CHAPTER 24 – The End of the Storm
A growing unease settled over the group as they approached the house.
This time, Darcy would not be so reckless: he had brought the magistrate, Mr. Bevan, as well as another constable and Ferguson, ensuring there were impartial witnesses to what was about to unfold.
He would permit no more risks, no more misguided attempts to reason with Anne—she was beyond rational discussions.
He had let his impulses guide him before, in hope that Fitzwilliam would do the noble thing, but his cousin had already been overcome by ambition, and was too far gone to be reached by sense or conscience.
His gaze remained fixed on the road ahead; he refused to let his thoughts stray. He could not allow himself to dwell on what had happened barely three hours earlier. Bruises were a small price for his own escape, yet Fitzwilliam’s death had left a wound that would never truly mend.
Beside him, Mr. Bevan sat stiffly, his face pale and deeply uncomfortable. A simple country magistrate, he was accustomed to settling land disputes and petty thefts, not bringing down noblewomen accused of madness and murder.
“I still do not know if this is the right course, Mr. Darcy,” Bevan murmured. “Locking up the mistress of Rosings will raise questions. People will talk.”
“I have no legal authority over her,” Darcy replied evenly, “yet I came here on her guardian’s bidding. Until the earl takes charge, someone must ensure Mrs. Fitzwilliam is kept from harming others—or herself.”
Bevan exhaled sharply. “I understand, I assure you.”
They reached the clearing near the house. The butler was already waiting as they dismounted, his face carefully neutral, though his posture betrayed unease. He bowed stiffly, stepping aside to allow them entry.
“The mistress is in the sitting room, sir.”
Before stepping forward, Darcy exchanged a glance with Bevan. The poor man sighed, bracing himself for the confrontation.
The house was eerily ordinary, immersed in a strange calmness. The scent of a home-cooked meal lingered in the air, as if the household was merely awaiting the master’s return for supper, a cruel contrast to what might unravel soon.
Anne came rushing into the room, skirts swishing, her eyes bright with expectation, hope—
She froze. The smile on her lips wavered, then faded completely as she took in the scene before her.
Richard Fitzwilliam was not there.
Her gaze swept over the four men, searching.
Then it found him. Her eyes flickered downward, registering the ruined state of his clothes, the blood spattered across his coat.
If only Darcy could shield her from the truth—spare her the pain he would soon inflict upon her. Anne took a measured step backwards.
“Where is Richard?”
Darcy forced his voice to remain steady, though compassion tightened in his chest. “He is not coming back, Anne.”
“No!” Her head went slowly from side to side and panic sharpened her voice. “Where is he? What did you do to him?”
He had no time to soothe his cousin or reason with her. “Anne, I am here at the earl’s behest. Until he decides otherwise, I am charged with ensuring your safety and the proper order of this household.”
Silence.
“Until he decides?” Her voice splintered. “He has no authority over me. Neither of you do.”
“He is your guardian, Anne. And he has entrusted me with the task of seeing you are properly cared for.”
Her eyes flared.
“Cared for?” She laughed, hoarse and breathless. “Like an invalid? Like a madwoman?” Her hands clenched into fists. “What did you do to him? Tell me!”
Her wary gaze darted among the men before she bolted for the door. Darcy lunged, catching her wrist, but Ferguson was already behind her, seizing her by the waist and hauling her off the ground.
Steel flashed, the gleam of a blue gem.
Darcy’s stomach lurched. The letter opener.
Anne wielded the weapon with feral strength. Darcy jerked back, barely avoiding the first cut. His stumble broke his hold, and Ferguson took the blow in his forearm. The man grunted but barely flinched. Mr. Bevan gasped and reeled backward in horror.
The constable charged. Anne kicked him on the groin and sent him crashing to the ground.
The struggle lasted mere seconds. Anne thrashed, kicked, and twisted, shrieking like a wild animal. The blade in her hand slashed blindly, cutting into any flesh it could reach, whistling past Darcy’s face by mere inches.
He finally caught her arm just as the constable seized her other wrist.
The dagger fell, clattering to the floor.
For a moment, the only sound was the rasp of laboured breathing. Anne had gone still, her limbs slack. It seemed that she had surrendered, but Darcy did not trust her.
All eyes were on her, alert for another unbridled attack. Ferguson eased his grip just enough for her to stand on her own.
Then, her body swayed and her head lolled to one side, as though the world had slipped out from under her. Her eyelids drooped, threatening to close at any moment.
Cautiously, Darcy came forward. “Anne?” He cupped her chin and lifted her face. She had gone terribly pale.
Her knees gave way, and she slipped from Ferguson’s arms.
No one moved or dared to speak. Darcy stood still, expectant, refusing to believe what his eyes told him.
Ferguson lowered her to the floor and stepped back. Limp. Too limp.
A dark stain was spreading across her gown, soaking through the fabric, pooling fast over the tiles.
Darcy knelt beside her, moving her skirts aside in a vain attempt to stanch the bleeding. A vein in her thigh, torn in her frenzy, gaped and flowed in torrents. A fatal wound, though she had likely never meant to strike herself at all.
Horrified, he pressed harder, a desperate, fruitless attempt to stop the surge, but the blood ran like a river, defying all effort.
A serene smile ghosted across Anne’s lips. Her eyes fluttered closed. And for the first time, she looked at peace.
Bile rose up his throat. Darcy forced himself to breathe, slow and steady while he cradled her head with bloody hands.
Somewhere from behind, Bevan muttered a prayer.
Ferguson exhaled sharply, blood dripping from his arm.
And there, beside Anne’s still form, lay Sir Lewis’s letter opener, its blue gem catching a stray shaft of sunlight.
The exact dagger she had used to kill her mother.
***
Darcy remained at Rosings just long enough to see his duties fulfilled.
The earth had barely settled over Fitzwilliam’s grave when Darcy finalized the estate matters.
It had been a quiet, sombre burial. Only a handful of local families came to pay their final respects, offering one last farewell to the last mistress of Rosings and her husband. The new parson officiated.
Darcy had no words to offer. There were no speeches, only the solemn rites of the Church. He stood silent as the ceremony unfolded, the wind howling over the cliffs as the last shovelful of dirt fell.
Fitzwilliam had made his choices. Now, the only thing left was to lay him to rest.
Anne was buried not far from him. With her, they laid the dagger with the blue gem—the same blade that had ended Lady Catherine’s life, and, ultimately, Anne’s own.
The curse of Rosings had finally come to an end.
By the time Darcy left the cemetery, he was exhausted in a way that went beyond physical fatigue. But there was still work to be done.
Many unpleasant letters were written, many explanations given. More would follow once he reached home. The Earl of Matlock would demand answers about his sister’s fate, his son’s death, and the future of Rosings. These were conversations Darcy did not wish to have, but could not avoid.
He had come to bring order. Instead, he had buried them all.
Darcy returned to the house on the beach only once—to retrieve Georgiana’s letters.
Just stepping inside sent a shiver through him. The air was thick; the silence oppressive, as if the walls still bore witness to the madness that had unfolded there.
He went straight to the library, unwilling to linger.
The letters were exactly where he suspected—in a drawer, tied with a blue silk ribbon.
Darcy pulled one free, unfolded the paper, and scanned the writing.
Georgiana’s words to her lover stared back at him.
Without hesitation, he tossed them into the fire, watching as the flames curled around the paper, reducing the past to ash.
That chapter of his life was closed.
The steward was rehired. The remaining servants were given direction and purpose. Rosings, in its ruined state, still stood, though a shell of its former grandeur, yet one that would not crumble entirely under his care.
Only then, when everything was settled, did he allow himself to leave.
The journey to Longbourn seemed longer than it truly was. He had imagined this moment a hundred times, but now that it was finally here, he found himself gripping the edge of the seat, restless, uncertain. Only when the familiar outline of Longbourn came into view did he finally exhale.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and as soon as the footman unlatched the door, Darcy hopped down. He stepped onto the gravel path, barely finding his footing before Elizabeth ran to him without hesitation, her skirts swaying, her breath catching as she threw her arms around him.
He held her tightly. No words passed between them at first. Only the warmth of her embrace, the certainty of her presence after everything he had endured was there to sustain him. His throat constricted, and his chest shook—a sob, a chuckle, perhaps both.
It did not matter. They were finally together.
Elizabeth pulled back slightly, her hands cupping his face. “Are you well?”
Darcy blinked away the mist in his eyes. “I am now.”
FIN