Chapter 5
The dawn’s light pressed faintly through the curtains. Downstairs, the first sounds of the parsonage’s day sounded, the slow choreography of fire-stoking and table-setting.
Elizabeth swung her legs from the bed and rubbed her fingers across her eyes, scrubbing away the last remnants of sleep by sheer force of will.
Irritation swept through her. She had succumbed to fatigue. Slept. Squandered several hours during which she should have read and reviewed the contents of Mr. Darcy’s letter.
No one else would know. But she would. That was enough to mortify her.
She washed quickly and dressed herself with almost military briskness. Every motion was one of resolve: the brisk binding of her hair, the decisive buckling of her boots.
The letter, which she had secreted in the inner pocket of her walking coat once again, pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat.
Today, she meant to read it—but not in the cramped, stagnant air of her bedroom.
Not in the parlor, either, where the family Bible and the inexhaustible attentions of Mr. Collins made honest concentration a farce.
Besides, for all she knew, Mr. Collins might be able to recognize Mr. Darcy’s handwriting. That would not do.
She would walk, as she always did, and look for clues.
Then she would let the trees and the lanes act as her confidantes, and there, in the clarity of the chilly morning, Mr. Darcy’s justifications, apologies, or whatever it was he imagined would suffice, could be examined at length, with the proper rigor.
That was her plan.
She had not even passed down the corridor when Charlotte opened her chamber’s door, her presence at this moment both a comfort and an impediment. Elizabeth smiled, for her friend had always had a talent for appearing whenever it was least convenient for Elizabeth’s schemes.
Charlotte wore a thick shawl, and her hair was only partially tamed; but her face was as alert as if she had already spent hours at her accounts.
“Lizzy, I thought you would not sleep, but you seem well rested.”
Charlotte’s voice was pitched low. Elizabeth imagined her purpose was to avoid attracting Mr. Collins’s attention.
“I did sleep well, thank you,” Elizabeth answered.
She meant to brush past, but Charlotte’s hand on her sleeve was surprisingly firm.
“I have been thinking about your question from last night,” Charlotte said. “About Mrs. Blackstone’s visit.”
Elizabeth felt a strange, conflicting surge of interest, gratitude, and irritation. “And?”
Charlotte steered her through her doorway and into her small sitting room, where the fire had only just begun to take, and the air was chilled. She shut the door behind them.
There was something about the gesture that made Elizabeth uneasy, as if the two of them were about to plot a conspiracy.
“I remembered more,” Charlotte said. “About the visit. I do not know if it is of consequence, but—”
“Anything could be of consequence,” said Elizabeth.
Charlotte nodded and continued, “Mrs. Blackstone came quite late in the day. It was not the usual hour for visiting. The more I think of it, the more I realize she seemed… not agitated, exactly, but unsettled. While she waited… well, when I entered, I found her standing at the front window at a strange angle, looking out at the lane as if expecting a carriage, or that someone would follow her.”
Elizabeth considered this. “Did she say anything you have not already told me?”
“That’s the thing; she said she had questions about the Rosings charity school, but as I reviewed our conversation, I realized she never really asked anything of consequence about it.
Nothing she could not have found out during a visit to the school.
Instead, she changed the subject twice, and then, looking at the clock, seemed as if she remembered she was meant to be elsewhere and left in some haste. ”
“Was she afraid?” said Elizabeth.
Charlotte weighed this. “I would not say so.” She paused, then whispered, “Lizzy, I do not wish to malign the dead, but if pressed, I would have to say it was more like she had planned to meet someone and did not wish it known. That her meeting with me was… an excuse?”
Charlotte was an excellent observer. If that was what she suspected, it was probably true. After all, she was right about Mr. Darcy’s feelings about herself… No, she would not allow herself to be distracted.
Elizabeth leaned in, lowering her own voice to match Charlotte’s. “Did she say where she was going?”
“She made no mention of it,” Charlotte replied, “but she left by the east gate. And—” Charlotte hesitated, as if to gauge whether Elizabeth would think her fanciful.
“Lizzy, I believe someone was waiting for her on the path. When I looked out, there was no one, but—I saw a shadow on the road that could not be accounted for. And I heard steps on the gravel…”
“Someone met her.” Elizabeth’s mind was already constructing possibilities.
“It is what I believe,” said Charlotte. “It seemed an observation worth noting.”
“I agree.” Elizabeth reached out to squeeze Charlotte’s hand, the gesture warm, more binding than a dozen spoken oaths.
The clock in the corridor began its strike of the hour. Hints of the house waking were evident in the sound of a distant door closing and the scent of bread baking in the kitchen.
Charlotte’s brow creased, her voice gentle. “What are you intending, Lizzy?”
“I only wish to understand how a woman should come to such an end, in such a place, with no cause visible to the eye.” She stood, unable to remain still. “Forgive me, I am going to walk out. I must see the maze again. If there is a solution, it will not be found in a sitting room.”
Charlotte released her hand, but not her attention. “Will you be safe?”
Elizabeth raised one eyebrow and displayed the crooked smile she reserved for moments of pure stubbornness. “I am always safe.”
But she did not feel it, not quite. Not with Mr. Darcy’s letter in her pocket and the memory of the dead woman in the maze.
When she left the parsonage, her steps were quick—almost as if she were outrunning her own fear.
~%~
Mist hovered over the ground when Elizabeth set out, muffling the sound of her footsteps. She passed the first rise beyond the church, where the ground sloped down toward the meadows and the line of yew that guarded the approach to Rosings Park.
It was too early for visitors, too cold and damp for a casual stroll. Even the birds seemed subdued. In the great house itself, no one would be out at this hour except perhaps a restless servant or a guest with business too urgent to defer.
And yet, Elizabeth sensed she was not alone. A sensation she had come to trust, one that had often warned her of Mr. Collins’s approach.
This time, however, it felt different: she did not hear his blundering tread. Instead, it was a watchful hesitation, as if the presence shadowing her was uncertain whether to announce itself or retreat.
She did not slow her pace, but her heartbeat quickened.
Therefore, she was not surprised when, as she turned the curve of the path near the eastern gate, she found Mr. Darcy half-concealed behind the massive trunk of an old sycamore.
He was in walking dress, but he held his hat in his hands.
His hair, usually so precisely managed, was damp with the fog and stubbornly rebellious at the crown.
He looked at her directly, without pretense of surprise.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he greeted her with a bow.
Elizabeth resisted the urge to scold, to demand why he lurked in the mist like an under-gardener. “Good morning, sir,” she replied and dropped a shallow curtsy. “I suppose you are here for the same reason as I?”
Well, certainly not to seek a place to read his letter, but to look for clues.
He hesitated, then nodded once. “That, and to speak with you. I thought you might… I thought you would come this way.”
She eyed him with cool amusement. “You deduced my route, Mr. Darcy? I am flattered by your powers of observation.”
A faint genuine smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “Your habits are not entirely a mystery. You prefer the less-frequented paths. And today I believe the maze is your destination, if I am not mistaken?”
Elizabeth decided there was no harm in admitting it. “It is.”
They fell into step, neither speaking for several minutes.
The silence was thick, but not uncomfortable; it was the silence of two minds working separately, but in parallel.
The hedges rose on either side, glossy with dew, and the ground squelched in places where the old gravel had given way to mud.
The air grew colder as they crossed a field heading towards the maze. Elizabeth pulled her coat tighter. Mr. Darcy, wrapped warmly in his tailored finery, looked impervious.
When they were in sight of the entrance to the maze, Mr. Darcy stopped.
She raised her chin to regard him. “If you think it unwise to share with me the proceedings of the coroner, I assure you I can bear it.”
He stood taller, not in the peacock manner of Mr. Collins, but with a restraint that suggested he valued her opinion—and perhaps feared it, as well. “The coroner came last evening. He is a competent man, though somewhat… eager, shall we say, to conclude matters to Lady Catherine’s satisfaction.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “That is, to rule it a misadventure and spare her ladyship the indignity of gossip.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Darcy said. “He saw little cause for further investigation. There was no mark of violence, no evidence of theft. Mrs. Blackstone’s family has been notified by express post. He intends to file the matter as a ‘fit of the nerves,’ as Lady Catherine prefers.”
“How convenient.” Elizabeth bristled. “And what do you believe, Mr. Darcy?”
He was silent. For a moment, she thought he would retreat behind the walls of reserve that had frustrated her since their first acquaintance. Instead, he said, quietly, “I believe there is more to it. I believe your instincts are often sounder than most men’s logical conclusions.”