Page 25 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

But she would not permit herself that extravagance—not yet. There was, after all, work to do.

Tomorrow, there would be the maze. And perhaps, in its silent and circuitous paths, something approaching the truth.

Chapter 8

Elizabeth managed to get through supper only by the careful deployment of small talk, bland observations, and careful agreement, so that no one, not even Charlotte, would suspect the precarious state of her nerves. She had not been cold since returning from Willow Grange, yet she shivered through the meal as if the chill had followed her indoors, a fog that could not be dispelled by soup or the modest blaze in the hearth.

Even so, Mr. Collins could not be stopped from enumerating the day’s calamities, itemizing the social disruptions the tragedy caused with more vigor than tact. Charlotte endured her husband with a serenity that Elizabeth privately regarded as heroic.

When the last dish had been cleared, and Mr. Collins excused himself to review a sermon, Elizabeth caught Charlotte’s eye and conjured the most plausible of headaches.

Charlotte’s reply was a simple, knowing, “You had best rest, Lizzy. The events of the day were not light ones.”

Upstairs, in the small guest chamber, no one could reach her—not Lady Catherine, not the memory of Mrs. Blackstone’s vacant chamber, and not even the man whose letter now weighed so heavily in the pocket of her skirt, to which she had transferred it.

Extracting the papers from her pocket at last, she set aside the letter she had taken from Mrs. Blackstone’s correspondence.Mr. Darcy’s pages were still crisp at the folds, the seal (not his crest, but an unfamiliar mark) broken.

The urge to read further than the first page was nearly physical. Her fingers tingled with anticipation, but there was a countering reluctance.

Throughout this investigation, she had come to know him a little better. Her previous view of him had…altered.

She reflected on the memory of what she had already read, noting that although Mr. Darcy had been watching Jane closely in an effort to discern the sincerity of her feelings for Mr. Bingley. And yet, he ultimately failed to perceive them and consequently became concerned for his friend’s emotional well-being.

Elizabeth sighed, remembering how often Charlotte had mentioned in the past that others would not recognize Jane’s feelings as did those who knew her well. She recollected when Charlotte had specifically advised that Elizabeth should recommend Jane show more affection than she felt, or else Mr. Bingley might not catch on.

Elizabeth nodded to herself. She had not told Jane of Charlotte’s advice.

The result?

Mr. Darcy advised his friend against marrying Jane.

She remembered well that Mr. Darcy’s letter had said, “If you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If I have made such an error and inflicted pain on her, then your resentment is reasonable.”

His statement was quite sound and even rational.

And yet she realized that, after her refusal, his letter was likely composed in anger.

She would not blame him if the remainder of the letter contained nothing but thin excuses, ones that could never exonerate him in her eyes.

Or worse, what if it consisted of a cold recap of all the reasons she ought to be grateful to him for a proposal that she had already refused?

He had practically begged her to read his letter when he handed it to her that fateful day. She had agreed to do so.

Did she owe it to him to read it now?

Oh! This indecision was maddening. It would be better to get on with it.

She moved to sit against the headboard and slipped her legs beneath the coverlet. Staring at the thick square, she remained in that position for a long time. Then, with a sudden burst of courage, she unfolded it, skimming the first page once more, finding she already knew it well.

The candlelight flickered, sending a current of hot wax down the sides of its holder. In the remaining silence, she heard her own breath, unsteady and urgent.

She had promised. So, sheshouldread the remainder.

Taking a deep breath, she separated the pages, noticing there were more than she remembered when first opening his letter. There were two sheets written in the precise hand she had come to recognize as Mr. Darcy’s.

Then Elizabeth’s eyes caught on the third page. It was the same paper as the pages covered with Mr. Darcy’s writing. It was of high quality with a blue tinge.

But this page was not only folded as most letters were, but there was an additional fold at the center. And the ink on that third page was smudged beyond recognition. The mid-left of the page had a gaping hole missing, leaving a jagged edge—as if a corner had been torn away while the page was folded in half.