Page 29 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

He handed Mrs. Blackstone’s letter to her.

She returned the smile, then placed the letter in a different pocket.

The mood between them lightened as they changed course toward Rosings.

As they approached the gates, the day had grown brighter. Sunlight struck off the windows and made the hedgerows shine with cold brilliance. Elizabeth felt a sense of possibility, as if the world might allow her to remake it after all.

At the door, Mr. Darcy bowed and said, gesturing down a corridor, “I will meet you in the small green sitting room off this corridor in ten minutes.”

Elizabeth inclined her head, then watched him walk away, back straight. She wondered what he was thinking, then wondered what she would say if he ever asked her the same.

She stood for a moment, the air sharp and new around her, then walked on to prepare for whatever came next.

~%~

The guest sitting room at Rosings was narrow. Its single, high-set sash window rendered the room cold even on a sunny morning. The air held a medicinal odor with just a hint of rosewater, as if it emanated from the upholstery.

Elizabeth sat in a chair near the window. She had left her coat on, feeling no urge to be denied its warmth or its armor. Mr. Darcy’s letter pressed against her ribs.

Footsteps sounded out in the corridor, then the door opened with deliberate care.

Mr. Darcy entered. His composure was less certain than usual; his eyes fixed first on her, then on the writing table, and only then on the square of linen in his hands, as if bracing himself. He set the parcel on the table, unfolded the linen with two careful fingers, and revealed the scrap of blue paper.

He stood behind the chair opposite her, hands resting lightly on its crest, as if he needed to steady himself.

Elizabeth watched him briefly, then reached into her pocket and withdrew Mrs. Blackstone’s blue page, smoothing it flat with her hand.

“May I?” she asked, voice softer than she expected.

“Of course,” he replied.

She took the scrap he offered, laying the smaller piece within the tear in the larger. They matched, not perfectly—there was a sliver missing, as if a final shred had been left behind—but the alignment was undeniable.

“It is a match,” Elizabeth declared.

Mr. Darcy nodded.

Elizabeth lifted the larger portion of the page, tilting it so the light from the window shone through. It had a watermark. There was also the faint trace of pressure. Someone had written on a page laid over this one, and the force had left a ghost behind.

She angled the page, squinting. “There is something here.”

He was beside her at once, shoulder nearly touching hers. He angled the candle on the table so that its light raked across the paper from below.

“The watermark is the crest of the de Bourgh family,” Mr. Darcy said. He pointed at the indentations that grew sharper in this light, resolving into the remnants of a word.

Elizabeth pointed to the first mark. “A descending stroke. Possibly an L or a D. Then here,” she moved her finger an inch to the right. “Two short marks. Is this an O? And at the end—this loop. The tail of a G?”

Mr. Darcy leaned closer, took up a pencil and, holding the lead at an angle, gently shaded that area of the paper. The faintest outline appeared.

“‘de Bourgh’,” he said. He moved to look at Elizabeth; his lips touched her cheek.

With a slight gasp, he straightened and jumped away as if he had been burned. “Pardon me.”

Elizabeth looked anywhere but at him.

A silence descended, heavy with so many implications, it was impossible to separate them.

Elizabeth was the first to break it, clearing her throat before saying, “Whatever its contents, the note was written on paper from this house.” She pointed to the appropriate area of the page. “And since this is signed as if from her cousin, Lorrimer…”