Page 6 of A Most Inconvenient Murder

The servant bowed hurriedly and disappeared.

Elizabeth crossed the threshold and nearly staggered at the sudden warmth of the house. The air smelled faintly of beeswax. How extraordinary that conventional comforts should continue to exist when, only minutes before, she had stood beside death.

Colonel Fitzwilliam quietly closed the door behind them and hurriedly followed the footman into the house.

For the first time since leaving the maze, Elizabeth allowed herself to look fully at Mr. Darcy. The exertion of his run had left his hair disordered, yet his attention remained fixed entirely upon her, as though nothing else in the world presently demanded it. She realized he must have lost his hat somewhere since it was nowhere to be seen.

“You are trembling,” he said softly.

“I am not,” she replied automatically.

One corner of his mouth moved into something gentler than a smile, and his eyes sparked with a touch of amusement. “Of course not.”

Under any other circumstances, she might have laughed. Instead, the sound that escaped her was perilously close to a sob.

His expression changed instantly. “Miss Elizabeth—”

“A moment, please,” she said, mortified. “I shall recover directly.”

“I know you shall.”

There was such certainty in the reply; she knew he had such complete confidence in her strength.

Elizabeth suddenly found herself unable to speak at all.

Before another minute passed, rapid footsteps sounded from the adjoining corridor, accompanied by the unmistakable voice of Lady Catherine demanding to know why servants wererunning about the house like frightened poultry.

Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly.

It seemed her discovering Mrs. Blackstone in the maze was only the beginning of today’s ordeals.

Chapter 3

To Elizabeth, Rosings Park was like a cathedral whose stained-glass windows had been bricked over for want of respect. Already monstrous with its array of pink and gold ornamentation, the drawing room was oppressively overheated, the air shimmering above the marble hearth. The enormous fireplace must consume more wood or coal in one day than a typical household might use in a week.

As she entered between Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam, the room’s expectant hush was almost unbearable.

Elizabeth felt the temperature most acutely in the flush of her own face and the prickling along her neck. She was aware, too, that her hand still lay upon Mr. Darcy’s arm, which was both a stabilizing comfort and a mortifying symbol of his consideration for her stability. She would have given much to remove her hand, if only her own body did not require the support.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh stood at the center of the room, wearing a gown of the deepest maroon. She had arranged herself in a manner that displayed her consequence to the best advantage: chin lifted, hands clasped at mid-waist atop her cane, gaze fixed on the three who dared to interrupt her morning.

“Darcy,” she began, her voice reverberating through the overheated air, “Fitzwilliam. Miss Bennet.” She narrowed her eyes at the last accounting of her guests.

Under the force of that gaze, Elizabeth felt rather as if she had wandered in, uninvited, during the height of a private moment. She hoped Lady Catherine would soon understand that it was not her own choice to be here; she was merely a victim of the morning’s chaos.

Behind Lady Catherine, Elizabeth’s cousin, Mr. Collins, hovered in the posture of a man waiting for his cue from his patroness. Color heightened, his eyes were wide as supper plates, and his hands worked at the hem of his coat. If Lady Catherine and her nephews were not currently in the room, she was sure he would be lecturing to her about her insolence in coming without a proper invitation.

Colonel Fitzwilliam bowed with crisp military precision. Mr. Darcy bowed with the measured politeness of a man weighing each movement. Elizabeth curtsied.

“Aunt Catherine,” said Mr. Darcy, “we have the most unhappy duty to inform you that—”

Lady Catherine’s interruption echoed around the room. “Didyoufind Mrs. Blackstone? The servant said only that she was ‘discovered,’ and that you required my presence in the drawing room.”

Elizabeth noted that Lady Catherine’s first concern was not for the woman’s condition, but for the preservation of narrative order.

“We found her,” Mr. Darcy confirmed, “in the central clearing of the maze. I regret to say she is—she has—” His voice faded off in a way Elizabeth had not expected.

Colonel Fitzwilliam stepped in, uncharacteristically abrupt. “She is dead, your ladyship. There is no doubt. Miss Bennet was the first to find her.”