Chapter 9 #2
Mr. Darcy entered. His composure was less certain than usual; his eyes fixed first on her, then on the writing table, and only then on the square of linen in his hands, as if bracing himself.
He set the parcel on the table, unfolded the linen with two careful fingers, and revealed the scrap of blue paper.
He stood behind the chair opposite her, hands resting lightly on its crest, as if he needed to steady himself.
Elizabeth watched him briefly, then reached into her pocket and withdrew Mrs. Blackstone’s blue page, smoothing it flat with her hand.
“May I?” she asked, voice softer than she expected.
“Of course,” he replied.
She took the scrap he offered, laying the smaller piece within the tear in the larger. They matched, not perfectly—there was a sliver missing, as if a final shred had been left behind—but the alignment was undeniable.
“It is a match,” Elizabeth declared.
Mr. Darcy nodded.
Elizabeth lifted the larger portion of the page, tilting it so the light from the window shone through. It had a watermark. There was also the faint trace of pressure. Someone had written on a page laid over this one, and the force had left a ghost behind.
She angled the page, squinting. “There is something here.”
He was beside her at once, shoulder nearly touching hers. He angled the candle on the table so that its light raked across the paper from below.
“The watermark is the crest of the de Bourgh family,” Mr. Darcy said. He pointed at the indentations that grew sharper in this light, resolving into the remnants of a word.
Elizabeth pointed to the first mark. “A descending stroke. Possibly an L or a D. Then here,” she moved her finger an inch to the right. “Two short marks. Is this an O? And at the end—this loop. The tail of a G?”
Mr. Darcy leaned closer, took up a pencil and, holding the lead at an angle, gently shaded that area of the paper. The faintest outline appeared.
“‘de Bourgh’,” he said. He moved to look at Elizabeth; his lips touched her cheek.
With a slight gasp, he straightened and jumped away as if he had been burned. “Pardon me.”
Elizabeth looked anywhere but at him.
A silence descended, heavy with so many implications, it was impossible to separate them.
Elizabeth was the first to break it, clearing her throat before saying, “Whatever its contents, the note was written on paper from this house.” She pointed to the appropriate area of the page. “And since this is signed as if from her cousin, Lorrimer…”
Mr. Darcy frowned, considering. “The signature is a fraud.”
“Or he is employed here. Possibly under a different name?”
He shook his head. “Lady Catherine checks every reference. I do not believe someone could use a false name unless they also forged several references. And she always waits for confirmation of the former employment by post, which would mean the fraud would have to be sworn to by others.”
Elizabeth’s heart raced as she nodded. “Which means the threat originated here, at Rosings.”
Mr. Darcy continued her thought, “Or by someone with access to the house. A member of the staff. Or—” He looked at her, and the weight of the unfinished sentence pressed against the walls of the little room.
“No. I do not think it is a family member,” Elizabeth finished.
Mr. Darcy’s shoulders relaxed a little. He opened the drawer of the writing table, then another, hands moving with increasing urgency.
In the third, he found a stack of blue note paper, identical in color and weight to the one before them.
He held a sheet up to the light; the watermark was the same.
Elizabeth said, “The paper is from Rosings.”
He nodded.
She allowed herself a moment to breathe, the pieces of the puzzle aligning with clarity. Then she told him about the angle of the handwriting, which she realized last night.
When finished with her explanation, she said, “Whoever lured Mrs. Blackstone to her death, or if we are to be charitable, at least to the meeting where her death occurred, did so using a forgery, with paper that could only come from here.”
“We must look inward.” Mr. Darcy looked at her, admiration and something deeper behind his eyes. “What next?”
Elizabeth answered, “Motive. There is one within these walls. We must find it.”
Mr. Darcy folded his hands behind his back.
Elizabeth rose.
She felt suddenly exposed by the intimacy of the investigation, by the knowledge that she and Mr. Darcy alone were now in possession of the truth.
She glanced down at the pocket where his letter pressed against her ribs, the one she had sworn not to read until they were no longer in need of this important alliance.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy,” she said, meaning more than she could reasonably express. “For your confidence in me.”
He inclined his head, grave and yet alive with a strange new energy. “It is I who should thank you, Miss Elizabeth. I am not accustomed to such partnership.”
She smiled, but it was a careful, deliberate thing. “Nor am I.”
A knock sounded at the corridor door. Mr. Darcy reacted instantly, sliding the blue papers into his pocket. He opened the door just enough to slip out, unwilling to allow anyone to see them in here together, alone.
From the corridor, she heard a man say, “Lady Catherine requests your presence, sir. In the drawing room.”
Mr. Darcy’s voice was muffled through the door. “Please explain that I must divert to my rooms before attending her.”
The footman’s steps were heard moving away, then Mr. Darcy slipped back into the room.
Elizabeth rose, gathering herself. “Shall we go?”
“Yes, but if you are to attend tea at Rosings…”
She looked down at her walking gown. “I must change.”
“As should I.” He nodded. “There are French doors in the next room. I will meet you in the reception area when you return.”
“A coincidence, of course.” She smiled.
“Of course. One of the windows in my chambers overlooks the path on the east side of the house.” His eyebrow twitched. “It is the quickest way to the parsonage, and I can make certain you are safe for most of your walk.”
For some reason, it did not rankle her a bit when he admitted he would watch her go.
He offered his arm, not in the perfunctory fashion of the drawing room, but as if it were a question she could refuse.
She took it, and together they stepped into the corridor, then quickly into the next room.
As he let her out the French door, Mr. Darcy said softly, “We will find the truth, Miss Elizabeth. I give you my word.”
She glanced at him, saw in his eyes the same determination that thrummed in her own chest. “Yes,” she said. “We will.”
She walked away, down the path that he had indicated, picturing him dashing up the steps to his chamber to make certain she was safe.
Elizabeth could not help but feel that the letter at her heart, unread but ever present, was not the only message awaiting its time.