CHAPTER 21 – Forget-me-not
Darcy tossed in bed. Again, that dream.
This one was not a nightmare—not like those that had haunted him since he left Rosings. And yet, its recurrence unsettled him deeply.
It always began with him wandering the halls of a grand house. Sometimes the mansion bore a striking resemblance to Rosings; at other times, it was Pemberley. The faces around him changed, the details shifted, but one event remained constant. That moment—whatever its meaning—was what mattered.
At first, the dream was peaceful. But as he moved through the great house, the walls darkened, the path twisted, and an oppressive sense of entrapment set in.
He had a purpose, though he could never recall its name.
Always, his footsteps led him to a large door—a door he must open only to reveal a spiral staircase climbing into endless darkness.
Then, a turn appeared that he should have expected. Yet, within the dream, that turn always took him by surprise.
Tonight, he found himself in a dimly lit room surrounded by piled books and scattered papers. At the centre sat Elizabeth, waiting in a high-backed chair, a large blue gem at her throat flashing like a beacon in a storm.
“William, what took you so long?”
“I am sorry, I could not find the way.”
Elizabeth’s expression darkened. “Do you have them?”
“Of course.” He extended his hand.
She frowned. “No, that is not what I asked for. I said a candle and a tea cloth.”
Darcy looked down. In his hand was a basket.
Confusion, frustration—this was always the moment the dream unravelled. The request was so simple, yet he was never able to fulfil it. Then—
He woke up. Lost. Troubled.
Darcy sat up, rubbing his eyes, trying to make sense of it, but within moments, the dream faded into obscurity.
***
The Gardiner residence bustled with morning excitement. The entire family had gathered for breakfast, and even Charlotte Collins, usually subdued, seemed light-hearted as she watched the children’s antics.
Elizabeth was the most eager of them all. After three days without seeing her betrothed, she had finally received a note from him.
She had tried to be understanding since Darcy had urgent matters regarding Rosings and Pemberley, but still, she had harboured hopes that he might find a moment for her. And now, at last, he was coming.
But the moment he stepped into the room, her heart sank.
His grim expression, the tight set of his jaw, the shadow in his eyes—something was wrong.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy,” Uncle said warmly. “Come, join us for breakfast.”
Darcy bowed politely but declined. “If you do not mind, I must speak with Elizabeth alone.”
A hush fell over the table. His urgency was impossible to miss.
Elizabeth rose at once, the weight of every gaze upon them heavy on her shoulders. Without another word, she guided him into the library.
The moment the door shut behind them, she turned to him. “William, what is it?”
Instead of answering immediately, he began to pace, running a hand through his hair. “I spoke to the family’s notary,” he said at last. “There are new revelations about the Rosings inheritance that are. . . troubling.”
Elizabeth waited.
“There was a codicil written on Sir Lewis’s deathbed,” he said. “I have tried to make sense of it, yet every answer leads to more questions.”
He told her of the de Bourghs’ history of madness and the amendment hidden from the family. He spoke of Ferguson, and of his revelations concerning Mrs. Jenkinson’s means of calming Miss de Bourgh whenever her agitation rose beyond all bounds.
“Ferguson has served at Rosings for nearly twenty years. He was a footman, with access to the entire house. A man who speaks little but hears much.”
“And you trust him?” Elizabeth asked.
“Implicitly.” Darcy’s voice was tight with restraint.
“Anne’s behaviour began to alter during adolescence.
Her manners grew increasingly erratic—at times even violent.
There were incidents, improper conduct with some of the servants.
Most were concealed, but there remain accounts of chambermaids being struck. ”
Elizabeth’s breath caught.
“This,” he said, “coincides with the drafting of the original will—the one that delayed her inheritance until she turned five and twenty. I believe Sir Lewis feared she would not improve with time. Mrs. Jenkinson’s devoted efforts during those trying years did much to make her appear more. . . presentable.”
“You have known her since childhood,” Elizabeth said. “Did you never suspect anything was amiss?”
He let out a long breath. “I must confess, I gave her little thought. Whenever I visited Rosings, I was more intent on avoiding my aunt than observing her daughter. But I do recall she was often excitable when she was younger, and at times confined to her rooms, sometimes for several days together.”
“Charlotte told me her health was delicate. That was the reason she was not presented in society.”
“Apparently, that was only a pretext; they would not risk sending her to London for the Season.” He exhaled sharply. “When she turned eighteen, around the time Sir Lewis’s health declined, this suspicious amendment was drawn up.”
“And what does it say?”
“It granted Lady Catherine full control of Rosings if Anne died childless or was declared incapable.”
“But Lady Catherine is gone. What will become of her, of the estate?”
“My uncle is the succeeding guardian,” Darcy said grimly.
“Yesterday, I received a letter from him. He demands an explanation for what has occurred at Rosings and requires that I travel there at once to ascertain the truth. He received Fitzwilliam’s letter but remains unconvinced.
He suspects something is awry, though he dares not say as much on paper.
Perhaps Fitzwilliam’s sudden interest in Rosings has left him mistrustful.
The mere fact that he had settled there and is to marry Anne without consulting his father is telling enough. ”
“He must truly value your judgement, to entrust you with such an undertaking.”
“Let us hope he does not come to regret it.”
Elizabeth chose not to press him further on the Earl’s expectations; Darcy appeared distressed enough. “This codicil you mentioned—I know little of such matters, but surely it can be disputed if signed under such unusual circumstances.”
He sank into the chair opposite her. “Indeed. There is also a vagueness—an omission that leaves room for challenge.”
“But who would dare challenge the Earl’s authority?” Realization flickered in her eyes. “Do you think the colonel might? Does he know of this secret clause?”
Darcy rubbed his chin as if wrestling with a truth too grievous to confess aloud. “I am almost certain he was aware of it —that he has known of this all along.”
Her chest tightened. The implications were deeply concerning. “They are about to be married—if they are not already.”
“Precisely,” Darcy said solemnly. “And as her husband, Fitzwilliam will have full control. Of her. Of Rosings.”
***
An unexpected sense of relief filled Darcy as their conversation drew to a close.
Confiding in Elizabeth had lightened the burden he had carried for too long, and he found himself grateful for her understanding.
Of all people, she alone grasped how Rosings and its tangled affairs preyed on him.
The strain of its secrets had left him weary, yet in her presence, a quiet solace filled him, a certainty that, at last, he was no longer facing it alone.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said at last, offering a small, tired smile, “for bearing with me and my worries. You have been of invaluable help.”
“You flatter me, sir,” she said in a teasing tone. “It seems my good qualities are in your protection. Feel free to exaggerate them as much as possible.”
With a chuckle, he shook his head. “There is no exaggeration. You have many good qualities, my dear, except your own tendency to exaggerate. And, perhaps, to misjudge me.”
She laughed lightly. “You, sir, look exceedingly tired. I shall ring for tea.”
Darcy began a weak protest. “There is no need for that; I must—”
But Elizabeth had already called a maid, ordering tea and muffins.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savouring the warmth of Elizabeth’s presence.
A maid arrived promptly, carrying a tidily arranged tray with a teapot, two cups, and a small basket containing a bundle of warm breads wrapped in a tea towel embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots.
Elizabeth reached for the teapot and began to pour—but the tea missed the cup, spilling onto the cloth.
“Oh—” She moved to clean the mess. “So much for my good qualities; I can barely pour your tea.”
He was no better: he could scarcely pay attention to her. Instead, he was utterly still, his eyes fixed on the objects before him.
Everything came back to him at once. Images flowed into his mind, sudden and bubbling like the water pouring out of a floodgate.
The dream, Anne telling Miss Lucas how to paint little blue flowers, Mrs. Jenkinson’s body on the floor, the dark staircase that spiralled upwards, and Fitzwilliam’s words: A candle. A tea cloth. Broken china.
Her voice brought him back to the present. “William, what is the matter?”
There was a long pause. “Fitzwilliam lied.”
“I do not understand.”
“The night Mrs. Jenkinson died, I went to the round tower to see what had happened. Fitzwilliam joined me a moment later. Her body lay at the foot of the stairs, and near her a tray and some broken china. I recall remarking that she could not have climbed them without a candle. Fitzwilliam ascended the staircase and described what he saw. What he told me then differs from what I found two days later.”
“What do you mean?”
“That it was all a contrivance,” he said, cupping his chin.
“When I returned to the tower, I observed a different arrangement. There was a small basket, much like that one,” he gestured toward the basket of bread, “a teacup with a broken handle, and a few steps below, a neatly placed candle. But no tea towel or rag lay upon the stairs.”
“Are you saying he placed them there on purpose?”
Again, Darcy stood and began to pace. “Mrs. Jenkinson used to carry a tray with tea to Anne’s room every night. Ferguson told us so.”
“That night as well. Anne told the constable that was the last time she saw her—when she left the tray in her room. I saw her at the top of the staircase, shortly before I met you in the library.”
“The main staircase?” He spun around, his eyes intently on hers. “Then why was she in the tower? Why was she carrying a tray up those stairs?”
Elizabeth gasped. “Do you think she was pushed? That the tray was thrown after her?”
“Most likely. So when I perceived something was amiss, Fitzwilliam placed the objects to divert suspicion!”
“Dear Lord!” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Do you think he killed her? That he killed your aunt too?”
“No.” He resumed his pacing. “My aunt was stabbed many times. Fitzwilliam is a soldier—a trained fighter and a skilled swordsman. He would never commit murder in such a chaotic, desperate manner. If anything, I suspect he is protecting the true culprit.”
A heavy silence settled between them.
Elizabeth swallowed. “Then who?”
“I have my suspicions, though I shall not share them yet.” He turned to her, his voice quieter but no less steady. “What else did Anne say to the constable?”
“Only that Mr. Collins came to her room, speaking in a strange tongue. And that he drew a dagger from inside a book. She described it as an ornate piece, with a blue gem on the hilt.”
Darcy’s gut tightened as the air seemed to rush out of him. “Sir Lewis’s letter opener.”
“You have seen it?”
He nodded grimly. “It was always on his desk. Hanbury asked me if I knew such a thing. I—”
He broke off, realization dawning. “Anne knew that trinket perfectly well. I saw her playing with it as a child—twirling it, prying open letters with it. Why pretend she did not recognize it?”
Elizabeth’s eyes opened wide. “You were right to doubt Mr. Collins’s culpability. “Perhaps he was nothing but a cat’s-paw in all this.”
The muscles tightened on Darcy’s face. “I must go back, Elizabeth. I must return to Rosings.”
She studied him for a long moment, concern furrowing her brow. Without another word, she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him. He pulled her into his embrace, holding her tight as if anchoring himself before the storm ahead.
“When will you leave?” she whispered against his chest.
“Tomorrow.” He gently rubbed her back.
She pulled away slightly, her hands still circling him. “Then we have today.”
His fingers brushed a stray curl from her face, lingering at her cheek. “Yes. And I intend to make the most of it.”
For the first time in days, they let the silence between them be filled with an emotion other than fear. Whatever waited for him at Rosings, whatever truths lay hidden in its shadows, he would face them soon enough.
For now, he was here. With her.
And for now, that was enough.