A soft, humourless laugh escaped Miss de Bourgh’s lips. “I hope so. My cousins will notify the solicitor and wait for his instructions. I am so tired of being told what to do and whom to marry. And now Mama is gone, and someone else holds power over my life. What will become of me?”
A fresh sob rose from young mistress’s chest. With her heart constricted with grief for the poor lady, Elizabeth gave her hand a tender squeeze. “Do not despair. In two years, you will be free to make your own choices.”
Miss de Bourgh sniffed and brushed away a tear. “Forgive me, Miss Bennet. I should not have burdened you with my private affairs.”
“Not at all,” Elizabeth replied with warmth. “Consider me a friend in whom you may confide.”
“You are too kind to me.” She took a steadying breath. “I wish I had always had a friend as gentle and understanding as you.”
“Now, you must rest. I am sure tomorrow will bring better tidings.”
The other lady nodded, though she still seemed lost in thought. Before rising, Elizabeth gave Miss De Bourgh’s hand one final, reassuring squeeze. They exchanged good-nights beneath the threshold and parted, Elizabeth turning towards the library, while Miss de Bourgh made her way to the staircase.
Yet even as she walked away, Elizabeth could not rid herself of the feeling that the new mistress of Rosings was far more afraid of the future than she revealed.
As she neared the library, she caught sight of Mr. Collins loitering outside, fidgeting nervously before the closed door. The parson was presumably awaiting permission to speak with the cousins. How selfish of them, to monopolize the only room in the manor worth her notice. With a huff of annoyance, she turned on her heel. She would have to make do with the dreary volume she had abandoned in the drawing room earlier—hardly a fair exchange for the solace she might have found among Rosings’ shelves.
Just then, the door swung open and Colonel Fitzwilliam stormed out, brushing past the parson with a curt, “Not now, Collins!” before striding towards the main staircase.
Mr. Collins flinched, made a hesitant move to follow, then checked himself. With a defeated shake of the head, he turned and trotted off in the opposite direction, offering Elizabeth a quick, flustered nod as he passed.
***
Earlier, in the library…
“Did you find anything that might help us unravel thismystery, Darcy?” Fitzwilliam poured two glasses of port from the decanter.
Darcy sat by the desk, his cravat loosened, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. The desk was in disarray: open drawers, scattered papers, ledgers stacked in uneven piles.
“Not much. The books are neatly kept, and the estate’s finances appear in order. Given the mansion’s state of disrepair, I had assumed Rosings might be struggling, but it seems fairly profitable.”
“That is good news. Anne shall not face any hardship. And what of Sir Lewis’s will—did you find it? Any other documents regarding the inheritance?” The colonel slumped into the chair before the desk and sat opposite of him. He offered one glass to Darcy.
“No. I wrote to Lady Catherine’s solicitor, informing him of her demise and requesting instructions. With the steward off the island, the household falls under our care for now.”
“What an interesting predicament we find ourselves in. How do you propose we proceed?”
“There is little we can do until the storm passes and the letters are delivered. I do not know the full contents of the will, but I believe Anne remains under full guardianship until she turns twenty-five. If I recall correctly, both your father and mine witnessed the document and were named as alternate guardians should anything happen to Lady Catherine.”
“So until my father takes charge, or instructions arrive, we must oversee her affairs ourselves.”
“I quite agree.”
“Poor child. From her mother’s control straight into my father’s hands. They could not have chosen a sterner warden.”
“Perhaps Sir Lewis had his reasons for imposing such strict conditions.” Darcy pinched his nose.
“Some have said he was not of sound mind when he died, and judging from recent weeks, neither was Lady Catherine.” Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair. “As far as I know, there are no other living members of the de Bourgh line who could have claims over Rosings. They are either dead or unworldly.”
“The de Bourgh curse,” Darcy said with a mirthless grimace “I always thought it was mere nonsense.”
“I once heard that my grandfather was reluctant to consent to the marriage.” Fitzwilliam’s tone became more reflective. “There were rumours of hereditary madness in the family. A kind of lingering affliction plagued them for generations. Sir Lewis may have escaped it—or not. He and his wife were quite the eccentric pair.”
Darcy was not amused. He took a long gulp of his port, now fully grasping the extent of Lady Catherine’s schemes. Her haste to secure a marriage between him and Anne had not been driven solely by ambition or pride. With Anne’s twenty-fifth birthday approaching—the age at which she would come fully into her inheritance—time had been slipping through her mother’s grasp.
If Fitzwilliam’s claims were true, and there was indeed madness in the bloodline, then Lady Catherine’s urgency had darker motives still. Had she succeeded, he would have been bound for life to a woman whose mind might one day betray her.
The thought made him sick.
