“What is the matter?” He made his demand with sharp, urgent authority.
The maid, barely able to form words between hiccups, managed to whisper, “The mistress. . . She is dead!”
For a heartbeat, the colonel stood frozen, eyes wide open and mouth slack. Then, without a word, he strode towards his aunt’s chambers, two doors further.
Before long, the gallery teemed with an assorted assembly of servants and guests, all drawn by the maid’s anguished sobs. Confusion soon gave way to speculation. Elizabeth, as shaken as the rest, tried to piece together the unfolding tragedy. Lady Catherine must have suffered an apoplexy in the night for the poor girl found her lifeless. But as the young servant regained her composure, the horrifying reality surfaced.
“I went to tend the fire,” the chambermaid sobbed. “I always do. But when I approached the bed, I saw her! So much blood—she was covered in blood!”
Blood? She could not imagine the gruesome scene. A collective gasp rippled among those nearby.
“Murdered!” someone whispered. “The mistress was murdered!”
A footman clutching his cap whispered, “God have mercy on her soul.”
At that moment, Mr. Darcy appeared clad in the same dishevelled garments Elizabeth had noticed earlier in the gallery: his cravat missing and his clothes wrinkled as though he had slept in his them. His pale, dire expression confirmed the gravity of what she had just heard.
His face grew even whiter as the maid described the ghastly scene. “Has anyone entered the room yet?” he asked.
“Colonel Fitzwilliam,” Charlotte replied. “He rushed in as soon as he heard the news.”
“And Miss de Bourgh?” Mr. Darcy’s voice faltered. “Has she awakened?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “She remains in her chambers.”
“She must not see her mother thus.” Mr. Darcy’s gaze went between Charlotte and Elizabeth. “Someone. . . Pray, someone must go to her at once.”
Elizabeth nodded, grasping the urgency. With that, Mr. Darcy proceeded into Lady Catherine’s chambers.
Miss de Bourgh’s apartments were situated at the far end of the passage, and the young lady was likely undisturbed by the maid’s cries, the thickness of the walls and the storm’s violence muffling the sound.
“We should summon Mrs. Jenkinson,” Charlotte suggested. “She is most attached to Miss de Bourgh and will know best how to comfort her.”
Elizabeth agreed, and they asked one of the footmen to wake Miss de Bourgh’s companion.
“Mrs. Collins!” The parson appeared at the top of the staircase, flushed and breathless. “I have just heard what happened! My noble patroness—dead! What a tragedy beyond expression! We must ensure she receives a burial befitting her rank and that Miss de Bourgh is treated with the utmost care.”
Charlotte nodded. “Mrs. Jenkinson has just been summoned. Once Miss de Bourgh is roused, you may offer her whatever spiritual comfort she requires.”
Mr. Collins assumed a measured stance. “Indeed. As a man of the cloth, I am best suited to this task.”
What a tragic night. On Easter Sunday, of all days—a time meant for rejoicing, not mourning—such horror had descended upon them. Would Mr. Collins prove equal to so delicate a task? As a parson, he was competent enough, yet his excessive formality might render him inadequate for so tender an office. Better that she, Charlotte, and Maria stand ready should his solemn words fail to bring any true comfort. Together, through their companionship, they might better sustain poor Miss de Bourgh.
***
Darcy stood with Fitzwilliam beside Lady Catherine’s bed,gazing down at his aunt’s lifeless form. The room was dim, yet thehorror before them was plain enough. Blood stained the sheets and had dripped to the floor. A great deal of blood.
“I have not seen such carnage since I served with Wellesley in Spain,” Fitzwilliam’s eyes swept over the mangled corpse. “She was stabbed at least five or six times—straight to the chest. The murderer must have truly despised her.”
His stomach lurched. He pressed a fist to his lips and turned aside, lest he disgrace himself before his cousin. Unlike Fitzwilliam, he could not bear the sight—or the smell—of blood with the same stoicism. “We must report the crime immediately. Do you know who the local magistrate is?”
“Surely some bourgeois landowner who has never encountered a corpse in his life.” The colonel carelessly threw a blanket over the body. “He will probably summon some thief taker or coroner from the mainland to help him solve this matter.”
“We shall have to wait until morning and see if it is safe to ride to the village or set sail for Ceredigion.”
His cousin glanced at the window, which shook with the wind. “Sail? Not in this tempest. I shall not risk drowning in the sea for her, nor shall I send anyone to their death. We must wait until navigation is safe.”
Taking a deep breath, Darcy pulled back his shoulders and forced down the bile and disquiet that surged in his throat, adopting a stronger deportment. “But who could have done this? Who hated her enough to commit such an act?”
