“My uncle is the succeeding guardian,” Darcy said grimly. “Yesterday, I received a letter from him. He demands an explanation for what has occurred at Rosings and requires that I travel there at once to ascertain the truth. He received Fitzwilliam’s letter but remains unconvinced. He suspects something is awry, though he dares not say as much on paper. Perhaps Fitzwilliam’s sudden interest in Rosings has left him mistrustful. The mere fact that he had settled there and is to marry Anne without consulting his father is telling enough.”
“He must truly value your judgement, to entrust you with such an undertaking.”
“Let us hope he does not come to regret it.”
Elizabeth chose not to press him further on the Earl’s expectations; Darcy appeared distressed enough. “This codicil you mentioned—I know little of such matters, but surely it can be disputed if signed under such unusual circumstances.”
He sank into the chair opposite her. “Indeed. There is also a vagueness—an omission that leaves room for challenge.”
“But who would dare challenge the Earl’s authority?” Realization flickered in her eyes. “Do you think the colonel might? Does he know of this secret clause?”
Darcy rubbed his chin as if wrestling with a truth too grievous to confess aloud. “I am almost certain he was aware of it —that he has known of this all along.”
Her chest tightened. The implications were deeply concerning. “They are about to be married—if they are not already.”
“Precisely,” Darcy said solemnly. “And as her husband, Fitzwilliam will have full control. Of her. Of Rosings.”
***
An unexpected sense of relief filled Darcy as their conversation drew to a close. Confiding in Elizabeth had lightened the burden he had carried for too long, and he found himself grateful for her understanding. Of all people, she alone grasped how Rosings and its tangled affairs preyed on him. The strain of its secrets had left him weary, yet in her presence, a quiet solace filled him, a certainty that, at last, he was no longer facing it alone.
“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said at last, offering a small, tired smile, “for bearing with me and my worries. You have been of invaluable help.”
“You flatter me, sir,” she said in a teasing tone. “It seems my good qualities are in your protection. Feel free to exaggerate them as much as possible.”
With a chuckle, he shook his head. “There is no exaggeration. You have many good qualities, my dear, except your own tendency to exaggerate. And, perhaps, to misjudge me.”
She laughed lightly. “You, sir, look exceedingly tired. I shall ring for tea.”
Darcy began a weak protest. “There is no need for that; I must—”
But Elizabeth had already called a maid, ordering tea and muffins. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief moment, savouring the warmth of Elizabeth’s presence. A maid arrived promptly, carrying a tidily arranged tray with a teapot, two cups, and a small basket containing a bundle of warm breads wrapped in a tea towel embroidered with tiny forget-me-nots.
Elizabeth reached for the teapot and began to pour—but the tea missed the cup, spilling onto the cloth.
“Oh—” She moved to clean the mess. “So much for my good qualities; I can barely pour your tea.”
He was no better: he could scarcely pay attention to her. Instead, he was utterly still, his eyes fixed on the objects before him.
Everything came back to him at once. Images flowed into his mind, sudden and bubbling like the water pouring out of a floodgate. The dream, Anne telling Miss Lucas how to paint little blue flowers, Mrs. Jenkinson’s body on the floor, the dark staircase that spiralled upwards, and Fitzwilliam’s words: A candle. A tea cloth. Broken china.
Her voice brought him back to the present. “William, what is the matter?”
There was a long pause. “Fitzwilliam lied.”
“I do not understand.”
“The night Mrs. Jenkinson died, I went to the round tower to see what had happened. Fitzwilliam joined me a moment later. Her body lay at the foot of the stairs, and near her a tray and some broken china. I recall remarking that she could not have climbed themwithout a candle. Fitzwilliam ascended the staircase and described what he saw. What he told me then differs from what I found two days later.”
“What do you mean?”
“That it was all a contrivance,” he said, cupping his chin. “When I returned to the tower, I observed a different arrangement. There was a small basket, much like that one,” he gestured toward the basket of bread, “a teacup with a broken handle, and a few steps below, a neatly placed candle. But no tea towel or rag lay upon the stairs.”
“Are you saying he placed them there on purpose?”
Again, Darcy stood and began to pace. “Mrs. Jenkinson used to carry a tray with tea to Anne’s room every night. Ferguson told us so.”
“That night as well. Anne told the constable that was the last time she saw her—when she left the tray in her room. I saw her at the top of the staircase, shortly before I met you in the library.”
