“I presume the amendment meets legal requirements. . .”
“It does, though not without flaws. It was certified by two witnesses: the notary himself and a man by the name of Dylan Bowen.” Godfrey pointed at the inscriptions at the bottom of the page. “His mark appears beneath Sir Lewis’s, along with the notary’s. It seems to be the signature of an illiterate man.”
A chill crept through Darcy’s chest. A deathbed amendment, witnessed by a stranger. Guardianships left in limbo. Power shifted, quietly and entirely—to Lady Catherine.
“Is the earl aware of this?”
The notary folded his hands. “Lord Matlock never mentioned it, so I presume he is not. It was not registered with our office until recently. In fact, it arrived after Michaelmas last year, mixed in with a bundle of Rosings documents—perhaps by mistake. It was misplaced for some time and only discovered this February.
“I sent him a copy when Colonel Fitzwilliam visited my office in March on his father’s behalf. I personally handed him a packet of legal papers to be given directly to the earl. This was a few days before his annual journey to the island for Easter.”
Darcy’s pulse quickened.
Fitzwilliam had shown no surprise at Lady Catherine’s death. Instead, his immediate interest, his first question had been:“And what of Sir Lewis’s will—did you find it? Any other documents regarding the inheritance?”
Why would that be?
He rose abruptly. “Thank you, Mr. Godfrey. I shall take no more of your time.”
Darcy left the attorney’s office, his mind a whirlwind. The morning air hit him as he stepped outside, but it did little to clear his mind. He stood at the doorway for a long moment, trying to make sense of all the information.
Should he confront Fitzwilliam? Had Anne already begun to decline when this codicil was written, her present composure nothing but a cleverly woven pretence? Was this truly Sir Lewis’s decision, or had Lady Catherine contrived to force it?
There were too many questions and not one clear answer.
Darcy let out a slow, frustrated breath. Then, as he turned towards the waiting carriage, a gleam of hope caught his eye.
Standing next to the carriage door was Ferguson, the stoic Welshman who had become his shadow since the night the mansion burned. If anyone could tell him more about Rosings’ secrets, it was him.
Darcy’s jaw set.
“Ferguson. Ride in with me.”
Chapter 21 – Forget-me-not
Darcy tossed in bed. Again, that dream.
This one was not a nightmare—not like those that had haunted him since he left Rosings. And yet, its recurrence unsettled him deeply.
It always began with him wandering the halls of a grand house. Sometimes the mansion bore a striking resemblance to Rosings; at other times, it was Pemberley. The faces around him changed, the details shifted, but one event remained constant. That moment—whatever its meaning—was what mattered.
At first, the dream was peaceful. But as he moved through the great house, the walls darkened, the path twisted, and an oppressive sense of entrapment set in. He had a purpose, though he could never recall its name. Always, his footsteps led him to a large door—a door he must open only to reveal a spiral staircase climbing into endless darkness.
Then, a turn appeared that he should have expected. Yet, within the dream, that turn always took him by surprise.
Tonight, he found himself in a dimly lit room surrounded by piled books and scattered papers. At the centre sat Elizabeth, waiting in a high-backed chair, a large blue gem at her throat flashing like a beacon in a storm.
“William, what took you so long?”
“I am sorry, I could not find the way.”
Elizabeth’s expression darkened. “Do you have them?”
“Of course.” He extended his hand.
She frowned. “No, that is not what I asked for. I said a candle and a tea cloth.”
Darcy looked down. In his hand was a basket.
