Page 16 of Love Among the Shadows
"I’m not saying you’re naïve, Lizzy, but you cannot rush into something without understanding what you’re facing. If Mr Darcy is guilty, he is a man of power, and you are only a young woman. You mustn't make a foolish enemy."
Elizabeth sighed, her mind spinning with conflicting thoughts. She looked down at their intertwined hands, the weight of Jane’s concern settling heavily upon her chest. "I won’t do anything rash, Jane. But I will find a way. I must," she added with quiet determination.
The room fell into silence, both sisters lost in their own reflections. Elizabeth lay down beside Jane, her thoughts tumbling in a storm of uncertainty and suspicion. Her sister’s breathing, soft and steady beside her, did little to calm the turmoil within.
Mr Darcy. His image plagued her thoughts with a persistence that she could not shake. His piercing eyes, his impenetrable manner—it was as though everything about him held some dark, unspoken truth. And the deaths. The deaths in Meryton, so neatly tied to his presence, to his quarrels. She could not ignore the sense that somehow, he was the key to it all. The pattern was too obvious, too deliberate.
But even as her mind turned over the evidence, doubt crept in. Could she really trust her own conclusions? Was Mr Darcy truly the monster she believed him to be, or was there more to him than met the eye?
Her thoughts, restless and uncertain, turned again to Jane's words. In the midst of her contemplation, she spoke aloud, though the words were more to herself than to Jane. "I shall find the truth, Jane. Whatever it may be."
Jane stirred beside her, and Elizabeth felt her sister’s gaze on her. Jane hesitated, then spoke, her voice a touch hesitant. "Lizzy, if I didn’t know you better, I’d almost think you were...obsessed with Mr Darcy."
Elizabeth straightened slightly at her sister’s words, her heart giving an odd flutter. "I’m not obsessed with him, Jane," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with a faint, defensive edge. "I simply want to know the truth."
"Oh, you’re not? But then why do you seem to be thinking of him at every turn? Fate does seem to be setting the two of you on the same path, doesn’t it? First at Meryton ball, then at the market with Mr Wickham, and now—"
Elizabeth cut her off, feeling a twinge of irritation as she shifted uncomfortably. "No, Jane. Not fate. Not in the least."
Jane smiled, though her brow furrowed with gentle teasing. "Well, perhaps not fate," she said, "but you cannot deny there’s something there." She paused, a mischievous smile creeping onto her face, as if a sudden thought had struck her. "Think about it, Lizzy. If Mr Darcy had danced with you at the ball—if people weren’t dying after fighting with him—if Mr Wickham hadn’t spoken of him the way he did..." She paused again, her gaze searching Elizabeth's face. "Wouldn’t you consider him a man admirable?"
Elizabeth hesitated, her thoughts tangled. The question hung in the air, and she felt her breath catch for a moment. Would she? Would she consider him admirable if the circumstances were different? If she had only seen him in a better light, without the darkness of suspicion hanging over him? After a beat, she gave a reluctant, almost bitter smile.
"Mr Darcy could indeed be admirable," she admitted, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. "If he weren’t so aloof, so wicked, and if he weren’t so clearly involved in these deaths. What is there not to admire, Jane? He is the most eligible bachelor in the vicinity—handsome, wealthy—he has everything. But alas, what is the point of all that when he is so unagreeable, when he has ruined Mr Wickham’s life and when people around him are dying like flies? I am sure he is involved."
Jane sighed, clearly resigned to the futility of arguing further. “I suppose I shall take my nap now,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with the exhaustion of their discussion. Elizabeth nodded, though her mind was far from the rest Jane sought.
“I’ll take a nap as well,” Elizabeth replied, though she didn’t think she would find much peace. She lay beside Jane, but sleep was elusive, her thoughts haunted by Mr Darcy. She could not dismiss the troubling suspicions that clung to him.
Her mind returned to one singular purpose: finding the truth. She must discover the proof, whatever it may be. Yet, a nagging doubt lingered—was it truly Darcy’s fault, or was there something more?
Elizabeth’s thoughts turned inward, and, for a brief moment, she wondered—if Darcy were a better man, could she be drawn to him? She quickly dismissed the idea. No, she would not think of him in such a light. But the comparison lingered. She would certainly choose Mr Wickham over Mr Collins, but what of Mr Wickham and Mr Darcy?
She reprimanded herself for even considering such things. Darcy was involved in these deaths, she was certain of it. She would find the proof. Proof, Lizzy, she repeated to herself. That was all that mattered now.
With that resolve, Elizabeth finally closed her eyes, though her mind remained troubled, her thoughts on the truth she was determined to uncover.
Ten
It had taken Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam four days to reach Netherfield Park after Darcy had sent his urgent missive. The weather had been disagreeable, and with the demands of the military, his journey had been slower than expected. Upon his arrival, he exchanged pleasantries with the Bingley household, and after a brief respite, he joined Darcy in the study. As they settled, Darcy explained in great detail the events of the past month, his interactions with the two men who had met their untimely deaths, and the growing suspicion that haunted him.
Fitzwilliam listened intently, his face growing progressively more serious as his cousin recounted the tale. When Darcy had finished talking, Richard leaned back in his chair, his hands folded across his chest. For a moment, he said nothing, his brow furrowed in thought. Darcy did not press him, having long been familiar with his cousin’s habit of remaining silent while he pondered a matter of importance.
After several minutes, Fitzwilliam finally broke the silence, his voice grave. “I need to admit that these affairs are indeed disturbing,” he began, his gaze unwavering. “And you are right to have called me. But I assure you, there is no curse. Of that I am certain.” He paused, then added, “However, I cannot deny that there is a killer here. And if these men who have died are those you quarrelled with, then it is plain that you are the target.”
Darcy let out a long breath, rubbing his temple as Richard’s words resonated with the truth he had feared. “Right,” he murmured, agreeing with his cousin’s assessment.
Fitzwilliam nodded, then leaned forward, his tone turning more businesslike. “To cover all angles, I would like to see the crime scenes for myself. I will also speak with the magistrate and this parish constable you’ve mentioned. And I will need to see the parish priest or the local doctor—anyone who may have kept a record of deaths.”
Darcy grimaced, feeling an unpleasant tightness in his chest. “What good will that do?” he asked, though he could see the sense in Richard’s request.
Fitzwilliam sighed, rubbing his face as if weary of the weight of the matter. “I need to ascertain the number of deaths that have occurred in Meryton since your arrival. It will help us determine whether these deaths are coincidental or part of a larger pattern. If there have been more, then they may be random. If fewer...well, then we are looking at something more sinister.”
“Definitely something more sinister, and like I said, I have a suspect.” Darcy replied, his voice tight. “George Wickham.”
Fitzwilliam grunted in acknowledgment, though he made no comment at first. Darcy’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean by ‘hmmm’?” he asked, frowning. “You’re not doubting Wickham, are you?”
Fitzwilliam chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t say I’m doubting him. But you seem to be remarkably sure about it.”
