Murder at Netherfield Read online

“I understand, Mr. Bennet,” said Darcy. “My cousin’s thoughts are in line with yours. He has promised to alert me should Lady Catherine make an appearance.”

  Mr. Bennet seemed to consider that. “Very well. Perhaps if we all sat together, your aunt would have less reason for anger should she come upon us unaware.”

  Privately Darcy thought Mr. Bennet attributed a more reasonable attitude to Lady Catherine than she warranted. But he agreed to the man’s suggestion, and they entered together. Miss Elizabeth and Miss Bennet were already seated on a sofa, speaking in quiet tones. Darcy might have preferred to have her attention all to himself, but he knew there was wisdom in Mr. Bennet’s words. Furthermore, he was not courting her, though it was becoming more difficult for him to remember that fact.

  “Come, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Elizabeth upon espying him entering the room. “Of what shall we speak? Or perhaps you would prefer a game? Charades?” Then she giggled. “Then again, perhaps not. Such a silly game is surely beneath your dignity.”

  Had Darcy thought she was speaking in censure, he still would not have been offended. Her arch smile and teasing tone rendered her comments above reproach. Rarely had he been teased in recent years, and he was finding it quite an interesting experience.

  “I have played charades, Miss Elizabeth. But do you not think there are too few of us to play?”

  “I have played with my sisters, and we are only five.”

  Miss Elizabeth turned her attention toward her father, but he knew the substance of her question before she asked. He chuckled and shook his head. “No, Lizzy, I think I shall refrain.”

  “Then perhaps we might play later,” said Miss Bennet.

  “This does not seem to be the sort of company which lends itself to such frivolity,” said Miss Elizabeth, “though I have rarely seen a group of people more desperately in need of a laugh.”

  “If we can convince my aunt to retire early, it may be possible.”

  Miss Elizabeth responded with a delighted laugh. “That sounds suspiciously like censure of Lady Catherine, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Not at all,” replied Darcy, vastly enjoying their irreverent discussion. “My aunt, you see, upholds the family honor, and though you mistakenly attribute the lack of dignity in such a game to me, in reality, it is my aunt who thinks in such a manner.

  “But I assure you, Miss Bennet, that should Lady Catherine ever decide to lower herself to play such games, she would almost assuredly win them, for she has the talent and nobility to succeed wherever she directs her attention.”

  A laugh burst forth from Miss Elizabeth’s lips, joined by Mr. Bennet and, in a more demure manner, from Miss Bennet, too. “You do attribute the ridiculous to your aunt, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Elizabeth. “Have you no respect for her elevated position?”

  “Oh, no, Miss Elizabeth,” replied Darcy. “In fact, I have that nugget of wisdom directly from Lady Catherine’s mouth. I once heard her tell Georgiana that she must practice her pianoforte and that though Lady Catherine had never learned, if she had, she would have practiced constantly and become a true proficient.”

  The gales of laughter which ensued served as a balm to Darcy’s sometimes troubled mind. What would it be like to have this woman with him, to hear that gay laughter every day for the rest of his life? Though Darcy knew he still did not even know her well, it was at that moment when Darcy decided he wished to know her better. Perhaps now, when they were at Netherfield under Lady Catherine’s watchful eye, was not the best time for a rapprochement. But Lady Catherine would leave eventually. Then Darcy would move forward in his designs with respect to this enchanting woman.

  “Then we are agreed,” said she, oblivious to his introspection. “This evening we shall attempt to convince your aunt that our acquaintance is no impediment to her designs and play charades when she has gone to bed. Perhaps if we feigned an argument?”

  Darcy considered her suggestion, causing her grin to widen. “I doubt we could give her a performance convincing enough to induce her to believe it.”

  “And why would that be?” This time Miss Elizabeth’s reply was more curious than teasing. Mr. Bennet snorted, and Jane watched her sister with a gentle smile, but neither spoke.

  “Because, Miss Elizabeth, you and I are far too forthright to lie with any hope of convincing a suspicious woman such as my aunt.”

  Miss Elizabeth frowned and considered the matter, and Darcy used the opportunity of her silence to change the subject. Mr. Bennet was watching them, open appraisal in his look. It seemed that he had not misunderstood Darcy’s understated inference that there was something between them, whereas Miss Elizabeth had not quite made the connection. Fortunately for Darcy, Miss Elizabeth shifted to their new topic with ease and did not press the matter.

  They sat there for some time, discussing matters of interest to them both, Mr. Bennet and Miss Bennet adding their comments at times, but mostly content to listen. Miss Bennet, Darcy learned, was not as well read as Miss Elizabeth, but that lack came from preference rather than intelligence, for she was as sharp as her sister. Mr. Bennet’s comments told him from where Miss Elizabeth had obtained her love of books, for his observations were well considered and intelligent. Darcy found himself enjoying their exchange immensely.

  At times during the morning, they were joined by other residents. Miss Mary was the first, though she sat with a book herself and did not interrupt them. Soon Bingley, the Hursts, Miss Bingley, and the youngest Bennets all entered the room. But while the youngest girls sat together and spoke quietly, their discussion liberally interspersed with giggles, Miss Bingley narrowly eyed Miss Elizabeth, suspicion alive in her eyes. Darcy did not care for her opinion, so he ignored her. As for Mrs. Bennet, it seemed she was as adept as her husband at divining any interest in her daughters, for her look at him was full of confusion and hope. She did not speak, however, so Darcy was grateful for small miracles.

  It was then that disaster struck. The discordant note which came over the house was not noticed by Darcy initially. His entire focus was on Miss Elizabeth’s conversation, one he could not imagine enjoying more. But the noise soon attracted Darcy’s attention, and he looked up, the sounds of shouting reached his ears.

  It attracted Miss Elizabeth’s notice as well, for she looked up and frowned. Darcy rose to go to the door when it was opened, and Fitzwilliam entered the room. His eyes were wild, alighting on Darcy, an uncharacteristic pallor making him appear naught but a ghost.

  “Darcy, come with me, immediately.”

  Though Darcy was mystified, he followed, noting with an absence of mind that Miss Elizabeth rose also and followed them from the room. The disturbance was emanating from above stairs, prompting Darcy to hurry there and begin climbing.

  “What the devil is happening, Fitzwilliam?” demanded he of his cousin.

  Before Fitzwilliam could answer, the sound of a loud wailing voice echoed down from above, a counterpoint to the staccato tapping of their footsteps on the stairs. Several doors down from the landing, one of the bedroom doors was open, and outside of it, Mr. Collins was making a great deal of fuss in a loud voice.

  “How could this have happened?” howled he. “This is not possible! It must be a mistake.”

  “What the blazes are you going on about, Collins?” asked Darcy irritably.

  The parson looked around at Mr. Darcy with wild eyes, but it was Colonel Fitzwilliam who replied. “It is Lady Catherine, Darcy. She has passed in the night.”

  A gasp caught Darcy’s attention, and he looked around to see Miss Elizabeth’s shock at the horrible news. But Darcy had no notice to spare for the one who had been full of his thoughts only moments before.

  “Passed? What are you saying, Fitzwilliam?” Darcy turned back to his cousin, pleading with him to share what he knew.

  “Aunt Catherine is dead, Darcy. Her maid discovered her only minutes ago. She was worried when Lady Catherine did not call for her at her usual hour and entered to
discover the body.”

  Without further thought, Darcy surged into the room, his cousin following close on his heels. The room to which Lady Catherine had been assigned did not have a sitting-room, which Darcy knew caused the woman much annoyance. But it was large, with a spacious closet on the near wall. Darcy had little interest in the room, however, and his gaze immediately fell upon the bed, upon which the unmoving body still lay.

  Lady Catherine had knocked the bedcovers askew in the night, baring the nightgown-clad upper portion of her body to the air above, while the blankets lay around her hips. Her pillows were also haphazardly strewn about the bed, one lying on the floor near her head. The lady’s face was slack, her eyes closed, and the rictus of some great emotion was still etched upon her face.

  “Does Anne know?” asked Darcy, his faculties returning.

  “Do you think she would remain ignorant with Collins’s caterwauling?”

  “How is she taking it?”

  “She is stoic, as might be expected.” Fitzwilliam paused and shook his head. “Even to her daughter, Lady Catherine was not precisely loveable. In some ways, Anne might even be relieved, though I am certain she knows nothing but shock at present.”

  Darcy grunted. Though it was distasteful to speak of such things, it was nothing more than the truth. “Do you think she expired because of an apoplexy or her heart stopping?”

  “It is difficult to say. Perhaps a surgeon could determine the cause of death.”

  “There is nothing we can do now. Once the snow ceases, we should summon one and have him examine her.”

  “By then she may have been dead for several days. I am not sure a surgeon could make a diagnosis.”

  “You are likely correct,” said Darcy. “But I believe we have no choice but to make an attempt. Your father will wish to know, even if he was not fond of our aunt.”

  Fitzwilliam snorted. “That is an understatement, Darcy. But I agree.”

  Elizabeth stood at the door to the room of the deceased, watching as Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam inspected the body of their aunt. While the wailing of Mr. Collins continued to echo throughout the hall, Elizabeth considered the situation. Something was not right. In fact, something was very wrong.

  Did a woman pass in the middle of the night when she had given every indication of health the day before? Elizabeth supposed it was possible that people who appeared healthy passed with great frequency. But the memory of the butler’s broken body at the top of the stairs entered her mind, and a chill shot through her. Had that not happened, Elizabeth might not have thought much of the death of an elderly woman. But two deaths in such a short span of time left her suspicious.

  When the gentlemen approached her after their inspection, Elizabeth curtseyed. “Please allow me to offer my condolences for your loss, Mr. Darcy, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I know that no words are sufficient.”

  “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. Mr. Darcy, however, only looked at her closely, and she fancied she could see his appreciation in his gaze.

  “Of course, this is an unfortunate affair, indeed,” said the voice of Miss Bingley behind her. Elizabeth had not even known the woman had followed her up the stairs.

  “Thank you for your support, Miss Bingley,” said Mr. Darcy. “Would you be able to provide the means of dyeing some of Anne’s dresses and a few cravats?” He paused and then turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “We will need to wait until we can go to town to obtain armbands.”

  “For the present,” replied Colonel Fitzwilliam, “perhaps we can simply tie black cravats around our arms.”

  Mr. Darcy nodded. Miss Bingley was eager to agree with the request. “Of course, Mr. Darcy. I would be happy to assist. I would honor your aunt with a wreath on the front door, but as you say, we do not have the means of procuring one at present.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bingley, but that is not necessary.”

  Miss Bingley curtseyed and departed, seemingly to issue some orders to the staff. Mr. Collins, who had remained forgotten, leaning against the wall, suddenly stepped away, turning wild eyes on Mr. Darcy.

  “What is to become of me now?” He wailed his question in a voice which was similar to the howl of a dog. “How am I to continue without Lady Catherine to guide me?”

  “Get hold of yourself, man!” snapped Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Lady Catherine was simply a woman. She was not one to venerate from morning until night, despite how she enjoyed surrounding herself with groveling cretins such as you!”

  Mr. Collins regarded Colonel Fitzwilliam with astonishment, which quickly turned to fury. As sycophantic as he was, he might not have done anything—Colonel Fitzwilliam was of the nobility, after all. Even so, it was fortunate that Mr. Darcy defused the unpleasantness between the two gentlemen.

  “You will continue to manage the parish as you ever have, Mr. Collins. Your appointment is for life until you choose to resign it. Nothing will change for you.”

  “But it will not be the same,” whined Mr. Collins. “Lady Catherine was so wise and so good—how am I ever to cope without her graciously bestowed guidance?”

  Colonel Fitzwilliam snorted, but Mr. Darcy ignored him. “It seems to me, sir, your instructions should come from your superiors and, more importantly, from the Bible itself. Lean on the good book when you consider decisions which must be made. Whenever you require the assistance of another opinion, it may, of course, be brought to Rosings.”

  “But who is the new master of Rosings?”

  “I should think it would be obvious, Mr. Collins,” said Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Anne is her father’s heir and is the legal owner of Rosings. It has been that way for some years now, though Anne did not challenge her mother’s management of the estate.”

  “Of course,” mumbled Mr. Collins. Then he shook his head and regarded Mr. Darcy again, the light of fanatical zeal shining in the depths of his eyes. “We will all honor Lady Catherine by donning mourning attire. Everyone in residence at Netherfield will show their veneration for her ladyship.”

  “Mr. Collins,” said Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent upon herself to interject, “not only was Lady Catherine in no way connected to the Bennets, but my sisters and I do not have the gowns sufficient to be dyed. Even now, the servants must wash our clothing on a daily basis, as we do not have enough for more than two days.”

  “Of course, you will mourn her!” cried Mr. Collins. “The degree of kinship does not matter when it comes to such an important personage as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The servants may continue to wash your things once they are dyed. I absolutely insist.”

  “It does not offend us if we are the only ones in mourning as is proper, Mr. Collins,” said Mr. Darcy. Elizabeth looked at him, grateful for his intervention.

  “Nonsense, Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Collins bowed so that had he extended his hands, his knuckles would have dragged on the floor. “It is what is right and proper.”

  “You would not know proper if it picked up a stick and beat you about the head,” muttered Colonel Fitzwilliam.

  Elizabeth tried to stifle a laugh, and she could see Mr. Darcy in the same straits. Mr. Collins, however, scowled at Colonel Fitzwilliam, before lifting his nose high in the air, a passable imitation of his late patroness.

  “I shall speak with Mr. Bennet. I am certain he will see the wisdom of my words. I am a parson, after all, and am intimately familiar with the proper behavior in all circumstances. The Bennets will join you in mourning—this I pledge.”

  Then he turned and made his way down the stairs, likely intent upon finding Mr. Bennet. The three left behind watched his retreating back, Elizabeth with revulsion, the colonel as if he wished to be holding the stick that beat Mr. Collins, and Mr. Darcy with annoyance.

  “I am sorry, gentlemen,” said Elizabeth, curtseying to the two men. “I am sure you must wish for my absence.”

  “Thank you, Miss Elizabeth,” said Mr. Darcy as she turned to leave.

  “For
what?” asked Elizabeth, curious as to his meaning.

  “For your support and understanding. Please know that we will not require you or your family to don mourning clothes.”

  Elizabeth returned an impish smile on the gentleman. “I thank you, sir. But there is no need to worry. I doubt my father will oblige Mr. Collins in this instance. I rather think he will laugh at my cousin.”

  Though the situation was what it was, both gentlemen managed to smile in return. Then Elizabeth excused herself, intending to pay a visit to a new friend.

  Chapter XI

  Before Elizabeth could think of seeing Miss de Bourgh as she wished, she thought it prudent to discover how Mr. Collins’s efforts with her father were proceeding. Furthermore, she felt certain the recently bereaved would wish to compose herself before receiving the inevitable visits from the residents. Therefore, Elizabeth made her way down to the sitting-room where she knew Mr. Collins had gone directly after announcing his intentions.

  As it turned out, she need not have concerned herself, for her father reacted in exactly the manner Elizabeth might have suspected. She entered the room to the sound of Mr. Collins’s droning voice accosting her father. From the expression on various faces, the event of Lady Catherine’s passing had shocked them all, though Kitty and Lydia were treating the matter with as little gravity as she might have expected.

  “Lady Catherine, you see,” stated Mr. Collins in his usually ponderous tone, “was a woman of high stature, both in her influence on all those within reach of her arm, but also in the wisdom, fortitude, generosity, uprightness, knowledge, and condescension toward all, no matter what rank or position in the world.”

  “I have no doubt of it, sir. Lady Catherine was the most condescending individual I have ever met in my entire life.”

  While it was all Elizabeth could do not to choke as she attempted not to laugh at her father’s sardonic statement, Mr. Collins returned a beatific smile. He was so silly; he could not imagine anyone harboring different feelings about his patroness.