CHAPTER 13 – The Search for Collins #3
Elizabeth moved swiftly through the halls, her mind racing.
A passing footman informed her that Mr. Darcy had last been seen in the back courtyard, bidding farewell to the colonel as he departed for Hunsford.
Not acquainted with that side of the house, she lost precious moments navigating the manor’s many extensions and alterations.
Its twisting passages and shuttered rooms had turned the place into a veritable maze.
When she finally reached the courtyard, she was told the gentleman had returned to the house.
Huffing, she went back. Her hurried, uncertain steps eventually brought her to the kitchen.
She stopped short on entering, gulping as half a dozen pairs of eyes turned on her at once.
A strained hush lay over the space, broken only by the dull thud of the cook’s axe as he bled a fowl for the next meal.
Foolish—barging in unannounced. Elizabeth offered them a curt nod and a murmured “good afternoon,” though the words sounded thin even to her own ears.
The servants had stilled, their wary gazes tracking her every step.
Of course they would look at her so; she had trespassed where she did not belong.
“Is Ferguson here? I need to find Mr. Darcy.” She asked a young maid.
Mr. Darcy’s manservant rose from a bench.
“I believe he’s in the old tower, madam,” Ferguson said simply.
“Pray, can you take me to him?”
Without a word, Ferguson retrieved a candle and led her up the main staircase and down the long gallery that linked the two wings.
At the door to the tower passage, he paused. “Best I fetch him for you, madam. These stairs aren’t easy to walk.”
A moment later, Mr. Darcy emerged from the shadows.
“Miss Bennet?” His voice held a note of surprise. “Is something the matter?”
Elizabeth took a steadying breath. “I must speak with you. It is urgent.”
“Pray, tell me.”
She relayed everything: Mr. Collins’s strange behaviour, Charlotte’s concerns, and now his sudden disappearance. Darcy listened in silence, his brow furrowing with each word.
“This is no coincidence,” he said at last, his expression darkened.
Elizabeth swallowed. “What do we do?”
“We must find him. You said he went to the old chapel?”
Her breath caught at the urgency in his tone. “You believe he might be in danger?” On impulse, she reached out and placed a hand on his forearm—but withdrew it just as quickly.
“Too many strange occurrences have taken place for us to assume otherwise.” He turned to Ferguson. “Summon the housekeeper. Have the footmen search the house and grounds. Quietly. They are to report only to me.”
Ferguson nodded and hurried off, leaving Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy alone.
Mr. Darcy turned to her. “Stay with Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas in the drawing room. I shall have one less concern if I know you are together.”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders and stood her ground. “No, sir. I would rather accompany you than to be left to fret in ignorance.”
He observed her quietly for an instant, then exhaled sharply. “Very well,” he said at last. “But you must keep close.”
Her lips curved into a triumphant smile.
“And do as I say,” he added, already turning.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, accelerating her steps to match his. As she fell into stride beside him, she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw the faintest smile tug at his mouth before he looked away.
***
The chapel stood in solemn stillness. A single candle burned low upon the table, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Darcy crossed the threshold with Elizabeth, their footsteps echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
This place, once a site of devotion, was now but a mausoleum, a forgotten relic of a family weighed down by its own history.
Dozens of old volumes lined the shelves, dusty and untouched, recording births, marriages, and deaths—a testament to a lineage marked by tragedy. Several books lay scattered on the table, and the stubs of spent candles hinted at long, solitary vigils.
“Someone was here recently,” Elizabeth murmured, pointing to the disarray. “Mr. Collins, perhaps?”
“Most likely,” Darcy said as he perused the scene.
He opened one of the volumes, carefully turning the brittle pages, his finger trailing across the rusty ink as he searched for anything that might explain the parson’s fixation.
The record ended with the death of Sir Lewis five years prior. No entries followed. With a frustrated sigh, Darcy slammed it shut, the motion sending loose papers fluttering across the table. One yellowed sheet landed near the candle.
“What is this?” Elizabeth caught it before it singed. She handed it to him.
Darcy unfolded the paper and read aloud:
“There is no peace for those who bear the bloodline.
The madness does not fade—it only waits.
It slumbers in the marrow of the heirs,
whispering in the quiet of the halls,
feeding on the sins of the past.
Those who seek to escape will only find themselves drawn back,
for the house remembers, and the house will have its own.”
A chill passed between them.
“Quite ominous, is it not?” she said, leaning into the halo of the shared candlelight.
“There is no date, no signature,” Darcy said with a frown. “But it appears to be extremely old. I have heard whispers about the de Bourgh family's troubles, though I had dismissed them as idle superstition.”
“Do you believe this is what Mr. Collins discovered? And that he believed it?”
“Perhaps. A disturbed mind might find dreadful meaning in such words.” He left the paper on the table. “We must find him before he acts on this.”
With renewed vigour, Darcy extinguished the candle and waved his hand towards the door. He strode out of the chapel with her a brisk step ahead.
***
The waves crashed violently against the hull of the ship. Colonel Fitzwilliam gripped the railing as the trading boat pitched forward. The sea had turned unforgiving, the journey to the mainland far more treacherous than anticipated.
“Sir!” one of the sailors called over the wind. “Look back at the manor!”
Fitzwilliam turned, squinting his eyes to see better in the predominant darkness. In the distance, Rosings loomed like a dark spectre against the cloudy sky.
Then he saw it. The faint glow of fire.
A pit formed in his stomach. The mansion’s silhouette was now marred by flickering orange lights. His breath caught. The implications were clear.
“Rosings is burning,” he muttered. Then, with a surge of urgency, he turned to the captain. “We must go back immediately!”
The captain shook his head. “Impossible in this wind, sir! We’d be swallowed whole before we reached the shore.”
Fitzwilliam clenched his jaw. Helplessness clawed at him as the ship pressed onward, away from the island and whatever fate was unfolding in the depths of the night.