Fitzwilliam’s tone hardened. “She had enemies enough. Her ruthless ways had already claimed the life of a young boy, and even her own household had long harboured resentment towards her. I wager everyone in this house—from the lowliest undergardener to any one of us—has, at some time, entertained the desire for her demise. Can you truly say the notion never once crossed your mind? Earlier today, you very nearly lost your composure. ”
He stared back at his cousin, and for a moment, silence reigned between them.
Shifting his gaze back to the bed, Fitzwilliam remarked with something akin to amusement, “Two corpses in a single night. Unusual, is it not?”
“Show some respect,” Darcy replied coldly. “It is your aunt who lies dead before you.”
“Forgive me; war has rendered me callous.”
“We must assemble everyone. No one shall leave this house until the magistrate is informed.”
“We must speak to the butler to get an account of who might have been wandering about the mansion, or if anyone saw any unusual occurrences.” Fitzwilliam paused and eyed him keenly. “What happened to you? You look as though you have not slept at all.”
He raked a hand through his unkempt hair. “I drifted off in the armchair; brandy proved more comforting than bed.”
“I faced a similar plight,” Fitzwilliam said with a dry edge. “Though I at least had the presence of mind to undress.”
“Indeed,” Darcy glanced at his cousin’s attire, and a faint smirk broke through tension. “Did all and sundry bear witness to your scandalous state? The ladies must have been shocked.”
“I rather think their minds were elsewhere.” His voice sobered again. “Come, Darcy. We must now tell everyone what has passed.”
***
The entire household was huddled together in the ballroom. Elizabeth, like the rest, stood waiting to hear what the cousins, now in charge of the house, would say. Around her rose a murmur of whispers, suspicious glances, and dread. The servants scarcely spoke, each wary of the other, as if behind every face lurked a potential murderer. Could the killer be there among them? Or had he already fled the mansion, concealed by the raging storm?
“I believe you all know why we are gathered here,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said, his tone carrying both authority and unsettling calm. “Lady Catherine is dead.”
The colonel continued, giving orders and warnings. With the murderer still at large, the servants were to remain vigilant and report any unusual occurrence without delay. His voice conveyed both serenity and firmness, and he appeared remarkably composed. Surely his military experience had hardened him to death and violence, but even so, Elizabeth would have expected a little more dismay from a nephew who had just lost a close relation.
A simmering unease stirred within her. Mr. Darcy’s demeanour had set her nerves on edge, perhaps more so than his cousin’s. Earlier that night, shortly before Lady Catherine was found dead, she had met him in the gallery, pale and shaken, his composure in tatters.Now, he appeared tense, his posture rigid, his gaze furtive, as if even the briefest glance might betray a far darker intent. A man in mourning? Or a man with something to hide?
Elizabeth’s mind raced. Many in this house had reason to wish Lady Catherine ill, but who had the most to gain?
His gaze found hers—steady, cold. A prickle of trepidation crawled over her skin.
She was no longer certain whether she beheld a grieving nephew—or a guilty man.
Chapter 9 – Sympathy for the Mistress
Rosings was a place of strict customs and timeless traditions, unchanged for decades, if not centuries. That morning, not even the sudden, violent death of the mistress had unsettled the servants’ routine. Breakfast was served punctually, and although the table overflowed with an abundant spread, a quiet tension lay beneath the surface. The servants moved about with sober faces and nervous hands, and the guests were ill at ease as they found themselves drawn into such a misfortune.
The two gentlemen did not appear for breakfast, leaving only the Hunsford ladies to descend to the morning room. Weary as she was, Elizabeth would much rather have remained in bed, but courtesy obliged her to attend, if only out of respect for the dead mistress of the house. Not that she could have slept: the moment she closed her eyes, unwelcome reminders returned—Mr. Darcy in the darkened gallery, the maid’s desperate screams, and Miss de Bourgh’s inconsolable sobs. Sleep, though sorely needed, promised only further torment.
“Where are Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam?” Elizabeth asked Charlotte, stifling a yawn.
“In conference with Mr. Bevan, the local magistrate, I believe,” Charlotte replied. “He is a local gentleman, one of Lady Catherine’s tenants. You met him on Easter Sunday, remember?”
“Oh, yes.” Elizabeth recalled the plump, good-natured gentleman she had encountered during the festivities: genial, ruddy-cheeked, and far too fond of trifles. Certainly not the sort of man one might imagine unravelling the dark threads of a violent crime.
Who was she to judge his competence, when her notions owed more to Mrs. Radcliffe’s cryptic penmanship than to life itself? With nothing useful to add, her attention returned to the breakfast table overflowing with delicacies that no one seemed eager to eat. So much food would go to waste, especially considering that only three had come down and Colonel Fitzwilliam had specifically requested the household conserve resources until the storm passed and navigation was re-established.
No one could say how long the tempest would endure. Isolated on the island and unable to reach the village for supplies, the household had resolved to limit its use of provisions and space, shuttering most of the manor until fairer weather returned. Following their meal, only the drawing room and library remained open, further restricting the residents and guests. The rest of Rosings lay in shadow. To Elizabeth, the storm was no longer a passing gale but more like a prison guard that held her captive within the manor’s walls.
After breakfast, the ladies retired to the drawing room by the fireplace. There, Charlotte broke the silence.
“I am so sorry, Lizzy, that you have to endure all of this because of me.” Her voice was charged with regret. “Had I known your visit to Rosings would be so unpleasant, that something like this might happen, I would never have asked you or Maria to come.”
“Oh, Charlotte, how could you have known? What happened yesterday is beyond anyone’s imagination. You must not blame yourself for events so utterly outside your control.” Elizabeth replied.
