Chapter 6
Willow Grange, for all its neatness and charm, carried the tragedy poorly.
Charlotte and Elizabeth arrived arm in arm, and were shown in by a footman whose professional composure did not quite disguise his mourning.
The air in the entryway was thick with the hush that attends a sudden bereavement, or at the very least, a social situation no one had been trained for.
Miss Clara Haldridge received them in the front parlor with a forced appearance of composure, for her grief was unmistakable. She accepted their expressions of sympathy with quiet gratitude and an awkwardness that told Elizabeth she had not had much experience with death.
Miss Haldridge was a decade older than Elizabeth, yet seemed to shrink into the furniture, looking smaller than she had at Lady Catherine’s table only days before, when she and Charlotte had met her there for tea.
Her answers were soft and incomplete. “It is all so sudden,” she said. “She was well the previous morning.” Then, after a silence, “Diane was always… sensitive. Though she never complained, the need to seek employment after her husband’s death several years ago surely disagreed with her.”
Elizabeth’s heart twinged at the use of the Christian name. She wondered how much the woman had meant to her mistress, and how much was simply what was required of a lady’s companion.
From the corner of her eye, she noted that Charlotte had settled herself on the edge of a chair, ready to direct the visit with the professional tact of a rector’s wife.
She offered platitudes, guidance, small rays of practical hope, and all the while Elizabeth’s thoughts scampered away into other rooms and their possibilities.
“I am sure, Miss Haldridge,” Elizabeth said, after the conversation lagged into silence, “that you have been overwhelmed with arrangements. I beg you will allow us to be useful in any way we may. Should you need help with correspondence, or with the household, I am quite at your disposal.”
Miss Haldridge’s eyes filled with tears, but she pressed a handkerchief to them and shook her head.
“You are very good, Miss Bennet, but I have already asked Mrs. Bayes to take care of the household matters. I could not—” She stifled herself, as if unwilling to let her voice betray genuine feeling. “It is all so—”
“So irregular,” Charlotte supplied, gently. “Yes. I assure you, we understand.”
There was more talk, none of it useful. Eventually, Miss Haldridge excused herself, citing a need to compose a letter to her father in Town. The footman reappeared, ready to escort them to the door.
Elizabeth turned to Charlotte. “Would you mind a bit of a delay? I want to beg a word with the housekeeper. If there is anything I can do to ease the work of the day, I would rather know of it before we return to the parsonage.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows rose, but she seemed to understand. “I am certain that would be a comfort,” she said, her tone layered with a meaning only Elizabeth would have noticed.
The footman replied, “Mrs. Bayes, the cook, is below stairs, miss,” he said.
“There’s been a good deal of confusion with the housekeeper away.
When Miss Haldridge arrived, it seemed a good time for her holiday, but then…
” He paused, unwilling or unable to name the issue at hand.
“Our cook took over the housekeeping duties in the interim, but she became injured. The maids are all a bit… shaken.”
“If you will show me the way,” said Elizabeth, “I am quite accustomed to confusion. And I promise not to trouble the household a moment longer than necessary.”
He led her along a corridor, past a suite of drawing rooms far more intimate than those of Rosings, and down a short flight of steps into the warmth that is universal to the working end of a country house.
The heat of the kitchens hit her at once—an enveloping, busy warmth, thick with the scents of yeast and roasting fowl, as well as the metallic tang of smoke that clung to everything.
Copper pans gleamed above the long worktable; the hearth spat embers beneath a kettle so large Elizabeth wondered who could need so much boiling water at one time.
Servants moved about the chamber. A woman was seated on a stool with her foot wrapped in bandages, her face set in a grimace of pain. After what the footman had told her, Elizabeth had to assume this was the cook.
Elizabeth paused at the threshold. The sound of her shoes—far too fine for this room—caught the attention of all at once. The cook, seeing an unfamiliar lady in the doorway, attempted to rise, then thought better of it and bobbed a seated curtsy.
“Mrs. Bayes?” Elizabeth asked.
“That’s me,” said the cook, eyeing her with curiosity rather than deference.
“I am Miss Elizabeth Bennet, from the parsonage,” Elizabeth said, stepping forward and lowering her voice to the register of friendly conspiracy.
“I wished to express my condolences, not only to your mistress, but to those below stairs as well. I hope you do not think me forward, but I have always found that the servants are best placed to understand what truly goes on in a household.” She let the statement hang, watching the reaction.
The cook’s wariness thawed slightly. “Well, miss, you’re not wrong about that.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I have not the habit of making scenes, nor of repeating what I am told in confidence. If there is aught about Mrs. Blackstone’s passing that has troubled you—beyond the obvious—I am prepared to listen, and to help if I may.”
The cook exchanged a glance with a scullery maid, who had stopped scrubbing a pot at the sink.
“There’s been talk,” she said, “Mrs. Blackstone kept to herself. Never unkind, but not the type ta air ‘er feelings.” The cook’s face twisted as she considered her words. “But you’re asking whether something was amiss? I’d say yes.”
Elizabeth drew nearer, careful to lower herself so as not to loom. “What happened?”
The cook said. “Well—” She nodded to the scullery maid, who took a shuddering breath.
“I seen her, miss,” the maid whispered, not meeting Elizabeth’s eyes.
“That mornin’. ‘Twas early; the sun wasn’t even up yet.
I was sweepin’ the floors. Mrs. Blackstone was in the corridor, in her shawl, reading a note.
She didn’t see me, or maybe she did, but she didn’t say nothin’.
She looked—” The girl hesitated, wringing her hands in her apron.
“She looked like she’d been struck with horrible news.
Like whatever was on the paper was not expected. ”
The cook said, “Betsy tol’ me she read it at least twice, miss. Once, standing stock still in the hall. Then a few minutes later, in her room, when Betsy came in ta stoke the fire, she was readin’ it again. Then even before first light, she made ready to walk out.”
Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. “Do you know who delivered the note?”
“Didn’t come by the post,” said the cook, shaking her head. “I’d know if it had. The only deliveries that early in the morning were from the dairyman and the baker. It must’ve been brought by hand.”
“Was there a seal?” Elizabeth pressed.
The scullery maid shook her head. “Not as I saw. It was folded once, not a bunch ‘a times like when it’s sealed.”
Elizabeth nodded. “When she left the house, did she say where she was going?”
“No, miss,” said the cook. “She left without a word. But it wasn’t so odd at that time o’ the morning, on account o’ Miss Haldridge waking up much later. There wasn’t no need to leave word. Mrs. Blackstone often went out walking around sunrise.”
“Did she take anything with her?”
“Nothing but her pelisse, gloves, and a scarf, on account ‘a it being so cold,” the maid replied. “I thought it strange because she always had her reticule when she left the house. But then, I seen it on the hall table and remembered the handle was broke. Figured she meant to mend it later.” She shrugged. “Few minutes later, I was goin’ up the stairs ta the third floor when I seen her from the window. She were passin’ through the east gate.
I did think that odd since it leads to Rosings.
Why wouldn’t she walk on the grounds o’ The Grange? ”
“Do you know…” Elizabeth did not know how to ask this nicely. “Why was Mrs. Blackstone not noticed missing when she did not return?”
Mrs. Bayes answered, “Miss Haldridge was indisposed that morning. She didn’t come down for her mornin’ meal, so I assumed Mrs. Blackstone had come through when I was busy, and got something simple for herself outta the larder. It was her way any time she had time off. She mostly kept to herself.”
Elizabeth let the information settle in her mind. “Thank you,” she said, voice soft but decisive. “You have both been most helpful. If you recall anything else, or if anyone makes you uncomfortable—should you see a stranger about, for instance—I beg you will send word to Hunsford Cottage.”
The cook nodded, then glanced at the footman, who had hovered in the doorway throughout their conversation. “We’re just ‘appy someone cares enough to look into it, miss. You know, since she wasn’t the lady o’ the house.”
Her implication was clear.
Elizabeth nodded, then turned to the footman, “May I trouble you to lead me back to my friend?”
He bowed and led her up the back stairs.
Halfway up the staircase, a shape appeared at the top landing, blocking the light. She would recognize the imposing silhouette anywhere, even in the uncertain light of the service corridor.
Mr. Darcy did not look surprised to find her. “Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “I had hoped I might encounter you here.”
Elizabeth’s heart leaped into her throat, though she schooled her features into a mask of polite curiosity. As she reached the top of the stairs, she saw Charlotte standing nearby.
“Mr. Darcy.” She turned to the footman, “Thank you, I am fine from here.”
The footman bowed and returned below stairs.
Once he was gone, Elizabeth asked, “Has your investigation yielded any fruit?”
He said, “I have made inquiry of staff at Rosings and the outdoors staff here, at The Grange, but their accounts are maddeningly consistent, and therefore, I suspect, incomplete. I am to meet with Mr. Jonathan Haldridge now. Would you ladies like to join me?”
Charlotte nodded.
Elizabeth did not hesitate. “Yes, but first, we must speak.” She stepped closer.
“I have information,” she said, “but I do not know what to make of it. Mrs. Blackstone received a message very early yesterday morning—delivered by hand, not post. She was seen reading it twice with great agitation. She left without her reticule, which was odd for her. She told no one where she was going.” She tilted her head.
Mr. Darcy listened in absolute silence, his expression intent.
Elizabeth was struck anew by how little he revealed in such moments. He was like a well-wrapped parcel: there was an interest in what might be inside, but nothing could be guessed until one opened it.
After a long moment, he said, “Do you suppose she was lured out, Miss Elizabeth?”
“I do,” Elizabeth said. “I think it likely she was summoned for a meeting, perhaps one that she did not expect.”
“Do you believe the letter she received relates to the fragment in her hand?” Mr. Darcy asked.
Elizabeth considered. “Possibly. But there is more—she left through the east gate, according to the maid, which leads directly to the Rosings boundary. Whoever she was to meet, it was not in the village, nor on the road to Town. It was someone waiting on Rosings’ grounds, perhaps even in the maze itself. ”
Mr. Darcy said, “I shall inform the coroner. But I must ask—why were you below stairs, Miss Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Because, Mr. Darcy, in every household I have ever known, those below stairs see more truth than those above. They have only what is to be gained by a frank accounting of facts.”
He smiled back, a real one, which seemed to surprise even him. “You have the soul of a detective,” he said. “I am impressed.”
They were silent for a moment, listening to the distant rumble of life continuing in the kitchens.
At last Mr. Darcy said, “You are very good at this, Miss Elizabeth.”
“At what, Mr. Darcy?”
“At coaxing people to reveal things others had intended to keep secret.”
Elizabeth considered this and decided she would accept the compliment. “Thank you,” she said.
He looked at her—looked, not merely glanced. There was a steadiness in the gaze that made her uneasy and, at the same time, unexpectedly seen.
“I believe you will solve this,” Mr. Darcy said.
Charlotte cleared her throat. “If anyone can, it will be Lizzy.”
Elizabeth looked away from her companions, saying, “I do not think I am alone in the task.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head solemnly. “No, Miss Elizabeth. You are not.”
She took a long breath. “Then let us get back to the investigation.”