Chapter 1 #2
The maze was composed of tightly clipped yew, and at its center stood an abandoned marble fountain and a single wooden bench. As far as she could tell, no one ever went there except the gardener, who continued to trim the hedges even though his mistress was displeased with the labyrinth’s design.
It was, in short, the perfect place to read a letter that should never have existed.
Elizabeth quickened her step, her headache abating in proportion to her growing anticipation. The maze was at the far end of the grounds.
Stepping into the labyrinth, she was instantly enveloped in a stillness unlike any other on the property. The yews were so dense they absorbed most of the wind; the only sound was the uneven crunch of gravel beneath her feet.
Since the path to the center was already known to her, she arrived at the fountain quickly, heart pounding in her chest as if she had committed some great crime.
The fountain itself was grotesque—two cherubs struggling with an urn that had, over the years, sprouted a tuft of lichen from its spout.
The basin was empty of water; the surface speckled with last autumn’s leaves.
Elizabeth placed a handkerchief on the bench and seated herself before extracting the letter from her coat. The paper was smooth beneath her fingers—high quality. The blue tint on the pages led her to assume it was specially made.
The seal broke with a satisfying snap, and she unfolded it. Two whole sheets were covered on both sides, written in a precise hand, utterly unlike the impetuous manner in which he had spoken the evening before.
He must have been awake all night, as she had been, though it looked as though his night had been spent more productively than hers.
She read the first side of a page. It was about Jane and Mr. Bingley, the page ending with, “The serenity of your sister’s countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched.”
Elizabeth blinked several times, as if doing so would erase the words from the page.
What would he have thought if her sister had shown her real feelings for Mr. Bingley, for all to see? Would he not have criticized her for being too forward?
Anger was too mild a word for what she felt at this moment.
She made a few exclamations, then read it again, more slowly this time.
By the time she finished her second pass, her hands trembled; whether from cold or emotion she could not say.
As she finally turned the page over, she decided to pace a bit to warm herself and expel a portion of her exasperation before continuing.
Rising from the bench, she headed left around the fountain. The moss under her shoes was slick, prompting her to grab hold of the cold marble with one hand.
While steadying herself, she noticed what she had not seen upon entering: on the far side of the basin was something barely visible above the lip.
The form was swathed in a shade of rose in style just now, quite inconsistent with the green and gray of the surrounding area.
For a split second, her mind supplied an explanation: perhaps it was a lady’s scarf or glove, carelessly placed on the fountain’s edge and forgotten.
However, it looked wrong.
Elizabeth moved further around the fountain, letter still in hand. As she approached, the shape resolved itself with devastating clarity.
It was a woman, seated—or rather, folded—against the curved wall of the fountain, her dress splayed about her as if she had sunk from exhaustion.
One arm hung at an unnatural angle. Her rose-colored bonnet was askew; the ribbons half-unwound and trailing down to the dead leaves around her.
Her brown hair lay across her cheek in a way that was not at all intentional.
The skin was very flushed, almost matching the color of her hat.
Elizabeth’s first, wild thought was that the woman had fainted, perhaps overcome by a headache similar to the one that had afflicted her.
But even as the thought formed, it dissolved. The position was unnatural. The stillness was too perfect, too total.
It was the posture of death.
Her letter fluttered from her fingers.
She reached the woman in two quick steps and crouched, ignoring the dampness that chilled her knees.
A splash of color on the woman’s chin caught Elizabeth’s attention, but she was distracted by her lips being a peculiar cherry-red. Eyes wide, the woman looked upward; her expression spoke of glimpsing something astonishing in her final moments.
Elizabeth’s heart hammered in her ears. She reached for the woman’s hand, intending… what? She did not know; to rouse her, perhaps? Offer comfort?
Confirm a conclusion of which she was already certain?
The hand was cold and stiff; the gloved fingers closed in a desperate clutch around an object Elizabeth could not at first identify. It was thin and irregular, mayhap a scrap of paper.
Elizabeth forced herself to look closer. The object was a torn piece of stationery, its edges jagged. There was ink on it, but the death-grip of the hand obscured the words. Elizabeth could make out only the end: “...ackstone.”
The name sent a shock through her. She had heard it only recently. Not only had Miss Anne de Bourgh mentioned it when she and Charlotte had gone to Rosings for tea, but Charlotte had also mentioned that the woman had come to see her only yesterday.
Miss Diane Blackstone was the companion to a lady at the nearby estate of Willow Grange.
Mrs. Blackstone ought not to be inside the hedge maze at Rosings Park at all, let alone should she have died there.
Elizabeth staggered back, bile rising in her throat.
The horror was not in the death itself; she had seen death before and had never flinched.
The horror was in the absurdity of Elizabeth’s own experience…
as if fate had decided that one improbable event in the last day was not sufficient, and had provided a second, ghastlier incident, only to eclipse the first.
She heard herself make a wailing sound, high and sharp.
It echoed in the yew walls. For a moment, she feared it might carry all the way to Rosings or Hunsford Cottage, summoning Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine and the whole weight of the social order to descend upon her at the very moment she least wished to be observed.
The sound faded. The maze was as silent as ever.
As she stood there, a stiff breeze blew through the branches of the yews. Papers fluttered around Mrs. Blackstone, the vision spurring Elizabeth to remember Mr. Darcy’s letter.
Bending, she collected the pages. Something about them seemed wrong somehow, difficult to fold, but she knew she could not allow anyone else to find these pages.
Folding the papers into her inner pocket, Elizabeth leaned forward once more and closed Mrs. Blackstone’s eyes.
Knees shaking, she perched on the bench, stared at the fountain, which from this vantage point blocked the sight of Mrs. Blackstone… hoping to find the will to move again.
Regaining a bit of rationality, she stood, retrieved her kerchief, wiped the damp from her skirts, and started out of the maze.
Elizabeth had been quite certain the morning could grow no worse. She had never been more mistaken.
Instead, it had become the day that changed everything.