“She has a spy in this house. A traitor. Someone told her about the visit. Someone told her about the child. Someone is feeding her information, and she is using it to...”
“I know.”
“I will find out who it is. I will haunt every servant in this house until I discover which of them has been carrying tales to that woman, and when I find them...”
“Nana.Stop.“ Elizabeth pressed her hands flat against the door behind her. “I need to think about what just happened, what it means, what Catherine will do next. I can’t do that if you are listing the people you intend to haunt.”
Nana stopped. But the fury did not leave her face. It settled there, hardened, became fixed.
“She slandered this family,” Nana said. “She slandered my boy. She sat in his house, accused him of fathering a child on a tenant’s daughter, and she did it to hurt you. I will not let it stand.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “What do you mean, you will not let it stand?”
Nana did not answer. She turned and walked through the bookcase, and was gone.
That night, Lady Catherine had a terrible time of it.
Elizabeth heard about it the following morning, from Mrs Reynolds, who had been roused twice in the night by Mrs Jenkinson, Lady Catherine’s companion, who reported that her ladyship’s rooms were intolerably cold, that the fire would not stay lit, that the doors would not remain closed no matter how firmly they were latched, and that Lady Catherine was certain she had seen a portrait on the wall move.
“I checked the rooms myself, ma’am,” Mrs Reynolds said. “The fire was drawing perfectly well. The doors were sound. I could find nothing amiss.”
“And the portrait?”
“It is a landscape, ma’am. A view of the south meadow. It has hung in that room for forty years and has never, to my knowledge, moved.”
Elizabeth allowed the slightest hint of exasperation to enter her tolerant expression. “I am sure Lady Catherine was simply overtired. She has been keeping later hours than she is accustomed to at Rosings, I think.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mrs Reynolds paused. The pause itself suggested she had her own theories about the blue rooms and their nighttime disturbances, and that she was keeping them to herself.
Elizabeth found Nana in the portrait gallery after breakfast. Nana was standing before Lady Anne’s portrait, arms folded, looking extremely pleased with herself.
“You can’t terrorise the guests,” Elizabeth said.
Nana turned to her with an expression that could have curdled milk. “She is not a guest. She is an invader. And I did not terrorise her. I merely ensured that the blue rooms were somewhat less comfortable than usual.”
“Nana.”
“She accused my grandson of debauchery in his own house! To his wife! She deserves far worse than a cold room and a creaky door.” Nana sniffed magnificently.
“She deserves to be dealt with carefully, not frightened into leaving before I have got what I need from her. She knows something about George’s death, Nana. She all but admitted it yesterday, before she changed the subject. If you drive her out of Pemberley with your haunting, I lose the chance to find out what it is.”
Nana’s expression shifted slightly. Not chastened, exactly. Nana did not do chastened. But the strategic argument had landed where the moral one had not.
“One night,” Elizabeth said. “You have had your one night. Now let her sleep, and let me work.”
“I make no promises,” Nana said. But she unfolded her arms, which was as close to agreement as Elizabeth was likely to get.
George Darcy found her in her parlour that afternoon. He had been quiet all morning, absent from the rooms Elizabeth moved through, and when he appeared he did not pace. He stood by the window, looking out at the November grey, and his face was grave.
“I heard what Catherine said to you,” he said. “About Fitzwilliam and the Wilson child.”
“Everyone dead in this house has heard by now, I suspect.” Elizabeth smiled wearily. “I’m only glad that there is no one among the living who can hear Nana apart from me.”
“She is still furious. She has recruited the maids from the east corridor and Miss Pardoe, and they are debating whether to extend their campaign to Catherine’s dressing room.” He paused. “Miss Pardoe’s contribution, as I understand it, is to sit in Catherine’s room and stare at her. She has not closed her book for anything in sixty years, so the fact that she is willing to put it down for this should tell you the depth of feeling involved.”
“I told her to stop.”
“She will not stop. You know that. Nana does not stop when she is angry. She redirects.” George turned from the window. “But that is not what concerns me, Elizabeth. Catherine is not merely annoying. She is dangerous.”
