Page 7 of Rosings Park (Happily Ever Afterlife #2)

CHAPTER SEVEN

E lizabeth awoke with a start, blinking into the pitch darkness as the hall clock struck midnight. The babe in her belly fluttered wildly as if also jolted awake, and she pressed a hand to the slight rise beneath her nightgown.

The only mystery was what had disturbed them both. She had a notion that she had been dreaming but could not recall the content. There was a flickering in her mind, sparks of images she could not entirely make out, each quickly snuffed. Whatever her brain had conjured, it was gone now—dissolved into the ether in a coil of smoke.

Even with no tangible recollection of the dream, Elizabeth felt…unsettled. Disturbed. There was no rational explanation for it, but she could not help the deep sense of unease that beset her. She shuddered; whatever it was, perhaps it was best that she could not remember it.

Beside her, Darcy snored lightly. She considered waking him but decided against it. Not only would it be unkind to disturb his rest, but she did not relish the probability that he would coddle her more than she liked. It would be better for them both to let him sleep.

Elizabeth reclined again into her pillow and tried to will herself back to the realm of Morpheus, but her mind would not quiet itself enough for the task, and the baby continued to dance a merry jig within. She lay there for what felt like an eternity, shifting back and forth in the hope of magically soothing herself and her child, but it was no use.

I wonder whether Charlotte is awake. She knew, from Mr Collins’s earlier announcement, that her dear friend was enlisted to sit with Anne’s body overnight. It must be a dull task with only servants and the dead to converse with, so Charlotte might enjoy company.

Decided, Elizabeth conceded defeat and sat up. Careful not to disturb her husband, she slid from beneath the counterpane and lowered her feet to the floor. Each movement was slow and deliberate so as to avoid Darcy’s notice; he would undoubtedly prevent her going if he could, so it was best he never know. I shall sit with Charlotte for a short while, then return without his ever being aware.

Elizabeth swiftly donned her robe and slippers and lit a candle in the low-burning fire. She then made her way to the door and reached for the latch, only to draw back from the sharp coldness of the brass. She had not considered the night especially chilly, but then it was only early March.

After steeling herself for the unpleasant sensation, she delicately released the latch and egressed into the hall— How absolutely frigid! No wonder the fixtures are so cold —shutting the door silently behind her.

On the ground floor, Elizabeth followed the corridor she knew to lead to the chamber holding Anne’s remains. As she drew closer, she was required to cover her nose with the sleeve of her robe so as to dampen the overpowering stench of death and daffodils.

She stopped midway down the hall, just before the dining room, and fought the inclination to retch. Perhaps this was not the best idea , she admitted to herself. After quelling the uprising in her stomach, however, she determinedly moved forwards; she had already come this far, and it would be a shame to miss her chance to speak to Charlotte.

Reaching her destination, she rapped lightly on the door and awaited an answer. With a muffled rustle of fabric and the light tread of footsteps, it opened on a squealing hinge to reveal her friend’s surprised face. The wave of odour that poured out forced Elizabeth to cover her mouth and nose again.

“Eliza, what are you doing up?”

“I could not sleep, so I thought I might keep you company.”

Charlotte looked over her shoulder into the room where Anne was laid out upon a long table, surrounded by yet more clusters of daffodils. She clutched a posy of wood anemones against her abdomen, looking every inch the macabre princess in a fairy tale waiting for a kiss to rouse her. She appeared much as she had in life: waxy, listless, unmoving. It pained Elizabeth to think so, especially of a young woman cut down too soon, but it was the truth that Anne de Bourgh had been a wraith long before she died. How tragic.

“Come,” said Charlotte, taking Elizabeth by the elbow and turning her back the way she had come. After closing the door behind her, she urged her friend into motion. “You cannot stay here and make yourself ill. We shall sit in the library.”

With that, Charlotte led her past Lady Catherine’s Throne Room, across the vast entrance hall to the opposite side of the house, and finally down the mysterious corridor Elizabeth had never been privileged to tread. A little way down was a set of yew doors that were surprisingly unadorned. She was unsure whether this lack of ornamentation predicted a sad, uninspired library akin to the one at Netherfield or conversely implied that it had been left unspoilt by the gilded touch of Lady Catherine.

When she entered, Elizabeth found herself overcome by awe; the plain doors disguised the entrance to a magical realm. The library was flooded with moonlight, enabling her to see nearly as much detail as she might during daylight hours. This was a blessing, for the decoration, far from the grotesque taste of the rest of the house, was absolutely enchanting. Nowhere else in the manor was the Arthurian theme so prevalent or exquisitely done. Numerous tall shelves of light-coloured stone had been elaborately crafted to emulate the mythical Camelot, their dividing columns wrought into spires that truncated in crenellated moulding where the wall met the ceiling. The ceiling itself was a fresco of King Arthur seated at his famed round table, surrounded by his knights and lifting the Holy Grail in tribute .

Best of all, in Elizabeth’s giddy opinion, she espied the stained-glass window she had oft wondered about set within the outer wall, the one she had only been privileged enough to observe from afar. The moonlight filtering in through its coloured panes created a dappled mosaic effect upon the hardwood floor, almost as if a giant rose were blooming there at her feet. It was flanked on either side by half a dozen tall, pointed windows filled with plain glass, allowing light to pour in unobstructed, brightening the space, and she had no doubt that the aspect of the park would be magnificent.

She moved closer and peered out onto the shadowy grounds. Close to the house were the formal gardens, of course, but fortunately they did not spoil the view of the woods farther afield. A glint of brightness above the tree tops caught her attention—the same white-stone tower she had spotted from her bedchamber earlier. She was determined to find it before the end of their stay and have a closer look.

Putting those fancies aside, Elizabeth stepped back a few paces so she could more fully gaze upon the ornate window that had so captured her imagination. It was enormous, at least ten feet across and equally tall, and was encircled by a thick border of pale stone bricks in alternating sizes. There was elaborate scrollwork carved into the masonry along the casement, like petrified vines encroaching on the glass. It was almost as if it had been set back in a pile of prickly brambles.

The image itself was largely what she had gleaned from a distance, but on closer inspection the details gave her a greater understanding of the significance of the tableau. It was clearly a depiction of King Arthur—no, wait, perhaps Lancelot—proffering a golden flower to Guinevere. The flower might have been a rose, as suggested by the thorny growth that intruded upon the scene, or possibly a daffodil by its rendering. The lady appeared pleased with the gift; her angular face wore a faint smile as she reached out to accept it. Absolutely lovely!

From behind her, Charlotte’s voice lightly echoed out of the shadows. “This room is quite something, is it not?”

“’Tis marvellous!” Elizabeth exclaimed, returning to the centre of the room and spinning about in the colourful mosaic cast by the window. It was magical; she felt as though she were dancing inside a brilliant jewel.

Charlotte, still standing near the doorway, laughed. “Lady Catherine does not visit it often, as she is not a great reader like her husband was, but it is well worth seeing.”

“If I lived at Rosings Park, I doubt I would ever leave this place.” Elizabeth paused a moment, then admitted, “Save to walk the grounds. Kent is the Garden of England, after all.” And I must find that tower!

“Once you have gaped your fill, do come and sit with me.”

Elizabeth pulled her gaze from the magnificent window and turned it to Charlotte, who was strolling towards a set of comfortable-looking chairs near the hearth.

Sinking down into the seat across from Charlotte’s, Elizabeth emitted a contented sigh. “Do you think Lady Catherine would mind if we took these chairs back with us to London? The ones in the library there are not nearly so delightful.”

“I dare say Lady Catherine does not enter this room more than once in a decade, so you are likely safe.”

“Such a waste!”

“Now that we are settled”—Charlotte leant more deeply into the corner of her chair as she said this—“why do you not tell me what has you up at this hour?”

“I had a dream. I think.”

“You think?”

Elizabeth shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as a creeping sense of disquiet tingled in her limbs. She rubbed the resulting goose-skin absently. My, but it is rather cold in here. I ought to have worn a more substantial robe. “I cannot recall the particulars of it, but I awoke suddenly and in such a dither that I cannot but suppose it was an intensely unpleasant sort of dream.”

“Why did you not go to your husband?” Charlotte’s mouth curled with wry amusement. “Or do you not know where Lady Catherine has put him?”

“Oh, I know very well where my husband is.” Elizabeth explained the circumstances of their arrival, Darcy’s near apoplexy at being informed that she was to be housed in the guest wing, and his subsequent demand that they reside together.

“I suppose Lady Catherine is not yet inured to your marriage, then. It is no wonder, given how dedicated she was to seeing her daughter united with him. She spoke of little else besides his ‘betrayal’ after receiving word that he had married you.”

“Mr Darcy assures me that he was never engaged to Miss de Bourgh, nor did she expect his addresses. It was all in Lady Catherine’s mind, nothing more.”

“I believe you. However, that does not alter Lady Catherine’s belief, so her resentment is perhaps understandable.”

“Quite understandable, but also entirely un reasonable .”

“That as well, yes.” After a slight pause, Charlotte asked, “If your husband was with you, why did you not wake him? Not that I am unappreciative of your company, mind you.”

Elizabeth sighed. “Lately, he has been so consumed with worry over my ‘delicate condition’ that he barely allows me to walk on my own. I did not wish to worry him, or vex myself, by waking him with any sort of problem.”

“It is not unusual for a husband to coddle his wife once he learns that she is expecting. They cannot take on the burden themselves, so they like to assist in any way they can, even when it is inadvisable for them to do so. Mr Collins took to following me about like a puppy when I told him I was pregnant with Cathy.”

Elizabeth grimaced at the image of Mr Collins scampering about on the trail of Charlotte’s skirts. “I cannot imagine that was especially pleasant.”

“I shall admit that he was rather underfoot, but he settled after a few weeks once he realised that I was as hale and hearty as ever. I was sure to be firm with him when he was too much in my way—a lady does not require her husband’s care while bathing, after all—but generally his anxiety eased by itself.”

Biting her lip, Elizabeth refrained from mentioning that a husband could, in fact, be an asset while bathing in the right circumstances. Then again, not every household was blessed with a copper tub large enough for two. Or a husband like Darcy.

“And how do you feel at the prospect of becoming a parent?”

Elizabeth blinked, surprised. No one had yet asked her that question, merely assumed that she was overjoyed to be on the brink of motherhood. It was the duty of every wife to provide children, and she was no exception. “Ah, happy, naturally. How else might I feel?”

Her friend’s smile softened to one of sympathy. “You might be feeling many things, most of them contradictory to one another. With Cathy, I was elated, yet also anxious and fearful. It is no small thing to bear children, even when the blessing is desired.”

Elizabeth was silent as she examined the contents of her heart. She was glad to be with child—she genuinely was, without question—but closer consideration revealed other emotions clinging to the fringes of her joy. She was eager to hold her babe in her arms and dote endlessly on him or her, but she was also afraid of the accountability of seeing this precious little creature safely to adulthood. Was she really prepared to become a mother? Her own mother had been—and continued to be—a mixed blessing, often more burden than boon. Was she destined to be the same?

She placed a wary hand upon her abdomen where her child slumbered, vowing silently to them both to do her best. I hope it is enough.

“Forgive me. I had not meant to upset you.”

Withdrawing from the boggy mire of her thoughts, Elizabeth shook her head to banish them. “You did not, I promise. I suppose I never truly considered it before—not consciously, at any rate—but I am nervous. It is a great responsibility, is it not? I can only hope I am up to the task.”

Charlotte reached out and grasped Elizabeth’s free hand, giving it a squeeze. “It is natural to worry about your performance, but this very worry is what will make you an excellent mother. The most important element of being a good parent, as my own mother told me, is loving your child and being willing to do anything for their wellbeing. From there, all else falls into place.”

Elizabeth squeezed Charlotte’s hand in return. “Your mother is an excellent example, so I am sure she must be right.” For all her faults, no one had ever accused Lady Lucas of being anything but a devoted caretaker of her six children.

Mrs Bennet, meanwhile, had neglected to so much as hire a governess, and she absolutely forbade her daughters from setting a single slippered foot in the kitchen, avowing that the Miss Bennets were far too elevated for such work. Given that their futures were hardly secure due to the entail, it would have perhaps behoved her to think otherwise, but she had done as she thought best and cultivated her girls into what she believed high-born gentlemen would want in a wife. To a degree, she must have been correct, for both Elizabeth and Jane had married well above reasonable expectations—though Elizabeth was unsure whether this was the result of intent or chance. Bringing them all out at fifteen had been another questionable decision, one made more out of fear of the future than rational consideration. Had she done so to advance her daughters’ or her own interests? It was difficult to say. Much as Elizabeth knew Mrs Bennet loved her and her sisters, she could not help but wonder at the choices she had made as their mother.

Elizabeth was about to turn the conversation when a movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She whipped about, and her breath hitched at the same moment her heart stopped beating—there, framed in the doorway to the hall, was a looming black silhouette.