Chapter 7 #2
Mr. Darcy looked at them both, then said, “I will inquire about this cousin. It may be nothing, but it is the only concrete lead.”
Elizabeth watched him and found herself struck anew by the way he deferred to the logic of the case. He was, in his own way, almost admirable.
Charlotte, as if reading the direction of Elizabeth’s thoughts, gave her a subtle nudge.
A moment later, a footman opened the door which Mr. Haldridge had just gone through. They followed him up a set of stairs at the rear of the house, then he left them at Mrs. Blackstone’s bedchamber door.
Pushing the door open, Elizabeth paused and looked in.
There is always a particular sorrow that fills a room belonging to those who had abruptly expired.
An item of clothing folded atop a sewing basket with the obvious assumption that the person would be available to mend it later.
A letter half-written and carelessly covered with another sheet of paper.
A bottle of powder crookedly corked. This is exactly how Elizabeth, Charlotte, and Mr. Darcy found Mrs. Blackstone’s chamber, a second-floor room at Willow Grange.
Upon entering, with the curtains drawn and the washstand untouched, one had the impression that, even in life, the room would reveal little of the woman who slept there.
Elizabeth paused at the threshold. Charlotte stood beside her, Mr. Darcy just behind, and for a moment none of them spoke. It somehow seemed wrong to enter a bed chamber whose occupant would never return. Yet there was no help for it.
She moved into the chamber, taking each step carefully. Charlotte and Mr. Darcy followed with equal care, as though all three felt the same unspoken obligation to disturb as little as possible.
Charlotte’s hesitation lasted only a moment. She glanced slowly about the room before making her way to the small writing desk. Resting her fingertips lightly on its edge, she frowned.
“It is exactly as he described it,” she said softly. “Nothing appears to have been touched.”
Mr. Darcy crossed to the window and drew back the curtain only an inch or two, then studied the prospect beyond. Elizabeth suspected he was considering not the view, but what Mrs. Blackstone might have seen, and what anyone approaching the house might have observed in return.
She left him to it and began a slow circuit of the chamber.
The bed had been neatly made, though the coverlet still bore the faint impression of someone having sat upon its edge.
One wardrobe door stood partly open. Inside hung only two gowns, one gray and one blue, both plainly made and carefully brushed.
A pair of walking shoes rested beneath them, placed so neatly together that Elizabeth wondered whether Mrs. Blackstone had always been so orderly, and on the upper shelf sat a spare bonnet with a ribbon worn thin at the ends.
Nothing seemed neglected. Nothing seemed hurried.
And yet its owner had left the room for what was meant to be an ordinary morning and had never returned.
The dressing table was more revealing of her habits. A regiment of small glass bottles and tins, their labels hand-lettered—a brush set with a few dark strands of hair between the bristles. A square of muslin stained faintly with rouge.
Elizabeth picked up one of the tins and removed the top. It contained an oily substance that was tinted pink. She gave it a sniff. “Almonds,” she said aloud.
“For the lips,” Charlotte pointed to the side of the tin.
“The most common concoction is white wax mixed with almond oil and a bit of alkanet root to give it color.” She nodded.
“I recall that Mrs. Blackstone was always precise about her appearance, though as a companion, she could not dress in the latest fashion. I had once heard it said that a woman’s only defense in a world determined to overlook her was to become incapable of being ignored.
I was under the impression that Mrs. Blackstone would have abided by that slogan. ”
Charlotte opened a drawer and extracted a sheaf of correspondence tied with a blue silk ribbon.
She was moving to replace it when Elizabeth set down the tin, fastened the top, then moved to her friend’s side. “May I?” Elizabeth asked, gesturing at the bundle.
“Of course,” said Charlotte, relinquishing it at once.
Elizabeth untied the ribbon and sifted through the pages. The letters were stacked with fanatical neatness. Most were from Mrs. Blackstone’s brother in Hampshire. Several were from a Mrs. Lingard of Bath.
Opening one from the brother, she read. It was warm in tone but not effusive.
It contained news of his marriage and his hopes for her comfort.
Another announced the arrival of a nephew.
There was no trace of family discord. In fact, her brother asked several times whether she wished to stay with them.
Elizabeth presumed she had refused, for later he commented on his quiet pride in her ability to make her own way, and in his hope that her position fulfilled her desire to be of practical use in a world that so rarely values such things.
She skipped ahead to the most recent letters.
Another missive from Mrs. Lingard, offering condolences for some unspecified disappointment: “One must expect such reversals, my dear, but I am confident that your character will see you through,” and another from the same woman, which closed with a postscript: “I am happy to hear you took my advice regarding the Lorrimer affair, for you are not always the best judge of people.”
The phrase struck a chord for both its faint reproof and its implication that Mrs. Lingard had been a confidante of Mrs. Blackstone’s troubles.
At the bottom of the stack, Elizabeth found an envelope of coarse paper addressed in a cramped, masculine hand: Lorrimer. She slid the letter free. He did not supply his own address in the return; only his name. She scanned the contents, careful not to tear the thin sheet.
It was dated last autumn, but after Mrs. Lingard’s observation, which most likely meant there was an earlier letter that was missing.
In the text, Mr. Lorrimer asked for financial assistance, then chided her for failing to reply to prior requests.
There was a hint of something darker in the second paragraph: “You must not think me ungrateful, but I am at the end of my patience, and if you will not see me, I must look for you where I can. You know I have means to reach you if I choose.” It was signed “F. Lorrimer.”
As Elizabeth looked up, the weight of the words still hummed through her mind. “This man—F. Lorrimer—threatened her,” she said louder than she meant to.
Mr. Darcy turned from the window.
She passed him the letter. He read it once, then scanned it again, lips compressed. “There is a threat, yes. But is it the threat of a scoundrel, or the plea of a desperate relation? I have seen both; they are not always easy to tell apart.”
“Mr. Haldridge mentioned Lorrimer was her cousin, and that she had some trouble with him last year,” Charlotte said. “I was under the impression it was a matter of money. But should we take a man who writes such letters seriously?”
“I think we must,” said Elizabeth, turning over the letter and holding up the side labeled with the address, “He sent the letter here, not to where she resided in Bath, which, to me, seems to strengthen the threat. He also did not supply a return address, which makes me suspicious. He knew where she was. Perhaps this address is closer to his own residence and if he was desperate enough, he might come here.”
Mr. Darcy considered this. “Do you believe he is the author of the note delivered on the morning of her death?”
“I have no idea, but it is certainly possible,” Elizabeth said.
“The maid said that note was folded, but not sealed, which necessitates the sender was local. And it was read with shock. Since Lorrimer had already threatened her in the past, I imagine she would have been upset by receiving another. Especially if it told of his being nearby.”
Charlotte added, “She did not take her reticule, nor did she tell anyone where she was going. It seems to me she meant to meet someone whose presence could not be explained.”
Elizabeth nodded. “The maid described her having a fit of nerves upon reading the letter, even the second time. She must have known there was a risk. And yet she went.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the facts arrayed but unsatisfying.
Elizabeth replaced the correspondence in the desk, but kept the Lorrimer letter separate, folding it into her own pocket for later study.
She moved to the wardrobe and examined the pockets of both dresses, found nothing but a handkerchief and a crumbled bit of paper with the list of household chores.
When Elizabeth lifted the shoes and peeked inside, Charlotte asked lightly, “Shall we look at the heels, like we heard about in that novel we read years ago?”