Page 11 of Rosings Park (Happily Ever Afterlife #2)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ L ook at the time.” Lord Matlock muttered unintelligible imprecations to himself as he snapped his watch closed and slipped it back into his waistcoat pocket. “I expressly told them to be ready to depart at nine o’clock.”
Darcy could understand his uncle’s desire to be away from Rosings. Anne had been laid to rest two days ago, on Saturday, and the day in between had been a dull struggle of dreary company. None of their party had anything to say that anyone else wished to hear, and their moods had all been so dark as to make the general atmosphere oppressive. The only brightness was Elizabeth, who did her best to cheer them, but his kin remained obstinately inured to her influence.
He looked down to where she stood at his side, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow, and was dismayed to find her burrowing deeper into her shawl as if chilled. The day was pleasant enough, but there was a nip in the air largely unfelt through his coat, and he worried that she would suffer for it. Where the devil are my aunt and cousin?
Lord Matlock addressed Darcy. “You will write to me immediately if you discover any documents of import.”
“I know what needs to be done.”
Beside him, Elizabeth pressed her hand to his forearm in a silent plea that he calm himself.
“Good, good.” His uncle seemed not to realise Darcy was reaching the edge of his patience as he examined the time on his fob watch again. “What is keeping them? It is not like Eleanor to be so tardy, and Marbury was eager to return to town.”
Darcy was inclined to frown but kept his countenance carefully blank. He knew very well what had delayed his aunt and cousin and could not comment upon it without being churlish. Marbury, the intolerable sot, had spent the greater part of yesterday drinking himself into a stupor and was undoubtedly suffering for it this morning. Had the earl truly expected his son to be up and about before noon? Last Darcy had heard, Marbury was proving difficult to even rouse, and Fitzwilliam had gone upstairs to help his brother’s valet hurry things along. He could not know for certain where Lady Matlock was, but Darcy presumed she was also lending a hand to the Sisyphean endeavour.
“There is a reasonable explanation, I am sure,” Elizabeth lightly commented when the pause in conversation grew awkward.
“Hmph,” was all the earl said in return, snapping his timepiece closed. Only by actually biting his tongue could Darcy remain silent. Keep the peace for Elizabeth’s sake .
The double front doors of the manor swung open at last, and Marbury, flanked by a pair of hovering footmen, tottered out. When he tripped upon the first step, his brother was there to grab his coat from behind and prevent him from taking an injurious spill. The footmen took hold of both his arms, propping him precariously upright.
“Marbury, are you hurt?” cried Lady Matlock, scurrying out, one glove haphazardly on and the other forgotten elsewhere. Behind the countess, Darcy could see the black-clad wraith of Lady Catherine lingering just inside the house. She watched the scene with a sneer for a few seconds before turning and disappearing in a swish of dark skirts.
“I am dying!” proclaimed Marbury in a carrying voice. “Do not let that idiot Collins preside over my funeral else I shall haunt you all?—”
Fitzwilliam clapped a hand over his elder brother’s mouth. “He is perfectly well, Mother, merely a touch out of sorts this morning. Some sleep will put him to rights.”
Lady Matlock, a surprisingly devoted mother despite her disinterest in most areas, followed her drunken son and his retinue down the steps, alternately cooing soothing words at Marbury and admonishing the footmen to handle him with care. The colonel brought up the rear of their procession, full of bonhomie and more patience than Darcy could have summoned in the circumstances. But then, Fitzwilliam was often thrust into the role of diplomat; his father had a habit of ordering them all into harmony, while his son actually saw it done .
“Finally!” Lord Matlock stepped aside so the servants could load Marbury into the waiting carriage. He did not otherwise offer any assistance. “It is about time you graced us with your presence.”
The earl’s bluster was largely disregarded, and once Marbury was settled and his mother had climbed in herself to see to his immediate care, they were ready to leave. Lord Matlock called out of the window as the wheels began rolling, “Make sure to search the house for a safe. Rosings is a funny old place, and it might be well hidden.”
Fitzwilliam, who stood on Elizabeth’s other side waving to the departing carriage, sniggered. “I cannot decide whether he believes us to be idiots or he simply could not be bothered to look for a safe himself.”
“Either supposition is likely.”
“What does he have you searching for?” Elizabeth asked, tilting her head at a curious angle. “It must be important for him to harp on it so.”
“We have not yet been able to find Anne’s will,” said Darcy, turning them to face the steps. “The local attorney’s office burnt down some months ago, apparently, and Lady Catherine swears that Anne did not take her business to London. We hope to find a copy somewhere in the house, but my aunt has never been especially adept at estate management, and her papers—those we can lay our hands on—are not in any conceivable order. Fitzwilliam and I have been tasked with the search.”
“Herculean task, you mean,” his cousin quipped as they began their steady ascent.
Elizabeth hugged Darcy’s arm tightly. He felt her slight shivering and drew her yet closer. “Where is the study? My explorations have yet to yield that information.”
“It is off the library,” replied Darcy, surreptitiously surveying his wife from top to toe. Her colour looked off to him, she was leaning rather heavily upon his arm, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes. She ought to be in bed.
“I was in the library just last night but saw no sign of any study.”
Darcy opened his mouth to explain but was forestalled by Fitzwilliam’s eagerness. “That is because it is hidden behind a secret door,” he said, voice lowered to a mysterious cadence. “It is only accessible to those who believe it exists.”
“Or those who pull on the lever disguised as a copy of Le Morte d’Arthur .”
“You are entirely devoid of whimsy, Darcy.”
“And you are entirely devoid of wit.”
Elizabeth interrupted their petty squabble with, “Now, boys, no need to resort to insults.”
“He started it,” Fitzwilliam protested with a whine so petulant that it could not have been serious.
Darcy smirked and returned, “It was not I who implied that our uncle’s former study was a wizard’s den.”
“The pair of you, honestly.” Elizabeth rolled her eyes, though she smiled throughout. “I would be happy to assist you in your search, if you like. I may know little about legal documents, but I am certain I could spot one.”
“That will not be necessary, my love. I would much rather you rest. ”
Elizabeth’s brows drew together, and she leant away from him. Darcy was inclined to bundle her back up in his embrace, but by the look on her face he felt it might be unwise to risk her ire. “Surely you do not believe I shall overtax myself leafing through papers.”
“We shall have to ransack the entire house, drag out old boxes, and search under furniture, to say nothing of the dust… You need not subject yourself to all that.”
“You cannot be serious.” Elizabeth’s tone was incredulous, and even Fitzwilliam was staring oddly at him as if he could not quite understand Darcy’s reasoning.
“Perfectly so.” To his cousin, he said, “Fitzwilliam, I shall meet you in the study once I have seen my wife to our rooms.”
Fitzwilliam saluted him with two fingers before turning on his heel and marching away down the hall that led to the library.
Although she protested all the way up the stairs, Darcy at last prevailed and saw Elizabeth tucked safely into bed. With a peck to her furrowed brow, he left her to rest.
After a monotonous Sunday cooped up with a coddling Darcy and his haughty, dour relations, Elizabeth was eager for some fresh air. More than that, she was ready for a change of scene and society, and thought a visit to the parsonage was in order.
Her husband had practically ordered her to rest, but Elizabeth was full of energy and could not remain abed. She had tried, truly, but had eventually succumbed to the lure of a nice long walk. No matter the debatable taste of the manor, the park around Rosings was delightful, especially once one ventured beyond the formal gardens and into the woods that separated the estate from the lane. She only required a companion before beginning her jaunt.
“Freddy!” she called once she reached the courtyard where the Great Dane and a handful of spaniels were gallivanting about. Poor Freddy was not allowed inside the manor house at Rosings as she was at Pemberley and so had been relegated to the kennels with the other dogs. Lady Catherine was of the mind that animals were filthy and unruly so had no place in respectable households. Elizabeth could not agree, but she respected the lady’s ruling.
Upon hearing her name, Freddy pricked up her ears, swung about to face Elizabeth, and barked with joy before loping towards her mistress. The spaniels halted their frisks a moment before resuming, content amongst themselves alone.
Elizabeth held out her hands and greeted Freddy like the dear friend she was, scratching her head and babbling nonsense at the dog that she was sure neither of them understood. “Do you want to take a walk with me?”
Freddy barked again, spun in a circle, and bounced on her paws like an impatient racehorse. Elizabeth laughed at her antics.
“Come on, then, let us take the path through the woods. You can sniff about the garden while I speak to Charlotte.” Mr Collins, to no one’s surprise, was of the same mind as his patroness regarding pets. Knowing this, Elizabeth might have left Freddy behind, but she felt her dear canine friend deserved the freedom to roam every bit as much as she.
As if Freddy understood, she took off in the direction of the tree line, leaving Elizabeth to trail more sedately in her wake.
Elizabeth peered into the basket at Charlotte’s feet where her tiny daughter slumbered in a bundle of blankets. The child snuffled in her sleep, which somehow enhanced her charm and caused Elizabeth’s stomach to flutter. “My goodness, you are such a pretty baby!”
And it was true; little Catherine Collins was far prettier than she had any right to be as Mr Collins’s child. Charlotte herself was accounted as plain, but there was an understated beauty in her face. It occurred to Elizabeth that her friend’s looks might have been enhanced by her happiness, for Charlotte had never looked so well as she did since removing to Hunsford. Elizabeth might not have been able to countenance Mr Collins as a husband, but Charlotte thrived as the mistress of her own household.
“I know I ought to humbly deny any extraordinary merit,” said Charlotte, smiling fondly down at her daughter as she absently knitted a hat, “but I cannot bring myself to do it. She is perfect.”
“She is,” Elizabeth agreed, withdrawing the hand that had lightly stroked the baby’s cheek. “Even so, I know it cannot be easy, especially with your first. How do you do it? ”
“I have help, of course,” Charlotte said with a shrug, returning her full attention to her work. Her fingers moved deftly in a well-practised pattern, forming the miniature white hat almost without conscious thought; she had always displayed a knack for useful endeavours. “My mother stayed with me for the first two months, and the nurse tends to Cathy at night, though I shall say that motherhood is a responsibility I was not quite prepared for. I do not believe anyone is until they have experienced it themselves.”
Elizabeth chewed on her lip, now watching little Cathy with something more like fretfulness than reverence. “That is what I fear for myself. What if I am not naturally inclined to motherhood?”
“None of us are naturally inclined to it, not really,” said Charlotte, her eyes still fixed upon her knitting. “Certainly, there are those women who desperately want a child and are eager to love one, but it can be difficult, particularly when you are new to it. But you will learn, as all of us do.”
“What if…” Elizabeth swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “What if I do not learn? What if I am not capable?”
Charlotte lifted her gaze and turned it to Elizabeth. There was something emphatic about it as she said, “Do not fret, Eliza. I have every confidence that you will make an excellent mother.”
Inhaling a deep, steadying breath, Elizabeth banished her fears to the darkest reaches of her mind. There was no use dwelling upon it now. “And Darcy will make an excellent father.” She winced. “Assuming he ever reconciles himself to the notion. ”
“I am certain he will. Men are different from us—they often learn to care for their children after they are born, not necessarily before. Until then, they are merely a concept—one that makes his wife sick and miserable, which in turn makes him sick and miserable as well.” Charlotte laughed at her jest and returned to knitting.
“I just wish?—”
Elizabeth was interrupted by a loud shriek coming from outside, one which startled poor little Cathy awake. Charlotte immediately lifted her daughter out of the basket and cradled her to her bosom, hushing and bouncing the child in her arms, while Elizabeth bounded to her feet and raced to the window. She peered out into the garden and gasped, covering her mouth at the scene unfolding before her.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked over Cathy’s wailing cries.
Elizabeth did not immediately have the words to describe what she was witnessing—the horror was too fresh. All she could think to say was a breathless, “Oh my…”