CHAPTER 12 – A Fragile Accord
Elizabeth’s surprise at finding Charlotte in Maria’s room was only matched by the astonishment of her friends when they saw her arriving at such a late hour—and in the company of Mr. Darcy. As soon as the door closed behind her, questions began to fly.
“Lizzy, where on earth have you been?” Charlotte demanded, her tone a mix of irritation and worry. “We knocked on your door several times, and we could not find you in your room! We were about to start a search!”
“I was in the library,” Elizabeth said in a rush. “I must have dozed off with my novel, and Mr. Darcy found me there. But why are you not in your own room?” Her explanation was fairly plausible.
“My husband. . .” Charlotte began, paused, then replied curtly, “Maria was frightened to sleep alone, so I came to keep her company.”
Elizabeth did not miss her friend’s nervous demeanour, yet she was too tired to ask what was the matter. Her stay at Rosings had been marked by strange occurrences, and this was just another.
Maria added, “Yes, Lizzy, there is talk of a murderer on the loose in this house. It is best we keep together. That is why we came in search of you.”
The three ladies gathered on the bed, Maria and Charlotte drawing the counterpane about them, while Elizabeth attempted to remove the pins from her hair. She was still unsettled by the night’s events, leaving little room for other considerations.
“This is simply not acceptable, Lizzy,” Charlotte said in a soft, chiding tone. “What if your father learns about you roaming the house in the middle of the night, with Mr. Darcy, of all people?”
“He merely accompanied me upstairs,” Elizabeth replied with a yawn. “Like you, he thought it best that I not remain alone tonight. I am exhausted. I shall explain everything in the morning.”
Charlotte cast a dubious glance towards Elizabeth and lay down. Elizabeth also tried to repose on the bed, though sleep refused to come. Her mind churned with the events of the past hours, most of all with Mr. Darcy’s unexpected confession of an affection he seemed to resent rather than cherish.
THE PREVAILING DARKNESS OF THE ROUND TOWER LOOMED AROUND him.
candle in hand, Darcy strained to discern the path beyond the first turn of the staircase.
This obscure, winding route connected the shadowed servant quarters in the basement with the lofty family apartments above.
Carved from the same ancient stone as the tower, the staircase spiralled upwards, its timeworn steps a veritable death trap for the unwary.
At the foot of the staircase lay Mrs. Jenkinson’s lifeless body.
Darcy had never borne the sight of the dead well, and the vision of her head twisted unnaturally, eyes glassy and wide, and body bruised and contorted was almost too much to bear.
Nearby, scattered pieces of china and a tray testified to the chaos of her final moments.
His stomach tightened. “When was she found?” he asked Ferguson, the footman who had been promoted to serve as his manservant while at Rosings. He lacked the refinement Darcy was accustomed to in a personal attendant, but he was steady, discreet, and remarkably efficient.
“Not long before I came to fetch you, sir.” Ferguson glanced about, seemingly unaffected by the broken remains at his feet. “Cook was the one who saw her. We don’t use them stairs much after dark. They are too dark and narrow for the likes of us.”
“Why would she use them, then?”
Ferguson shook his head. “No idea, sir. She always took the main stair when bringing tea to Miss de Bourgh’s rooms every night when her charge went to bed, same as always.”
Before Darcy could press further, footsteps echoed along the stone walls. Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared with a footman in tow.
“I thought the servant was jesting,” the colonel said with a sombre voice. “I cannot believe we have another corpse.”
“How long do you think she has been dead?” Darcy asked, consulting his watch. “It is past four in the morning. She must have fallen after everyone retired.”
The colonel crouched near the body, testing an arm. “She is already cold and stiff—perhaps five or six hours at least.”
Darcy surveyed the tray and scattered porcelain. “It appears she had no light to guide her. In no way could she have navigated these stairs safely; they would have been too dark.”
“Let me see if I can find something. Wait here,” Fitzwilliam took a candle and climbed the stairs.
“Be careful, Fitzwilliam!” Darcy called after him as his cousin disappeared into the shadows above.
Moments later, the colonel’s voice echoed down the stairwell. “I have found something. A candle, a scrap of cloth—looks like a tea cloth—and more broken china on one of the steps.”
“Leave them where they are,” Darcy said. “The magistrate may wish to examine them.”
“Blast!” The sharp cry, followed by the scrape of shoes, carried through the tower. A clatter rang out as Fitzwilliam’s candle stick struck the steps above, and the stairwell fell abruptly into darkness. Darcy flinched, then hurried upward, his man at his heels, and met the colonel halfway.
“The railing is loose at one point,” the colonel said as the three carefully made their way down together. “She must have rolled several steps before plunging down the rest.”
“Indeed,” Darcy agreed, shaking the rickety wooden railing. “It does not appear to be steady. Perhaps it was merely an unfortunate accident.”
“These stairs aren't safe, sir,” Ferguson said. “Slipped on them myself.'“
“Very well. Ferguson, move the body to the cellar. It is the coldest room. She must remain there until we can summon the magistrate.”
Once that matter was settled, the cousins returned to the library to discuss the grim events, each step and every word spoken along the ancient staircase lingering in Darcy’s mind like a puzzle with missing pieces.
“What should we tell Anne?” Fitzwilliam settled into an armchair.
Darcy sighed wearily. “Losing her companion so soon after her mother. . . It will break her heart.”
“She will ask for her as soon as she awakens. Perhaps we can spare her the immediate pain by claiming she fell ill. I shall instruct the housekeeper on what to tell the servants.”
He walked to the window and scrutinized the horizon, now lightened by the glow of dawn. It was still drizzling, and the wind was blowing intently. “This whole affair is so perplexing. I know not what to think.”
“Nor do I. I never imagined this Easter would take such a sordid turn.”
“We must not delay reporting the murder of Lady Catherine any longer,” Darcy declared, turning to face his cousin. “One of us must sail to the mainland as soon as the weather allows.”
“What of Bevan?” the colonel asked.
“He clearly lacks the capacity to investigate such a crime. Lady Catherine’s death deserves a thorough inquiry.”
“Very well. I shall ask the captain to prepare the ship so I can sail tomorrow.”
Still haunted by last night’s argument, Darcy must offer a quiet apology. “I regret my words yesterday. I let the events overwhelm me.”
“Think nothing of it.” Fitzwilliam waved his hand.
“I, too, was not at my best. I said things I would now take back. After all, it is not every day that one’s best friend—my own cousin—accuses him of conspiring against him and his aunt, all for the sake of marrying Anne and inheriting Rosings.
I am no heartless mercenary, Darcy. I do care for Anne. ”
He chuckled. “I never imagined you would believe me capable of murdering Lady Catherine merely to avoid marrying Anne.”
“That was outrageous.” The colonel scoffed. “Our aunt sowed hatred and antagonism, and I was foolish to fall for her schemes. As a second son, all I ever received from her was contempt or pity. She never failed to remind me that Anne and Rosings were meant for you.”
“Perhaps there is still hope for you. We know not the precise terms of Sir Lewis’s will—or what your father might say about this.” Darcy’s voice was softer now. “All we can do is wait for the attorney’s word.”
The colonel smiled, but said nothing.
After a brief handshake, the cousins left their misunderstanding behind. Darcy, though, remained wary of his cousin’s true feelings for Anne. Time would eventually tell if his trust had been misplaced.
***
A few hours of restless sleep did little to settle Elizabeth’s troubled mind.
At breakfast the next morning, she found herself consumed not only by the mystery of Lady Catherine’s murder but also by Mr. Darcy’s reluctant confession of admiration.
The admission unsettled her: part of her was flattered, yet part seethed with indignation at his insensible frankness.
How could he speak so lightly, so plainly, of her connections, and be so unmindful of the wound he gave?
Had he spoken those words two days earlier, she would have rejected him without hesitation.
Now she sat torn between gratitude for his candour and resentment of his conceit.
Before long, he entered the room accompanied by Colonel Fitzwilliam.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes sought hers the instant he arrived, and Elizabeth quickly averted her gaze.
Flustered, she turned to Maria and feigned interest in her conversation with Miss de Bourgh.
The meal passed in a strained quiet until the group moved to the drawing room.
There, confined in such close proximity to Mr. Darcy for much of the morning, Elizabeth’s discomfiture grew.
Conversation had dwindled to a hush so profound that even the usually loquacious parrots fell silent.
Mr. Darcy kept apart, leaning against a window.
Whether he looked at her, she could not tell, for she did not dare raise her eyes.
Yet uncertainty gnawed at her—along with curiosity.
What matter could have been so urgent as to occupy him the whole of the night?
At last, she gathered her courage and met his gaze. A faint, almost apologetic smile, and the slight inclination of his head, seemed to invite her nearer. She went to him.
“The weather is finally improving,” he said as they observed the cloudy skies together.
“It is still windy, though the rain has stopped,” Elizabeth was a bit taken aback. She had half expected him to resume the conversation of the previous night, not to discuss the weather.
With a discreet gesture, Mr. Darcy led her towards the more distant window in the room, away from prying ears. “Miss Bennet, I need your help with a matter of a delicate nature.”
“Pray, go on,” she urged.
Glancing around to ensure their privacy, he continued, “As you already know, there was an accident last night, one far graver than I initially believed. Mrs. Jenkinson. . . died.”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide and she covered her mouth to silence her gasp. Mr. Darcy placed a steadying hand on her back and guided her to face a painting on the far wall.
“The others know little of this,” he said. “Only the colonel is aware. I agreed with my cousin that we should delay telling Anne. She has suffered enough with her mother's loss to learn of another tragedy so soon.”
“But what should I tell her?” Elizabeth whispered. “She will demand to know about her companion at any moment.”
“Say she is suffering from a bad cold,” Mr. Darcy said quietly. “The servants have been instructed what to say. Colonel Fitzwilliam plans to sail to the mainland this afternoon to report her and Lady Catherine’s deaths. I fear this whole affair is beyond Mr. Bevan’s capacity.”
The gentleman might have been proud, even often conceited, but dishonesty was not among his faults. He knew he was at risk and that Mr. Bevan’s inexperience might have worked in his favour, yet he still sought the truth.
The possibility of him leaving struck Elizabeth with force, and a surge of anxiety overtook her. Without thinking, she blurted, “Are you going as well?”
“No. Miss de Bourgh is unfit to run the estate. And, given the latest occurrences, with my cousin gone, I am much needed here.”
She let out a breath of relief, only to tense again as she grasped the seriousness of the task with which he had entrusted her.
Deception was hardly her talent, yet it was for the young lady’s sake.
“Worry not, sir, I shall do my best to keep her distracted. Poor Mrs. Jenkinson. What an unfortunate accident!”
“So it is said,” Mr. Darcy murmured.
“And poor Miss de Bourgh—she will be devastated.”
Mr. Darcy’s gaze flicked towards the others then returned to her. To Elizabeth’s astonishment, his hand cupped her elbow only to retreat at once, as though he himself had regretted the liberty.
“Miss Elizabeth, we must finish the conversation we began last night.”
Her heart pounded. To accept his invitation would only feed the specific hopes she meant to discourage, and she could not allow it. She forced herself to breathe, to steady her voice, lest she wound too cruelly a man who had laid his heart before her, albeit unwillingly.
“I am sorry, sir, but your declaration did not suit my feelings. I found it quite offensive.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “Last night, you spoke as though your heart had betrayed your better judgement, as if loving me were some unfortunate compulsion you could no longer resist.”
She cast a quick glance towards the others—a subtle signal that this was neither the time nor the place for such avowals.
“When all this ends,” she continued, “I shall explain myself further. Then you will understand why the sentiments you confessed—offered more as a burden than a blessing—can never be returned. I could never love a man who thought so little of me and my family. The same man whose selfish disdain for others’ feelings tore my dearest sister from her happiness. ”
Mr. Darcy’s smile faded as he absorbed her words. A heartbeat passed in uneasy silence. Elizabeth silently prayed for a reason to withdraw.
Miss de Bourgh gave her one.
“. . . visit Mrs. Jenkinson in her room? I long to know how she is!” said the heiress.
Both Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy turned.
“I doubt she is fit to receive you, my dear,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam with a sideways glance at his cousin. “You must let her rest until her health improves.”
“Excuse me, sir,” Elizabeth said, seizing the opportunity to break away from Mr. Darcy. “I must distract Miss de Bourgh.”
Her hasty departure from Mr. Darcy’s side brought a measure of relief, though not without regret.
She joined the others, and soon, as the group settled around a card table, Elizabeth found herself daring to steal another glance at the gentleman.
He remained where she had left him, his expression one of quiet befuddlement, as if the day’s events had stirred some deeper mystery in his mind.