CHAPTER 9 – Sympathy for the Mistress #2
Miss de Bourgh stiffened and inclined her head, while Elizabeth exhaled in relief when the parson finally withdrew with a bow.
Mrs. Jenkinson was likewise dismissed, leaving the two ladies alone.
The young mistress fell silent for a moment, her fingers twisting the edge of her shawl as though searching for the right words.
“I wish I could see my mother one last time.” her voice was laden with emotion.
“I asked my cousins, but they said it would be best if I did not.”
Elizabeth met her gaze with sympathy. “Your cousins are only trying to do what they believe is best for you.”
Miss de Bourgh’s face flushed. “Why would anyone kill her? What kind of monster would do such a thing? I know she was not the most. . . tractable, but she was my mother.”
“I cannot claim to know what led to such a tragic event, but I do know that grief is never easy. You will overcome this, Miss de Bourgh.” Elizabeth reached for her hand.
“Perhaps a change of air—a visit to your relatives in Derbyshire—might ease your mind. Then, when you are ready, you can return to Rosings with renewed strength and plan your life as you see fit.”
“No. I must wait two years,” Miss de Bourgh shook her head as new tears glistered in her eyes. “I shall not inherit until I am twenty-five. My father stipulated it in his Last Will and Testament.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted slightly. “Oh. Then who will manage Rosings until that time?”
The young woman looked down, her expression dimming.
“A guardian. My father appointed my mother as the sole custodian of my life and fortune until I came of age. I believe my uncle, the earl, is next in line, though I cannot say for certain. She. . . they never tell me anything. My opinion never mattered. It is of no consequence to them. I am of no consequence to them.”
Pity stirred in her. Always the obedient daughter, the lady spoke as though she had no choice but to yield, even in matters that touched her own fortune. “I am certain that whoever it is will have your best interests at heart.”
A soft, humourless laugh escaped Miss de Bourgh’s lips. “I hope so. My cousins will notify the solicitor and wait for his instructions. I am so tired of being told what to do and whom to marry. And now Mama is gone, and someone else holds power over my life. What will become of me?”
A fresh sob rose from young mistress’s chest. With her heart constricted with grief for the poor lady, Elizabeth gave her hand a tender squeeze. “Do not despair. In two years, you will be free to make your own choices.”
Miss de Bourgh sniffed and brushed away a tear. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I should not have burdened you with my private affairs.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth replied with warmth. “Consider me a friend in whom you may confide.”
“You are too kind to me.” She took a steadying breath. “I wish I had always had a friend as gentle and understanding as you.”
“Now, you must rest. I am sure tomorrow will bring better tidings.”
The other lady nodded, though she still seemed lost in thought. Before rising, Elizabeth gave Miss De Bourgh’s hand one final, reassuring squeeze. They exchanged good-nights beneath the threshold and parted, Elizabeth turning towards the library, while Miss de Bourgh made her way to the staircase.
Yet even as she walked away, Elizabeth could not rid herself of the feeling that the new mistress of Rosings was far more afraid of the future than she revealed.
As she neared the library, she caught sight of Mr. Collins loitering outside, fidgeting nervously before the closed door.
The parson was presumably awaiting permission to speak with the cousins.
How selfish of them, to monopolize the only room in the manor worth her notice.
With a huff of annoyance, she turned on her heel.
She would have to make do with the dreary volume she had abandoned in the drawing room earlier—hardly a fair exchange for the solace she might have found among Rosings’ shelves.
Just then, the door swung open and Colonel Fitzwilliam stormed out, brushing past the parson with a curt, “Not now, Collins!” before striding towards the main staircase.
Mr. Collins flinched, made a hesitant move to follow, then checked himself. With a defeated shake of the head, he turned and trotted off in the opposite direction, offering Elizabeth a quick, flustered nod as he passed.
***
Earlier, in the library…
“Did you find anything that might help us unravel this mystery, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam poured two glasses of port from the decanter.
Darcy sat by the desk, his cravat loosened, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The desk was in disarray: open drawers, scattered papers, ledgers stacked in uneven piles.
“Not much. The books are neatly kept, and the estate’s finances appear in order. Given the mansion’s state of disrepair, I had assumed Rosings might be struggling, but it seems fairly profitable.”
“That is good news. Anne shall not face any hardship. And what of Sir Lewis’s will—did you find it? Any other documents regarding the inheritance?” The colonel slumped into the chair before the desk and sat opposite of him. He offered one glass to Darcy.
“No. I wrote to Lady Catherine’s solicitor, informing him of her demise and requesting instructions. With the steward off the island, the household falls under our care for now.”
“What an interesting predicament we find ourselves in. How do you propose we proceed?”
“There is little we can do until the storm passes and the letters are delivered. I do not know the full contents of the will, but I believe Anne remains under full guardianship until she turns twenty-five. If I recall correctly, both your father and mine witnessed the document and were named as alternate guardians should anything happen to Lady Catherine.”
“So until my father takes charge, or instructions arrive, we must oversee her affairs ourselves.”
“I quite agree.”
“Poor child. From her mother’s control straight into my father’s hands. They could not have chosen a sterner warden.”
“Perhaps Sir Lewis had his reasons for imposing such strict conditions.” Darcy pinched his nose.
“Some have said he was not of sound mind when he died, and judging from recent weeks, neither was Lady Catherine.” Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair. “As far as I know, there are no other living members of the de Bourgh line who could have claims over Rosings. They are either dead or unworldly.”
“The de Bourgh curse,” Darcy said with a mirthless grimace “I always thought it was mere nonsense.”
“I once heard that my grandfather was reluctant to consent to the marriage.” Fitzwilliam’s tone became more reflective.
“There were rumours of hereditary madness in the family. A kind of lingering affliction plagued them for generations. Sir Lewis may have escaped it—or not. He and his wife were quite the eccentric pair.”
Darcy was not amused. He took a long gulp of his port, now fully grasping the extent of Lady Catherine’s schemes.
Her haste to secure a marriage between him and Anne had not been driven solely by ambition or pride.
With Anne’s twenty-fifth birthday approaching—the age at which she would come fully into her inheritance—time had been slipping through her mother’s grasp.
If Fitzwilliam’s claims were true, and there was indeed madness in the bloodline, then Lady Catherine’s urgency had darker motives still. Had she succeeded, he would have been bound for life to a woman whose mind might one day betray her.
The thought made him sick.
His eyes fell on the disorder around them—a wreckage of scattered papers and overturned volumes. If only he could recover the letters Lady Catherine had held over his head, he might finally have some measure of peace.
“I can tell what you are thinking,” the colonel said gravely. “Anne is perfectly healthy, I grant you.”
“I am sure she is.” Darcy’s gaze remained fixed on his glass, though his tone carried little conviction.
“Then why are you so concerned? Something troubles you—I can see it.”
“Our aunt was brutally murdered. Is that not reason enough? What I cannot fathom is why you appear so unconcerned about the entire affair.”
Fitzwilliam let out a scornful chuckle. “If you wish to accuse me of being thankful she is gone, then I am guilty as charged. Yes, I celebrate that we are finally rid of the old shrew. But if you are implying that I had anything to do with her death, then you do not truly know me.”
“All I know is that her death occurred at a most expedient time.”
“What do you mean?” the colonel asked, brow raised.
“Do not think me blind to the attachment that has so conveniently blossomed between you and Anne these past weeks. For years, she followed you like a lost puppy, and you scarcely paid her any heed. And now, with her inheritance imminent, your affection for her has grown noticeably.”
The colonel smirked and emptied his goblet in one gulp.
“I concede the point. Perhaps I would not care for her so much if she were not so rich. My situation is not yours, Darcy—I do not possess your financial independence. I must marry someone of fortune, and Anne is as good a candidate as any rich heiress—and she is more interesting than those insipid women of the ton.”
“She truly cares for you. You should not toy with her feelings, especially not in the wake of her mother’s death.” Clearly, the colonel’s motives were more pragmatic than passionate.
“I understand. That is why I kept her at a distance all these years, hoping she would outgrow her infatuation. But as she grew older, I began to consider her a possibility. I merely relied on your ability to dodge Lady Catherine’s demands until she came of age to inherit.”
Darcy regarded him with scepticism.
“And why are you suddenly so interested in her well-being? You never cared for Anne. In fact, you barely paid any attention to her these past years.” The colonel’s tone shifted, growing more defensive and less accommodating.
“Why this sudden desire to revise my feelings towards her? I sense an ulterior motive here, Darcy. You seem too eager to incriminate me. Perhaps by accusing me, you hope to absolve yourself of guilt?”
“Why would I need absolution? Absolution from what?” Darcy cast him a dark stare.
“You too benefit from our aunt’s death. Perhaps not monetarily, but you enjoy the tranquillity it brings.
I am certain she was using every possible method to secure a marriage between you and Anne—hurling every dirty secret at you as a threat.
And she must have found one particularly damning, judging by how altered you have been these past days.
“What is it, Darcy? Some mistake of the past you regret? Some misconduct you concealed from us? Or was it something more? Did she have you at her mercy at last?” Fitzwilliam’s voice dripped with cynicism.
“And that would have ended your hopes of becoming the master of Rosings, would it not?” he snapped, the stress and pressure of recent days finally catching up with him.
The colonel sprang to his feet, the chair scraping noisily against the floor. For a moment he loomed, menacing, before raking a hand through his hair as if reconsidering. “Good grief, Darcy, even in death she is making us miserable. I cannot believe we are accusing each other of her demise.”
“We both shall be facing a harsher inquisition when a coroner arrives, I grant you,” Darcy said with a sombre mien. “Mr. Bevan may have ruled us out after brief questioning, but a more experienced official will not be as benevolent.”
Fitzwilliam chuckled with scornful amusement. “The poor wretch almost fainted when he saw Lady Catherine’s body. And his questions to the servants! How can a magistrate be so inept?”
Darcy exhaled, rubbing his temples. “His inexperience is regrettable, but it changes nothing. An investigation, no matter how flawed, will still proceed.” He met his cousin’s gaze pointedly. “And as you have noted, everybody is a suspect.”
“And that includes me.”
He offered no reply, simply glared at his cousin.
Indignant, Fitzwilliam strode towards him, fury in his eyes.
“You hypocrite! Swear to me that you never entertained the idea of killing her, Darcy—swear it!” When Darcy remained silent, his cousin laughed.
“I thought as much. Believe me, if I am ever accused of this murder, I will ensure you suffer the same fate.”
With that final remark, the colonel stormed out of the room, nearly colliding with the parson waiting outside the door.