.
Elizabeth’s eyes sought Maria’s in hope that she might help soothe her sister’s alarm, but the girl was every bit as distraught.
Was there something unspoken between them—or merely the contagion of nerves, one sister feeding the other’s agitation?
More than an hour later, Colonel Fitzwilliam joined the ladies in the drawing room.
Nothing was said about the gentlemen’s interview with the magistrate, and silence settled over the group.
The parson, they were told, was attending the burial of the stable boy who died the previous day.
Elizabeth was relieved that Mr. Darcy did not come.
She would have felt too much discomfort sharing the room with the man she now suspected guilty of an unspeakable crime.
“Pray, Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Elizabeth said, “how is Miss de Bourgh? Does she feel any better?”
“Very much so, thank you. Mrs. Jenkinson informed us of her improvement. She remains grief stricken, understandably, but is coming to terms with her new situation.”
“I would like to sit by her, should you be agreeable,” Elizabeth added.
“Yes, of course. Your company is most welcome.”
Elizabeth nodded and rose. Charlotte and Maria followed her, leaving the colonel alone.
***
The visit of the Hunsford ladies lifted Miss de Bourgh’s spirits enough for her to leave her chambers and join them for tea.
Everyone greeted her warmly: Colonel Fitzwilliam with gallantry, Mr. Darcy with cousinly kindness.
Elizabeth, however, was too wary of the gentleman to feel at ease, yet she stay put, for the young lady’s sake.
In the corner, Mrs. Jenkinson sat slightly apart, her silence as steady as her gaze, which seldom strayed from her charge.
With Miss de Bourgh the centre of everyone’s attention, Elizabeth found herself conveniently relegated to the role of listener.
It suited her well, for she could now study the Rosings family without the shadow of Lady Catherine looming over them.
Both the colonel and Miss de Bourgh appeared more at ease than she had ever seen them, and between them a tenderness was notable that hinted at more than mere familial affection.
Miss de Bourgh, in particular, whenever she had his attention, seemed lighter, as though the weight of recent events had, for a moment, slipped from her thoughts.
Perhaps the attachment had always existed, but now they seemed unafraid to display it.
Mr. Darcy was another matter. His furrowed brow and reflective silence betrayed a far more troubled mind.
Why brood now, when the storm that had threatened him most was past?
Elizabeth could not account for such persistent bitterness.
The effect he had on her was distracting; his nearness unsettled her stomach, her palms grew damp whenever his gaze fell upon her—which it did with unnerving frequency, as though their encounter in the gallery still stood between them.
Relief came only when he rose and quit the room.
Whatever business had carried him elsewhere, she rejoiced in his diversion, for she preferred the tranquillity of his absence to the torment of his company.
Outside, the sky remained grey as the storm lingered.
The wind battered the house with the same force that had unleashed its fury upon the island.
With little else to do, the guests passed the time with books and idle conversation, and relief came when dinner was announced.
However, Mr. Darcy chose not to join the others at the table; he requested his meal be brought to the library instead.
Again, he had sequestered himself. Elizabeth heaved a sigh at the information.
As darkness enveloped the manor, the day’s activities drew to a close.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had joined Mr. Darcy in the library and Charlotte and Maria retired, leaving Elizabeth alone with Miss de Bourgh and her companion.
She would have preferred to follow her friends, but the young lady seemed eager for company and asked her to remain a while.
To abandon her at such a time of need would be uncharitable.
At that moment Mr. Collins appeared, enquiring after his wife; yet upon finding the new mistress of the house unoccupied, he seized the opportunity—untimely as it was—to discuss the details of Lady Catherine’s funeral.
“Mr. Collins, it would be more appropriate for you to discuss these matters with her cousins.” Elizabeth said, mindful of Miss de Bourgh’s fragile state.
The parson nodded eagerly. “Of course! How thoughtless of me. I shall speak with Mr. Darcy and the colonel. If it is convenient, I will ask Lady Catherine’s maid to take the necessary measurements for a casket elegant enough—”
“Pray do,” Elizabeth said. “I am sure the gentlemen will address all your concerns. You can find them in the library, I believe.”
Undeterred, he went on despite Elizabeth’s warning glance.
“If I am permitted a suggestion, I would submit that the family chapel might serve as a most fitting source of consolation in these trying days. Perhaps tomorrow I might read aloud passages recounting the noble deeds of the de Bourghs as an inspiration to us all.”