“Are you certain the draft did not come from the hearth?” Darcy and Elizabeth rested together in his bed. They had spent an additional hour distracting Georgiana and making her comfortable in Elizabeth’s chambers before retiring to Darcy’s room.
“I am positive, Fitzwilliam,” she insisted. “It came from behind the screen, where Georgiana claims that she saw the light. It was not a dream, Fitzwilliam. Something is not right—something is happening at Pemberley.”
They whispered together. The adjoining doors to their dressing rooms remained open, in case Georgiana felt uneasy. “What has happened has a logical explanation,” he declared. “I do not believe in ghosts or other apparitions.Whatever is happening here is manmade.”
“But you do believe Georgiana.”
“I believe that someone will pay for invading my home with his perfidy,” Darcy growled.
“We must not involve our guests,” his wife cautioned.“Might you secure Lady Catherine’s discretion as far as Georgiana is concerned?”
Darcy adjusted her in his embrace.“It will be difficult, but I will insist on my aunt’s secrecy.”
Elizabeth kissed along his chin line, feathery touches of her lips and tongue dancing along the sensitive part of Darcy’s neck. “You were very tender with Georgiana this evening.”
“Georgiana is my sister, and I protect those I love.” He now loomed above her, poised only inches from her mouth.
She smiled seductively at him without looking away. “Then I am blessed, my Husband, that you love me.” Her voice was husky.
Darcy felt a bit lightheaded, as he always did when he realized that Elizabeth belonged to him forever. When they had met in Hertfordshire, her eyes had engaged him from the beginning, and he had found himself falling into their depths. He had fought valiantly—had tried desperately not to fall in love—but he was in the middle before he knew that he had begun.
“Have I told you today how beautiful you are?” he asked, his voice a raspy whisper. Darcy lowered himself against her, pressing his chest against her body. He heard Elizabeth suck in a slow breath. Darcy’s mouth found hers, and he quickly deepened the kiss. “I love you, Elizabeth Darcy,” he murmured close to her ear before kissing down the length of her neck.
“Fitzwilliam,” she pointed out,“Georgiana is in the next room.”
He moved against her. “I can be very quiet.”
Elizabeth murmured, “I doubt that, my Husband.”
“Then I will prove it to you, Mrs. Darcy.” He took her lips again, his tongue invading her mouth. Instinctively, Elizabeth moaned and moved closer to him. Darcy stifled the groan in the back of his throat. He let his touch speak for him. Lost to sensation, neither Darcy nor Elizabeth heard the faint click of the lock along the inside wall.
Mr. Baldwin reported his lack of success: “I searched every room, Mr. Darcy.”
“And nothing?”
“Nothing, sir—nothing except a very angry Lady Catherine.”
Darcy snorted.“My aunt is generally dissatisfied with one thing or another.”
The butler smiled faintly.
“We have a problem—missing bed linens, missing candelabra….” Darcy purposely omitted the mystery in Georgiana’s room the preceding evening.
“Missing food,” Baldwin added.
“What do you mean?”
Baldwin nervously shifted his weight.“A round of hard cheese, sir, and two loaves of dark bread and one of Mrs. Jennings’s rhubarb pies.”
“You jest?”
“No, sir—the lady swears she made six, and there are but five.”
“This becomes more bizarre by the moment. Do you have any inkling—even a glimmer of an idea who might be to blame, Mr. Baldwin?”
The man looked around sheepishly to observe if anyone could overhear. “The staff, sir, some…they think it is one of the Shadow Ghosts…while others say it is the work of Black Shuck.”
“Tell me, Mr. Baldwin, you really do not believe such poppycock. Black Shuck?”
“The snow, Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny this is an unusual storm—just like the unusual storm back in Suffolk all those years ago. People swear that Black Shuck appeared at the Bungay and Blythburgh churches in 1577, and only this past week, Mr. Stalling says he saw a black shaggy dog near the Darcy family cemetery.”
Darcy closed the door to ensure privacy. “Mr. Baldwin, you must stop this nonsense. We are not living in the times of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. The Vikings left England long ago, and they took the legends of Thor’s Shukir and Odin’s huge dog of war with them. We live in a time of industrial advancement. I cannot have you and the rest of the staff repeating such stories. I am well aware of Reverend Abraham Fleming’s version of what happened in the sixteenth century in Suffolk. I, too, once thought it a great tale of mystery, but I left those stories behind when I left childhood.”
“I understand, Mr. Darcy. Such tales are for those of a lower house. I will convey your message to everyone.” Baldwin started to bow out of the room.
Darcy put a hand on the man’s arm to stay him.“I realize it is important for people to explain the unexplainable. People have a need to be in charge of their lives. I am sure that Blythburgh and Bungay suffered greatly, but the appearance of a stray black dog had nothing to do with lightning striking a church tower.What is happening in this house has no connection to a dog or to ghostly apparitions. No malevolent shadow person is haunting this house. I guarantee it.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
“I need your agreement on this, Mr. Baldwin.”
“Mrs. Reynolds and I will speak to the staff, sir.”
The butler was nearly out the door before Darcy remembered his letter. He called to the man’s retreating form, “Mr. Baldwin!”
His man reappeared immediately. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you place my letter from yesterday evening on the salver to be posted?”
“I have not seen the letter, sir.”
Darcy came around the desk. “I was writing it when you came in yesterday evening.”
“I remember your being behind the desk, sir, but you left everything after we spoke.You gave me no letter to post.”
Darcy looked around in dismay. “I did not finish the letter,” he muttered. “It was on the desk—a letter to Mr. Laurie. Are you sure you did not see it?”
“No, sir.”
“It is no longer there.” He gestured toward the papers piled neatly in three stacks along the edge of the desk.
Baldwin did not know how to respond. “Was it of a personal nature, sir?”
Darcy thought of his request for information on George Wickham and on Lieutenant Harwood. He could have no one else know about either matter. “It is of a nature I would prefer not to share with everyone.” He looked about confused. “Maybe I misplaced it; I will look again.”
“Yes, Mr. Darcy.”
“That will be all, Mr. Baldwin.”
Lydia Bennet Wickham dressed for the day. This Pemberley trip had been a mistake. She had hoped Elizabeth might introduce her to people of fine society. But with the snowstorm the likelihood of meeting anyone other than those sequestered with her was nearly nonexistent, at least for the next week. True, there was Lord Stafford, but he had an affinity for his cousin Miss Donnel, no matter his many protests to the contrary.
That left only Mr. Worth’s company as a possibility. Of course, Lydia never considered the company of other women to be “fine society”; she needed a man’s attention to feel important. Nigel Worth was pleasant company, and he did pay her compliments, but he was too old for her. However, he held a respectable position in the community. That would be a better situation than what she currently endured.
Lydia did not know where to turn; misery rode on her shoulder. She had made a terrible mistake the day she left Brighton with George Wickham. She had thought to best her sisters to the altar, and had foolishly believed his pretty words. Only afterward had she realized that he had ill-used her—only when Mr. Darcy came to find them did that become crystal clear.
Even then, her pride had kept her from betraying Wickham. And despite a small voice in her head, which said she should follow Mr. Darcy’s advice, she had stubbornly clung to the hope that George Wickham might learn to love her as much as she fancied herself to love him.
Yet, instead of their growing closer after their nuptials, they had begun a campaign to destroy each other. Mr.Wickham openly flirted with every attractive woman he met, and when she complained, he told Lydia if she objected that she could return to Longbourn’s warmth. In retaliation, she had set about attracting his fellow officers’ attentions. Of course, the difference came in the follow-through : She flirted and flattered, but remained true to her marriage vows where Mr.Wickham openly flaunted his conquests—from the lowliest barmaid to his former commanding officer’s wife.
A sigh escaped her as she took a closer look in the mirror’s reflection. She was still young enough to find another if her husband took her threat seriously. Lydia did not wish to declare to the world that she had failed as a wife, but she knew deep in her soul that she could not spend the rest of her life pretending that Mr.Wickham’s indiscretions did not hurt. A separation would bring scandal, but she could face down the gossips if necessary. “I will survive this,” she whispered to the image staring back at her.
However, a breeze—a gush of cold air—in the room seemed to ask mockingly, Can you?
Lydia jumped to her feet to see what had caused the chilly wind. But try as she might, she could find nothing unusual in her quarters, although she searched behind furniture and inside items.
She did, however, find a box of mementos hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe.When she took out the wooden box, the contents surprised her. The items were a diverse mix of some of her sister’s memories and some that obviously belonged to Mr. Darcy. What amazed her was how soon Elizabeth’s things and Darcy’s things had become their things. Sadly, Lydia doubted that she and George Wickham would ever be so joined. Elizabeth knew a perfect love despite Mr. Darcy’s stiffness—his overwhelming pride. Lydia began to lift items from the box. She had seen Elizabeth’s keepsakes many times: a smooth rock painted blue with white clouds, a gift from their eldest sister, Jane, on Elizabeth’s fifth birthday; a monogrammed handkerchief from Grandmother Bennet; a book of prayers inscribed “To My Lizzy,” from their father; and a pair of white lace gloves Elizabeth had worn to her first adult party.
Mr. Darcy’s spoke of his life: a drawing in crayon signed by Georgiana Darcy; a diamond stick pin with a bent tip, likely belonging to his father or another close relative; a newspaper notice of his mother’s passing; and, surprisingly, a miniature—a portrait of her own husband—of Mr. Wickham as a young man. Impulsively, Lydia retrieved it from the bottom of the box. Dusting it off against her dress, she stared at a man she did not know—a boy, really—with innocence and hope clearly evident in his eyes. She had never met this young gentleman, who had the whole world before him. The Wickham she knew was really two men. One was completely charming to everyone he met. His appearance was greatly in his favor ; he had all the best part of beauty—a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address—a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness but at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming. The other George Wickham was a frightening force—one that hid the hostility he felt—masked his voice’s harshness—ruled with fear. He was a careful schemer, handsome and charming.
Lydia returned the other items to the box and replaced it in the wardrobe, but she kept the small portrait of her husband to set beside her bed.“I would have liked to have known this young man. We could love each other until death do us part.” She patted the frame, treating the miniature as a symbol of their renewed relationship. Feeling much more content, she turned for the door. They would take the afternoon meal soon, and Mr. Darcy preferred his guests to be prompt.
Lydia stepped into the hall, only to find Cathleen Donnel also exiting her assigned room. The sleeping quarters followed a T-shaped hallway.The main guest chambers were situated in the vertical line of the T.The Darcys took the left branch of the horizontal line of the T, and their aristocratic guests took the right. Lydia’s room lay where the lines intersected—the perpendicular point—and Miss Donnel’s, the farthest away from her room, at the far end of the vertical line of the T. Lydia idly wondered about the arrangement. Should not Miss Donnel be closer to her cousin?
Cathleen did not speak, but Lydia nodded her head in the direction of the approaching woman and stopped to wait for her. They could enter the dining room together.
At that moment, Anne de Bourgh turned the corner, entering the main hall from the right. Lydia paused long enough to offer the woman a curtsy. “Miss de Bourgh!” Lydia gushed. “Is it not uncanny that we meet at Pemberley? I have heard so much of you and of Lady Catherine from my cousin Mr. Collins.”
“Mr. Collins is a ninny,” Anne grumbled as she approached. If the girl wanted to offer her some civility, mentioning her mother’s clergyman did not play well. In Anne’s opinion, Mr. Collins was nothing more than a walking mouthpiece. He spoke only of what he thought his patroness Lady Catherine might approve. It was not beneath the man to gossip and to fawn over Lady Catherine to stay in Her Ladyship’s good graces.
“Of . . . of course, Mr. . . . Mr. Collins, can be somewhat pretentious,” Lydia stammered.
“That would be an understatement,” Anne insisted.
Both women moved toward the main staircase. Miss Donnel reached it before they did.As the three women prepared to descend the stairs—catching up their skirts to steady their steps—Mrs.Williams opened her door to follow. Both Anne and Lydia paused—mere seconds to observe Mrs. Williams. But Cathleen did not do so; she began her descent.
The next twenty seconds seemed to both speed by in pure chaos and simultaneously pass as slowly as a snail through a peculiar mix of events. Cathleen boldly stepped forward, only to find herself tumbling through the air, banging against the railing and support wall, before coming to a stop on the landing eight steps below. Her scream of surprise and pain echoed off the walls.
As one, Lydia’s and Anne’s heads turned to behold a flurry of muslin and lace wrapped around Cathleen Donnel’s legs while she fought for control—arms flailing.They watched and squealed, both terrified and mesmerized.
Evelyn Williams saw the woman take the first step—observed the horror on Cathleen Donnel’s face, but she could not move quickly enough to make a difference. Pushing against Mrs. Wickham and Miss de Bourgh, Evelyn tried to prevent the accident, but this was impossible. Her scream joined Cathleen’s in a cacophony of sound.
Adam Lawrence strolled casually along the hallway. At least, Pemberley offered a refined sophistication. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of their proprietor—neither gaudy nor uselessly fine—with less of splendor and real elegance than the furniture found in many homes he visited. He and Cathleen could be stranded in a run-down inn right now. Lawrence decided that even with the inconvenience of Darcy’s terms for his stay, this was decidedly better.
However, just as he turned the corner to the main hallway, Adam heard her—heard Cathleen scream. Immediately, he reacted, shoving his way past a stunned Anne de Bourgh to catapult himself down the carpeted steps to reach a crumpled and twisted body on the landing.
“Cathleen,” he pleaded as he moved her hair away from her face. “Speak to me. Come on, Sweetheart.” When he cradled her head in his hands, a groan told him she was conscious.
Darcy replaced the pen in its holder. Unable to find the original, he had rewritten the letter to Mr. Laurie. He had retraced the events leading to Mr. Baldwin’s recent evening visit to his office, and Darcy knew that on that evening he had not folded the letter in preparation for posting. He left it lying on his desk. And so for an hour today, he had moved everything in this room, carefully looking under and behind furniture.The letter was nowhere to be found, another spoke in a wheel of mystery.
He was deep in thought, so when the initial scream came, followed closely by a choir of dismay, it took him by surprise. Instinctively, he ran toward the noise, afraid that it signaled a problem for Elizabeth or Georgiana. Taking the steps two at a time, Darcy quickly covered the distance, and discovered a very upset viscount comforting his mistress as she lay writhing in pain on the landing.
“What happened?” Darcy asked as he knelt beside Adam Lawrence.
Lawrence did not look up—his concentration was on the woman as he began to check for broken bones.“I am not certain—I heard a scream.”
Darcy looked up to see three women staring down at them. “Might any of you speak to what occurred?” He stood slowly to survey the area.
“I saw Miss Donnel lose her balance,” Evelyn Williams said. “But I could not reach her in time.”
Anne stared in disbelief at Miss Donnel. “I do not believe that either Mrs.Wickham or I can add anything, Fitzwilliam.”
Mrs. Jenkinson had followed Anne de Bourgh from the room. She had returned to their adjoining chambers to retrieve a shawl for the woman she admired and respected. Mrs. Mildred Jenkinson had served as a companion to Anne de Bourgh since before the girl turned sixteen, nearly twelve years earlier. As much as possible, she shielded Anne from Lady Catherine. Her Ladyship was a difficult employer, but Mildred stayed because she thought that otherwise Anne might crumble in submission to her mother.With Mr. Darcy’s marriage to Elizabeth Bennet, Lady Catherine had become harder to predict. In her anger at her nephew, Her Ladyship often lashed out at the closest person—her daughter Anne.
Lady Catherine had for years planned a union between the cousins, despite the daughter’s subtle objections and Mr. Darcy’s open refusals. In Mrs. Jenkinson’s opinion, such a joining would be marital suicide: their dispositions were too much in opposition for a relationship to succeed. Mildred had watched Mr. Darcy’s reaction during that ill-fated Easter dinner when Miss Elizabeth Bennet visited the Collinses and dined at Rosings. She had been amused by Mr. Darcy’s response to the interactions between his cousin Colonel Fitzwilliam and Miss Bennet. Mr. Darcy, usually so cool and reserved, had left his aunt in midsentence in order to station himself by Miss Bennet’s side. Unfortunately, Lady Catherine had observed this, also. Her Ladyship immediately launched a campaign to belittle Miss Bennet at every opportunity.
Yet it had all been for naught. Mr. Darcy had married Miss Bennet, finding the happiness that eluded him for years. Now, if her dear Anne could prove so lucky, Mildred could rest easy. She understood everyone’s concern regarding Lieutenant Harwood because Anne knew so little about the man. But Mildred Jenkinson could not harbor ill feelings toward him. Farce or not, the lieutenant’s mindfulness of Anne’s good qualities brought sparkle into the life of the woman Mrs. Jenkinson so dearly loved. Only Lady Catherine saw the situation as deplorable, and her disapproval had driven Anne to a desperate act: Anne arranged a tryst. Mildred did not approve, but she understood.
Shawl in hand, she had followed Anne at a more leisurely pace. However, when she had heard the scream, she rushed forward, fearing the worst, but found only a man in the Pemberley livery blocking her way. “What is going on?” she cried. She peered around the man’s shoulder. He stood perfectly still. “Move!” she ordered as she tried to press past him.
“I would not,” he growled.
Mildred looked up into his eyes, which were red with anger. The man frightened her, but she mustered her best duenna voice—the one she had used years earlier for misbehaving children—and ordered,“See to your duties, sir, and remove yourself from my way.”
The man leaned menacingly over her, but he said no more. When she raised her chin in defiance, he whispered in a gravelly voice, sounding much older than his appearance indicated, “Beware, old woman!” And then he left, disappearing in the direction of the family quarters.
Mildred stared after him for a few brief seconds, overpowered by his rudeness, but as he withdrew, her sensibility returned, and she rushed to Anne’s side.
Darcy glanced down to where Lawrence continued to tend to his mistress. “Can she be moved?” he asked as he knelt again.
“I can find no obvious injuries, but I am no physician,” Lawrence said. “Yet, I think we can move Cathleen to her room.”
Darcy started to motion for a waiting footman, but Lawrence shook off the offer. The viscount circled to the opposite side of the woman, where he might lift her without hurting Cathleen or himself. However, before he had made a move, his eyes fell on the first step. “What is that?” He indicated with his eyes for Darcy to look to what he saw.
Darcy obeyed the urgency in the viscount’s eyes. “I do not know.” He bounded up the eight rises and reached for what he and Lawrence now realized had caused the accident. A thin piece of hemp—pulled tight—stretched from the banister’s spindle and hooked around a decorative nipple in the wall’s baseboard.
“What the hell?” The viscount ran his finger along the line. Angrily, Lawrence jerked on the looped thread and broke it.“Cathleen could have been seriously hurt,” he hissed. “Is this some sort of perverted trick?”
Darcy did not like the man’s accusation. “We have never experienced anything of this sort at Pemberley, sir—at least, not until we were beset with unscheduled visitors.We opened our doors out of kindness. If you and Miss Donnel wish to withdraw, I will make no an effort to stop you.” Darcy stood erect, arms akimbo—his fists opening and closing.
Lawrence, equally as tall, stood also—toe to toe; they took each other’s measure. “I shall see to my cousin’s well-being, and then you and I will speak of this at greater length, Darcy.”
“It would be my pleasure, sir,” Darcy snapped.
Adam returned to where Cathleen now pushed herself to a seated position.“Let me help you, Darling,” he murmured softly to her. “Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“My ankle,” she muttered. “And my head.”
“Let me see you to your room.” Adam lifted her to his chest and began to climb the steps again. When he reached the point where Darcy still stood, he snarled, “Might you send someone to my cousin’s room, sir?”
Darcy felt sorry for Miss Donnel’s injury, and he understood the viscount’s anger, but he objected to the man’s tone.“Mrs. Reynolds will see to it personally, Lord Stafford.”
When Adam reached the hallway, he let Lydia Wickham lead the way to Cathleen’s room. “Allow me to get the door and turn down the bed, Lord Stafford.”
“Thank you, Mrs.Wickham.”
Adam gingerly placed Cathleen on the bed. He wanted to examine his mistress’s ankle himself, but a gentleman would not conduct himself as such, even with a cousin. Luckily, Mrs. Reynolds rushed through the door, carrying bandages and several medicine bottles. “I will tend to Miss Donnel,Your Lordship.”
“I know this may be unseemly, Mrs. Reynolds, but I will wait on the other side of the screen in case you have need of my assistance.”
The housekeeper did not think that would prove likely; yet, she simply nodded her assent. “Where might be the most pain, Miss?” Mrs. Reynolds gently raised Cathleen’s chin to look in her eyes—to determine the clarity within them.
“The back of my head.” Cathleen reached to feel a raised lump behind her right ear.
Mrs. Reynolds replaced the woman’s hand with hers. Gently, she removed two pins from Miss Donnel’s hair and probed the affected area. “I see no laceration,” Mrs. Reynolds announced. “You should probably remain in bed for a day or two just to be sure—until the swelling goes down.” The housekeeper looked up to see Lydia Wickham still lurking by the door. “Mrs. Wickham, might I trouble you to send one of the maids to me?”
Curious about the interactions—Lord Stafford’s more-than-familiar relationship with Miss Donnel and his less-than-friendly confrontation with Mr. Darcy moments earlier—she volunteered, “I will find someone and return to help you also.”
Mrs. Reynolds had lost all respect for George Wickham many years earlier, and she fought to not transfer those feelings to the man’s wife; however, the girl’s foolish interference irritated her. “That will not be necessary, Mrs. Wickham,” she stressed. “Please join the master in the dining room; my staff and I can handle Miss Donnel’s injuries. I am sure that your sister—that Mrs. Darcy—will call on Miss Donnel herself. The mistress is all charity,” she pronounced with the assurance of a skilled servant long in her position.
Lydia wanted to speak to Lord Stafford—wanted to assess the situation personally—as this was the most interesting thing in the house right now—but she relented. “I will see to it.” She flounced from the room.
Seconds later, a maid entered.“You sent for me, Mrs. Reynolds?”
“Miss Donnel will need cold compresses for her head, Betanne.”
“Probably for my ankle, as well,” Cathleen muttered from behind them.
Mrs. Reynolds jerked her head around.“Oh, my, Miss, I did not realize.” She lifted the sheet. “Which ankle, Miss Donnel?”
“The left.”
The housekeeper raised the woman’s lower leg and cradled the ankle in her hands. “Might I rotate it?” she asked as she touched the tender joint.
“Yes.”
Gingerly, the older woman circumvolved the injured foot, while bracing it from the back.“I observe no breakage, Miss.” She turned it again just to be sure.“The ankle is swollen and quite bruised.We should elevate it.” Mrs. Reynolds took several pillows and placed them where she might rest Miss Donnel’s foot on the cushions. “We will need compressions for the ankle as well, Betanne, and have Mrs. Jennings send up some oil of chamomile.”
“Yes, Mrs. Reynolds.”The girl curtsied and departed.
Mrs. Reynolds spread a blanket across the young woman’s lap. “You may join us,Your Lordship,” she called out to the viscount.
Adam reappeared immediately.
“I am assuming, sir, that you overheard what I have told your cousin.”
Adam sat beside the bed and took Cathleen’s hand in his.“I did, Mrs. Reynolds.”
“It seems important to keep your cousin in bed where she might rest. I would also like to give Miss Donnel a dose of laudanum ; the medicine will ease her pain.”
Adam patted Cathleen’s hand. “I suggest we ask Mrs. Reynolds for a tray. Once you have eaten, the laudanum will not have such a dramatic after effect. I will remain with you until you are asleep.”
“Thank you, Adam.” Cathleen knew he felt affection for her: Adam Lawrence would protect her even though she was no more than his mistress.
“Let me see to a tray, Your Lordship. I will be back in a few minutes.” Darcy’s servant disappeared.
Adam shifted to sit on the edge of Cathleen’s bed. “I am so sorry, Sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead. “I wish I could change this for you.”
“I will recover,” Cathleen assured him. “I will be able to escape the possible censure of Mr. Darcy’s relatives if I remain in bed and out of sight.”
“I beg your forgiveness for that also.” He traced lines up and down her arm with his fingertips.
“For what must you ask forgiveness? You went beyond the boundaries most men would offer in a relationship such as ours. You tried to see me to Cheshire to be with my family. Only Nature’s full fury stopped us; I will never forget your kindness.” Cathleen caught his hand and brought the back of it to her lips.
Adam leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You are a beautiful woman, my Dear—both inside and out.” He returned to his seat in the nearby chair before someone saw them acting like lovers, not cousins. “Can you tell me what you remember of your accident?”
Cathleen’s brow frowned in concentration. “I do not believe there is much to tell. Mrs. Wickham and Miss de Bourgh both entered the hallway about the same time as I.We all moved toward the top of the stairs. Mrs. Williams came last.When the widow opened her door, Mrs. Wickham and Miss de Bourgh paused to wait for the lady, but I continued on.When I started to descend the steps, I lost my balance.”
“Then any of you could have been the first one down the steps? I mean…Mrs. Wickham did not purposely hold Miss de Bourgh back or vice versa?”Adam attempted to visualize what she described.
“Mrs. Wickham was already in the hall when I left my room.” Cathleen tried to see the action in her head.
Adam reasoned aloud, “Really? I wonder for how long.”
Cathleen looked puzzled.“I assumed it was for only a second or two. It was time for the afternoon meal.”
“But it could have been longer?” Adam put together the pieces of the mystery.
“Miss de Bourgh came after I started for the dining room. I remember her coming from the right hallway, where your room is.”
Adam’s countenance turned grim. “Someone rigged a thin line of rope across the step. It was difficult to see it in the dim light. I suspect that you were not the intended victim, but purely an innocent bystander. Now, I am trying to determine who might have had the opportunity to do so.”
“You suspect Mrs. Wickham?” Cathleen tried to reason it out, but could not fathom the purpose of such a trap.
Adam’s voice spoke of anger—of regret—and of determination. “I suspect everyone until I know otherwise.”