Her friend exhaled shakily. “Oh, Lizzy. . . I cannot believe it. My husband is dead, and the entire world now believes him a murderer.”
She sat beside her, taking her hand. “You do not have to face this alone.”
“But I do,” Charlotte sobbed. “I must go back to Meryton, to my family, with this disgrace hanging over me. How shall I bear the whispers? The stares? My father will be mortified; my mother will never recover from the shame.”
“Your family will support you,” Elizabeth said. “You are blameless in all this.”
“Am I?” Her friend’s voice trembled. “I married him, Lizzy. I stood beside him, defended him. And now I do not know what to believe. What if something happened to him? Something pushed him beyond reason?”
“You knew him best. Was there ever a sign, any indication that he could have done such a thing?”
“No. Never.” Charlotte sniffed, tears pooling her eyes. “He was weak, Lizzy, not wicked. He feared Lady Catherine, but he was not a violent man. He would rant sometimes about her demands, her cruelty, but it was just words. He never raised his voice to me, never showed a hint of true malice. He was frustrated, not dangerous.”
“Then perhaps there is more to this than we know.” Her words were meant to steady her friend. “But no matter what the world says, you must not carry his sins as your own.”
“What shall become of me, Lizzy?” A fresh tear ran down her face, which she wiped quickly.
Elizabeth squeezed her hand. “We shall find a way together. I shall speak with Mr. Darcy. He will help you.”
Charlotte let out a tired, bitter laugh. “Mr. Darcy? You have changed your tune.”
Elizabeth’s skin heated. “I have. . . come to understand him better.”
Her friend studied her with weary curiosity. “Do you love him?”
She met her gaze, a soft smile forming. “I think I do.”
“Then hold on to that, Lizzy. If you have found happiness, do not let it slip away.”
“I shall not.”
The two friends sat in silence, comforted by each other’s presence, as outside, the world continued to shift around them.
Chapter 18 – Several Interrogations and a Proposal
The arrival of the constable drastically shifted the course of the inquiry. Mr. Hanbury was a surly, seasoned investigator who had served with the Bow Street Runners for nearly two decades before retiring to the Welsh countryside. Although he had settled in the outskirts of Ceredigion to lead a quieter life, he still found a certain thrill in criminal investigations. Whenever something of significance occurred in the region, it was he who was called upon.
Whereas Mr. Bevan had been cordial and accommodating, treating the family as peers rather than suspects, Hanbury was shrewd and methodical. Every question was deliberate, every inquiry designed to extract crucial details that might lead to the truth. Unlike Bevan, he did not waste time inspecting the ruins of Rosings; any evidence that might have once existed lay buried under a heap of ash and stone. Lady Catherine’s remains were likewise entombed beneath the rubble, leaving Hanbury with only the testimony of witnesses upon which to base his conclusions.
The first to be questioned was Miss de Bourgh. Given her fragile state, and to preserve propriety, Elizabeth acted as her companion, sitting quietly apart as the lady recounted the events leading up to the fire.
“You say that he entered your rooms and confessed to murdering your mother?” Mr. Hanbury asked.
“Yes, sir.” She pressed a handkerchief to her nose. Recalling the events that had followed Lady Catherine’s death left her visibly shaken, and she struggled to hold back her tears. “He entered unnoticed, carrying a small book and murmuring a prayer in a strange tongue.” Her breathing grew shallow and laboured, as though she were gasping for air. “He said my mother was possessed by evil, and that the line of malice must be severed. He spoke of a curse—that there would be no peace for the heirs of Rosings and death was their only salvation.”
Mr. Hanbury allowed her a moment to compose herself. “And how exactly did he attempt to harm you?”
Miss de Bourgh’s respiration quickened once more, her breath wheezing with each rise and fall of her chest. Elizabeth moved closer, offering her some tea. Miss de Bourgh took a small sip. “He was carrying a dagger between the pages of the book. It had a blue gem on the hilt. I presume it was the same weapon he used to kill my mother.”
The constable waited patiently for her to continue.
“He advanced upon me. He. . . he would not stop. He was brandishing the dagger in his hand. I hit him with something—the poker, I think. I stumbled against a table. . .” A quiet sob escaped. “The lamp fell, and the fire started.”
The new mistress buried her face in her hands and began to weep in earnest.
Elizabeth would have preferred to end the questioning there, but Mr. Hanbury was not finished.
“Miss de Bourgh, if you do not mind, I have just one last question.”
