The gallery lay cloaked in darkness, the only light the feeble glow of her candle. The wind’s mournful howls reverberated down the soulless passage. Shadows danced erratically over the walls and furniture, their forms shifting like restless phantoms. As she advanced, a nagging sense of being watched crept over her—a presence lurked just beyond the edge of perception, as if someone, or something, was hidden in a distant corner.
Then, in a sudden flash of lightning that bathed the gallery in stark white, she saw him. Not more than five yards ahead, the outline of a man emerged, silhouetted against the wall.
Recognition flashed before her.
“Mr. Darcy!”
The gentleman’s face was ashen, his features contorted with shock. In that brief, suspended moment, he bowed hastily while Elizabeth curtseyed in equal haste. Without a word, they parted ways—each retreating into the shadows, haunted by the same inexplicable terror that had gripped them both.
***
Elizabeth awoke to the joyous strains of “Voi Che Sapete,” her favourite aria fromThe Marriage of Figaro, drifting softly through the quiet of the night. A surge of alarm struck her: she was terribly late for the ball. With little time to spare, she sprang from her bed and hurried out the door. During her descent down the grand staircase, it seemed as though she was almost weightless, as if the usual creaks of ancient wood had been silenced, while themansion, usually mantled by shadow, now shimmered with an unexpected air of refined grandeur.
Before her, the grand salon unfolded like a vision of opulence. Golden chandeliers suspended from a lofty ceiling bathed the room in a warm, flickering glow. Dozens of candles danced in their light, illuminating a ballroom where muffled voices mingled with the lilting strains of music, the beat filling her inside as if she too had the dance in her heart. Faceless dancers moved gracefully across the polished floor, their silhouettes merging elegance with a quiet, measured rhythm.
“Miss Bennet.” Mr. Darcy’s voice broke through the melody as he stepped forward, his gaze steady and intent. “Would you honour me with the next two dances?”
For a brief moment, Elizabeth hesitated. “For a man who professes a disdain for dancing, you are remarkably persistent, Mr. Darcy,” she said with playful defiance.
He offered his hand, his smile both enigmatic and sincere. “Yet we have only danced once. Pray, why do you keep refusing me?”
“I have my reasons.” She accepted his hand.
As they moved towards the centre of the room, Mr. Darcy said, “A wise woman once advised me against hasty judgements. Perhaps you might benefit from taking your own counsel, for you seem predisposed to swift conclusions.”
“Your aunt will disapprove of our pairing. Are you not concerned about her influence?” Her tone was guarded.
“I am not afraid of her—and neither should you be.”
Their dance continued amid the graceful swirl of skirts and the soft clatter of polished shoes. Yet beneath the elegance, a tension simmered. Elizabeth’s composure began to fracture as memories of the day’s sorrow mingled with the intimate closeness of the dance.
Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. “She withholds dangerous information that could ruin your reputation, yet you dismiss her threats with contempt! You have neglected your duty as a guardian, and your inattention has exposed your sister to scandal!”
Mr. Darcy’s expression tightened, his features shifting into something more unsettling. “My choices regarding my sister are none of your concern.”
“But your actions affect us all!” Elizabeth retorted, her words bound with emotion. “How could you be so ruthless as to tear Jane away from Mr. Bingley?”
He sneered. “I did what was best for him, and I take pride in that decision.”
“You are a monster!” she cried, the intensity of her accusation echoing across the dance floor. “Mr. Wickham warned me of your heartlessness, yet I chose to ignore him!”
In that instant, the vibrant ballroom seemed to shatter. The elegant scene fractured into a series of grim, disjointed visions: Jane, weeping alone in a shadowed corner; Charlotte, on her knees, scrubbing crimson stains from the marble floor; the colonel, lounging carelessly in an armchair with Miss de Bourgh sitting forlornly on his knee, mirrored by Maria Lucas on the armrest. At the far end, Lady Catherine reigned like a dark queen, her eyes gleaming with malevolent triumph, while Mr. Collins hovered at her side, whispering in her ear.
Panic seized Elizabeth as the revelry dissolved into chaos and despair. The strains of a piercing scream shattered the music. She tried to run, but her feet were anchored by unseen weights. Mr. Darcy’s grip tightened on her wrist, urging her to remain steadfast while her mind swirled with images of horror and betrayal.
Then, as abruptly as the vision had overtaken her, everything faded. Elizabeth’s eyes flew open. She was in her bed, tangled in the sheets. Yet the anguished screams lingered, echoing through her thoughts like a nightmare that refused to vanish.
Chapter 8 – Blood and Marble
Elizabeth sat abruptly in her bed, her heart pounding. She rubbed her face with her hand, striving to steady herself. The room lay in complete darkness and, for an instant, confusion seized her. Was she in Hunsford? Or at home, in Longbourn? A flash of lightning lit the chamber, revealing the unpleasant truth: she remained in Rosings.
With a weary sigh, she fell back against the pillow and closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep once more. Again, piercing screams cut through the storm—not hers, not born of some fevered dream, but issuing from another beyond the sanctuary of her chamber.
Other voices rose to join the commotion. Quick steps rang out upon the marble floor outside of her door. What was happening? Wrapping a shawl about her shoulders, she hesitated only an instant before opening her door to face the uproar.
Near the landing of the main staircase stood a chambermaid, trembling, her hands pressed to her face, her whole frame convulsing with sobs. A footman hastened to set a pair of torches into the sconces, their sudden glow bringing some clarity to the scene. Elizabeth stepped forward, seeking to soothe the poor girl and discover what had so terrified her. Doors flew open, and astonished faces appeared—Charlotte and Maria among them—all striving to grasp the raw shock of it all.
Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared, half dressed, one hand clutching at his slipping breeches while the other fumbled with his suspenders.He wore them over his nightshirt and his hair was tousled as though he had sprung from his bed at the first cry. Maria, also clad in her nightclothes, upon seeing a grown man unrelated to her so informally dressed, hid behind her sister. Indeed, he wore less than Elizabeth had ever seen on any man herself, but she was too stunned to be embarrassed.
