Chapter 8
Elizabeth managed to get through supper only by the careful deployment of small talk, bland observations, and careful agreement, so that no one, not even Charlotte, would suspect the precarious state of her nerves.
She had not been cold since returning from Willow Grange, yet she shivered through the meal as if the chill had followed her indoors, a fog that could not be dispelled by soup or the modest blaze in the hearth.
Even so, Mr. Collins could not be stopped from enumerating the day’s calamities, itemizing the social disruptions the tragedy caused with more vigor than tact. Charlotte endured her husband with a serenity that Elizabeth privately regarded as heroic.
When the last dish had been cleared, and Mr. Collins excused himself to review a sermon, Elizabeth caught Charlotte’s eye and conjured the most plausible of headaches.
Charlotte’s reply was a simple, knowing, “You had best rest, Lizzy. The events of the day were not light ones.”
Upstairs, in the small guest chamber, no one could reach her—not Lady Catherine, not the memory of Mrs. Blackstone’s vacant chamber, and not even the man whose letter now weighed so heavily in the pocket of her skirt, to which she had transferred it.
Extracting the papers from her pocket at last, she set aside the letter she had taken from Mrs. Blackstone’s correspondence. Mr. Darcy’s pages were still crisp at the folds, the seal (not his crest, but an unfamiliar mark) broken.
The urge to read further than the first page was nearly physical. Her fingers tingled with anticipation, but there was a countering reluctance.
Throughout this investigation, she had come to know him a little better. Her previous view of him had… altered.
She reflected on the memory of what she had already read, noting that although Mr. Darcy had been watching Jane closely in an effort to discern the sincerity of her feelings for Mr. Bingley.
And yet, he ultimately failed to perceive them and consequently became concerned for his friend’s emotional well-being.
Elizabeth sighed, remembering how often Charlotte had mentioned in the past that others would not recognize Jane’s feelings as did those who knew her well.
She recollected when Charlotte had specifically advised that Elizabeth should recommend Jane show more affection than she felt, or else Mr. Bingley might not catch on.
Elizabeth nodded to herself. She had not told Jane of Charlotte’s advice.
The result?
Mr. Darcy advised his friend against marrying Jane.
She remembered well that Mr. Darcy’s letter had said, “If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If I have made such an error and inflicted pain on her, then your resentment is reasonable.”
His statement was quite sound and even rational.
And yet she realized that, after her refusal, his letter was likely composed in anger.
She would not blame him if the remainder of the letter contained nothing but thin excuses, ones that could never exonerate him in her eyes.
Or worse, what if it consisted of a cold recap of all the reasons she ought to be grateful to him for a proposal that she had already refused?
He had practically begged her to read his letter when he handed it to her that fateful day. She had agreed to do so.
Did she owe it to him to read it now?
Oh! This indecision was maddening. It would be better to get on with it.
She moved to sit against the headboard and slipped her legs beneath the coverlet. Staring at the thick square, she remained in that position for a long time. Then, with a sudden burst of courage, she unfolded it, skimming the first page once more, finding she already knew it well.
The candlelight flickered, sending a current of hot wax down the sides of its holder. In the remaining silence, she heard her own breath, unsteady and urgent.
She had promised. So, she should read the remainder.
Taking a deep breath, she separated the pages, noticing there were more than she remembered when first opening his letter. There were two sheets written in the precise hand she had come to recognize as Mr. Darcy’s.
Then Elizabeth’s eyes caught on the third page. It was the same paper as the pages covered with Mr. Darcy’s writing. It was of high quality with a blue tinge.
But this page was not only folded as most letters were, but there was an additional fold at the center.
And the ink on that third page was smudged beyond recognition.
The mid-left of the page had a gaping hole missing, leaving a jagged edge—as if a corner had been torn away while the page was folded in half.
With a gasp, Elizabeth’s mind snapped back to the moment in the maze when Lady Catherine held up the fragment of paper found clutched in Mrs. Blackstone’s dead hand.
Lady Catherine had declared it blank.
Elizabeth had seen it earlier between Mrs. Blackstone’s fingers, therefore she knew it was not truly blank. There had been ink there, and Elizabeth had read “…ackstone” on it.
However, the writing was illegible by the time the paper was pried from Mrs. Blackstone’s hand and given over to Lady Catherine.
Could this be the remainder of that page?
Reviewing that morning, she distinctly remembered going to the maze on purpose to read Mr. Darcy’s letter. After finding Mrs. Blackstone, she dropped it, then later retrieved it from the ground.
In her state of panic at that time, had she also picked up this? Folded the pages together and placed all three sheets in her pocket?
Hands shaking as she set aside Mr. Darcy’s letter, she held the third blue-tinted page close to the candle.
She could tell the handwriting was small even though much of it had been smudged by dew and fog.
Still, she could make out a few phrases: “no forgiveness,” “cannot remain silent,” “all depends on your discretion.” And at the bottom, a signature, or the ghost of one: “F— L—.”
The sense of loss over this ruined clue was overwhelming, and for a moment she hated its cruelty.
It had to be Mr. Lorrimer, Mrs. Blackstone’s cousin.
Was this another threat? Perhaps a plea or an ultimatum?
A chill ran up her spine, less from fear than from the thrill of the puzzle snapping into partial, unsatisfactory focus.
She laid the ruined letter flat on the bed, staring at the unreadable lines, the obscured sentences.
The only reason she could think of that Mrs. Blackstone had gripped the scrap so tightly was to keep her attacker from taking it from her. It might have been her last hope that his identity would be discovered from this.
Elizabeth pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, as if she could reconstruct the smeared ink by sheer force of will.
Realizing it was of no use, she dropped her hand to her lap and looked at it once more.
She tilted her head. Something about it looked… strange.
Taking hold of the letter she had taken from Mrs. Blackstone’s collection, she opened it and spread it flat next to it.
Bringing the candle closer, Elizabeth squinted her eyes and looked back and forth between the pages. The F and L were similar, as were all the other letters, but something about it was not the same.
It was the angle! The handwriting angle differed between the two letters.
Scurrying off the bed, she took Jane’s letters from a drawer. Unfolding several, she spread them out on the quilt, examining the writing itself without paying any mind to the content.
Though Jane’s handwriting was sometimes a little less neat, the angle of her handwriting was always the same. The way she made her letters… the same.
But Jane would have taken the time to arrange the paper at the proper angle, too.
Could this be a forgery? Or had Mr. Lorrimer laid down the paper at a peculiar angle when he wrote it?
She sighed. Was there a way to find out?
Refolding Jane’s letters, she tied the ribbon and put them away.
Only then did she remember Mr. Darcy’s letter, waiting there for her to read.
The urge to open it was completely gone.
Sighing once more, she realized she did not wish to risk destroying their newfound accord.
On the subject of Mrs. Blackstone’s death, at least, he believed as she did—that it was not self-inflicted.
Their collaboration was effective and efficient in bringing to justice the individual responsible for this death.
If his letter, written in anger, caused Elizabeth’s fragile new opinion of him to return to what it was before, it would ruin everything.
She would give his words the attention they deserved, but not until after they had already solved this mystery.
With this new resolve, she folded Mr. Darcy’s blue-tinted pages together, put them back in the pocket of her coat, then tucked the other blue sheet next to it.
Tomorrow, she would ask him where he obtained the paper. If the murderer used the same stationer’s shop, then perhaps they could narrow their suspect list down a bit, especially if it was made in a fashionable part of London.
Snuffing the candle, she lay back on the now-familiar bed and stared at the ceiling until her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
Her last thought before sleep claimed her was not of Mr. Darcy, nor of the dead woman, but of a sentence that had survived the dew and mist: “all depends on your discretion.”
Tomorrow would bring answers, or perhaps only more questions. But for now, she let herself drift, trusting that courage and clarity would return with the dawn.