Page 8 of Love Among the Shadows
As the evening progressed and the dancing resumed, Elizabeth’s thoughts returned again and again to the scene she had witnessed. Mr Darcy, with his haughty demeanour and stern rebukes, seemed to her a man incapable of moderation, his temper as unyielding as his pride.
By the time the Bennet party prepared to depart, Elizabeth’s opinion of Mr Darcy had been further solidified: he was a man whose exterior might inspire respect, but whose character, she was certain, would always repel affection. And as the carriage began its journey back to Longbourn, Elizabeth’s thoughts lingered on the evening’s events, the mystery of Mr Darcy’s temper proving a subject she could neither dismiss nor yet fully understand.
***
Thomas Granger—or Tom, as he was more commonly called by those at Netherfield—was a junior coachman in Mr Bingley’s service. He had begun his working life as a stable boy in Hertfordshire some years earlier, tending to the horses with diligence and care. When Mr Bingley arrived in the county and sought to hire additional staff, a friend who had heard of the vacancy encouraged Tom to apply. Fortune had favoured him, and he had secured the position, rising swiftly to a station of greater responsibility within two weeks.
That evening, after the ball had concluded and the last of the guests had departed, Tom trudged wearily into his small room within the servants’ quarters, heaving a sigh of relief. It had been a most taxing night. Among his many duties, Mr Darcy had entrusted him with the care of his horse, a task Tom had performed countless times before. He had tethered the animal with what he believed to be meticulous attention, yet to hisdismay, the horse had somehow gone missing. Discovering this, Tom had been compelled to report the matter directly to Mr Darcy.
The reprimand he received was sharp but not unexpected. Mr Darcy had warned him previously to take his responsibilities seriously, and this incident had done little to impress the gentleman. Still, the horse was soon found within the grounds, and the matter, it seemed, was resolved. With the household preoccupied by the demands of the ball, and the stable boy having taken ill the day prior, the responsibility of the stables had fallen entirely upon Tom’s shoulders, leaving little room for oversight.
Closing the door of his modest room behind him, Tom unbuttoned his shirt and debated whether he ought to wash before seeking his rest. His limbs ached from the night’s exertions, assisting with the horses of returning guests proving far more strenuous than he had anticipated. Such, he mused, were the burdens of promotion.
How could I forget how difficult it feels in such a short time.
As he began to undress, a faint aroma reached his nostrils, causing him to wrinkle his nose in mild distaste. The scent was peculiar—sweet yet cloying, with an unpleasant undertone. He glanced about the room, his gaze falling upon a half-eaten apple left atop the wooden stool near his bed. Perhaps it was the fruit, he thought. Or perhaps the recently laundered bedding, infused with one of the overly fragrant soaps favoured by the housekeeper. Deciding it was of no consequence, he turned his attention back to his shirt.
The faint scuffle of movement brought Tom to an abrupt halt. His heart leapt to his throat as his eyes darted toward the sound. It came again—a soft, deliberate shuffle, unmistakably from beneath his bed. His breath quickened.“Who’s there?” he called, his voice catching but firm.Perhaps, it is a rat, he thought.
For a moment, all was still. Then, with unnerving deliberation, a figure began to slide out from the shadowed space beneath the bed. Tom staggered back, his legs striking the stool behind him. The man who emerged was unnervingly composed, brushing the dust from his sleeve as though the act of crawling from beneath furniture were the most natural thing in the world. He was dressed finely, his evening coat unblemished, his cravat impeccably knotted—a figure far more suited to the grand assembly room than to this small, humble chamber.
Tom’s voice faltered, caught between disbelief and mounting fear. “What—” he began, but he was given no time to finish.
In a single, swift motion, the intruder closed the distance between them, a handkerchief clasped firmly in his gloved hand. Tom raised his arms instinctively, but the man was quick, seizing his wrists with a grip that betrayed no hint of his refined appearance. With a twist, Tom’s arms were rendered immobile, pinned beneath the intruder’s arm, leaving him defenceless.
The handkerchief was pressed against his face with unyielding force. A cloying scent—sweet and pungent, sickly yet overpowering—assailed his senses. Tom’s head reeled as he struggled, twisting his body and kicking his legs in a frantic attempt to free himself.
Panic surged within him. He writhed against the iron hold of his captor, but the man’s strength was unnervingly precise, as though every movement had been calculated in advance. The fumes from the handkerchief filled Tom’s nostrils, clouding his thoughts, dulling his senses.
His vision blurred, the edges darkening as his strength began to ebb. His breath came in short, desperate gasps againstthe suffocating cloth.Who is this man? Why is he here?What does he want? What have I done to this man?The questions raced through Tom’s mind as his strength ebbed away. His vision blurred, the edges darkening as if a curtain were being drawn over his consciousness. His limbs grew heavy, his resistance faltering.
With one last desperate effort, Tom tried to wrench himself free, but it was no use. The darkness closed in, suffocating his thoughts. The last coherent question flickered through his mind before oblivion took him entirely:Why me?
Six
Mr Darcy shuddered as the chill crept into his chest, though whether from the cold or the grim news, he could not tell. The morning had brought with it an air of disquiet to Netherfield, as the household was thrown into turmoil by the discovery of Thomas Granger’s lifeless body.
The housekeeper, alarmed by his absence at the morning count and the stables, had gone to rouse him, only to find him still in his bed, unmoving and cold. Her cries had shattered the morning calm, rousing the house with an urgency that had drawn even Mr Bingley from his habitual good humor.
It was Bingley who had urged Darcy to remain composed. “The apothecary is on his way,” he had assured him, though his own face betrayed a pallor that spoke of his unease. Yet, for Darcy, the reassurance did little to quell the storm in his mind. There was a pattern emerging—one that he dared not voice but could not dismiss. First, Edwin Harper, with whom he had quarrelled at the assembly, found dead the following morning. Now, Thomas Granger, whom he had scolded only the previous night, lay dead in his bed.
Darcy rose from his chair and paced the length of his chamber, his thoughts swirling like a tempest. He had taken a particular interest in young Granger. The lad’s natural aptitude with horses had been apparent from the first, and Darcy had even suggested to Bingley that the boy be promoted to junior coachman, though he had only recently been hired as a stable hand. Yet, for all his promise, Tom had exhibited a troublingtendency towards distraction—small lapses in duty that Darcy had ascribed to youthful inexperience.
Only two days prior, Darcy had spoken to him privately, advising him to cultivate a greater sense of focus and responsibility. “You will only go far in life if you direct your energies with purpose,” he had said, words intended as encouragement rather than censure. But last night, when Tom had approached him about the missing horse, Darcy’s patience had worn thin. He had assumed the boy’s carelessness to be the root of the issue and had not spared him a firm rebuke.
And now, Tom was dead.
Darcy clenched his fists, the weight of the coincidence pressing upon him like a tangible force. If he were a superstitious man, he might have thought the fates conspiring against him. Twice now, death had followed closely on the heels of his anger, and though reason told him there could be no connection, the whispers of doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind.
A soft knock at the door interrupted his reverie. It was one of the footmen, bowing deeply before speaking. “The apothecary has arrived, sir. Mr Bingley thought you might wish to be informed.”
Darcy nodded curtly. “Thank you. Inform Mr Bingley that I shall join him shortly.”
As the servant departed, Darcy turned back to the window, staring out at the frost-laden fields beyond. The apothecary’s arrival would, he hoped, bring answers—or at the very least, dispel the dark imaginings that had taken root in his mind. But even as he steeled himself for the hours to come, a single thought lingered, stubborn and unyielding:What if there was more to these deaths than mere coincidence?
Darcy resolved to set aside his musings for the moment. He left the room and descended the staircase withdeliberate steps, his thoughts heavy with the morning’s grim tidings. Upon entering the drawing room, he was met with a scene of subdued disquiet. The room’s usual warmth seemed dampened, the subdued light casting a pall over the household.
Mr Bingley stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, his normally cheerful countenance furrowed with concern. On the settee sat Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, their postures rigid and their expressions betraying unease rather than genuine sorrow. Mr Hurst, reclined in his habitual manner, appeared more alert than usual, though his gaze shifted with a restlessness that suggested he would rather be elsewhere.
