“I hope not, but given recent events, it would be prudent to account for everyone’s presence.”
Elizabeth was in agreement. She had intended to say that his concerns were well founded but she now became doubtful that her opinion on the matter would be welcome. Lately, he had been distracted, unapproachable. He gave her a short bow, then walked away without another word.
***
Her return to the drawing room was marked by reflection and confusion. Mr. Darcy’s indifference unsettled her in a way his former slights never had. Could his affections be so changeable? Orwas she the one who wavered? Not long ago, she had rejected him in the most definitive terms; yet now, she found herself facing the fear that she had lost his good opinion entirely.
She drew a steadying breath and turned her attention to her present company. “Where is Miss de Bourgh?” Elizabeth asked as she settled on the settee.
“She left a moment ago,” said Charlotte. “She was feeling unwell and preferred to retire early.”
“I have never seen her so desolate.” Miss Lucas sighed. “This is because of the colonel’s departure. Poor lady! The mere prospect of losing her lover has left her quite undone.”
“Hush!” Charlotte shook her finger at her sister. “You should not assume such things.”
“But they are! I saw them kissing on Easter Sunday!” Maria said, undeterred by her sister’s warning. “They were behind the folly in the garden. He pulled her close, and she did not resist. His hand. . . it wandered under her skirt, and she made no effort to stop him! I dare say they might have gone further, but I did not stay to see it.”
“Maria!” Charlotte’s face turned crimson. “That is an indecent thing to say!”
Elizabeth hastened to steer the conversation elsewhere, though her mind remained unsettled. However meddlesome Maria’s observations might be, they were not without foundation. The intimacy between Miss de Bourgh and the colonel had progressed at a pace far swifter than propriety—or anyone—had anticipated.
“I wish Miss de Bourgh had not asked us to remain another day.” Charlotte let out a long breath. “I long to go home.”
“I imagine you must miss your life at the parsonage,” Elizabeth said gently.
“Not the parsonage, Lizzy. I mean home—to Meryton. If I could, I would leave this godforsaken island forever.”
Elizabeth was taken aback by her friend’s vehemence. “I understand these past days have been dreadful, but surely your life here has not been so wretched as to make you abandon Rosings altogether—especially now that Lady Catherine is no longer here to torment you.”
“It is not only that. There is something else. . .” Charlotte hesitated, casting a glance towards the door as though to ensure they were unobserved. “Something I cannot fully comprehend. Ibelieve. . . I believe my husband may have had something to do with Lady Catherine’s death.”
Elizabeth’s stomach dropped. “Charlotte! Why would you say such a thing?”
Her friend’s eyes shimmered. “He found some important information, Lizzy, about the de Bourghs. Old records in Rosings’ chapel speaking of a curse the servants whisper about.”
“A curse? Old tales, surely. You must not lend them credence.”
“He also said Mrs. Jenkinson knew more than she let on.”
Elizabeth’s blood ran cold. “Mrs. Jenkinson?”
Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “What is it, Lizzy?”
“Mrs. Jenkinson died two nights ago.”
***
Rosings Manor was a labyrinth of connected rooms and shadowed passages, and many pathways were unknown to all but those who had spent years within its walls. As a young lad, Darcy had wandered them freely, finding solace in their secrecy—a welcome retreat from his overbearing aunt. Now, more than a decade later, their mystery had faded, replaced by a grim necessity. Tonight, he was not exploring for amusement—he was searching for answers.
He had every intention of visiting the round tower the day before, but he had been too overwhelmed by Elizabeth’s words to think of anything but her rejection. His pride had been wounded, but his heart harboured no resentment. Her reproof, though cutting, carried the weight of a truth too hard to accept for a man of his self-importance. Yet a full day of reflection had made him reasonable enough to grant her words their justice. He still found it painful to be in the same room with her, but after that brief encounter in the library, he counted himself fortunate that she would speak to him at all.
Today, however, other matters preoccupied him more than Elizabeth’s refusal. A much darker concern was keeping him awake at night, and he had to investigate it.
He approached a small, dark, wooden door leading to the tower, where the servants’ quarters and storage rooms connected to the main house. Beyond it lay Anne’s and his aunt’s chambers and, further still, the abandoned rooms of the late Sir Lewis. With a steadying breath, Darcy pushed the heavy door open and steppedinto the passage that bridged the old and new wings of Rosings. The contrast struck him at once—one side adorned with dark wood panelling and heavy tapestries, the other nothing but bare, cold stone.
Dusk had begun to settle, with the last streaks of fading sunlight slanting through the arrow slits of the round tower. No torches were lit, and the waning light barely illuminated the steep, spiralling staircase before him. Candle in hand, he tried to retrace Mrs. Jenkinson’s fateful path from the upper floors down to the cellar. A few steps in, he became well aware of how treacherous the descent was, especially for an older woman burdened with a tray.
The first thing that came to his attention was that the newel leaned outward, more unstable than it ought to have been. The railing lacked balusters, and a secondary lower rail had been added halfway down the remaining supports to reinforce the structure. Further along the turn of the stairwell, a teacup with a broken handle lay across one of the stone steps, a small basket rested two steps below. Just a few more steps down, he spotted an overturned candle. He bent down to get a good look at them.
