Chapter 2
As Elizabeth stumbled through the yew archway at the maze entrance, the sight before her helped her regain a bit more of her senses, for never did Elizabeth expect to find Mr. Darcy, coat streaming behind him, running full out toward her, as though by the hand of Providence.
Slowing from his sprint, he reached the entrance, slipped on wet gravel, and nearly collided with her.
Her muscles aspired to betray her as she attempted to collect herself enough to speak.
She took two staggering steps toward him, then stopped.
She felt her cheek twitch. For one mortifying instant, she feared she might faint outright before him; but pride, if nothing else, compelled her to remain upright.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, “Are you—” His gaze swept down her form, taking in her condition. “Who… what—” He hesitated. “How may I assist you?”
She grabbed his forearm with a strength that surprised even herself. “A woman… Mrs. Blackstone. In the maze,” she said, voice flat as a tombstone. “She is dead.” She turned to look behind her, then met his gaze once again. “I found her. She is dead.”
Placing a hand gently upon hers, he widened his eyes. “Show me,” he said at last.
She nodded, her jaw clenched so tightly she thought it might crack. She let go of his arm.
Mr. Darcy seemed ready to catch her by the shoulders, to steady her, she supposed, but she stepped away, straightened her back, and retraced her steps, marching into the tunnel of yew with a rigid stride.
He followed.
The chill in the maze was different from the cold on the open lawns. Here it was close, damp, almost suffocating. The path wound back and forth, each turn identical. Somehow, she remembered the way. They emerged into the central clearing.
The fountain seemed changed by the presence of death. The cherubs’ faces were less grotesque, more solemn.
Elizabeth stopped at the edge of the clearing and gestured wordlessly. Standing very straight, she was sure obstinance was the only thing preventing her from trembling.
Mr. Darcy moved forward to take in the scene.
Elizabeth looked about, trying not to look again upon Mrs. Blackstone.
She failed.
The woman was still slumped against the fountain’s rim, her head lolling at an angle that would have been uncomfortable in life. There was no obvious violence, no blood, but her lips were so red, her chin and cheek stained with a smeared patch of color.
Mr. Darcy turned back to Elizabeth as if to check on her condition, then he knelt beside Mrs. Blackstone. He spent an extended time inspecting the hands and moved to extract what was between her fingers.
“Best not,” said Elizabeth softly.
He looked up. “You saw this when you found her?”
She nodded, then flinched as the memory recurred. “I closed her eyes.”
A brief expression crossed Mr. Darcy’s features. He seemed moved by the declaration.
He stood. The wind swept through the maze with the sound of whispered secrets.
“I will get help,” said Elizabeth, turning to go.
Mr. Darcy stopped her with a word. “Wait.”
She froze, watching as he struggled for the right thing to say. He must have deemed it more appropriate to say nothing, for next he removed his greatcoat and draped it over the dead woman, obscuring the face and hands.
Elizabeth’s heart melted, allowing many contradicting emotions to rush through her at once.
Her lips parted with a gasp, then she pressed her fist to her mouth, hoping to cork up whatever else might escape.
They stood like that for a minute. Mr. Darcy watched her closely; hands held loosely at his sides as if ready to catch her if she swooned.
Elizabeth blinked her eyes rapidly in an effort to stem the tears pricking at her eyelids. She knew from experience that she could withstand any suffering if she did not acknowledge it aloud.
Deep breaths, Elizabeth, she told herself.
Finally, she felt confident enough to speak, “We must go. There are people at Rosings who should be informed. Lady Catherine, at the very least. A message should be sent to Willow Grange. And the… the authorities. I have never—” When her bottom lip began to tremble, she stopped herself.
“I have,” he said, “I will accompany you.”
Together, they turned down the path. Neither of them looked back.
They had only made it to the second bend when a new set of footsteps arrived, quick and careless on the gravel. The voice of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam sounded ahead.
“Miss Bennet!” he called. “I heard— are you—?”
He emerged from the corridor of hedges, red-faced, hair disordered, one hand still gloved and the other bare.
“Darcy!” He stopped. “I tried to locate the source of the scream, but this forsaken place is a bloody labyrinth.” He hesitated and bowed slightly. “Pardon me, Miss Bennet.”
He looked from Elizabeth to Mr. Darcy, from their faces to their joined proximity, and seemed to take in the gravity of the situation at once.
He sobered, straightened, and lowered his voice. “Is there—?” He did not finish the question.
Mr. Darcy nodded. “A woman is dead. At the fountain. Miss Elizabeth found her.”
The colonel’s gaze flicked to Elizabeth. He nodded gravely. “I will just step in to survey the scene. Will you escort Miss Bennet to the parsonage, Darcy? There’s no need for her to speak to Lady Catherine.”
“There may be questions only I can answer,” Elizabeth objected at once. “I will manage, Colonel.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam regarded her with a new, startled respect. “You have the soul of a general, Miss Bennet. As you wish.”
“Of course.” Mr. Darcy offered his arm.
She hesitated when a hint of something she could not name rose in her chest.
Though it was difficult for her to put the gentleman displaying nothing but humble compassion and concern before her together with the arrogant, superior man she had quarreled with just last evening, he was the same man.
The very gentleman she had refused so fiercely only a few hours before.
She did not wish to take his arm, yet it was quite a distance to Rosings.
After her shock, she was unsure she could carry herself the entire way without support.
Besides, with Mr. Darcy present, they would most likely go in through the rear of the building, which would be a blessing.
As she took his arm, his shoulders relaxed a little.
She hoped it had not been a mistake—that such a simple gesture would not give him false hope.
As they moved off, the colonel continued further into the maze.
In the open air of the lawn, Mr. Darcy glanced sidelong at her.
She hoped he did not wish to converse just now, because she needed a few minutes of silence. She could not imagine Lady Catherine’s inquiries to be simple.
They walked on in silence, Mr. Darcy’s steps matching her own.
A while later, as they approached the rear steps of Rosings, she heard the colonel’s footfalls rapidly catching up behind them.
The windows were ablaze with reflected sunlight. The house stood as it always had, a monument to wealth, bad taste, and the certainty that Lady Catherine’s rules would always apply.
A footman opened the door at the rear entrance even before they reached it, his expression altering at the sight of their expressions.
“Send for Lady Catherine,” said Mr. Darcy with calm authority. “No alarm should be raised until we have spoken privately.”
The servant bowed hurriedly and disappeared.
Elizabeth crossed the threshold and nearly staggered at the sudden warmth of the house. The air smelled faintly of beeswax. How extraordinary that conventional comforts should continue to exist when, only minutes before, she had stood beside death.
Colonel Fitzwilliam quietly closed the door behind them and hurriedly followed the footman into the house.
For the first time since leaving the maze, Elizabeth allowed herself to look fully at Mr. Darcy.
The exertion of his run had left his hair disordered, yet his attention remained fixed entirely upon her, as though nothing else in the world presently demanded it.
She realized he must have lost his hat somewhere since it was nowhere to be seen.
“You are trembling,” he said softly.
“I am not,” she replied automatically.
One corner of his mouth moved into something gentler than a smile, and his eyes sparked with a touch of amusement. “Of course not.”
Under any other circumstances, she might have laughed. Instead, the sound that escaped her was perilously close to a sob.
His expression changed instantly. “Miss Elizabeth—”
“A moment, please,” she said, mortified. “I shall recover directly.”
“I know you shall.”
There was such certainty in the reply; she knew he had such complete confidence in her strength.
Elizabeth suddenly found herself unable to speak at all.
Before another minute passed, rapid footsteps sounded from the adjoining corridor, accompanied by the unmistakable voice of Lady Catherine demanding to know why servants were running about the house like frightened poultry.
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly.
It seemed her discovering Mrs. Blackstone in the maze was only the beginning of today’s ordeals.