Chapter 3
To Elizabeth, Rosings Park was like a cathedral whose stained-glass windows had been bricked over for want of respect.
Already monstrous with its array of pink and gold ornamentation, the drawing room was oppressively overheated, the air shimmering above the marble hearth.
The enormous fireplace must consume more wood or coal in one day than a typical household might use in a week.
As she entered between Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, the room’s expectant hush was almost unbearable.
Elizabeth felt the temperature most acutely in the flush of her own face and the prickling along her neck.
She was aware, too, that her hand still lay upon Mr. Darcy’s arm, which was both a stabilizing comfort and a mortifying symbol of his consideration for her stability.
She would have given much to remove her hand, if only her own body did not require the support.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood at the center of the room, wearing a gown of the deepest maroon.
She had arranged herself in a manner that displayed her consequence to the best advantage: chin lifted, hands clasped at mid-waist atop her cane, gaze fixed on the three who dared to interrupt her morning.
“Darcy,” she began, her voice reverberating through the overheated air, “Fitzwilliam. Miss Bennet.” She narrowed her eyes at the last accounting of her guests.
Under the force of that gaze, Elizabeth felt rather as if she had wandered in, uninvited, during the height of a private moment. She hoped Lady Catherine would soon understand that it was not her own choice to be here; she was merely a victim of the morning’s chaos.
Behind Lady Catherine, Elizabeth’s cousin, Mr. Collins, hovered in the posture of a man waiting for his cue from his patroness.
Color heightened, his eyes were wide as supper plates, and his hands worked at the hem of his coat.
If Lady Catherine and her nephews were not currently in the room, she was sure he would be lecturing to her about her insolence in coming without a proper invitation.
Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed with crisp military precision. Mr. Darcy bowed with the measured politeness of a man weighing each movement. Elizabeth curtsied.
“Aunt Catherine,” said Mr. Darcy, “we have the most unhappy duty to inform you that—”
Lady Catherine’s interruption echoed around the room. “Did you find Mrs. Blackstone? The servant said only that she was ‘discovered,’ and that you required my presence in the drawing room.”
Elizabeth noted that Lady Catherine’s first concern was not for the woman’s condition, but for the preservation of narrative order.
“We found her,” Mr. Darcy confirmed, “in the central clearing of the maze. I regret to say she is—she has—” His voice faded off in a way Elizabeth had not expected.
Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in, uncharacteristically abrupt. “She is dead, your ladyship. There is no doubt. Miss Bennet was the first to find her.”
Lady Catherine’s eyes shifted to Elizabeth. Trapping her. “Miss Bennet? You—” Her tone implied the inadequacy of the witness to explain what had occurred. “You are certain?”
Elizabeth nodded. “I am certain, Lady Catherine. She is deceased.” She stopped there, unwilling to detail the particulars of death in so public a forum.
Lady Catherine inhaled audibly. “How could such a thing happen?” Her gaze narrowed once more. “Did you see anyone else in the maze?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No, my lady. I did not.”
“Had you any acquaintance with the woman?” The word acquaintance was loaded with social meaning, as if the only route to murder was through the perils of ill-chosen company.
“No, I never met her.” Elizabeth was surprised to feel a numbness in her fingers.
Realizing she had been clutching Mr. Darcy’s arm so tightly that it had cut off the circulation to her hand, she wondered what she had been doing to his poor arm.
Forcing herself to let go, she widened her stance an inch and folded her hands behind her back.
At this juncture, Mr. Collins found his voice, “Your ladyship,” he stammered, “surely—surely this is not to be borne! That such a—a scene should have occurred on your very grounds!” Her cousin sounded as if he had been personally dishonored by Mrs. Blackstone’s choice of dying on her ladyship’s estate.
“Of course, I shall pray most fervently for the departed. And for the sanctity of Rosings Park.”
Lady Catherine turned her attention to Mr. Collins. “Your prayers are well and good, Mr. Collins, but what is needed is action. Fitzwilliam, I assume you have summoned the authorities?”
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded. “A footman has been sent to the village to fetch the coroner. But before a crowd besets us, it would be best to preserve the scene.”
Lady Catherine nodded, every inch the general receiving her staff.
“I wish to see the scene, but you will see to speaking to the authorities. I tell you now that I must insist the matter be managed with the utmost discretion. My daughter, Anne, is not to be disturbed by this event in the slightest. I will not have her nerves endangered by morbid excitement.”
Elizabeth, accustomed to mothers’ preoccupation with nerves, found the statement almost comically predictable. She watched Mr. Darcy to see if he, too, would be amused, but his face was grave, brow furrowed.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine continued, “Were you walking alone again?”
This is what Lady Catherine would harp on at this moment? Not that a young woman had died, but this?
Elizabeth composed herself, answering in a tone as neutral as she could manage. “As I have told you before, I often walk out alone at home, your ladyship, but never in Town. In Kent… well, Mr. Collins’ staff cannot be spared, and the maze seemed a safe place.”
At this, Lady Catherine’s eyes narrowed further. “Your family must be quite unconcerned about your well-being to permit such independence.”
Elizabeth said nothing in response.
Lady Catherine moved to the next point in her artillery barrage. “You say you did not see another living soul in the maze. Is it possible—can it be possible—that this woman died of natural causes?”
Elizabeth sensed her powers of observation were being tested. “She appeared—” Elizabeth forced herself to remember. “By her position, I knew she was not sleeping and had not fainted. She had fallen, and her hand…” She paused. “She was holding something.”
This sparked a small commotion. Mr. Collins gasped anew; Lady Catherine’s eyes glittered with the first hint of satisfaction, as if a murder was, at least, more interesting than an accident.
Mr. Darcy cleared his throat. “The hand was locked around it. I did not attempt to remove it, but the Colonel can confirm.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam nodded. “There was no time to examine it closely.”
Lady Catherine seized upon this. “Then let us go at once. We must not leave a single detail unaddressed. Darcy, Fitzwilliam, and—” She paused, as if considering whether Elizabeth might contaminate the proceedings merely by existing. “Miss Bennet, you must come as well. You are a key witness.”
They assembled at the door, Mr. Collins protesting faintly that it was unseemly for a woman to be at the scene of death, but Lady Catherine brushed him aside as one would an intrusive fly.
In the corridor, Mr. Darcy fell in beside Elizabeth.
She sensed, rather than saw, his posture: the squared shoulders, the way he angled himself ever so slightly between her and the rest of the world.
It was a more physical shield than an assertion of responsibility, but it was there, and it rankled.
She did not want to be protected. She did not need to be protected.
He leaned in, voice low. “Are you well enough to return to the maze?”
“I am not an invalid,” she replied, her tone crisp. “And I have no intention of swooning.”
A twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed a mixture of relief and—was it amusement? If so, he had the sense to suppress it.
Lady Catherine led the way out, her stride so swift that the rest of the party had to hurry to keep up. After the heat in the drawing room, Elizabeth drew in the chilly air with relief.
The path to the maze was lined with staff, each standing at strict attention, their faces carefully blank, though Elizabeth detected more than one glance of terrified curiosity.
It occurred to her that the entire neighborhood would know by midday that she had discovered the body. She had not intended to become a subject of interest during her visit to Kent, let alone one of notoriety.
When they reached the maze, the yew walls would only allow the party to continue two abreast.
In the central clearing, the scene had not changed. Mrs. Blackstone still reclined against the fountain, Mr. Darcy’s coat covering her face. Her hand protruded, clutching… something, though her hand now sparkled with moisture. Had the dew settled inside the maze, finally?
Lady Catherine approached and knelt at the edge of the stone. She peered at the body, then addressed the colonel.
“See if you can extract the paper. I will witness every detail.”
As Colonel Fitzwilliam knelt, Elizabeth looked away.
He must have managed to loosen the fingers from their prize, for he held it up. Elizabeth saw that it was a torn fragment of stationery, irregular at the edge, as if it had been wrenched free from a larger piece in haste.
Silence trembled in the air.
Lady Catherine gestured for the Colonel to hand it to her.
“There are no markings,” Lady Catherine announced, holding up the paper for all to see.
Elizabeth blinked, then asked to see the scrap for a moment. The writing she had seen earlier was no longer there. Now it was just a smudged blot of ink.
A chill passed down her spine as Mr. Darcy held out a hand for the paper.
As she handed it to him, she realized that the only person here whom she believed to be completely innocent was Mr. Darcy.