Chapter 9
Elizabeth’s resolve did not so much propel her from bed as require her to negotiate every step between the coverlet and the front door. Her hands, usually so deft in the morning, were all confusion; she fumbled with her stockings and caught her thumb twice in the loop of her bootlaces.
She would have left at once, but Charlotte intercepted her near the front entry, already gloved as though she had been waiting for this exact moment.
“I thought you would need air this morning,” said Charlotte. There was a glimmer in her eyes, neither sympathy nor mischief, but something in between. “Though I supposed you would stop in the kitchen to pilfer something first, since you did not join us for supper.”
Elizabeth blushed. “I am sorry, Charlotte. I fell asleep before I could inform you I would not come down.”
“It is nothing.” Charlotte smiled impishly. “Mr. Collins ensured there was never any danger of a quiet evening. He possesses a remarkable talent for filling every silence that presents itself.”
“I am certain he did.” Elizabeth chuckled. “I believe today will require at least three circuits of the lanes.”
They left the parsonage together, but Charlotte’s presence lasted only as far as the turn in the road where the view opened toward Rosings. There she paused, fussed briefly with the arrangement of her gloves, and said, “You will meet him, then?”
Elizabeth stopped, startled. “I—who?”
Charlotte tipped her head, expression both patient and faintly amused. “There are only two reasons to walk out so early in the cold, Lizzy. To think, or to be thought of.”
Elizabeth found her cheeks burning. She looked down, hoping her hat-brim would shade the worst of it. “It is for the first, I assure you.”
“I do not doubt it, though I am certain the second is also true,” Charlotte replied. “Take care, Lizzy.”
She left Elizabeth at the rise and went on to Rosings, boots scattering grit with brisk efficiency.
Elizabeth turned back to retrace her steps to the tree where she had met Mr. Darcy the day before. As she and Charlotte had passed, from the corner of her eye, she had seen him move behind it.
As she took the turn around a large bush, Mr. Darcy stepped out from behind it.
“Miss Elizabeth.” He paused, eyes flicking from her face to the horizon and back again. “You are… well, I trust?”
He was as awkward as she was. Elizabeth wanted to reassure him, or perhaps herself. “As well as anyone may be after such events.”
Mr. Darcy looked away.
She chuckled. “Why did you not show yourself as we passed?”
“I had heard from my aunt last evening that Mrs. Collins was expected at Rosings this morning. Assuming you would like to head for the maze, I did not wish to be, er, diverted to escort her.”
They left the lane and walked toward the maze. Puddles left by the thaw glittered in the sun’s slow climb, alternating with patches of frost that held on in the hedge-shadows.
Bracing herself for the questions she must ask, she withdrew the blue-tinged sheet from her coat pocket. She stopped and held it out to him.
He visibly started, eyes widening.
Poor Mr. Darcy. He must have thought she was bringing up his own letter.
“I found this last night. Or rather, I found it among my own papers. I believe it is the remainder of what was clutched in Mrs. Blackstone’s hand.”
He took it. The scrap seemed to tremble in his hold, but perhaps it was her own nerves that only made it seem so. He regarded the edge, the ink stains, the place where a line of smudged words ended with a sudden, splintered tear.
“I do not understand,” he said. “How did you come to have it?”
Elizabeth’s face heated. “I had gone to the maze for privacy, to read a letter. I dropped it in my shock when I found Mrs. Blackstone. Later, I… retrieved what I thought was mine. This must have been on the ground amongst the pages.”
It was not a lie, but it was far from the full story. Elizabeth felt her face heat once again. “I am sorry. I should have noticed it sooner.”
Mr. Darcy examined the page for another moment, then nodded. “There is no fault in it, Miss Elizabeth. We are none of us prepared for such things.”
They stood in an uncomfortable silence, side by side, each staring straight out at the meadow they had been crossing.
She could only imagine where his mind was wandering until he asked, “Did you read it?”
She understood instantly which letter he meant and felt as though the world tilted sideways. She wondered, for the briefest moment, what it would be like to lie to him. But she could not.
“I have not read further than the first page,” she said. “Nor do I mean to, until this matter is resolved. But I have thought much about what you said of Jane. About how her manner might… mislead someone who did not know her well.”
A moment passed. Mr. Darcy’s posture, which had stiffened with her confession, eased a fraction.
Elizabeth went on, “In the past, even Charlotte has remarked that Jane’s feelings are not easily detected by those who do not know her well.
She is not cold-hearted—never that—, but she is utterly modest. Entirely proper.
She strictly follows the rules of propriety.
When she was told not to show her true emotions on her face, she took it completely to heart.
She is also uncommonly kind, so much so that she can only see the best in others.
She expects everyone else to be as gentle as she is, and it never occurs to her that people may mean less than they say.
Deception is impossible for her. It is simply not in her nature. ”
Elizabeth smiled, a real one, wide and unguarded. “Jane is the best lady who has ever lived. Her character is so far above ordinary standards that it sometimes seems to me she belongs to another world. A better one.”
Mr. Darcy listened to this in silence. When she finished, he looked at her as if to see something that had not been visible before.
“The last,” he said, “could be said of her sister, as well.”
The statement landed between them with weight. Elizabeth felt herself blushing, not the polite pink of embarrassment but a tidal flush that began at her ears and swept down her throat. She could not think of a thing to say, so she let the silence be her answer.
He looked away, and when he spoke next, his voice was almost too quiet for her to hear, “I have written to Bingley and admitted my error. I know not how he will react, or what he may do.”
Elizabeth’s heart contracted, then expanded so rapidly she felt dizzy. “Oh,” she said. It was all she could manage.
They walked in silence for a time, the path winding through a series of descending hedgerows. At a bend, Elizabeth stopped and said, “May I ask—I did notice that your stationery is the same as…” She nodded to the other letter, still held in his hand.
He nodded. “It was a gift from my aunt. When I am at home, I use a different paper—a cream-colored stationery. But when traveling, I use the one Aunt Catherine gifted me—the blue. Having the different colors helps my sister to distinguish from where the letter was sent.”
“Do you know where she obtained the paper? Knowing Lady Catherine as I do, I assume it must be from only the best stationery warehouse, but perhaps even that can give us a clue.”
“You know my Aunt only too well, Miss Elizabeth.” Mr. Darcy’s eyes twinkled with a smile.
“It is from Messrs. Bell & Fairfax, Stationers and Paper Merchants, of Bond Street.” He paused, his gaze drifting toward the clouds.
“They are known to be rather particular about whom they supply. One does not simply walk in and purchase their finest stationery.”
“Could Mr. Haldridge have purchased from Messrs. Bell & Fairfax?”
Mr. Darcy raised one eyebrow. “I would think not.”
“So, in essence, what you are saying is that the paper must have been procured from either Lady Catherine’s supply or your own?”
He nodded once. “I am certain it was from my aunt’s supply. My portable writing desk is locked when I am not using it. And it is under my valet’s personal attention whenever it is not in my own sight.”
He must store quite sensitive correspondence in his desk for it to be guarded in this way. “Do you think you can obtain the fragment that was found in Mrs. Blackstone’s hand?”
Mr. Darcy seemed almost relieved by her acceptance that the murderer had not used his paper. “I can,” he said. “Lady Catherine keeps it on her writing table. I will ask for it on the pretext of reporting to the coroner.”
Elizabeth nodded, feeling a surge of purpose. “Thank you. I want to examine the manner of its tearing and make certain that it matches this.”
He smiled, genuine and without irony. “I will say it again, Miss Elizabeth. You have the soul of a detective.”
He handed Mrs. Blackstone’s letter to her.
She returned the smile, then placed the letter in a different pocket.
The mood between them lightened as they changed course toward Rosings.
As they approached the gates, the day had grown brighter. Sunlight struck off the windows and made the hedgerows shine with cold brilliance. Elizabeth felt a sense of possibility, as if the world might allow her to remake it after all.
At the door, Mr. Darcy bowed and said, gesturing down a corridor, “I will meet you in the small green sitting room off this corridor in ten minutes.”
Elizabeth inclined her head, then watched him walk away, back straight. She wondered what he was thinking, then wondered what she would say if he ever asked her the same.
She stood for a moment, the air sharp and new around her, then walked on to prepare for whatever came next.
~%~
The guest sitting room at Rosings was narrow. Its single, high-set sash window rendered the room cold even on a sunny morning. The air held a medicinal odor with just a hint of rosewater, as if it emanated from the upholstery.
Elizabeth sat in a chair near the window. She had left her coat on, feeling no urge to be denied its warmth or its armor. Mr. Darcy’s letter pressed against her ribs.
Footsteps sounded out in the corridor, then the door opened with deliberate care.