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I quickly saw the sense of her actions, and herded everyone with me, giving Wickham and the stranger my back. After all, if Wickham shot—which he seemed disinclined to do—he could hardly shoot all of us. For whatever reason, I felt the real threat came from the stranger.
Oddly enough, we reached the door without incident, even with two of the villagers dragging poor Bertie. I hastened to throw it open—to no avail. We immediately looked to Mrs Reynolds. She withdrew her ring of keys, and with only slightly shaking hands selected the correct one and inserted it, pulling the door at the same moment. The key turned, but nothing happened. Mr Davis leaned in, putting his weight into it, but the door remained shut. I ran to the two other servant’s doors that were semi-hidden within the panelling. Neither would open.
From the other end of the ballroom, the stranger began laughing, a peculiar, echoing laughter. That was when I knew, and spun to face our captor.
“Mrs de Bourgh. How lovely of you to join us. It is an unusual costume, however, for a masquerade.”
She tossed aside the beaver; her hair was scraped back into its usual harsh bun, and she wore the clothing of a middling sort of gentleman. Without the voluminous folds of her black mourning fabric, I saw that the weight she’d lost was to good effect—she appeared muscular, strong. There was, as Nurse Rook had long and often claimed, absolutely nothing of weakness, of illness, in her. She held the candle up close to her scarred face; I knew the action was to frighten us, because she did indeed look horrible, though I felt only pity. But Mrs Dale screamed.
“People see what they wish to see, what they think to see,” she said, smiling a ghastly smile. “A little face powder, a bit of paint, a cane and a weak voice—it is easy enough. Those doors will not open. And now, you shall come with me. Wickham, take her.”
Wickham stood uncertainly.
“Do it,” she urged. “Remember your poor, beautiful Anne.” She pulled the draperies aside, and there stood the three portraits of Anne, propped against the wall. She must have known Mr Darcy would try to send them away. Had Wickham helped her, removing them from the cart and placing them in here, the least-used room of the house, at her bequest? I gave a shudder, imagining him lurking at night within our home.
“Look at that creature! Look at what has replaced our dear Anne! Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall not be. Anne would never submit to any person’s whims. Do it for her!”
And so, with renewed determination, he came for me. Everyone froze in place, uncertain of his pistol. Fortunately, he seemed to almost forget it was in his hand—striding towards me confidently, as if I would obediently, submissively toddle off with him.
“You have forgotten something,” I said, as he neared. He smiled, the same old winning smile, as though we were at the Netherfield ball, and he was claiming that dance I had once hoped for, so long ago.
“What is that, dear lady?” he asked, reaching for me, not bothering at all with the aggressive stance he’d taken against poor Bertie.
“I am Elizabeth Bennet Darcy, and no Lydia,” I replied, and, exactly as Mr Tilney had taught, I punched him in the soft cartilage of his nose. He shrieked, blood spurting, and drew back his fist, but old Mr Davis and even Miss Bickford fell upon him, and he was soon unconscious upon the floor, the pistol in Mr Davis’s possession.
“It is over now,” I said to Mrs de Bourgh when I looked to her again.
“He was an idiot,” she snapped. “I am not. You will come with me now, or else.”
The question ‘Or else, what?’ was to be unnecessary. For she held her candle dangerously close to the draperies nearest her.
Quickly, I calculated. Somehow, what with all the strange workmen about, they had managed to secure all doors except the one we had entered by—which she now guarded. Draperies lined the entire wall behind her; the fire would catch and quickly spread. The windows were tightly shut, so there was no hope that someone outdoors would notice the smoke; rather, it would be the choking death of all, maybe even before the flames could burn us. But would she allow Anne’s portraits to be destroyed in the conflagration?Yes, I realised. She would do anything.
“Why do you do this?” I cried with unaffected astonishment. “I swear to you, Mr Darcy had nothing to do with your daughter’s death!”
I expected her to rant or rave or hurl accusations at my husband’s name, but she did not. Instead, she laughed again, a bitter, reproachful sound. “Of course he did not. He is too weak, too cowardly. Do you think it was easy?” she scolded. “Poor, sweet, courageous Anne, so beautiful, so broken, from a leap only she would have dared. ‘Mama, please,’ she begged me. ‘Do not let me live this way. I cannot! I will not! You must finish it, as he would not!’ Do not you see? If he had only done as she begged, I would not have had to. But he left it to me. Always the most difficult jobs, left only to me.”
A chilling sensation crept along my spine as realisation struck. “And Caroline Bingley?” I asked. “Was that a ‘difficult job’ left to you?”
“Hardly difficult,” she scoffed. “She threatened my daughter. It was not to be borne. As you do, now. I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose, and I will not be dissuaded from it. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.”
“How,” I asked, desperate to keep her talking, “could I possibly be a threat to Anne? She is dead.”
“You,” she said coldly, “are the worst threat of all. I know how to act. One of you idiots, remove Wickham’s cravat, instantly, and tie her wrists and arms together. Do it!”
“She is mad,” I murmured quietly. “Just do as she says.”
“Mrs Darcy, you cannot go to her! You mustn’t! She is a murderess!” whispered Miss Bickford as she made a show of—very slowly—unknotting the cravat. Wickham groaned as she removed it, but did not waken.
“Hurry!” de Bourgh screamed. “Do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede!” From her pocket, she removed a pot of something; expertly removing the lid—while not letting go of the taper—she dashed its contents upon the draperies and portraits nearest the door she guarded. I had no doubt it was a kind of terebinthine oil or something equally flammable. She had planned this.
“Do it,” I urged.
Reluctantly, Miss Bickford obeyed, wrapping my arms together—in front of me, rather than behind me—and as slowly and loosely as she could. But it was a lengthy piece of cloth, and there was no way to secure it without creating far too much of a binding.
I met Mr Davis’s eyes as he implored me without words to take the pistol; however, there was no way to do so without de Bourgh noticing. The frightening old woman waved her candle ever nearer the draperies, heedless of the danger to herself, but there were gasps from the villagers. The fear of fire was so ingrained, I doubted I could rally them in an attempt to overpower her; besides, she would set her blaze long before we could reach her.
I did not have a great deal of hope—whether she lit the draperies and shoved me out the door, locking them inside, or even simply set me afire to watch me burn…I could hardly stop her. I had little doubt but that she planned to burn the place regardless—she had been much too free with the truth to let anyone live, if she could prevent it. But if challenged, she could simply set the fire immediately. It seemed to me best to play for time.
