Chapter 11

Sometime in the late evening, it began to rain, and Monday morning dawned on a sodden landscape topped by heavy clouds that showed no inclination to disperse. Kept inside by such unfriendly weather, Elizabeth sat in the window enclosure of the parlor that overlooked the front drive, a book resting forgotten on her lap. In solemn silence, she watched the screaming wind lash raindrops against the cold glass that separated her from the elements while she waited for the rest of the household to wake. Her father, she knew, would already be in his study despite the early hour, but she hesitated to join him. She was as yet unsure of his mood after their argument yesterday and had no interest in provoking either his anger or curiosity if she pursued the topic.

The fire in the grate burned merrily, but she shivered despite it and pulled her shawl closer, wondering if Mr. Darcy was traveling in such inclement weather or if in his eagerness to be away from Hertfordshire and its residents he had scorned the tradition of not traveling on Sundays and was already ensconced in London. It was difficult not to think of him after the encounter in her father's study, and she sighed, wondering what it was about him that drew her emotions and thoughts so thoroughly, both for good and ill. Was it as Charlotte had said, that his complex character was such a mystery to her that she felt compelled to unravel it? Or was it something more?

When she had first discovered Wickham's doubtful morals as he lied blatantly to her father in the inn the morning after the ball at Netherfield, Elizabeth had purposefully avoided thinking about everything he had told her about his former friend, Mr. Darcy. But it preyed again upon her mind as she traced the path of a raindrop down the window, watching as it joined, then separated from its fellow drops, growing heavier as it made its way steadily to the bottom. What was it Mr. Darcy had said about Mr. Wickham? That he had "such happy manners as may ensure his making friends," but "whether he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."

Perhaps Mr. Darcy had been correct. Mr. Wickham had certainly lost her friendship.

As to the latter's accusations against the former, that he had denied him a valuable living out of jealousy and thus reduced him to his current circumstances, what was the truth? She could not truly say, one way or the other -- for she only had the word of Mr Wickham against that of Mr. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. But given what she had learned over the past few weeks of the characters of each, she could trust with fair certainty that Mr. Wickham was in the wrong.

More importantly, however, did it matter in her evaluation of Mr. Darcy? Elizabeth had certainly been predisposed to condemn Mr. Darcy when she had first heard of his betrayal of his childhood companion, due to her first impressions of the two men. Now, though, she could not only recognize that Wickham's version might be a complete fabrication, but also that it was truly none of her concern. Other than to use their own words and behaviors to further her understanding of how they each presented themselves to the world, she had no business judging either man in the matter itself.

And when the business between the two men was removed, of what else did Elizabeth have to accuse Mr. Darcy? That he was proud, yes. And certainly that he was careless with his insults in company he judged unworthy of his notice.

Elizabeth frowned. But that was the first night of their acquaintance. Since then, he had been mostly inoffensive. Staring at her and listening to her conversations with others was awkward and somewhat unmannerly, but it was not malicious. And their interactions since that first assembly had not been antagonistic; in fact, she had rather enjoyed a few of their debates at Netherfield. And he had asked her to dance -- even if unwillingly or in jest -- several times.

Truly, the most she could say about Mr. Darcy was that she didn't know much about him, and that she did wish to complete the portrait of his character. It was so rare for a gentleman of his qualities, of his complexity, to enter the neighborhood, and she found that engaging with him on an intellectual level was enjoyable. More than enjoyable. And if perhaps there was a little voice in her heart that whispered that she wished to know more about him for the sake of knowing him more, she was careful to not let it run amok. After all, he could have no interest in her -- not after overhearing what she had thought of him.

For she was certain that he had. He knew what they thought of them, he had said -- not that he supposed, or he thought, but that he knew.

In all the time they had been acquainted, she had seen Mr. Darcy as a man who spoke with precision, and if he knew, then it was only because he had heard it from her own lips. He would have heard her speaking to Charlotte of him, from his place in the foyer before meeting with her father. The conclusion was as inescapable as it was uncomfortable. She was perfectly aware of how sound travelled in her house and she had spoken so indiscriminately with no thought as to who might hear. It was perverse chance that should have admitted him to Longbourn at the same time. His refusal then, in her father's study, to meet her eyes, to look at her, only confirmed it for her.

The pain of having hurt Mr. Darcy -- who had known she had such power? -- burned in her breast, and she closed her eyes in shame, resting her forehead on the cool window pane.

Perhaps it was just payment, that their relationship should have begun and ended on insults overheard.

A moment later, when a discreet chaise turned to enter the drive, Elizabeth abandoned these thoughts and sat up more sharply, watching it approach and pull up beneath the portico. She felt some curiosity at such an early visitor, but could see nothing of the vehicle's passengers from her angle of observation. The doorbell rang and she heard a muffled murmur of voices from the hall, but when none of the household was aroused, she surmised it was someone to visit her father, and returned to her examination of the deluge as the chaise returned from whence it had come, its form hazy in the downpour as it rumbled out of sight. Was it her imagination, or did the rain seem heavier than it was but a moment ago?

An hour later, however, as Elizabeth began to hear the stirrings of the household above, there was a quiet knock on the door to the parlor and Mrs. Hill entered cautiously. "Beg pardon, miss, but I was wondering if you knew whether Mr. Fletcher be staying to break his fast, and should we set a place for him?"

"Mr. Fletcher?" Elizabeth repeated, surprised that with the coroner there her father had not asked her to join them. She frowned, but assured the housekeeper that she would seek out Mr. Bennet and his guest and inquire.

The door to her father's study was closed, and she paused before it, hesitating to interrupt the indecipherable rumble of voices beyond. At last, though, she lifted her hand and knocked, and was soon bid to enter. "We were wondering, sir," Elizabeth said after she had entered and offered a small curtsey to the coroner, "if Mr. Fletcher would be joining us for the morning meal."

Mr. Bennet looked sullen. "I am sure Fletcher has many things to do today. He has surely told me nearly all of them."

The coroner, however, brightened at the invitation. "On the contrary; this rain has put off many of the things I had intended to do. I would be most honored to break my fast with your family, Miss Elizabeth."

"I hope you have been seeing progress in your investigations, sir?" she asked politely.

He acknowledged that he was not as advanced as he had intended to be. The ground where Mr. Collins had fallen had not yielded as many clues as he had hoped, and the autopsy he had done had furthered him little. Mr. Collins, he had found, had sent two letters out that day and had received one note in return, but the coroner had hit a dead end trying to discover to whom and from whom those messages had been delivered, so it could not be determined whether they were in any way connected to the case. "But I have one last inquiry to which I should soon receive a response, and then the inquest may be reconvened." He paused. "I understand that you had a lead that did not turn out favorably the other day at Netherfield."

"Ah, I believe that was Colonel Fitzwilliam's theory," Elizabeth said, shooting a look at her father's scornful expression. "It was, unfortunately, incorrect, but it cannot be said to have had no merit. He had not the knowledge my father had, and pursued a false trail."

"It is not to be wondered at," Mr. Fletcher replied. "Regardless of any military success the colonel may have had, he is not a professional in the field of detection and law, and for an amateur to have had success where we have not should have been exceeding strange."

"I believe the colonel said that he had been employed in the field of military intelligence," Elizabeth said doubtfully.

Mr. Fletcher shook his head. "But it is not the same as thief-taking and comprehending murder. Why, it would be similar to your father attempting to make determination of the cause of a man's death, rather than myself. No, no, I still say that these matters should be left in the hands of those who have been trained and specially formed and who retain the authority to discern them rightfully."

"I wonder, then, at your attempt to discern the culprit in this case," Mr. Bennet said dryly, "as that is my purview, and not yours. For your office, it is sufficient to render the cause."

Mr. Fletcher's cheeks reddened slightly, and the spark in his eyes told Elizabeth that this ground had been covered many times, perhaps even many times that morning. She sighed silently and interrupted the argument to offer to show Mr. Fletcher to the breakfast parlor, where the rest of the family would soon join them.

Indeed, Mary was the first of Elizabeth's sisters to descend, and she and the coroner fell into easy discussion over books they had read. They were soon joined by Jane, Kitty, and Lydia, though the latter hardly opened her lips, even to eat, and sat nervously on the end of her chair all the while. When Mrs. Bennet descended, she quickly recognized the unique opportunity and did her best to forward the burgeoning relationship between the coroner and her middle daughter, to often awkward results. Thus the atmosphere remained convivial, even when Mr. Bennet joined them and sat sulkily silent like a glowering cloud at the end of the table. He remained only so long as his meal did, and then retreated again to his study.

Mr. Fletcher sat with the ladies for the morning as the weather continued to rage and travel appeared unwise. Soon into the afternoon, however, one of Mr. Bennet's tenants came to report dangerous flooding along the river, and it was made clear the coroner would be forced to spend the night. If several hours shifting fallen trees on the muddy banks on the far end of his property and being rained upon did not spoil Mr. Bennet's already tempestuous mood, the notice upon his return in the evening of the need to entertain a new houseguest did nothing to better it. After a warm bath and a dose of Mrs. Hill's special concoction to ward off the chills, Mr. Bennet sent his man with borrowed clothes to the guest room, ordered a tray for dinner, and slammed the door of his study so firmly that a picture hanging in the hall fell to the floor and cracked the frame in two.

"He is like an infant in a temper tantrum," Elizabeth complained to Jane that night as they huddled together in her room. The wind howled outside as the rain continued to pelt down. "He had his toy taken away, was told he was being naughty, and now cannot even play well with the other boys."

"Lizzy, that is unkind," Jane said. "Father has had much pressed upon him today. I understand from Mrs. Hill that the entire western field on Mr. Johnson's farm is underwater and part of Mr. Ford's barn has collapsed."

"Oh, but he was in a foul mood long before that," she replied bitterly. "I should say it has been building this whole week, with such little progress being made on the case. Colonel Fitzwilliam sent him a note yesterday saying that he had finished interviewing every officer and discovered no one unaccounted for, and had even received confirmation from London that Mr. Wickham had indeed delivered his packet and been sent to barracks for the night, so that is that for the militia. He also had a letter on Saturday from Sir Edmund Denny, badgering him for news, to which he has refused to reply, and he expected Murray from London by today -- but with this weather I don't foresee him returning very soon with whatever answers papa sent him to find, which will undoubtedly make him even more cross. And now that Mr. Darcy has gotten out from under his thumb, he does not even have his favorite plaything to tease and bully about. What is it about these gentlemen from Netherfield that have such a strong effect upon us Bennets? Next I expect to see Kitty swooning over Mr. Hurst. At least you, I know, shall be sensible enough, if rather sentimental about your Mr. Bingley -- and don't you argue with me again that he is not your Mr. Bingley."

Jane's mouth opened, and then closed, and a discernible blush crept over her cheeks, and Elizabeth started. The guilty look could only mean one thing: "Jane! Is there something you have not told me?"

Her sister stammered a bit as she picked at the bedclothes. "I am sorry, Lizzy. I wasn't meant to say anything yet."

"But to your dearest sister! I am distraught! When did it happen? Has he sought Father's blessing? Come, Jane! Tell me everything, or I shall tell mama it was you who put the salt in the sugar dish at Aunt Phillips' tea when you were eight."

With such terrible deeds to conceal, it did not take more encouragement for Jane to reveal that during his interview on the carriage ride to London Mr. Bingley had confessed his love for her and, once Jane had stopped crying long enough to say yes to his proposal, he had begged permission of a bemused Mr. Bennet before they had even gone a mile further.

"He does act swiftly," Elizabeth approved. "I suppose he was quite right in that whatever he does, he does in a hurry -- but then why has it not been announced? Oh, right, Mr. Collins," she said, answering her own question.

Jane nodded. "Papa would have told the family immediately, Mr. Collins' death or not, but both Charles and I thought it unseemly, so soon after. And we shall only be in mourning for a few days longer. A week is hardly so much time to wait."

"I should think it would feel an eternity, when one is in love!"

Here Jane decried any intention or inclination to wait forever, and admitted with a blush that she was in actuality quite eager to become Mr. Bingley's wife. It was only that in such blissful happiness as she had, knowing that she was fulfilling the dreams of her family in marrying well and her own dreams of marrying for affection, that she had no room for impatience.

"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" Jane cried, embracing her sister with tears in her eyes as her emotions at last got the better of her. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such another man for you!"

"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you," Elizabeth replied sensibly. "Until I have your goodness, I should never match your happiness. But perhaps there shall be a man for me in time. I shall simply have Papa interrogate them all until one confesses his love for me!"

At this, they both dissolved into giggles, and such was the end to their night; Jane soon after returned to her bed and Elizabeth was left to thoughts of a particular man who had been interviewed by her father, and the disturbing suspicion that, could she have known him better, she might have been as happy as Jane.

The following morning left all unchanged at Longbourn; the rain fell and the wind blew as firmly as the day and night before it, and the inhabitants, including Mr. Fletcher, were bound to the house. Mr. Bennet kept to his rooms, and Elizabeth sought him there after breakfast, in the hopes of gauging his temper.

"I suppose you are here to chastise me for my behavior toward my uninvited guest," Mr. Bennet harrumphed when she came to sit beside his favorite chair and lean against his knees. She didn't say a word, simply sat there with her arm around his leg, and at last he relented. He turned a page of his book before putting a marker in it and setting it on the little table beside him. He lay a hand on her head and sighed. "You're a good girl, Lizzy. A sensible girl, and quite right to have told me what you did. But I am an old man, and fully entrenched in my ways. I doubt it shall have much effect upon me in the end."

"Oh, papa," she said, "I did not mean to say that you must change. I love you as you are, truly!"

His hand stroked her hair gently. "But if you had said it, child, you would have said no less than the truth. I am not perfect, but a man with more or less the same number of frailties as the rest of mankind. It is merely that one of my greatest weaknesses inclines me to be content with all the rest."

"I worry for you, Papa," she said softly. "I cannot help but feel that all of this has exhausted you, and your frustration with the case, and the murder of your heir, and now the weather and Mr. Fletcher … it is all too much. If only you could discover the culprit tomorrow and turn him over, and everything return to normal!"

Mr. Bennet looked down at her with keen eyes, a sad smile curving his lips. "And you think that it is only not knowing the culprit that is holding me back from arresting the man? Ah, my dear, I have known who the murderer was since nearly the very beginning, and it is from there that the frustration grows."

Elizabeth, startled, looked up at her father. "You have known who killed Mr. Denny all this time?" At his nod, she asked, "And Mr. Collins?"

He sighed. "Yes, Lizzy, but it is all merely theoretical. I have the who and most of the why and am nearly certain of the how, but I have very little evidence. And I cannot convict a man with only my convictions."

"And why not, papa? I have never known you to be wrong on a case, and if you have some evidence, surely the courts would find a way to secure justice."

"But in a case where the punishment is certain death?" He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Let me tell you a story, and perhaps you should understand:

"Some years ago, when you were still in the arms of your nurse and I was as yet rather untried in my position, I was presented with a case in which a man was discovered at the scene of a murder at an estate in the west of the county. Two people had been bludgeoned to death, a husband and wife of respectable lineage, while their children and servants were asleep in the house; it had been supposed that the murderer had come only to rob the house, but been surprised in the act and responded with violence. Furthermore, not only had the man a history of poaching and petty thievery, but there was evidence that he had, indeed, burgled several items from the house that night -- and he admitted as much to me. But he strenuously denied having murdered the master of the house and his wife, and it was thought that, with the penalty for the theft likely transportation and the penalty for murder, death, he was merely striving to gain a lesser sentence and the chance of surviving the long journey to New South Wales."

"Had he done it?" Elizabeth asked. "Had he murdered those people?"

"I certainly thought so, and I certainly was grateful for such an easy case to dispose of, and with such notoriety. Even the king had praised me for apprehending the murderer so quickly, and I was assured by him that my tenure as sheriff was secure. And though the only evidence we had of his fatal crime was his presence in the room when the deaths were discovered by the butler, and his subsequent flight pointing to his guilt, it was enough to convict him. I began to have some doubts after the arrest, but I felt it was out of my hands at that point: the judges were keen to make an example of him, and the man had no family to plead for him, no money to put on a decent defense. He was sentenced to death by hanging, and that was it. With so little effort on my part, I was able to return home to my books and my family. A job well done."

Mr. Bennet paused and passed a hand over his eyes. "But then several months later I received a note from a justice of the peace in one of the southern counties. He had just apprehended a man who had murdered a family asleep in their beds, and when questioned had admitted to other murders, in other counties."

"Including Hertfordshire," Elizabeth said.

He nodded. "And the details of one of the murders of which he boasted in his mad ravings were such that the magistrate had recognized the case immediately, having heard of it himself in London. He wrote me, and I went there and learned what I had feared: that this man was the murderer -- fully insane, fully deserving of death for his crimes -- and that I had sent another man to hanging in his stead."

"So the other man was innocent?"

"Oh, no, he was guilty," Mr. Bennet replied. "But not of the crime I had charged him with. He was likely but a petty thief who had stumbled across a murder, just as he had told me. But I had been so convinced it was him, so secure in my own perception, that I neglected to find the evidence that would have proved it for certain. I am sure, had I looked then with due diligence, I could have discovered evidence of another intruder. In fact, and this is my shame, I know because I returned later to the house and searched with new eyes.

"I swore never again to rely only on my instincts in a capital case, but to prove a man's guilt beyond any doubt," he said slowly. "In the blindness of my pride in my own wisdom and sagacity, and the laziness of my temper, I had put a man to death. Perhaps he would not have lived, in any case, had he been sentenced to the prison hulks or transportation, but he would have had a chance, and my conscience could be clean of the guilt of killing a man through the instrument of the law. I was responsible for ensuring justice, and I failed. And that is a crime I shall never forget."

"But papa, you cannot know that you would have found evidence of his innocence at the time, no matter how you searched later. And what if instead you found evidence that had proved, in fact, that he was guilty?"

"Then I should have rested my conscience in having proved beyond a doubt, as they say, that he deserved his mortal punishment. But should there be even a shadow of a doubt, I must discover the truth before I act."

"But if, while you are searching for evidence, the man does something more, commits further crime. Are his victims not deserving of consideration? They could have been saved the trouble had you acted upon your knowledge -- if you have known since the ball, could Mr. Collins have not been murdered?"

Mr. Bennet sighed. "It is possible. But there is one thing you must remember that took me some time to learn: I am the sheriff. I am not God. I can judge men's actions, but not their hearts, and if they escape man's justice they shall not escape His."

Elizabeth was quiet for some time, her head resting against her father's knee, before she spoke again: "And you will not tell me who you suspect?"

"I will not."

"And this is why Mr. Fletcher is angry with you?"

Mr. Bennet sighed. "It is. He does not understand my reservations; he never has, and I have never tried to explain it. And now he has besieged me in the hopes of inveigling it from me."

Elizabeth laughed. "I think you can blame the rain, and perhaps other feminine inducements for his continued presence."

"And your mother shall see in it a perfect opportunity to extract a proposal for her least promising daughter, and I shall never be free of the man. Ah, Lizzy, my lot is a hard one."

She grinned. "Only if you persist in remaining in this room all day," she said, jumping to her feet and taking his hands to lift him from the chair. "Come, there is plenty of ridiculousness that awaits you in the drawing room, for you know mama's subtlety in matchmaking. And, with the inevitability of the match in no doubt, you may as well take comfort in observing Mr. Fletcher as a suitor. He is as stiff in making love as he is in his duties as a coroner, so you shall have plenty of opportunities to poke and prod at your leisure."

Mr. Bennet smiled at that and gave his daughter a kiss on her cheek before allowing her to lead him to the door. "Very well, but I shall blame you should this lead to my strangling the man."

"And I shall admit my guilt," she replied with a smile. "Beyond the shadow of a doubt."