He laughed at her. “You are but a female, and a barren one at that. I gave you all that I have—my name, my home, and expected but one thing of you in return. You could not even give me that, and now you believe you can control my fate from the grave? You possess such power over life and death that you can oblige the future to obey you, when your own body will not?”
Her face crumpled, and she did what she had vowed she would not do—beg. “Manfred, please! I know you have lain with her already—I realise she is growing big with your child. Bring her to me—we will go to the country, she and I, and I will return with a babe. I promise I will raise it up as my own, as our own. You shall have your heir, and no one will be the wiser!”
His expression remained implacable, unmoved. “Iwillnot change my mind. This is how it must be.”
Acidic resentment revived her fury. “It is not simply the child, then, as you pretend. You wish for her fortune as well as her body. Your craven desires are a festering wound, devouring honour and corrupting your soul.”
He only smirked in response, igniting her fury. Still, when he opened his strong arms, she practically flew into them, hungrily returning his kisses, his passion, their lips melded and sealed together.
And suddenly she was falling, falling from the castle heights, her face white against the darkened stone walls, surprise and horror in her eyes as she realised what he had done—tossed her from the battlements like so much offal. She had not even time to scream before herbody hit the stones below, breaking against their unyielding strength and his unyielding will.
Elizabeth was glad she had read it in the privacy of her room; she could feel astonishment and anxiety in equal measure as she set the pages aside. Of only a few things was she completely certain—Anne de Bourgh’s fondness for Gothic novels, for romance, and for drama were obvious. It was probable that she looked upon Darcy as the pitiless Manfred, tosser of wives off castle walls. But was Theodosia representative of Anne herself? Or did she serve as a warning to Elizabeth? Or Darcy? Or both? Or were all her writings simply the ravings of a disturbed mind?
It was impossible to say, but she wished Darcy had not departed so quickly to pursue his own search, and could instead help to convince her that it was nothing to worry about.
Surely it meant nothing at all, except foolish black words on a white page.
36
AN UNEXPECTED NOTION
In the end, she waited until the next morning to send word to Darcy. After all, what did she have beyond an excerpt from a gothic novel? Miss de Bourgh had not changed the name of her unfortunate heroine from ‘Theodosia’ to ‘Elizabeth’. While it was certainly not a pleasant or happy scene she had sent, neither was it specifically threatening.
He did not delay a moment in coming to Longbourn—by Elizabeth’s reckoning, he must have called for his horse immediately upon receiving her note. Thankfully, only Jane was in the drawing room, sitting across from her on the sofa opposite, when Darcy arrived.
“Mr Darcy, welcome,” Jane greeted, but then paused at his expression. “Is there a problem? Are you well?”
“I am not, particularly,” Darcy replied, stone-faced and very obviously displeased. “Tell me, Elizabeth, that at least you have informed your family of your vulnerability, sinceyou delayed dangerously in apprising me of the advent of her letter?”
“What danger? What has happened?” Jane, now appearing alarmed, glanced at Elizabeth.
It was difficult not to match his harsh tone, but realising his genuine concern, she forced a calmness she did not quite feel. “No, I did not tell them, since I do not feel particularly vulnerable. She did not threaten me, dearest.”
At the gentle endearment, he seemed to regain control of himself, and moved into the room until he stood before her. To her surprise, he pulled her up into his arms, giving her a resounding kiss right there before Jane—and anyone else who might pass by in the corridor.
Shock froze her; it took her a dazed moment before she recognised the firmness of his lips upon hers, before she realised the full outburst of mouth and tongue sealing across hers in overwhelming, electric heat. Within seconds, however, he was carefully reseating her, as if he had done nothing astounding, while her own knees trembled. Coolly he settled himself on the sofa beside her. Jane stared, open-mouthed, at them both.
“Now, then,” Darcy said with a stern matter-of-factness belying his prior actions. “I hope you might allow me to read the letter whilst you explain the actions of my cousin to your sister.”
With an unsteady sigh, Elizabeth withdrew the letter from her skirt pocket and handed it to him before turning to Jane.
“Mr Darcy’s cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh, is…is distressed by the news of our forthcoming marriage. She has departed her home and family, and no one is quite certain where she can be found.”
“Oh, dear,” Jane said sympathetically, obviously still confused. “But…this is a danger to you?”
“It probably is not.” Elizabeth shrugged. “She is something of an amateur novelist, however, and she left behind an alteration to a title of one of her works which was somewhat threatening.”
Darcy looked up from the letter he was examining, frowning ferociously. “Elizabeth is understating the matter. My cousin has behaved insensibly in the past, and I am unsure how fully is her grip upon reality. The title she changed was fromThe Death of a DreamtoThe Death of Mrs Darcy. Might she physically attack Elizabeth, or Elizabeth’s family? She might.”
A stab of guilt pricked Elizabeth’s thoughts. “That is true—I do not know her, or of what she is capable. I ought to have told you and Mr Collins, Jane, and at once. I did not…I did not wish to cast aspersions upon a woman I do not know, who will soon be my relation, on the basis of a few scribbles.”
“I understand,” Jane said quietly, but her arms had gone protectively again to her middle.
“This is all nonsense,” Darcy muttered, his attention back upon the pages he held. “Manfred? Theodosia?”
“I believe Miss de Bourgh is writing another story, or else this is an excerpt from an old one. Do we know how the heroine meets her end inDeath of a Dream? Or anything else about her writing practises? Does she, for instance, routinely kill off her main characters? What of her personal habits? Does she ride and hunt? Is she strong and...and lively?”
Darcy sighed. “I do not know what sort of drivel she regularly produces from her pen, but assuredly, Anne is not at all intimidating in person—in truth, she is slight of both figureand presence. I do not believe she could physically overpower you herself, but she does have the means to hire help.” He reached for her hand. “Elizabeth, I think we should marry. Today. You might then come back with me to Netherfield and remain under my protection, and to the devil with rumours or secrecy.”
