A sudden shiver raced up Elizabeth’s spine as she reached the top of the stairs, a sensation that had little to do with the chill in the air. This wing of the mansion was entirely new to her, yet the situation seemed uncannily familiar. The hush of the gallery, the ruthless storm beyond the windows, even the flicker of the candle in the butler’s hand seemed to belong to the memory of something she had never lived. A brief, wistful moment came upon her: had her voracious reading before her trip to Wales somehow blurred the lines between fiction and reality, stirring her imagination in unexpected ways? What a fanciful notion. She would have laughed at it, but Rosings was too steeped in shadow for jest to find a place within its walls.
A maid led her to the room that would be hers. The chamber was austere and moderately sized, its plastered walls marked by time and neglect. An old tapestry, still dignified despite its faded colours, hung opposite a window that offered a view of the tempest beyond.The other walls lay bare, devoid of ornaments or decoration, their silence echoing the room’s solitude. A musty odour mingled with the damp notes of rain, and the constant murmur of wind that rattled against the window frames underscored the manor’s ancient character. She would have shivered due to the setting but for the fire: at least the hearth had been lit earlier in the day, lending a gentle warmth that softened the cold, humid air. A white nightgown had been laid out on the bed. Her lips curved upward as her fingertips brushed the fresh linens. Despite its simplicity, someone had taken care to prepare the bed for her with great thoughtfulness, a kindness she could only attribute to Miss de Bourgh. Lady Catherine would never have shown her such courtesy. Elizabeth resolved to thank the younger lady for her hospitality when they next met in the morning.
Once she had changed into the nightgown, she stood by the hearth, hands stretched towards the warmth of the fire. Outside of her chamber, doors opened and closed as servants prepared the rooms for the guests or carried trays for the family. A gentle knock at her door preceded the arrival of Charlotte’s grim face, soon joined by her sister.
“Lizzy, I came to see whether you were well settled,” Charlotte said.
“I am. Pray, do come in.”
“My room is much larger and prettier than this one,” Maria remarked as she settled on Elizabeth’s bed.
Charlotte’s expression turned sombre. “I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Lizzy,” she said in a strained voice. “The boy who was injured today. . . he died.”
“Dear Lord!” Elizabeth cried. “Bless his soul! When did this happen?”
“A servant came looking for Mr. Collins a moment ago. He was required to go to the servant quarters to comfort them and their families. I believe Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam have also been informed.”
“This is entirely Lady Catherine’s doing!” Maria burst out, cheeks aflame. “She allowed him to perish like. . . like an animal! Had she only summoned the surgeon—”
“Maria,” Charlotte said, keeping her composure, “it is neither prudent nor fitting to censure those upon whom we depend. As myhusband’s esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine is entitled to the deference due her station.”
“But she is cruelty itself! A man lay at death’s door while she fretted over the state of her carpet! And look at how she treats poor Miss de Bourgh! This is the most cheerless, desolate place I have ever set foot in—and it is all because of her. Imagine you and Mr. Collins, free from her ceaseless meddling. You would be so much happier. We all would. Miss de Bourgh and the colonel might even—”
“Maria!” Charlotte’s warning tone contained a note of reproach. “Pray do not speak of her in such terms.”
“But they are in love!” Maria persisted, indignation lacing her words. “It is unjust! How can Lady Catherine compel Miss de Bourgh to marry that odious Mr. Darcy? How can she wish such misery upon her only daughter? I long to leave this wretched place, though it pains me to part from Miss de Bourgh, who is an excellent lady and a friend I hold in the highest esteem. I believe the feeling is mutual—she is so gracious to me, to all of us.”
“Indeed,” said Elizabeth. “You seem particularly dear to her. I dare say she values your friendship more than that of Mrs. Jenkinson. Perhaps you could correspond with her after we depart. She may even invite you to return someday.”
“I would not place too much hope in that prospect,” Charlotte said soberly. “Lady Catherine tolerates our presence only when it suits her amusement. We must not forget our proper place, Maria. I would hate for you to be disillusioned.”
“Tell me about your room—you say it is larger than mine?” Elizabeth asked.
“Much larger—and closer to Miss de Bourgh’s,” Maria replied.
They conversed for more than half an hour. Their hearts were still heavy with the sad news, yet they did their best to turn to more pleasant subjects. They spoke of their longing to return to the parsonage and of the latest news from Hertfordshire until Maria’s yawn at last reminded them of the late hour.
“We should return to our rooms,” Charlotte said. “My husband could be back and wonder where I am.”
Elizabeth walked them to the door. “Sleep well, my dear friends. Tomorrow will be a brighter day, and we shall return to the parsonage.”
“I hope so,” Mrs. Collins managed a weak smile. “I truly hope so.”
The door closed, and Elizabeth returned to her modest bed. In the quiet darkness, her reflections were tangled with the unrelenting string of misfortunes wrought by the mistress of the manor. One death, and wickedness spreading far and wide—no one had been spared from her ladyship’s tyranny. Even the proud Mr. Darcy had been ensnared, and was now at the mercy of his aunt’s whims.
His situation was almost comical, had it not been so grave. For a man who had lived his life striving to avoid the slightest weakness that might expose him to ridicule, he had committed his fair share of errors. Lady Catherine’s accusations weighed heavily; yet the fact that he had not denied them spoke volumes—if not of guilt, then of indifference, or perhaps of a weary complicity that unsettled Elizabeth more than she cared to admit. What would Miss Bingley think now of the gentleman she admired so much?Superiority of mind, indeed!
In light of what she had heard, her conjectures turned—as they inevitably would—to the scandal involving Miss Darcy. Though Elizabeth had little notion of the precise details, whispered hints of negligence, secret correspondence, and a near elopement further darkened her already poor opinion of the proud, impulsive young lady. Mr. Wickham’s accounts had painted a portrait of selfishness and reckless folly, and Mr. Darcy’s own inattentiveness had revealed the dangers of indolence—especially with a ward so susceptible to flattery.
Yet even these faults paled beside the cold, calculated malice of Lady Catherine. Her readiness to exploit others, regardless of blood, consequence, or basic decency, left Elizabeth profoundly disconcerted. Here, in this grand and isolated estate, cruelty wore the guise of righteousness, and power was exercised not to protect, but to control. Elizabeth shivered, though not from the chill in the room.
Outside, the storm raged on, a relentless symphony of wind and rain battering the ancient walls of Rosings. Elizabeth could not help but question, with a trace of dark humour, whether the mansion would ever yield to the tempest’s fury.
“Rosings was built to stand forever,” she murmured to herself, “and so too is the evil lodged within its walls.” The comment brought a smile to her lips, as if mocking her own fleeting fancies.
Sleep eluded her. Lying on her side, she attempted to slow her mind by watching the small candle on her bedside table flicker in the draft, its yellow flame dancing in time with the howling wind. Gradually, the growl of the storm blended with the creaks and groans of the old manor. Hours—or perhaps mere minutes—passed in a haze of half-formed dreams and fragmented thoughts. Then, as if jolted by an unseen hand, her door began to shake vigorously, dragging her from the fragile boundary between sleep and wakefulness.
“Who’s there?” she whispered into the oppressive silence. When no answer came, a shiver of unease replaced her drowsiness. Determined to confront her mounting fear, Elizabeth snatched her candle and stepped out of the bedchamber.
