Page 35 of Conundrums & Coincidences

“Poor, dear Miss Armstrong.” Mr Darcy sat perched sideways on the edge of the billiards table, one foot on the floor. “Manoeuvres of selfishness, cunning, and duplicity are revolting to me.”

He seemed so angry and sad that Elizabeth longed to do something to comfort him but knew she could not. “I agree. Unscrupulous control and influence are despicable in every particular.”

Miss Rigby patted her charge’s hand. “There, there, my dear. Whatever a man sows, this he also will reap.”

“Tell me,” Mr Darcy said as he put away the cue and mace, “do any of you know whether opium was found in Fordham’s possession?”

The younger gentleman glanced at the ladies. No one spoke up, so he did. “According to Mr Monroe, the only opium presently in this house is kept under lock and key in Mrs Vincent’s medicine chest and only used for tinctures of laudanum. No other was found during any of the searches.”

“I imagine a vial of powdered opium would be small enough to easily conceal,” said Elizabeth.

To that, the chaperon muttered, “Probably on his person. Never before have I so wished to put my fingers inside a gentleman’s fob pocket.”

Elizabeth and the two gentlemen in unison cried, “Miss Rigby!”

Alfred had lugged pails of steaming water from the kitchen, and Rachel had poured them into a full-size copper tub.

Sweet-scented then and feeling singularly well, Elizabeth had her clean hair dressed and was helped into her best primrose gown.

Still smiling about the chaperon’s fob-pocket remark, she was determined to maintain an acquaintance with Miss Rigby. I must remember to ask for her direction so we may, at the very least, write to one another once the tournament ends. She would be sorry to bid farewell to Mr Hadley also, but they would not be permitted to correspond. Then there was Mr Darcy…

“There is someone at the door, miss.” Rachel, not quite finished with the back of Elizabeth’s gown, went to investigate. When she returned, she held out a folded sheet of writing paper. “No one was there, but I found this on the floor.”

While the maid went to work again on the gown’s tiny buttons, Elizabeth unfolded the message. The writing was unfamiliar. Then again, the only person at Oakwood whose penmanship she would have recognised was Mr Darcy’s. She could not remember what the attorney’s hand had looked like, and she had never seen Mr Hadley’s or Mr Fordham’s. At any rate, the words were few.

Miss Bennet, meet me in the garret immediately. It is the only place we can be assured of privacy. I have urgent information to acquaint you with. Come quickly, please. And come alone.

It was unsigned.

Upon a second look, Elizabeth noted a particular elegance in the ornamental handwriting, the sort considered ideal for ladies. It had to be Miss Rigby’s. There was no other possibility.

Had it to do with Mr Fordham? Was she in danger from him?

Was it because of the puzzle she had found behind the tapestry? But that had been verified by Mr Monroe, and all she had to do was find a solution and then the prize.

“Please hurry, Rachel. There is something I must do before dinner.” Elizabeth glanced at the clock on the mantel. Already it was half past five, and they were expected in the parlour by a quarter to six. “How does one access the garret?”

“The garret? Do you mean the small tower at the very top?” Elizabeth nodded, and the maid’s hands stilled on her back. “Surely you do not want to be going up there, especially in this gown.”

“Yes, Rachel, I do.”

“Then I shall go with you.”

“No. I must do this alone.” The instant her gown was buttoned, Elizabeth rushed to open the chamber door, then turned back. “Which way?”

The maid stood wringing her hands and looking wretched. Slowly she pointed left. “Go to the end of the hall and turn right. At the end of that hall, there are stairs that⁠—”

“Thank you.”

Within a few minutes, Elizabeth had found the narrow, spiralling staircase with steep risers. Hitching her hems in one hand, she held onto a rickety handrail with the other and climbed. Beneath her feet, wooden steps creaked.

At the top, in the shadows, was an alcove, large enough for a person. There was no window, and she wished she had thought to bring a candle. Of all places, why would Miss Rigby want to meet here? I should turn back. Peering into the dark, she groped blindly and tripped over a rumpled rug.

Opposite the stairs, Elizabeth located a latch, which she lifted, then pushed on the door. A shaft of sunlight slanted through a high window, and she momentarily closed her eyes against the dazzle.

The floor was uneven as she cautiously stepped inside. Nail heads protruded from the boards, and she felt every one of them beneath her soft slippers as she crossed the small room.

The garret was a dismal place. Its few pieces of blackened furniture were pockmarked and scratched. The ceilings were sloped, and she walked, face-first, into a series of ancient cobwebs. So much for my clean hair and coiffure. The air was dry, dusty, and cold. It smelt of old grains and onions.