Mr Darcy and the Murder at Rosings by Mei Wei Lin

Author:Mei Wei Lin [Lin, Mei Wei]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-14T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 14

Mrs Fielding held up her lamp and peered into the darkness of the cellars. A draft tickled past her ankles and the familiar scents of cabbages, carrots, of cold and damp, of wooden barrels and old linen, mingled with that of Mr Bolton’s pipe smoke. He was asleep in his room now (there was no light shining underneath his door), but the warm scent of burnt tobacco always lingered for a while after he retired.

She proceeded cautiously into the narrow corridor, holding the lamp up. What days these were, she wondered with a weary sigh. If only this uncomfortable business could be finished.

She turned the corner, into the laundry room and the glow of light she carried snapped the corridor into complete darkness again.

In this darkness, a figure stopped before the door of the laundry room, and waited.

Moments later the corridor was brightened again, this time by a tall and broad young man, his step far more assured than the housekeeper’s. The figure in the darkness skulked away into the depths of the cellars.

The young man seemed unafraid of the shadows cast by his candle. He paused before the laundry room, but only to duck his head to look inside.

“Aunt?”

“John! I thought you were bringing the girl? Where is she?”

John entered. He placed his candle on a wooden shelf and then rubbed his hands together. These passages were unpleasant to visit at night. The laundry room was, usually, by far the warmest of the cellar rooms, heated by the ironing stove and the steam of the hot water that was brought here in buckets for the washing. Now it all stood cold and still: piles of sheets lay unwashed on the ironing table that stretched from one end of the room to another. Mrs Fielding had placed her lamp on it, and was pacing the rest of the room with nervous energy.

“Well?” she demanded.

“I sent the boy. He says there is nowt the matter with Joanne. Caught a slight cold, small wonder.”

“Bring her to me,” Mrs Fielding urged. “I shall keep her.”

“You will tell her ladyship too,” John said, glowering.

Mrs Fielding sighed. She adjusted her cap and turned to her nephew again.

“So you mean to keep her in some cottage, without a fire to warm her, damp and cold as it is, until she catches her death?”

“Not for long,” John said. “T’rain won’t go forever. Soon it’s done, I am taking her to the sheriff m’self.”

“Aye, taking her, half dead,” Mrs Fielding said highly sarcastically. “Very wise.”

“What else am I to do?”

“Tell me where she is and I shall go to her,” Mrs Fielding said. “I shall take blankets, set a fire, boil some wine.”

“She has blankets,” John rolled his eyes. “What did you think I sent the boy for, pray?”

Mrs Fielding sighed with frustration and paced the room. “You cannot leave her there. Who knows how long this storm is going to last. At least let me go to her.”

“No,” John said, stubbornly. “You can’t go without raising questions.

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