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Chapter Twenty

A distant wailing, sharp and insistent, pierced through the cocoon of Elizabeth’s slumber, drawing her reluctantly into consciousness.

She blinked in momentary confusion at the unfamiliar ceiling of her guest chamber at Netherfield before the continued sounds of commotion below stairs jolted her fully awake.

Something was terribly amiss in the household that had, mere hours earlier , been alive with the gaiety and music of the ball.

“Fitzwilliam,” she murmured, reaching to rouse her husband, but found his side of the bed already empty. He must have risen already, perhaps drawn by the same disturbance that now compelled her to action.

Elizabeth slipped from beneath the warm covers, shivering slightly as her bare feet met the cold wooden floor.

The November morning light filtered weakly through the partially drawn curtains, revealing a room still bearing evidence of last night’s festivities: her emerald gown carefully draped over a chair, pearl combs discarded on the dressing table, dancing slippers abandoned where she had stepped out of them.

The sounds below grew more distinct: a woman’s voice raised in hysterical sobbing, the deeper tones of men speaking urgently, the hurried footsteps of servants rushing through corridors.

Even through the substantial flooring of Netherfield’s upper chambers, Elizabeth could perceive genuine alarm in these sounds, not merely the ordinary bustle of a household beginning its day.

She hastily donned her dressing gown. There was no time to ring for her maid or attempt proper morning dress.

Whatever had occurred demanded immediate attention, propriety notwithstanding.

Twisting her hair into a simple knot at the nape of her neck, Elizabeth moved quickly to the door, her mind racing through possibilities: illness, fire, some accident requiring immediate assistance.

The corridor outside her chamber was empty, though signs of hasty departure were evident in a water pitcher left abandoned on a side table, a door left ajar where normally it would be closed.

Elizabeth followed the sounds, descending the wide staircase that led to Netherfield’s main hall.

As she neared the landing, the commotion grew louder, concentrated in the entrance foyer below.

“Fetch blankets immediately,” came Darcy’s voice, controlled but urgent. “And someone must ride for the doctor, though I fear...”

He did not complete the sentence, but its implication sent a chill through Elizabeth that had nothing to do with the morning air. She hurried down the remaining stairs, turning at the landing to face the scene below.

What she beheld froze her in place, one hand gripping the banister for support as comprehension dawned with terrible clarity.

Caroline Bingley lay sprawled at the foot of the grand staircase, her body arranged in a grotesque parody of repose.

Her head rested at an unnatural angle against the marble floor, and even from this distance, Elizabeth could see that her eyes stared sightlessly upward, devoid of their usual calculating gleam.

A thin trickle of blood had traced a path from her temple to pool beneath her ear, the vivid crimson stark against her pallid skin.

“Oh, dear God,” Elizabeth whispered, her free hand rising instinctively to her mouth.

Mrs. Hurst knelt beside her sister’s body, her morning dress already stained with blood where she had evidently cradled Caroline’s head.

Her entire frame shook with violent sobbing, her usual affected mannerisms entirely abandoned in genuine grief.

Mr. Hurst stood nearby, his face ashen with shock, one hand extended uncertainly toward his wife as if unsure how to offer comfort in such extremity.

Darcy moved with purpose through the horrified tableau, giving instructions to servants, his composed demeanour a stabilising force amid the chaos. He looked up as Elizabeth descended, a brief flash of concern crossing his features before he mastered it.

“Elizabeth,” he said quietly as she reached him. “You should not have come down.”

“What has happened?” she asked, though the evidence before her needed little explanation.

“Miss Bingley appears to have fallen from the upper stairs,” Darcy replied, his voice low. “It seems she may have risen early and lost her footing in the dim light. We cannot know for certain, as there were no witnesses.”

Elizabeth’s gaze returned to Caroline’s form.

She wore a nightdress and wrapper, her hair loose about her shoulders in a manner Elizabeth had never witnessed, accustomed as she was to seeing Miss Bingley impeccably coiffed at all hours.

The sight of her in such dishabille, vulnerable and utterly devoid of her usual hauteur, struck Elizabeth with unexpected force.

Whatever her feelings toward Caroline Bingley in life, her death in such circumstances could not fail to inspire pity.

“When was she found?” Elizabeth asked, unable to look away from the dreadful scene.

“Just minutes ago, by a housemaid come to light the morning fires,” Darcy explained. “Mr. Bingley has been notified but has not yet...”

He broke off as hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor leading to Bingley’s private study. In the next moment, Charles Bingley himself appeared, hastening toward the gathered group with an expression of alarm that shifted to horror as his gaze fell upon his sister’s prone form.

“Caroline!” he exclaimed, rushing forward to kneel beside Mrs. Hurst. “My God, what has happened to her?”

“Charles,” Mrs. Hurst managed through her tears, “she is gone. Our sister is gone.”

Bingley’s face contorted with grief, his hands hovering helplessly over Caroline’s still form before coming to rest on her shoulder. “No, no, this cannot be. There must be some mistake. A doctor must be called.”

“A servant has already been dispatched,” Darcy said gently. “But I fear there is no hope, Bingley. The fall was severe.”

Elizabeth, watching this exchange, felt a curious dissonance.

Bingley’s expressions of grief seemed proper, even moving, and yet.

.. there was something not entirely convincing in his performance.

His eyes, when not directly regarding his sister’s body, appeared more stunned than sorrowful, his movements possessing a curious deliberation as if he were conscious of presenting the appropriate tableau of brotherly anguish.

She chided herself immediately for such uncharitable thoughts. Shock affected people in different ways, and to judge Bingley’s genuineness in the immediate aftermath of such tragedy was unfair. Yet as she continued to observe him, other discrepancies emerged that she could not easily dismiss.

When Mrs. Hurst collapsed against him in a fresh paroxysm of grief, he patted her back with mechanical comfort, his gaze drifting briefly over her head with an expression that seemed almost... relieved?

“We must move her,” Bingley said suddenly, his voice cracking on the words. “It is not right that she should lie here, exposed to view.”

“Perhaps we should wait until the doctor arrives,” Elizabeth suggested gently, speaking for the first time since Bingley’s appearance. “To ensure nothing is... disturbed.”

Bingley looked up at her sharply, an emotion flickering across his features too quickly to identify before it was replaced by appropriate solemnity. “Yes, of course. How thoughtless of me in my grief. You are quite right, Mrs. Darcy.”

The alacrity with which he accepted this suggestion struck Elizabeth as peculiar.

A truly grief-stricken brother might have insisted on sparing his sister’s dignity, might have argued for immediate privacy.

Instead, Bingley relinquished his position with curious readiness, rising to stand beside Darcy with hands that now hung steadily at his sides.

“I have sent my cousin in search of the magistrate, to notify him as well,” Darcy said quietly. “For an accidental death of this nature, it will be necessary.”

“Magistrate?” Bingley repeated, a note of something like alarm entering his voice. “Surely that is unnecessary. A tragic accident requires no investigation.”

“It is merely a formality,” Darcy assured him. “But one that must be observed.”

Again, Elizabeth noted the flash of tension across Bingley’s features, there and gone in an instant.

He turned away abruptly, pressing a handkerchief to his eyes in a gesture that should have conveyed overwhelming emotion.

Yet when he turned back, his eyes remained dry, though appropriately reddened.

Mrs. Hurst, by contrast, seemed utterly destroyed by grief, her sobbing having subsided into a hollow keening that spoke of genuine desolation.

Her husband had finally arrived at her side, his own initial shock giving way to awkward attempts at comfort, his arm around her shoulders as he murmured what appeared to be sincere, if ineffectual, condolences.

“I must write to our aunt in Scarborough,” Bingley said, seizing upon this practical task with what struck Elizabeth as inappropriate eagerness. “She was particularly fond of Caroline. The news will devastate her.”

Elizabeth watched as he moved toward the study with purposeful strides, seemingly relieved to have reason to remove himself from the immediate scene of tragedy. His steps were steady, his bearing composed in a manner that seemed incongruous with the devastating shock he had just experienced.

“Elizabeth,” Darcy said quietly, drawing her attention. “Perhaps you might attend to Mrs. Hurst? She should be removed to her chambers, given a sedative if one can be found. This vigil does her no good. And if you would make sure Georgiana does not come down…”