by Jemma Thorne
With this newfound freedom, I finally found time to explore Rosings Park. The day following Sir William’s departure, I walked the length of the lane toward the lake I’d seen from Rosings’ upstairs windows.
It was a lovely day – the breeze soft and almost warm, and the sky studded with cotton-like clouds, spread equidistant so they seemed to be marching in unison. The path wound through ornate, carefully maintained topiaries. Who would’ve known a hedge peacock was even a possibility? The gardener was an artist in hiding.
Clarice appeared by my side. “Finally! You are alone. You are so often with those other girls, I didn’t dare.”
I greeted my great-great-grandmother’s spectre as warmly as one could without touch. “And what have you been about while I’ve been visiting?”
“I have been trying to absorb as much as I might about Mrs. Jenkinson.”
“I believe you may have gone astray there.”
She gave me a sharp look, her transparent, elderly brow crinkling. “Whatever do you mean?”
“Well, the other night at dinner, I could feel the malevolence practically spilling off of Anne de Bourgh. Mrs. Jenkinson just struck me as a bit slow and bent on the care of her charge.”
Clarice narrowed her eyes. “Slow she is not. I, for one, am certain that she is behind Anne de Bourgh’s strange behavior.”
“But the other night… Do you remember when you touched Miss de Bourgh’s neck?”
I could’ve sworn my grandmother’s ghost shivered, though she could feel no cold. “I do. Of course I do. It is the first that I have touched, truly touched matter since my demise. I will not forget it.”
“And what about the…muddy substance you came away with?”
“I don’t know what to make of it. It clung to me for a day and a half.” She looked as if she would go on, but then she closed her mouth and the silence drew out as we walked.
I sighed. I needed my mentor, Lady Leticia. But she was half a day’s journey away, unavailable to me now. Aha! I had brought a couple of her books with me, and I should consult them when I returned to the house.
I continued sauntering toward the lake. It appeared in front of us all of a sudden. It was small, round, maybe half again the length of the house. Between the house and the shore were a number of porches and stairways, trellised arches and an ornate summerhouse. Paths wound between roses and herbs.
This side of the house felt more…intimate. And no wonder; it was very private. No road approached these waters, no path that I could see except the one that I stood on, which ran the length of this side of the house.
Movement beneath an archway startled me, and I turned quickly enough to make out dark hair as someone retreated. From the size of her, and the brevity of the list that I had to work with, I thought it must be Miss de Bourgh. I did not attempt to catch up with her. I pretended that I had not seen anything, in case she was watching me now from behind some topiary.
“Now, I’ll just go and see…” Clarice floated off to follow the retreating figure. I returned to looking over the little lake, wondering as the moments stretched on whether I was being observed.
Clarice returned. “It was she. Miss de Bourgh. She went inside straightaway. Moving faster than I would’ve thought possible from what I’ve seen of her.”
That was an interesting note.
Chapter 3
For a brief span of days, life took on a pattern that I hadn’t realized I craved. Charlotte had always been an amiable companion, and marriage had gentled her further. Maria was sweet. She was no trouble at all, especially in comparison with my own challenging younger siblings. Mr. Collins continued to make himself scarce. Every few hours he would dash into the room to tell us of this or that party moving about the estate. His study had a fine view of the lane and it was a view that he used to full advantage.
It was in this way that I heard of Mr. Darcy’s arrival.
The afternoon was a bit dim. Clouds had overtaken a cornflower blue sky at about the lunch hour. We ladies were sitting in Charlotte’s sewing room trimming hats, an occupation to busy our hands, while our easy friendship busied our tongues. It was a happy time.
Until I heard that name.
“Why, my dear,” Mr. Collins said upon rushing into the room, his eyes alight. “You’ll never believe who has just driven in. It’s Lady de Bourgh’s nephews! Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy.”
My heart sank and all the color seemed to fade from the world beyond Hunsford’s windows. I looked accusingly at Charlotte.
She gave a slight shrug and narrowed her eyes. “He is Lady de Bourgh’s nephew.” As if that gave explanation to the fact that she had never before mentioned there was a chance of him appearing here during my visit.
Not that Mr. Darcy’s going anywhere would have any impact on where I chose to go.
I felt my cheeks color with chagrin. Tomorrow night we would dine with that family. And where I’d found the dinners merry enough so far, the presence of one such as him had never before been an issue.
The next afternoon my temper was short and my nerves frazzled. I hadn’t slept well. Just when I settled into the rhythm of Hunsford House, just when I was exploring another mystery and busying my mind with it, Mr. Darcy appeared.
I was certain that he had been the one to encourage Mr. Bingley not to resume his residence at Netherfield, robbing my lovely sister Jane of the man she had hoped to become her betrothed. The man was infuriating. He had all he could ask for in life, and yet he seemed to discourage any happiness at all in his fellows.
It would be interesting to see Mr. Darcy and Miss de Bourgh. Was there really anything between them?
I tried to imagine Mr. Darcy looking kindly on anyone, much less frail and sickly Anne de Bourgh, and failed utterly. The man didn’t have a kind bone in him. How could anyone be expected to live with him?
It remained to be seen. Tonight.
Mr. Collins did not need to tell me to dress carefully this evening. I chose a white-on-white tamboured muslin gown and matching reticule, and the hat I had been trimming with Charlotte yesterday afternoon in those last few peaceful moments before Mr. Darcy’s name was uttered.
I put on an air of confidence with them.
Lady Catherine introduced us to her nephews with the utmost dignity, though in prior days she had been most distressed that we had already met one of them very frequently. Funny. As if he was a mystery, to be kept. Or as if one had to travel to London to possibly spot him. No, it seemed to me the man traveled. Most young women in the country must have met him by now.
Mr. Darcy greeted me with a slight nod and a look that was not unfriendly. From him, I took that as a warm welcome. “Miss Eliza – how lovely to see you in Kent. I pray your family is well?”
“Why yes. Thank you for inquiring. My sister Jane has been in town three months now. Have you had occasion to see her there?”
His brow furrowed and the look in his eyes intensified. But he shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not.” It was enough to confirm, to me, his full knowledge of Jane’s being in London and his part in concealing her presence from Charles Bingley.
His cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam was a most gentlemanly sort. The sincerity of his smile could not be questioned, and he inquired from each of us as to what had been occupying us in our visit to Rosings Park. In him I saw the opposite of Mr. Darcy. He was not as fine to look upon, but he made up for it in every bit with his manner.
I had a tolerable vantage from which to observe Mr. Darcy seated with his cousin, Miss Anne de Bourgh. The two of them spoke barely a word to each other. For her part, Miss de Bourgh seemed in better health tonight – more cognizant of her surroundings. To her other side, Mrs. Jenkinson fussed over every morsel that landed on her plate, and every morsel that left it. The strange shadow that seemed to follow the girl clung on, and again, I was the only person who seemed to note the swirling darkness hovering close about her skin. She didn’t look at me a single time.
After dinner
, Lady Catherine mentioned the pianoforte, and her offer when I first arrived. “Miss Elizabeth, would you delight us with a song or two?”
I nodded as gracefully as I could manage under the view of present company, and ushered myself to the instrument. To my happy surprise, Colonel Fitzwilliam kept to my right elbow, still talking animatedly of his recent trip north.
Mr. Darcy watched us go with a bemused expression, and Lady Catherine craned her neck toward us as we passed. “What is that you’re saying, nephew?”
But he kept on with me, drawing a chair up next to the instrument as I took my seat.
I began to play, enjoying the smooth flow of the keys beneath my fingertips. This was a fine instrument indeed. Lady Catherine had not exaggerated.
Before I finished the song, Mr. Darcy had joined us, leaning casually on the other side of the pianoforte from his cousin, directly in my view. The two of them were close, that could be readily seen. Their family blood still seemed to me to be as far as their similarities ran. Colonel Fitzwilliam listened; Mr. Darcy watched.
“I see what you are attempting to do, Mr. Darcy, attending me in all this state.” I smiled widely at him, imagining myself a cat about to pounce on a mouse. “You mean to frighten me.”
“I will not attempt to dissuade you from the notion. I have had your acquaintance long enough to know that you delight, occasionally, in taking stances which do not at all reflect your true opinions.”
His words surprised me, for they showed a true grasp of my humor that I had not expected him to possess, but I did not let on.
I turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “Mr. Darcy paints a pretty picture of me – he will teach you to expect little of truth to pass my lips.” And I swiveled back to the man in question. “Small luck followed me from Hertfordshire. Instead I have you, proving to Kent my true nature when I had hoped to present myself as entirely new here. Fine. Have it your way, Mr. Darcy. But do not presume that I’ll hold my tongue. I could retaliate with tales that may shock your relations.”
“You do not frighten me,” Mr. Darcy said easily, though his eyes had narrowed on my face.
Colonel Fitzwilliam clapped and laughed out loud. “Oh, pray tell! I would know how my cousin behaves among strangers.”
“Then you shall have the truth, but be prepared to be dismayed. For the first time I met your cousin in Hertfordshire was at a ball. Mr. Darcy danced a total of four dances, none outside his own party, and stood out the rest, though there were girls sitting aside for lack of a partner. Dreadful, isn’t it? Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact.”
“I would not. You see, at the time I did not have the honor of acquaintance with any of the ladies present beyond my own party.”
“True,” I reflected. “And a ball is no place to make new acquaintances.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled at his cousin’s expense, choking in an attempt to stop himself from laughing.
I turned my smile on him. “Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what shall I play next? My fingers await your wish.”
Mr. Darcy broke in. “Perhaps I should have judged better. Yet I am hardly of a nature to recommend myself to strangers.”
I tilted my head and looked up at him. Was he admitting a weakness, or making a claim to justify his pride? I couldn’t make him out.
With another chuckle, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Because he will not give himself the trouble.”
I nodded.
Discomfited, Darcy answered, “I do not possess that ability of other men to converse easily with strangers. Without knowledge of them, I cannot catch their tone of voice or pretend to appreciate their concerns, as I have often seen done.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes at his cousin, and I expected Mr. Darcy’s words were directed at him.
Lady Catherine suddenly appeared at Mr. Darcy’s elbow. “What are you young people speaking of? I cannot make out your conversation from the card table.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shrugged, and without suggestion of another song, I launched into one I knew well. Lady Catherine listened for a minute, before recounting in excruciating detail to Mr. Darcy how I might better play, should I have benefit of a London master and the will to practice.
And that was how we stayed until the carriage was called.
* * *
Maria often joined her sister on sojourns to the village for shopping and visiting with other ladies there. I had made myself a bit of a recluse except for our twice-weekly visits to Rosings. I had no real need of other company aside from Charlotte’s, and unless she truly pressed, I chose to spend those quiet hours walking in Rosings Park, enjoying the sweet spring sunshine, and writing letters to my sister Jane. Oh, every so often to Father or Mother or another of my sisters, but most often to Jane.
On one such afternoon, I was again walking near the peacock topiary, admiring its recent trimming, when along the path came Mrs. Jenkinson. She didn’t seem to spot me; her face was solemn, withdrawn. Dark circles etched under her eyes. She carried something, a cloth bag. As I watched, it twitched, first once and then repeatedly, almost like a heartbeat.
My eyes widened. She strode on toward the lake, carrying her burden, which appeared light.
Clarice’s spirit appeared beside me. “And now we are getting somewhere.” She sounded positively thrilled.
My heart hammered in my chest. There was something so off about this situation. Mrs. Jenkinson was not a small woman. And for some reason I did not want her to know that we had seen her with whatever she was carrying.
We followed her. A ghost might not be of much assistance if we ran into trouble, but for some reason Clarice’s presence buoyed me.
At the edge of the lake, Mrs. Jenkinson turned not along the path, but between a pair of hedges, disappearing from view.
I stopped, holding my breath.
“What you waiting for?” Clarice hissed. “Go that…oh, never mind! I am going on, at least.”
Now I followed the spirit. My throat felt thick, the seconds weighty, as I crept into the gap between the hedges. Mrs. Jenkinson had disappeared from view, and I released a very small and quiet sigh of relief. But Clarice’s spirit stood about ten paces ahead of me, stock-still and staring toward the lake.
I slinked over to stand next to her, and followed the direction of her eyes. “Oh…”
Mrs. Jenkinson had disrobed, and stood completely naked, her hand clutched at the neck of a hen, which fluttered its wings in a futile attempt to escape. Just as all of this had reconciled in my mind, Mrs. Jenkinson gave a sharp jerk, and the chicken shivered and stilled. She held the bird high, giving it a shake as she uttered syllables, maybe words, that didn’t make any sense to me.
My blood roared in my ears. The scene stank of some sort of devilish ritual; it was profane to everything I had learned of spells and witchcraft in this past year. It was dark.
Mrs. Jenkinson was the perpetrator here.
And that meant a young girl had been under her control, for how many years?
My stomach felt sick. I jerked backward, retracing my steps as quietly as I might. As I breached the hedges again and regained the path, I let fear of her drive me, my paces a drumbeat, the rhythm taking up a little space in my mind, distracting me just enough from what I just seen, from my fear.
Only when I was well past the peacock, in a lane of apple trees, did I stop running. Clarice appeared beside me, and I turned into her, as if I would hug her. For once, she had no words for me.
Chapter 4
The next afternoon when a similar opportunity presented itself, I did not feel like venturing out into Rosings Park. I had yet to come to grips with what I’d seen yesterday. Clarice and I had talked it over, agreeing that we had seen the ritual sacrifice of a hen, though we had no idea what the purpose could be. We felt it unlikely that we should see such a thing now, and Miss de Bourgh’s state before, and not tie the two together. They must be linked.
In order to solve that mystery I would have to wrestle my fear, and somehow
bring myself into the presence of fearsome Mrs. Jenkinson once again. Now I remembered how she’d been at family dinners, and I could not reconcile the difference between what I had seen, the spectacle of her snapping a hen’s neck and chanting over its dead body, with the woman who ceaselessly urged Miss de Bourgh to take just one more bite...
Something was off. Dreadfully off. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
So this afternoon, I had taken to my pen. I resolved to write to Jane, tell her of Mr. Darcy’s recent arrival, and the more satisfying arrival of his cousin. I hadn’t taken the opportunity to convey these tidings to her yet, nor the fact that Darcy had said he had not heard she was in London at all, though I suspected he had not said it truthfully. I wasn’t sure whether I should keep bringing up these old pains, yet I knew that if I comprehended something about the situation and I did not share it, she would be angry with me later. And both of us wanted to understand why Mr. Bingley had suddenly up and quit Netherfield, and under whose influence specifically.
I was staring out the drawing room window into the streaking spring rain, tapping the pen at my chin as I thought on my words, when a knock sounded at the door. I hadn’t made it halfway across the room before I heard it open.
“Mrs. Collins?” came a deep male voice.
I put on my most cheerful face, and went to greet the sudden visitor, heart jumping relentlessly in my chest.
“Mr. Darcy?” I looked him up and down. He had been through a rainstorm to get here. “Mrs. Collins and her sister are out. I am the only one here this afternoon.”
His eyes widened slightly, and he brushed his hair back from his face, taking with it the rainwater, which slicked his hair back so that I thought I could see more of his face than I’d ever seen before. “As you can see, it’s raining.”
“Yes, I can see that,” I agreed. I gave him a small smile, and retreated for a moment to retrieve a cloth so he could dry himself.
“Thank you.” He said, taking it from me. Our fingers brushed. I wondered why he had come.
