Page 48

Dear God, but she was going to jump out of her skin!

Shut up in a room with no way out. It was beyond endurance!

The walls would soon close in on her and she would smother.

She unbuttoned the top button of her linen nightgown, but she found no relief.

She should not have spit out her composer.

It would at least have brought her oblivion.

It was past midnight, for they had come to check on her at midnight.

They would leave her alone to sleep for two hours before checking again.

A lunatic! If she could not put a stop to her brother’s nonsense, before long, all of England—the entire world—would have branded her a lunatic! It was an intolerable miscarriage of justice.

She must find a way out. Her mind drifted back to the days when she had first come here as a bride.

The Dower House was a much older structure than Rosings House itself.

Built by a de Bourgh ancestor, it dated back to the time of old Henry VIII, when the Protestant religion had become law in England.

The de Bourghs, with their French heritage, had for years remained secretly true to their Catholic faith.

Unpleasant as that long ago stay with her husband had been, at least she had been able to move about freely.

She recalled one rainy day when they had been kept indoors.

Lewis had shown her all around the house, including.

. . She stopped for a moment and looked at the ugly, pretentious old fireplace.

Topped by an elaborately carved wooden mantel in the dark wood of the Tudor age, it was flanked by two pilasters made to look like columns.

She stopped, gathering her thoughts and her forces.

The room was lit only by the last embers of the fire.

No lit candles for the lunatic. She sat up in bed, found her slippers, and tied on her dressing gown.

Then she pushed open the heavy curtains.

It was a moonlit night, and objects in her room were illuminated enough to be plainly seen.

Her objective must be more than mere escape.

Her first order of business must be to find and destroy, or hide, the incriminating parish register.

With Collins and her daughter discredited, she could return to Rosings, and that would give her a base to regain her power. To the church, then, she would go.

What, then, had Lewis shown her about the fireplace so long ago?

She searched her memory. “Five, six, pick up sticks,” she said to herself—the words of the old nursery rhyme.

She counted the marguerite flowers carved in a row across the mantle.

Just as she remembered, the sixth one could be twisted, and the right-hand pilaster swung quietly aside to reveal the priest-hole behind it.

She began her descent into the darkness below.

Rosings, Kent

Elizabeth and Darcy lay awake talking quietly. “What are your thoughts on a wedding trip now that this is over, Lizzy?”

“I still want to take a wedding trip with you, dearest. But I am anxious to be with my family. I am concerned about Mama, but I am especially concerned about Mary.”

“Mary has been much in my thoughts as well. She has such religious scruples. It must be a double burden. She may wonder what she did to deserve Wickham’s attentions, and she may also feel guilt for her part in killing him. Has your sister Jane written?”

“From what I can glean from Jane’s letters, Mary seems to be handling this well so far. Jane assigns a great deal of the credit to Lydia, who has a much healthier outlook, though they were both victimized by Wickham.”

“As were you, Lizzy. Let us plan to spend at least three weeks in Hertfordshire and defer our plans for a wedding journey until we have been at Pemberley for a few months. Your family needs you, and my guess is that you need them.”

As Elizabeth embraced her husband, there was an urgent knock at the door. Timmons stood outside. “Sir, there is a fire in the village at the church. We have been asked to render assistance.”

Darcy began to put on his discarded clothes, as Elizabeth looked around for hers.

“No, you must stay here, dearest. I will go ahead with the men. I will see that a guard is left here with you and Anne. Once you are together, go to the rectory if you wish. Have the guard accompany you.” He kissed her and was gone.

Hunsford, Kent

She felt victory within her grasp. She had successfully negotiated the long flight of steps.

The tunnel was dark and musty, but the brick walls and ceiling had held up over the years.

She remembered the small door at the end, and she had been concerned, but its hinges were so rusted, and its wood was so crumbled that it had not presented any obstacle at all.

She had emerged at the edge of the woods bordering the back lane to Hunsford, and she could see the steeple as soon as she got to the lane.

She stooped to pick up a large rock and placed it in her pocket.

It would help her to force open the lock on the box where that damned book was kept .

The church was open, as it had always been, though as soon as she entered, she lost the advantage of the moonlight.

To her great satisfaction, she found what she had expected to find—a flint and steel together with a single candle on the table in the narthex.

Victory. She lit the candle in its heavy wrought iron candlestick, and paused for breath, looking around at the familiar scene.

The stone church, much like many country churches, was of undistinguished architecture in a vaguely Norman or Gothic style.

Its ceiling was high and peaked, with carved, ornamented beams supporting the roof.

Its stained-glass windows had fallen victim to some zealotry of the past, and they had been replaced with clear glass.

No carpet graced the stone floor, worn smooth and polished by generations of feet.

The center aisle was lined on both sides by wooden box pews, with some plain wooden chairs and threadbare kneeling cushions at the back for wayfarers and the poor.

The front was occupied by the altar and the high pulpit.

The box with the parish register was exactly where she expected to find it, in the drawer of the table.

She lifted it out, noting it felt satisfyingly heavy.

The narthex table, with its clutter of prayer books, tracts, candles, and other items, was too crowded for her to work on the book efficiently.

She took it into the church and laid it across the seats of two of the wooden chairs.

Then she returned to the narthex for her candle, which she set on a third chair .

It happened too quickly for her to be fully aware.

Her work on the box jostled the chairs, which in turn knocked against the chair where she had set the candle, sending it to the floor and to the old kneeling cushions.

As the kneeling cushions caught and began to blaze, she sought refuge in the small, closet-like sacristy to the right of the altar.

There was no question now about the fate of the parish register.

∞∞∞

Darcy and the other men from Rosings went immediately to the church.

While the stone walls and high roof held firm, clearly a large portion of the interior was ablaze.

Darcy, who had fought enough fires at Pemberley to know how to be useful, seized an unused spade and joined the group of men outside who were busy with rakes, shovels, hoes, and buckets clearing away brush and plants from the foundations and wetting down what could not be moved.

Their water came from the well in the church yard as well as that of the parsonage and two other houses on the other side of the church.

“By the time the blaze was seen, it was too late to go in and put it out easily, sir,” said the man working next to Darcy. “If we open the doors, we’ll only make it worse. Happen it will burn down before the roof is ablaze. ”

“Tis a chance we must take,” said the man standing next to him. “It is our church, and we should go in and try to save what we can.”

It was very apparent that an argument was brewing among those fighting the fire. Half the village regarded opening the church doors as foolhardy, while the other half felt desperate to save what they could.

Darcy wisely avoided choosing sides and continued working.

He could hear the eerie sound of the glass beginning to crack in the lower panes of the tall windows.

He caught sight of his uncle, cousin, and other men from Rosings occupied in much the same way he was.

Others worked to wet down houses and buildings across the small lane that ran by the church and to ensure that there was enough space to keep the fire from spreading. The weather had been very dry.

Mr. Collins, in his shirtsleeves, seemed to be everywhere, affording a few minutes rest to exhausted workers, bringing drinks of water, shouting encouragement, keeping a sharp eye on new outbreaks, and joining in where he was needed.

Charlotte Collins stayed in the parsonage garden with Ned’s grandmother.

They provided drinks of cold water to thirsty villagers, offered cool, damp cloths and encouraged people to take a few moments to rest. It was here that Elizabeth, Anne, and their guard made themselves useful fetching and carrying cool, fresh water from the well.

Mr. Church, the surgeon, set up a makeshift dispensary in the parlor for anyone who was seriously injured.

Fortunately, he had only a few patients.

Elizabeth looked at those working. She could make out Mr. Collins, but it took her several minutes to distinguish her husband, laboring with the others.

Within minutes, the argument over opening the doors or not was settled as the windowpanes began to shatter and give way in the heat with a distressing sound, admitting plenty of air to the building and causing the flames inside to blaze higher.

Teams of men began forming at each window while another group prepared to go inside.

Every able-bodied person for miles was assembled to fight the fire.

After a long interval of desperate work, it seemed to the villagers that their efforts had begun to pay off.

While there was still a great deal of smoke, they had succeeded in getting enough water onto the flames to subdue the fire.

There was a great deal more work to be done, and they would be working for hours, but for now everyone stopped to draw a breath before continuing.

Mr. Collins, walking alongside the building, saw a sight which caused him to cry out.

“There is someone in there!” He ran to the doorway and pushed his way through the line of people there.

“Stop! I saw a person at the window. It was small, it may have been a child, but he was alive! I must bring him out!”

Darcy heard him and went forward. “Mr. Collins, I will enter first. Prepare yourself to follow me.”

“No, Mr. Darcy. This is my parish and these people have been committed to my charge. I will enter first. Please assist me to wet down my clothing.”

Collins held his arms out, and the two men standing near him soaked his clothing. At a nod from Darcy, they did the same to him. Their handkerchiefs were soaked as well. “Where was the person?” asked Darcy.

“Moving towards the rear of the nave.”

“If you are sure you saw someone, Collins, we must waste no time. I will station myself in the narthex. You will crouch on hands and knees and go forward. Keep your head down where you will find fresh air. Our greatest danger now is not from the flames but from the poisonous vapors and fumes. I will recruit the next man in line to take my place and will follow you into the nave if I do not hear your shout within two minutes. Are you ready? Move quickly when I open the door. You have two minutes until I enter.”

“I am ready.” The two men shook hands and entered the church, crouching low as they entered.

It was as black as pitch. Small pockets of embers burned toward the front, but the rear of the nave was in total darkness.

Smoke was everywhere, dark and threatening, still rising from every smoldering bit of wood that had fallen to the floor.

“Hello! Where are you?” shouted Collins, moving forward.

He had disappeared from view when Darcy, listening with every fiber of his being, thought he heard a hoarse voice.

His ears strained. He could make out a low murmur, then nothing.

“Collins! It has been two minutes. Answer me!” he shouted.

The next man in line, soaked to the skin, opened the door, entered, and crouched next to him. “Collins!” he shouted again.

“He’ll never answer anybody again,” said a hoarse, familiar voice emerging from the smoke.

“I’ve seen to that. I’ve shut his stupid mouth forever.

And that damned book is burnt up.” Lady Catherine de Bourgh, still carrying the blood-caked wrought iron candlestick, raised it in the air as if to strike at Darcy.

Instead, she fell forward and lay sprawled at the feet of her horrified nephew.