CHAPTER 13 – The Search for Collins #2
Her return to the drawing room was marked by reflection and confusion.
Mr. Darcy’s indifference unsettled her in a way his former slights never had.
Could his affections be so changeable? Or was she the one who wavered?
Not long ago, she had rejected him in the most definitive terms; yet now, she found herself facing the fear that she had lost his good opinion entirely.
She drew a steadying breath and turned her attention to her present company. “Where is Miss de Bourgh?” Elizabeth asked as she settled on the settee.
“She left a moment ago,” said Charlotte. “She was feeling unwell and preferred to retire early.”
“I have never seen her so desolate.” Miss Lucas sighed. “This is because of the colonel’s departure. Poor lady! The mere prospect of losing her lover has left her quite undone.”
“Hush!” Charlotte shook her finger at her sister. “You should not assume such things.”
“But they are! I saw them kissing on Easter Sunday!” Maria said, undeterred by her sister’s warning.
“They were behind the folly in the garden. He pulled her close, and she did not resist. His hand. . . it wandered under her skirt, and she made no effort to stop him! I dare say they might have gone further, but I did not stay to see it.”
“Maria!” Charlotte’s face turned crimson. “That is an indecent thing to say!”
Elizabeth hastened to steer the conversation elsewhere, though her mind remained unsettled.
However meddlesome Maria’s observations might be, they were not without foundation.
The intimacy between Miss de Bourgh and the colonel had progressed at a pace far swifter than propriety—or anyone—had anticipated.
“I wish Miss de Bourgh had not asked us to remain another day.” Charlotte let out a long breath. “I long to go home.”
“I imagine you must miss your life at the parsonage,” Elizabeth said gently.
“Not the parsonage, Lizzy. I mean home—to Meryton. If I could, I would leave this godforsaken island forever.”
Elizabeth was taken aback by her friend’s vehemence. “I understand these past days have been dreadful, but surely your life here has not been so wretched as to make you abandon Rosings altogether—especially now that Lady Catherine is no longer here to torment you.”
“It is not only that. There is something else. . .” Charlotte hesitated, casting a glance towards the door as though to ensure they were unobserved. “Something I cannot fully comprehend. I believe. . . I believe my husband may have had something to do with Lady Catherine’s death.”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “Charlotte! Why would you say such a thing?”
Her friend’s eyes shimmered. “He found some important information, Lizzy, about the de Bourghs. Old records in Rosings’ chapel speaking of a curse the servants whisper about.”
“A curse? Old tales, surely. You must not lend them credence.”
“He also said Mrs. Jenkinson knew more than she let on.”
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. “Mrs. Jenkinson?”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “What is it, Lizzy?”
“Mrs. Jenkinson died two nights ago.”
***
Rosings Manor was a labyrinth of connected rooms and shadowed passages, and many pathways were unknown to all but those who had spent years within its walls.
As a young lad, Darcy had wandered them freely, finding solace in their secrecy—a welcome retreat from his overbearing aunt.
Now, more than a decade later, their mystery had faded, replaced by a grim necessity.
Tonight, he was not exploring for amusement—he was searching for answers.
He had every intention of visiting the round tower the day before, but he had been too overwhelmed by Elizabeth’s words to think of anything but her rejection.
His pride had been wounded, but his heart harboured no resentment.
Her reproof, though cutting, carried the weight of a truth too hard to accept for a man of his self-importance.
Yet a full day of reflection had made him reasonable enough to grant her words their justice.
He still found it painful to be in the same room with her, but after that brief encounter in the library, he counted himself fortunate that she would speak to him at all.
Today, however, other matters preoccupied him more than Elizabeth’s refusal. A much darker concern was keeping him awake at night, and he had to investigate it.
He approached a small, dark, wooden door leading to the tower, where the servants’ quarters and storage rooms connected to the main house.
Beyond it lay Anne’s and his aunt’s chambers and, further still, the abandoned rooms of the late Sir Lewis.
With a steadying breath, Darcy pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the passage that bridged the old and new wings of Rosings.
The contrast struck him at once—one side adorned with dark wood panelling and heavy tapestries, the other nothing but bare, cold stone.
Dusk had begun to settle, with the last streaks of fading sunlight slanting through the arrow slits of the round tower.
No torches were lit, and the waning light barely illuminated the steep, spiralling staircase before him.
Candle in hand, he tried to retrace Mrs. Jenkinson’s fateful path from the upper floors down to the cellar.
A few steps in, he became well aware of how treacherous the descent was, especially for an older woman burdened with a tray.
The first thing that came to his attention was that the newel leaned outward, more unstable than it ought to have been.
The railing lacked balusters, and a secondary lower rail had been added halfway down the remaining supports to reinforce the structure.
Further along the turn of the stairwell, a teacup with a broken handle lay across one of the stone steps, a small basket rested two steps below.
Just a few more steps down, he spotted an overturned candle.
He bent down to get a good look at them.
Darcy frowned, scrutinizing the layout. Had these items slipped naturally from her grasp in a fall, or had they been scattered in a struggle?
He tried to recall whether the teacup matched the pieces of the set at the base of the stairs, but his memory failed him.
The only way to be sure was to descend further and compare them.
He tested the railing. The wooden structure, probably two centuries old, trembled beneath his hand.
The lower rail, meant to brace the whole, had come loose at one end and now dangled slightly, half detached from its mount.
It would not take much to break it off entirely.
A body—even one as frail as Mrs. Jenkinson’s—might have struck it and caused it to give way.
Or had it come loose when the colonel tripped the night of her death?
Something about the scene unsettled him. He saw no clear signs of a struggle. No indication of another presence. No reason, at least on the surface, for anyone to wish harm upon the poor woman.
Unless she had known something. . .
Darcy exhaled, his frustration mounting. Could she have discovered the identity of Lady Catherine’s murderer? If so, why had she not confided in him—or even Fitzwilliam—before she met her demise? Could the murderer be someone within their own circle?
Everyone was a suspect. That much was obvious. But who would be brazen enough to strike again?
“Perhaps it was an unfortunate accident,” he muttered under his breath. But his instincts screamed otherwise.
“Sir? Are you there?”
Darcy looked up sharply at the sound of his manservant’s voice calling from the upper floors. “Ferguson? What is it?”
“Miss Bennet is here to see you.”
Darcy climbed the stairs two steps at a time, his mind already racing through the possible reasons Elizabeth might seek him out.
***
A short time earlier:
“Dead? I did not know she was so gravely ill!” Charlotte gasped.
“She did not die of illness,” Elizabeth said solemnly. “She was found at the bottom of the staircase in the old tower.”
Charlotte turned pale, her hands tightening in her lap. “But Mr. Collins said nothing of this. Two nights ago, he told me he was going to meet with her. And now you say she died that particular night?”
Maria’s eyes widened. “Do you suppose he had a hand in it too? Miss de Bourgh told me she has always been wary of him—that his excessive attentions to her mother made her uneasy, that he seemed. . . insincere. But truly, Charlotte, how well do you know him? You had scarcely spoken a dozen times before you married. After so much mistreatment, I would not be surprised if he—”
“That is a grave accusation, Maria,” Elizabeth said. “It ought not to be spoken of so lightly.”
Charlotte swallowed hard. “But he has been unsettled since Lady Catherine’s death.
The night she died, he never came to bed; he said he was with the servants, praying and offering comfort after the boy’s death—but all night, Lizzy?
He returned only when Lady Catherine’s body was discovered.
And Lizzy. . .” She leaned in and spoke in a hush.
“I saw specks of blood upon the sleeve of his coat.”
Both Elizabeth and Maria gasped.
“Did you ask him what had happened?” Elizabeth asked, aghast.
“I did not dare.”
Maria cast a nervous glance between them. “That is frightening. Where could he possibly be?”
“I know not.” Charlotte’s voice faltered.
“Last night he was talking most strangely—about the de Bourghs and that wretched curse—then he began to pray. When I woke this morning, he was already gone, and I have not seen him since. I asked several servants if they had laid eyes on him, but none had. It is most disquieting. He has never behaved so before.”
Elizabeth rose. “I must speak with Mr. Darcy. He, too, has remarked on Mr. Collins’s absence.”
Charlotte looked up at her, desperation in her eyes. “Lizzy. . . be careful.”
“I will,” Elizabeth said, and left the room in search of Mr. Darcy.
***