Darcy’s breath caught.
He had seen it. Years ago, in Sir Lewis’s library. A long-bladed letter opener, its hilt a Celtic braid of pewter, crowned by a striking blue gem.
He had always found it beautiful, so much so that he even fancied ordering one for himself.
The letter opener had not been in the library when Darcy sorted through Rosings’ books and papers the day after his aunt’s death. Had it been there, he would have noticed it—the item was far too distinctive to overlook. Nor had it been in Lady Catherine’s chambers when he searched for Georgiana’s letters, though his horror at the sight of her lifeless body had, at the time, rendered him blind to all else.
Had Collins taken it?
Or had someone else?
Darcy swallowed slowly, his throat suddenly dry. “No, sir, I do not recall seeing anything like that.”
Mr. Hanbury studied him a moment longer before nodding.
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. That will be all for now.”
***
The day dawned warm and clear, a welcome change after so much darkness and tragedy. Elizabeth awoke in good spirits, carefully arranged her hair, and went down to breakfast. Perhaps she would find Mr. Darcy in the dining room. She had barely seen him over the past three days, and an anxious restlessness stirred within her. She had a longing to speak with him, to ascertain how he fared.
The house was eerily quiet. Charlotte and Maria were still asleep, and the Rosings family was not in the house. Finding herself alone, Elizabeth enquired of a servant whether he had seen the gentlemen. She was informed that they had left for the assembly rooms early in the morning at the constable’s request.
She also learned that Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy, wishing to relieve the overcrowded parsonage, had arranged for their belongings to be sent to the local inn until the house by the beach had been prepared. As for Miss de Bourgh, she had been invited to stay with a prominent family in the village whose accommodations were more befitting the heiress of Rosings.
Elizabeth welcomed the news, particularly Miss de Bourgh’s departure. At last, Charlotte was relieved of the lady’s unsettling presence and could begin mourning her husband in peace.
With little else to do, Elizabeth dressed herself in her coat and bonnet, strapped on her walking boots, and set off with a spring in her step, her destination the pebbled path that bordered the coastline.
It was indeed a beautiful day. The skies were blue, the wind soft, and the seagulls hovered overhead, squawking loudly as if they welcomed her return. Invigorated by the marine breeze, Elizabeth finally released the tension and fear she had endured over the past few days. She took off her bonnet, lifted her face to the sun, and allowed the wind to caress her skin.
The path split in two, and Elizabeth was tempted to take the wider one—the one that led to the cliffs, to the rock where she used to sit and watch the sea during her first days at Rosings. She quickly changed her mind. That road would put her face to face with the mansion, a sight she was not willing to see again. Instead, she took the narrower path towards the shore, with the intention that the low tide would allow for a pleasant walk on the beach.
After navigating the rockier terrain, she finally reached the sand and, turning east, continued her walk towards the rising sun. Dozens of seagulls tracked the coast, pecking at the sand in search of whatever the storm had cast ashore.
She had walked a considerable distance when she became aware she was not alone. Appearing from the curve ahead, a tall figure approached. Her heart skipped a beat. He just happened to be the man she had been so eager to see.
He neared her, and after bowing, said, “Miss Bennet, I see you have returned to your old habits. It is a superb day for a walk.”
Her cheeks became warm. “Yes, sir. I longed to be out and free from the confinements of the house.”
“May I accompany you?”
“Yes, of course.” As she took her place by his side, Elizabeth chastised herself for her appearance. Her hair, which she had so carefully arranged that morning, was now tousled by the wind.
“I heard you were summoned by the constable,” she said after a moment. “I trust everything went smoothly?”
“Yes. He wanted to speak with a few servants and asked the colonel and me to assist.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth nodded. “I had hoped to warn you before your questioning, but I did not have the chance.”
“Do not let it trouble you.” He shrugged. “I expect our statements aligned; otherwise, he would have been more incisive.”
She was a little agitated, not only from the walk in the sand, but from not knowing what to say. Elizabeth Bennet, speechless? Preposterous! A glance, a word—some sign that she was not invisible to him would satisfy her longing, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, hands clasped behind his back, and offered nothing. Their acquaintance had been so weighed down with misunderstandings and untimely confessions that she could hardly resent his reticence. For a man as dignified as Mr. Darcy, who had endured her brutal refusal with such composure, this new restraint confounded her.
Silence had been stretching on too long. “How is your hand? I see you are much recovered.”
“I am, thank you. I am quite surprised by how quickly it healed. I did not expect Mrs. Smith’s medicine to be so effective.”
