Murder at Netherfield Read online

  “Indeed, it is true, Mr. Bennet. She was a veritable jewel, a gift from God on high to us all, and the unhappy event of her passing grievously lessens us. In fact, I dare say we are all afflicted by feelings too delicate to put to words, so tragic is this event, which I would not even have considered possible. Though we are to be pitied, it is for us to throw off this sadness which threatens to render us incapable of any action, no matter how small. I believe it best that we continue to forge our way as best we can. There is little else we can do, and, indeed, I dare say it was what her ladyship would have wished.”

  “I am certain she is standing amongst the angels even now, Mr. Collins, exhorting us to live our lives, bereft as we are.”

  Again, Elizabeth stifled a laugh, and so as not to embarrass herself, she looked about the room for something to occupy her while she waited for Mr. Collins to come to the point. It was then that she noticed her youngest sisters were becoming more raucous with their laughter and thought to have a word with them. But as she made her way toward them, another of her sisters spoke before she could.

  “Kitty! Lydia!” reprimanded Mary. “A woman has died. Can you not have a little decorum?”

  Lydia huffed and said in a snide tone: “Who cares about such a mean old witch? She received what she deserved, in my opinion.”

  “Regardless of what you think of her, this is unseemly. Death is not a matter to be mocked, no matter who has passed on.”

  “Mary is correct, Lydia,” said Elizabeth when she came close enough to speak in a low voice.

  “Surely you did not like her, Lizzy,” said Lydia. “She was far meaner toward you than she was the rest of us.”

  “My personal feelings for Lady Catherine in no way affect the way I act at her passing, Lydia. I will not laugh at anyone who has lost their life. You will offend Mr. Darcy and his relations, and Mr. Bingley will be offended because his guests are. Cease this objectionable behavior!”

  “Oh, very well,” said a sulky Lydia. “I suppose you must be correct.” Then her expression became sly. “I suppose you would not wish for Mr. Darcy to be offended.”

  “Of course not,” replied Elizabeth. “And I do not wish for any of Mr. Bingley’s relations to be offended either.”

  “There is no use protesting, Lizzy. We can all see how sweet you are on Mr. Darcy.”

  Though Elizabeth thought to object, Lydia turned away and began to speak to Kitty in soft tones. As they were not laughing and carrying on, Elizabeth decided to leave it be. If she protested, she knew it would only spur Lydia on, and that was the last thing she wanted at present. So she shared an exasperated smile with Mary and turned her attention back to Mr. Collins. It seemed the parson was wrapping up his argument with Mr. Bennet.

  “Therefore, Mr. Bennet, you must see how necessary it is that we support Miss de Bourgh in this difficult time. Indeed, we must all show our veneration for Lady Catherine in any way we can.”

  “Yes, indeed, Mr. Collins,” replied her father, amusement written in every line upon his face. “I have no quarrel with such sentiments.”

  “Then you will join me in donning mourning in respect for Lady Catherine.” Mr. Collins’s tone informed Elizabeth he was confident he had made his point.

  “Oh, I see no occasion for that.”

  Mr. Collins’s face fell. “But Mr. Bennet!” cried he. “Can you not see how necessary such a gesture is? Her ladyship deserves our respect.”

  “Respect is one thing, Mr. Collins, and I have no compunction toward offering it. But as we are residents at this estate without the ability to leave, we do not have sufficient clothes to allow my daughters’ dresses to be dyed black. Furthermore, we are not connected to Lady Catherine in any way, and as such, donning mourning would be a presumptuous liberty.”

  “But I am connected to Lady Catherine!” was Mr. Collins’s shrill protest.

  “Then you may don mourning if you so choose. In fact, it will not be difficult for you, as you are dressed in black at all times.”

  Elizabeth snickered even while Mr. Collins colored in fury. Her father, however, was not about to allow his cousin to dictate to them.

  “No, Mr. Collins, I cannot see any reason why we would mourn a woman so wholly unconnected to us as Lady Catherine. You may do as you choose, but the Bennets will not follow suit.”

  As Mr. Collins wound himself up for a lengthy retort, Elizabeth slipped from the room. Her father, it seemed, had everything well in hand. Instead, Elizabeth made her way up the stairs and turned toward Miss de Bourgh’s room, knocking on the door quietly when she arrived there.

  The maid opened the door, and Elizabeth inquired quietly as to her mistress’s situation. The maid spoke with Miss de Bourgh and soon allowed Elizabeth into the room, where Miss de Bourgh was sitting on a chair close to the fire, clearly caught up in introspection.

  “I apologize for disturbing you at this time, Miss de Bourgh,” said Elizabeth, uncertain how she would be received. “I wished to come and offer my sincere condolences on the occasion of your mother’s passing.”

  “Oh, Elizabeth,” said Miss de Bourgh, “did we not agree to call each other by our Christian names?”

  “Indeed, we did, Anne,” said Elizabeth, relieved her new friend did not consider her actions an impertinence. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Anne sighed and motioned for Elizabeth to join her. “I thank you for your sentiments. I cannot, however, misunderstand that you are offering them, even given the manner in which my mother treated you, which was, by any reasonable measurement, infamous.”

  “Whatever your mother said or did,” replied Elizabeth, “I cannot help but be sorry for you. I would never wish for the demise of another simply because I disagreed with her.”

  “That is to your credit. I would not have blamed you had you resented my mother and secretly rejoiced because of her demise.” Anne shook her head when Elizabeth made to protest. “Yes, I know you would never have done this. And I would never have expected it of you.

  “The fact of the matter is that I am almost . . . confused at my mother’s passing. I know not what to feel.”

  Though heartbroken by the thought of Anne’s bewilderment, Elizabeth could readily understand. “I, too, have sometimes shared a difficult relationship with my mother. I think I have some comprehension of what you are feeling.”

  Anne responded with a wry smile. “I had not considered it, but I suppose that makes a certain sense. Is your mother as difficult as mine?”

  “I do not know,” replied Elizabeth. “Mother possesses certain beliefs which are in opposition to mine, including a desire to see her daughters wed at any cost to whoever will offer for us. I, however, wish to find a man I can esteem and love, and will not marry if I cannot find such a man.”

  “That is the direct opposite of my situation,” said Anne with a smile. “My mother wished me to be married to Darcy at any cost, as I am certain you already know.”

  “Then I presume she was constantly embarrassing you,” said Elizabeth. “I know my mother was me, though that is mostly from a lack of understanding of how to behave.”

  “While my mother felt she knew the proper way of behaving and mistook the matter entirely!”

  The two friends laughed together, relieving a little of the tension and gloom which had built up because of the news of Lady Catherine’s death. “Perhaps it is best that we can remember the deceased in such terms as this,” said Elizabeth. “It will help you remember her in better times, to remember the good of your mother, rather than those things which caused you grief.”

  Anne’s look became introspective. “I do remember better times with my mother.” Anne paused and smiled. “She was not always the domineering, insistent woman you have known these past days. Or perhaps I should say she was not always so fearsome, for while she grew ever more impatient and demanding in her later life, she has always been of a forceful personality.

  “When my father was alive, we w
ere happy, for my mother, though perhaps she did not love my father, esteemed and respected him. You may not credit it, Elizabeth, but she looked up to him and supported him in whatever way she felt necessary.”

  “I do not disbelieve you, Anne. I know nothing of your father and had no thoughts or opinions of how your mother might have been earlier in her life.”

  Anne nodded, still distracted. “It is true. Theirs was a match arranged by their fathers, and it was certainly not a love match. But my father was a good man, who cared for his lands and his family, and my mother esteemed him. But it all changed after my father’s death.”

  She fell silent for a moment, and Elizabeth waited for her to speak again. She sensed that Anne, more than anything, needed someone to simply listen to her, to allow her to unburden her innermost thoughts without interruption or any form of judgment. Elizabeth did not know she was the best person to take on the task, but she was willing to assist her friend in whatever she needed.

  “I had a younger brother. Did you know?”

  “No, I did not,” replied Elizabeth.

  “He died about the same time as my father. A fever swept through Kent at that time, and both my father and my younger brother succumbed to it. I managed to fight it off, but my health has not been the same since. When I finally regained what health I could and began to take notice of the world again, my mother had changed. She now worried excessively for me, even as she mourned her husband and younger child. I think that was the beginning of her insistence that Darcy and I marry.”

  “Because she wished you to be cared for.”

  “Yes,” confirmed Anne. “I am well now, but for several years after the fever, I fell ill again frequently, and I am certain she thought many times that she would lose me to it. I am not robust. I will never be. But I am healthy enough now. But mother took to coddling me as if she wished to avoid any possibility of my falling ill again. Though she has always been a forceful woman, she changed over the years, until she became this woman who attempted to dominate all without any care as to their own opinions. She was . . . difficult to live with at times.”

  Elizabeth did not quite know what to say. This was a far different picture of Lady Catherine from that she had ever thought to obtain. Perhaps it was for the best that she did not say anything. Anne was remembering the good times, and that was what mattered.

  At length, Anne indicated her intention of resting for a time. Elizabeth smiled and wished her a good rest before letting herself from the room. She had been given much on which to think, and she knew it would take some time to sort through her feelings and impressions of the day.

  Elizabeth’s room was dull. Within the confines of her bedchamber, she had naught but herself and the scene through the window, a dreary landscape which showed her nothing but piled snow, sticklike trees grasping vainly at the sky, and the light of a sun, entirely too weak, even when it could actually be seen through the persistent cloud cover. Even that brought her no joy, for it threatened a resumption of the snow which had fallen unceasingly until the previous night. Even as she had looked out the various windows throughout the day, she had noted periods of snowfall interspersed with times of calm. As the roads were still clogged, there would be no respite from Netherfield soon.

  But Elizabeth was also not equal to company—she had little patience for Mr. Bingley’s superior sisters, none for the obsequious and whining Mr. Collins, and even the thought of her sisters made her long for her continued solitude. As such, Elizabeth exited her room to once again wander the halls of Netherfield with nothing but her thoughts for company. It was as she was thus engaged that she came upon a conversation she was not meant to hear.

  “Well, I for one am happy the old biddy is gone,” said a voice. Elizabeth stopped and looked about, noting a door along the hall was open. “She was a hard one to please—that is certain.”

  “You should not speak that way, Hetty,” said a second voice. “If the mistress hears it her anger will be something to behold!”

  It seemed Elizabeth had stumbled upon a conversation between two of the maids. Though she did not know the second voice, Hetty had previously worked at the Lucas estate before Mr. Bingley had come to Netherfield.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks!” said Hetty. “Miss Bingley hated the grand lady as much as any servant. Why, I heard an argument between them yesterday which would have made the stable boy blush. The language they was using! I thought it might have peeled the paint off the walls, they was shrieking so much!”

  “It is no surprise. The way Miss Bingley was always eyeing that Mr. Darcy and instructing the servants to report on his every movement! It is said Lady Catherine wished him to marry her daughter. She would never have stood for such degradation.”

  “And she was wide of the mark. She should have paid more attention to Miss Lizzy. If there is anyone at Netherfield who is a threat to Lady Catherine’s designs, it is Miss Elizabeth. Why, the man almost devours her with his eyes!”

  Cheeks flaming, Elizabeth fled in the opposite direction. The supposed attraction Mr. Darcy felt for her, she shunted to the side with little effort. She had seen some of it herself and was not surprised that others had as well, though she did object to the characterization of the maids’ gossip. This matter of an argument between Lady Catherine and Miss Bingley, however, was something of which she had not known. An awful premonition began growing in her mind. Was Lady Catherine’s death natural? Or had there been a more sinister hand in it?

  Whether her footsteps took her there of their own accord or she had some intention of moving thither, Elizabeth soon found herself again in the hallway outside the bedrooms the guests were inhabiting at Netherfield. There, standing outside Lady Catherine’s room, stood Mr. Darcy. He was wearing a freshly dyed cravat with another tied around his arm as his cousin had indicated, and Elizabeth thought he must just have put them on, as it had not been long since the request for dye had been issued. He was staring at the door to the room, though Elizabeth’s understanding was that Lady Catherine’s body had been moved to the cellar. He turned when he caught sight of her approaching.

  “Miss Elizabeth,” said Darcy in greeting. “May I suppose by your dress that Mr. Collins did not succeed in persuading your father?”

  “Papa felt no need to comply, as I informed Mr. Collins,” replied Miss Elizabeth. “And there are many reasons why we would not.”

  Mr. Darcy shook his head. “It is nonsensical that he would even attempt to suggest such a thing.”

  “Mr. Collins has never been known for his sense— at least not as long as I have known him.”

  A chuckle escaped Darcy’s lips, though he was more exasperated with the man than amused. Lady Catherine truly did have a way of gathering the most ridiculous to her like flies to honey.

  “I am more interested in your presence here, Mr. Darcy. Is there something amiss?”

  “Everything is amiss, I suppose,” replied Darcy. He turned his full attention on her. “I could not help but overhear a little of your conversation with Anne earlier.” She colored, and Darcy hastened to reassure her. “I thank you for your kindness to my cousin. Fitzwilliam and I have been occupied with the arrangements for my aunt’s body, and we don’t quite know what to say anyway. You assisted her when you had no reason to do so. For that, I thank you.”

  “It was nothing, Mr. Darcy,” said Miss Elizabeth. “I esteem your cousin very much, though we have only just met. I was happy to provide a listening ear to her.”

  “Given the way my aunt treated you, it speaks very much to your credit.”

  Miss Elizabeth turned away, murmuring thanks, though seeming embarrassed by his praise. She was an estimable woman, Darcy decided. Despite her protests, Darcy knew that many women—Miss Caroline Bingley perhaps among them—would not think of offering such comfort when Lady Catherine had behaved as she had. Miss Elizabeth was a rare gem, made all the more precious because she was so genuine, so kind.

  Darcy’s mind returned
to the scene in the hallway when Miss Elizabeth left them. Darcy had watched her in admiration at the resilience she showed and the wit she displayed, even when it was understated as it had been at that moment. When she left, Fitzwilliam had leaned toward him and given him a stern look.

  “Darcy, if you do not marry that girl, I think I will. If you have any intelligence at all, you will not allow her to slip through your fingers.”

  Thinking back on it, Darcy could not help but reflect that his cousin was correct in every particular. She was a rare gem worth much more than the price of everything Darcy owned. He would be a fool to allow her to escape.

  “I ask you again, sir,” her voice returned to draw his attention, “why are you staring at the door to your late aunt’s room.”

  “I do not know,” confessed Darcy. “I have been thinking of what has happened, and something about the entire affair bothers me.”

  Miss Elizabeth hesitated, and then she said: “I have had the same thoughts. I . . . I overheard a conversation only a short time ago. It seems that Lady Catherine and Miss Bingley engaged in a bitter argument only yesterday. I must own that I wondered if Lady Catherine’s death was an accident.”

  Her last words were spoken in a rush as if she attempted to spit them out before she lost her courage. Though Darcy thought the idea of Miss Bingley as a murderer was silly, her thoughts meshed with his seamlessly. Could Lady Catherine’s death have been murder?

  “I did not know about that argument, Miss Bennet. But Miss Bingley is not the only person who argued with Lady Catherine yesterday. I distinctly remember her quarreling with Mr. Bennet in this very hallway.”

  Though shocked, Miss Elizabeth quickly recovered, scowled, and rested her hands on her hips, regarding him with no little asperity. “Are you suggesting my father is a murderer, sir?”

  She presented an impressive picture. Darcy shook his head. “No, I am not. But I am reminding you that you should not jump to a conclusion based on one anecdotal piece of evidence, and one which is not even singular. Other than Miss Bingley and your father, Lady Catherine also argued with you and me. In fact, Fitzwilliam had every right to be frustrated with her. But I do not suggest that my cousin murdered our aunt, either. Shall we consider ourselves suspects?”