Page 13 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

By the time she returned to Hunsford Cottage, the lamps had been lit. When Charlotte admitted her, Elizabeth was greeted by the familiar sight of a fresh teapot waiting upon the tray beside the fire.

She removed her pelisse and accepted the welcome comfort of the room, though her thoughts remained elsewhere. Somewhere among the many small particulars of the last two days lay a fact she had overlooked. She could not yet perceive it, but she felt increasingly certain that, once discovered, it would alter everything.

In her room, Elizabeth shed her coat, then moved downstairs to join her friend by the fire.

In the world outside, everything was changed. But here, in the steady circle of the lamplight, she felt a measure of peace.

Tonight, she would read the letter.

Soon, she would solve the murder.

She would pursue the truth. And if it meant dismantling her own convictions in the process, so be it.

Whatever the cost, she would see this through.

Chapter 5

The dawn’s light pressed faintly through the curtains. Downstairs, the first sounds of the parsonage’s day sounded, the slow choreography of fire-stoking and table-setting.

Elizabeth swung her legs from the bed and rubbed her fingers across her eyes, scrubbing away the last remnants of sleep by sheer force of will.

Irritation swept through her. She had succumbed to fatigue. Slept. Squandered several hours during which she should have read and reviewed the contents of Mr. Darcy’s letter.

No one else would know. But she would. That was enough to mortify her.

She washed quickly and dressed herself with almost military briskness. Every motion was one of resolve: the brisk binding of her hair, the decisive buckling of her boots.

The letter, which she had secreted in the inner pocket of her walking coat once again, pressed against her ribs like a second heartbeat. Today, she meant to read it—but not in the cramped, stagnant air of her bedroom. Not in the parlor, either, where the family Bible and the inexhaustible attentions of Mr. Collins made honest concentration a farce.

Besides, for all she knew, Mr. Collins might be able to recognize Mr. Darcy’s handwriting. That would not do.

She would walk, as she always did, and look for clues. Then she would let the trees and the lanes act as her confidantes,and there, in the clarity of the chilly morning, Mr. Darcy’s justifications, apologies, or whatever it was he imagined would suffice, could be examined at length, with the proper rigor.

That was her plan.

She had not even passed down the corridor when Charlotte opened her chamber’s door, her presence at this moment both a comfort and an impediment. Elizabeth smiled, for her friend had always had a talent for appearing whenever it was least convenient for Elizabeth’s schemes.

Charlotte wore a thick shawl, and her hair was only partially tamed; but her face was as alert as if she had already spent hours at her accounts.

“Lizzy, I thought you would not sleep, but you seem well rested.”

Charlotte’s voice was pitched low. Elizabeth imagined her purpose was to avoid attracting Mr. Collins’s attention.

“I did sleep well, thank you,” Elizabeth answered.

She meant to brush past, but Charlotte’s hand on her sleeve was surprisingly firm.

“I have been thinking about your question from last night,” Charlotte said. “About Mrs. Blackstone’s visit.”

Elizabeth felt a strange, conflicting surge of interest, gratitude, and irritation. “And?”

Charlotte steered her through her doorway and into her small sitting room, where the fire had only just begun to take, and the air was chilled. She shut the door behind them.

There was something about the gesture that made Elizabeth uneasy, as if the two of them were about to plot a conspiracy.

“I remembered more,” Charlotte said. “About the visit. I do not know if it is of consequence, but—”

“Anything could be of consequence,” said Elizabeth.