Chapter 4 #2
Charlotte regarded her briefly. “Or,” she said gently, “perhaps it has only stripped away the part that prevented everyone else from seeing him as he truly is.”
Elizabeth set her cup aside, unwilling to hide behind it. “Charlotte, you must not imagine that there is anything between us. He is—he is the last man in the world I could be prevailed upon to—”
Charlotte snorted, a sound so undignified that Elizabeth was startled into silence.
“Lizzy, you are the most transparent person I have ever known. You may not like certain aspects of his character, but you do not despise him.”
Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush. She opened her mouth to retort, but found she had no words at hand.
“I have eyes, Lizzy. I saw how he looked at you in Hertfordshire. I see how he looks at you now, even when he wishes not to be seen. In fact, I believe it is more intense now than ever.” Charlotte’s voice softened.
“If you cannot see it yourself, then you are in greater danger than any murderer can present.”
Elizabeth could not help herself. “You do not think he is capable of—of—?”
“Of murder? Of cruelty?” Charlotte shook her head. “Not in this context, and not against a woman he admires. His failings are all of the obvious kind. If anything, he is more likely to accuse himself of a crime he did not commit, out of some perverse loyalty to justice.”
Elizabeth huffed out a chuckle, then was silent for a time. The conversation had wandered into reflections she was not yet prepared to examine too closely, and she was relieved to think of something more tangible.
“Charlotte,” she said, “did you know I have seen Mr. Darcy write upon the very same paper as the fragment found in Mrs. Blackstone’s hand?”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Are you certain?”
“Not absolutely. But I borrowed a sheet of paper from him to write a note to my parents while Jane was ill at Netherfield. It was nothing one could buy in the usual shops. The texture, the thickness, and I daresay, even the scent was as if it were not meant for ordinary correspondence. I knew the scrap she held was familiar, but I did not put it together until just a moment ago. It may mean nothing, but it is… odd.”
Charlotte was thoughtful. “If anyone could afford made-to-order stationery, it would be Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth frowned. “But why would she have it? Mrs. Blackstone. And why only a small fragment?”
Charlotte’s gaze was piercing. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Darcy.”
Elizabeth’s heart thudded uncomfortably. “I could not.”
“You could. And you should,” said Charlotte, “because if you do not, someone else will. You may as well seize the advantage.”
Elizabeth sat back, her mind racing. The possibilities were laid out before her, each one less plausible and more compelling than the last. She wanted desperately to believe that Mr. Darcy was innocent of any wrongdoing.
Still, she could not quite silence the voice in her mind that whispered: you thought him incapable of interfering in Jane’s happiness, and you were wrong about that.
She was saved from further rumination by the arrival of a letter, delivered by a young, red-faced servant girl who had clearly run all the way from the post office.
Charlotte accepted it, then handed it to Elizabeth with a knowing glance. “It is from your Aunt Gardiner. I recognize the hand.”
Elizabeth broke the seal, her own hand steady for the first time since finding Mrs. Blackstone.
She scanned the letter, her eyes catching on the essential lines informing her that Jane was not well.
She had grown pale and thin. The Gardiners wished Elizabeth could come to London sooner than planned to help Jane through her present melancholy.
If she could not, she begged that she should write more often.
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She had noticed that although Jane continued to write to her with apparent good spirits, there was an emptiness in her letters that troubled her.
She had expected that someone like her beloved sister would not heal from heartbreak easily, but seeing it in black and white made the fact suddenly intolerable.
She folded the letter and placed it on her lap.
“Jane is suffering,” she said, as if the words required confirmation.
Charlotte nodded. “I suspected as much. But time, Lizzy—time will do for Jane what nothing else can.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Not if the cause of her suffering walks the same earth, unpunished for his interference.”
The words were out before she could stop them. She glanced at Charlotte, expecting censure, but found only sympathy.
“Is it Mr. Darcy, then?” Charlotte asked, as gently as she ever asked anything.
Elizabeth sighed. She could not tell Charlotte of the proposal or of the letter, but she had to tell her something.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam told me he boasted of recently saving Mr. Bingley from what would have been a dreadful marriage.” Elizabeth hesitated, then nodded.
“So, of course, you confronted Mr. Darcy.”
“Yes. He told me, without shame, that he separated Jane from Mr. Bingley. He believed himself justified.”
She had not read his entire letter yet. Since he had been so harsh towards her family in person, there was no telling what he might say in writing. She did not feel up to hearing it just now.
Charlotte’s face softened further, as if she had been expecting this confession all along. “Did you set him to rights?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “How could I not?”
Charlotte looked out the window for a few moments before saying, “Then perhaps he will right his wrong?”
Elizabeth inhaled quickly. “That—I had not thought of it. I do hope you are correct.” She reached across the table and gripped Charlotte’s hand. “You are the best of friends.”
Charlotte squeezed her hand. “As are you.”
Elizabeth smiled the first genuine smile of the day.
They sat together for several minutes in companionable silence, watching the fire consume its slow, methodical course. The only sound was the tick of the clock and the occasional hiss of sap in the burning wood.
At length, Elizabeth stood. “There is something I must do. I wish to walk the grounds to see if I can find any clues to what happened. I promise I will be careful, and that I will not be long.”
Charlotte rose as well. “Lizzy, please know that if you are not returned in one hour, I will organize a search party. And then, when you do return, I will force you to listen to Mr. Collins reading several of his most recent sermons. In a row.” She looked at the ceiling, then back at her.
“And you do know that once he begins, we may never get him to stop.”
Elizabeth laughed. “I promise I will only look for places to investigate more fully on the morrow.”
A few minutes later, wrapped in her walking coat, Elizabeth checked that the letter from Mr. Darcy was still in her pocket. It weighed heavily against her side.
The late afternoon air met her with a welcome chill. The clipped hedges cast long shadows across the lawn. The western sky had already begun to soften toward evening.
She walked without any destination, grateful for the quiet, the conversation with Charlotte lingering in her mind. Before long, it yielded, as it almost always did, to the mystery itself.
She spent her time thinking about the path between Willow Grange and Rosings, the places where Mrs. Blackstone might have been observed, and whether anyone could have approached her without attracting notice. Every answer seemed only to produce another question.
By the time she returned to Hunsford Cottage, the lamps had been lit. When Charlotte admitted her, Elizabeth was greeted by the familiar sight of a fresh teapot waiting upon the tray beside the fire.
She removed her pelisse and accepted the welcome comfort of the room, though her thoughts remained elsewhere.
Somewhere among the many small particulars of the last two days lay a fact she had overlooked.
She could not yet perceive it, but she felt increasingly certain that, once discovered, it would alter everything.
In her room, Elizabeth shed her coat, then moved downstairs to join her friend by the fire.
In the world outside, everything was changed. But here, in the steady circle of the lamplight, she felt a measure of peace.
Tonight, she would read the letter.
Soon, she would solve the murder.
She would pursue the truth. And if it meant dismantling her own convictions in the process, so be it.
Whatever the cost, she would see this through.