Page 2 of Shadows Of Rosings Park: Part 2

Mrs. Bennet held court from the sofa. "Ten thousand a year, and likely more! And such a fine, tall man, though dreadfully proud. But I suppose he has cause to be proud now, securing my clever Lizzy!"

Elizabeth drank her tea. The cup trembled in her grip. Every word she spoke was another stone in the cairn of lies she was building her future on, and the structure was already so high she couldn't see over it.

"Charlotte bears it well," she said when her mother mentioned the widowhood, and the lie tasted like copper on her tongue. Charlotte did not bear it well. Charlotte had become a ghost. She sat in rooms and said the right things and folded her hands in her lap and smiled when smiling was required, and behind her eyes there was a door that had closed and would not open again. Colonel Fitzwilliam stood at that door. Charlotte had told Elizabeth what he intended, and why she believed acceptance offered the safest terms. Knowing did not make the sight of his hand at Charlotte's elbow less frightening: proprietary, certain, the grip of a man who had made a claim and meant to collect.

Hill appeared with a letter. Silver salver, dark wax, the Darcy crest pressed into it like a wound.

"From your betrothed, I presume?" Mr. Bennet's eyes were sharp. "How attentive he is, to write so soon after your departure."

Elizabeth took the letter upstairs. She sat on her childhood bed, the same narrow mattress, the same quilt, the same window through which she had watched the Hertfordshire sky since she was old enough to look, and broke the seal.

Elizabeth,

I trust your journey concluded without incident. Remember our agreement. I must ask you to conduct yourself as a woman content in her engagement — your family must believe it freely made.

I have written to Bingley requesting the use of Netherfield. I shall arrive within the week. Until then, I should be grateful for regular correspondence. The appearance of easy communication between us will serve our purpose.

I need not remind you what is at stake. Charlotte's safety, and yours, depends upon the story we have built holding firm.

Your health concerns me. Continue applying the salve. I cannot bear that you should carry marks that are not of your choosing.

You may hate me if you must, Elizabeth. I would ask only that you trust my judgment, if not yet my character.

F. Darcy

She folded the letter. The paper was warm from her grip. Your health concerns me sat among the commands like a live coal in ash. The rest was spare and cold, the language of a man issuing orders. Those four words recalled his fingers against her marked cheek, absurdly gentle for a man who had just blackmailed her into marriage. She set the letter aside, pressed her hands flat on her knees, and stared at the wall.

Jane knocked. "May I come in?"

She entered without waiting. Closed the door. Stood in the middle of Elizabeth's bedroom with her fair hair loose about her shoulders and her face set with an expression Elizabeth had seen perhaps three times in their lives, soft, immovable determination.

"You're not yourself. Something has changed — I can see it, Lizzy, though I can't name it. You left us one sister and have returned another, and I — I don't wish to pry, but if there's anything you wish to share, I'm here."

Elizabeth looked at her sister. At the goodness in her face, the love, the worry. The temptation to speak was physical, a pressure behind her ribs, pushing outward, seeking release. How simple it would be to say it all. Every terrible detail, from the paperweight to this morning's letter, laid out in plain words that would make it real and make it Jane's burden too.

She could not. Jane was the one unspoiled part left, and Elizabeth would keep her that way.

"I was mistaken about Mr. Darcy," she said. "In Kent, I saw him differently."

That much was true. She had seen the focused intent beneath his reserve. The possessiveness that surfaced when he found her vulnerable. The man who dangled protection with one hand and claimed ownership with the other. She had also seen, and this was the part she could not explain to Jane, could barely explain to herself, how his face changed in unguarded moments. How his voice had softened when he thought her asleep, his fingers in her hair, whispering What have you done to me? as though she were a problem he had not anticipated and could not solve.

"You don't love him," Jane said. Not a question.

"I shall be mistress of Pemberley."

"Oh, Lizzy." Jane's voice broke. "What has happened to you?"

Elizabeth stared out the window at the distant treeline where Netherfield stood, empty for now, waiting for its new occupant. Where Darcy would soon be. Three miles away. Watching.

"I've made my choice," she said. "Please, Jane. Ask me no more."

She lay awake that night in her childhood bed, listening to Longbourn settle around her, the familiar creaks and ticks, the wind in the eaves, the sounds that had meant safety for twenty years and now meant nothing at all. Tomorrow she would write to him. Tomorrow she would begin performing the part of the happy bride. Tomorrow the deception she had been practising since Rosings would take on a new audience, and she would feed it with smiles and lies and the careful dusting of powder. No one would know what it cost her except the woman a mile down the road, at Lucas Lodge, who shared the same secret and the same cage.

"Damn you, Fitzwilliam Darcy," she whispered to the dark ceiling.

Outside, clouds gathered over Netherfield. Rain before dawn.

CHAPTER 2