Page 3 of Rosings Park (Happily Ever Afterlife #2)

CHAPTER THREE

A t the sound of the dinner gong, Elizabeth kicked back the ivory-and-blue-patterned covers in relief. If she had to lie there even ten minutes longer, the tedium would drive her to madness. Even the prospect of dining with her husband’s disdainful relatives was more favourable.

Darcy had demanded she ‘rest’ some hours ago, and given that she had already napped in the carriage that morning, Elizabeth had lain back and stared at the intricately wrought de Bourgh coat of arms imprinted upon the ceiling above her. She traced the design until she had memorised it, then began counting cracks in the plaster—there were forty-two of them—before resorting to tapping out the fingering of a Scottish jig against the quilt.

She might have read a book to entertain herself instead, but her husband had insisted upon dimming the room as much as possible and standing guard over her as if to ensure she did not endanger herself by moving about. Any attempt to draw him into the bed with her and coax him back into the passion they had stirred up earlier had been met with a stern admonition to preserve her energy, so she had given it up as a lost cause. Darcy had occupied himself by sitting at the desk directly beneath a pair of the smaller windows and attending to his correspondence.

Just as Elizabeth’s bare toes touched the carpet beside the bed, her husband stood from his chair. “You need not get up, Elizabeth. I can have a tray sent to you later.”

“If I lie here any longer, I shall be fit for Bedlam! I shall go down to dinner with you. Ring for Blake, will you?”

Darcy, while simultaneously attempting to back her towards the vacated mattress, replied, “You have had a strenuous day. I think it best for you to remain abed until tomorrow, at least.”

She planted her hands upon her hips, squared her shoulders, and arched her neck back to stare him directly in the eye. “I am not an invalid. Now, unless you would prefer for me to appear downstairs in my shift, I am going to call for my maid.” So saying, she stepped past her husband and stalked to the bellpull herself, giving it a hearty tug.

With a weary sigh, Darcy abandoned his objections and moved to the desk to tidy his correspondence. They were silent as he put away his writing implements and she sat down at the dressing table and began unpinning her hair. The tension was blessedly alleviated, albeit not entirely dissipated, when their personal servants arrived to dress them for the evening .

Elizabeth’s irritation with Darcy only lasted for as long as it took to don a fresh gown and put up her hair. She was not especially concerned with being au courant , but a change of clothing often changed one’s aspect, even when garbed in mourning attire. The black did little for Elizabeth’s complexion, but the dress—one of three hastily dyed before leaving Pemberley—was a more fashionable cut than she could have afforded as one of the Miss Bennets of Longbourn, and it became her well. It was growing somewhat tight in the chest, but Blake assured her that it could be let out before she wore it again.

When Darcy appeared over her shoulder in the mirror, bent to kiss her neck, and called her “the handsomest woman of my acquaintance,” her charity with him returned in full. He cannot help himself , she thought, reaching back to stroke his cheek. The other was pressed to hers as they gazed upon one another’s reflections, and his cologne pleasantly tickled her nose. He is protective by nature.

They went downstairs without further quarrel, arriving in the Throne Room in good time. All but Viscount Marbury were present and situated as they were before, with Lord Matlock at his sister’s right hand, his wife across from him, and Lady Catherine seated in her imposing chair at the centre. She and the earl were either so caught up in their bickering or so genuinely indifferent to their presence that they did not acknowledge the Darcys as they entered. Darcy scowled at his relations but blessedly kept any commentary to himself.

Colonel Fitzwilliam was placed as far from the elder generation as possible, planted in a single chair along the fringes of the circle. He winked at Elizabeth as she and her husband approached and seated themselves on a sofa near him. “There you are. I worried that Darcy might have locked you up in a tower to keep you all to himself.”

“Do not think the notion did not cross my mind,” Darcy quipped in return. It was said in his characteristically dry style, but there was a hint of a smile about his mouth that belied his amusement.

“I dare say he could not keep me there for long, Colonel. Unlike most helpless maidens, I am not afraid to dirty a frock to make my escape.”

He laughed at her jest. “My brother will be here shortly. It takes him far longer to beautify himself than it does me.”

A loud, disdainful sniff sounded from the doorway as the viscount entered. Indeed, it appeared that he had taken some time to improve his appearance, for he was dressed foppishly in a maroon tailcoat with a great deal of lace hanging from his sleeves and his cravat tied in a ridiculously intricate design for a family meal. A black armband was fashioned around his sleeve as a nod to Anne, but otherwise he would not have looked out of place in any London soirée. Caroline Bingley would have liked him very much, and Elizabeth wondered whether she ought to introduce them.

“Only because you do not bother yourself at all,” the viscount drawled. “I should be ashamed to leave my chambers dressed as you are. I shall direct my valet to have a word with your batman over the state of your cravat. ”

The colonel pressed a palm to his chest and cried, in a fashion one would usually find on Drury Lane, “Wounded! By my own brother!”

There was nothing wrong with his appearance, in Elizabeth’s opinion. His coat might have been a duller colour and unadorned—all the more appropriate to the occasion—and his cravat tied in a simpler style, but it was impeccably tailored and suited him well. If anything, had he been wearing his brother’s attire, it would have clashed horribly with his red hair.

Turning her gaze to Darcy, who looked both understated and elegant in a black jacket and a silvery-grey waistcoat that reflected his eyes, Elizabeth thought he truly was the most handsome man she had ever known and seemed to grow more attractive by the day. Of course, her opinion was highly biased in his favour.

Percy entered behind the viscount and announced that dinner was served, causing those within the room to rise. Lady Catherine led the procession on her brother’s arm while Marbury escorted his mother. The colonel offered his elbow to Elizabeth with a flourish, only to be shooed away by Darcy. She indulged in a quiet giggle as her husband led her out.

As they drew closer to the dining room, a pungent odour that had barely been noticeable in the front part of the house grew far stronger. It was an odd mix of flowers and some other redolence that Elizabeth could not name. For a moment she believed she might cast up her accounts right there on the carpet, but she managed to suppress the impulse, choking it down with deep breaths.

Near the very end of the hall, Elizabeth espied a preponderance of daffodils that glowed against the gloom. They were crowded around one door in particular, nearly blocking it, and it suddenly occurred to her what the mysterious stench must be. Miss de Bourgh is laid out in that chamber.

She shuddered.

“Are you well?”

Tearing her gaze from the flowers, she turned it towards her husband, who was regarding her with an expression wreathed in concern, bordering on alarm.

Although she did not trust herself to open her mouth at that particular moment, Elizabeth forced a smile onto her face and nodded at him. Thankfully, they crossed the threshold into the dining room seconds later, and the door closed behind them, blocking out the worst of the smell. Once she was able to gain enough control of herself to actually speak, she reassured him, “Only some slight nausea, but it has passed. It is to be expected on occasion.”

Elizabeth had dined at Rosings with the Collinses on her previous visit, and the dining room had always struck her with its need to impress. It was a grand chamber that resembled nothing so much as an ornate, oddly symmetrical cave, with the walls painted a dark claret hue and ornate carvings dripping from above like stalactites. She distantly wondered whether there were bats hidden in the nooks and crannies created by the ribbed vaulting that spread across the ceiling, though comforted herself that Lady Catherine would never suffer an infestation of that sort.

Lady Catherine took her place at the head of the table, and Lord Matlock traversed the length of the room to sit at the other end as host. Lady Matlock and Viscount Marbury were seated on either side of Lady Catherine, while Colonel Fitzwilliam sat beside his father. When a servant pulled out a chair at the centre of the table for Elizabeth and attempted to direct Darcy to sit across from the colonel, her husband put on his fiercest scowl and made a great show of placing himself beside her. He then turned his glare towards his bereaved aunt, who returned it with venom.

Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. Between her new relations’ determination to give offence and her husband’s inclination to play the white knight and defend her honour, this visit was sure to be a trial.

Dinners at Rosings Park had never boasted the boisterousness of those at Longbourn, but an attempt at polite, if stilted, conversation was always made. With Lady Catherine presiding, one could expect to hear strictures on any number of subjects—few of which she could claim any true expertise in—but on this occasion she, and everyone else present, was pointedly silent.

Darcy might have thought the lack of communication a symptom of mourning, but this particular stillness was palpably hostile. Rather than sporting airs of melancholy, most of his kin, save for Fitzwilliam, glowered at their plates as they sawed at their beef. Lady Catherine liked her meat rare, so this was a gruesome business.

And what was their complaint? That he had married a woman outside their sphere. Elizabeth herself was everything lovely, but they would not condescend to know her any better than ‘that girl you married’. It was insulting to her but also to Darcy himself; he was his own man and perfectly capable of making his own choice of wife, without regard to people who, while his closest connexions, had only their own interests at heart. He had married to please himself, not them, and they could not abide the notion that their counsel went disregarded. Their injured pride thus led them to snub the most delightful woman he had ever had the pleasure to know. He was ashamed to admit, if only to himself, that before meeting Elizabeth he would have felt similarly had the situation been reversed.

His greatest concern was how his family’s disdain was affecting his wife. She was made of sterner stuff than most ladies, it was true, yet Darcy would defy anyone to feel completely at ease while surrounded by so many antagonists. And in her condition too!

Darcy’s eyes continuously strayed to Elizabeth’s plate, observing her appetite. He was not at all pleased by the amount of beef remaining there; it appeared barely touched. Her face alarmed him more, for her complexion was far less glowing and robust than he was used to seeing. “Elizabeth, are you well?”

His wife, who had just speared a potato on the tines of her fork, looked to him without consciousness of any sort. “Perfectly well.”

“You have hardly eaten anything.”

She placed the potato in her mouth with deliberation, chewed, and swallowed it down. “I am eating well enough.”

“Your meat is all but untouched.”

Her nose wrinkled delicately, and she glanced at the beef in question before returning her gaze to him. Quietly, so that only Darcy could hear, she replied, “It is a little rare for my tastes, but you need not be concerned. I have potatoes and Brussels sprouts to fill me.”

“You must eat, my love.”

“I am eating.”

Darcy was just reaching for another serving platter, hoping to tempt her with something else, when Lady Catherine called out, “Miss Bennet, is the food not to your liking?”

“Everything is perfectly delicious,” Elizabeth replied evenly.

But Darcy could not let the insult pass. “ Mrs Darcy is feeling unwell this evening. I am trying to tempt her with something that will not disagree with her.”

Lady Catherine’s resulting smile, which seemed more like a sneer to Darcy, suggested that she was unsurprised at Elizabeth’s lack of sophistication. Or such was his interpretation. “Not everyone is suited to fine French cuisine. I am sure she is used to simpler fare at her father’s table.”

“At Pemberley,” Darcy shot back, “we employ an English cook, as we have done my entire life. French chefs might be all the rage, but their outlandish style cannot compare to good, hearty fare.”

“We have a French chef in town,” said Lady Matlock, her gaze flitting anxiously between Darcy and Lady Catherine, “but we have an Englishwoman in the country. There is something to be said for each.”

Lord Matlock concurred with his wife with a grunt, while the viscount offered, “Is not that dull, Darcy? Surely you keep a French chef in London, at least.”

“I can answer for that,” interjected Fitzwilliam with a wary glance Darcy’s way. “Mrs Allen is an absolute wonder in the kitchen, and Darcy would be mad to let her go for some uppish Frenchman. I have never had better sweet rolls anywhere.”

“They are superb,” Elizabeth agreed, smiling at the colonel. “Her biscuits are divine as well, particularly with a cup of chocolate. Tell me…”

And so the conversation was rescued from devolving into an outright dispute. Even so, Darcy could not help but dart another fierce glare at Lady Catherine, one she returned with equal ferocity.

At the conclusion of the tediously protracted meal, Lady Catherine rose and regally led the way out of the dining room with Lady Matlock and Elizabeth trailing after her. They were a silent procession with nothing to say to one another, like ladies-in-waiting on hand to serve a queen.

Creak .

Elizabeth stopped short in the middle of the carpet as the squeal of a hinge echoed along the corridor. Was it really so loud, or did she only imagine it so?

Slowly, with her pulse steadily picking up speed, she pivoted to look over her shoulder. When she discovered the door concealing Anne’s body propped open, her heart nearly stopped entirely.

A moment later, a maid emerged from the room carrying a pot of wilted flowers in the crook of one arm. She turned and pulled the door closed behind her before hurrying off in another direction and disappearing from sight.

Goodness, Lizzy , she chided herself as she scurried down the hall after her aunts-by-marriage. Ever since last summer, you are beginning to see ghosts everywhere.