“Is Ferguson here? I need to find Mr. Darcy.” She asked a young maid.
Mr. Darcy’s manservant rose from a bench.
“I believe he’s in the old tower, madam,” Ferguson said simply.
“Pray, can you take me to him?”
Without a word, Ferguson retrieved a candle and led her up the main staircase and down the long gallery that linked the two wings.
At the door to the tower passage, he paused. “Best I fetch him for you, madam. These stairs aren’t easy to walk.”
A moment later, Mr. Darcy emerged from the shadows.
“Miss Bennet?” His voice held a note of surprise. “Is something the matter?”
Elizabeth took a steadying breath. “I must speak with you. It is urgent.”
“Pray, tell me.”
She relayed everything: Mr. Collins’s strange behaviour, Charlotte’s concerns, and now his sudden disappearance. Darcy listened in silence, his brow furrowing with each word.
“This is no coincidence,” he said at last, his expression darkened.
Elizabeth swallowed. “What do we do?”
“We must find him. You said he went to the old chapel?”
Her breath caught at the urgency in his tone. “You believe he might be in danger?” On impulse, she reached out and placed a hand on his forearm—but withdrew it just as quickly.
“Too many strange occurrences have taken place for us to assume otherwise.” He turned to Ferguson. “Summon the housekeeper. Have the footmen search the house and grounds. Quietly. They are to report only to me.”
Ferguson nodded and hurried off, leaving Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy alone.
Mr. Darcy turned to her. “Stay with Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas in the drawing room. I shall have one less concern if I know you are together.”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders and stood her ground. “No, sir. I would rather accompany you than to be left to fret in ignorance.”
He observed her quietly for an instant, then exhaled sharply. “Very well,” he said at last. “But you must keep close.”
Her lips curved into a triumphant smile.
“And do as I say,” he added, already turning.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, accelerating her steps to match his. As she fell into stride beside him, she caught a glimpse of his profile and saw the faintest smile tug at his mouth before he looked away.
***
The chapel stood in solemn stillness. A single candle burned low upon the table, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. Darcy crossed the threshold with Elizabeth, their footsteps echoing against the vaulted ceiling. This place, once a site of devotion, was now but a mausoleum, a forgotten relic of a family weighed down by its own history.
Dozens of old volumes lined the shelves, dusty and untouched, recording births, marriages, and deaths—a testament to a lineage marked by tragedy. Several books lay scattered on the table, and the stubs of spent candles hinted at long, solitary vigils.
“Someone was here recently,” Elizabeth murmured, pointing to the disarray. “Mr. Collins, perhaps?”
“Most likely,” Darcy said as he perused the scene.
He opened one of the volumes, carefully turning the brittle pages, his finger trailing across the rusty ink as he searched for anything that might explain the parson’s fixation.
The record ended with the death of Sir Lewis five years prior. No entries followed. With a frustrated sigh, Darcy slammed it shut, the motion sending loose papers fluttering across the table. One yellowed sheet landed near the candle.
