An excerpt from Mary Smythe's new book, coming April 7
Charlotte led her past Lady Catherine’s Throne Room, across the vast entrance hall to the opposite side of the house, and finally down the mysterious corridor Elizabeth had never been privileged to tread. A little way down was a set of yew doors that were surprisingly unadorned. She was unsure whether this lack of ornamentation predicted a sad, uninspired library akin to the one at Netherfield or conversely implied that it had been left unspoilt by the gilded touch of Lady Catherine.
When she entered, Elizabeth found herself overcome by awe; the plain doors disguised the entrance to a magical realm. The library was flooded with moonlight, enabling her to see nearly as much detail as she might during daylight hours. This was a blessing, for the decoration, far from the grotesque taste of the rest of the house, was absolutely enchanting. Nowhere else in the manor was the Arthurian theme so prevalent or exquisitely done. Numerous tall shelves of light-coloured stone had been elaborately crafted to emulate the mythical Camelot, their dividing columns wrought into spires that truncated in crenellated moulding where the wall met the ceiling. The ceiling itself was a fresco of King Arthur seated at his famed round table, surrounded by his knights and lifting the Holy Grail in tribute.
Best of all, in Elizabeth’s giddy opinion, she espied the stained-glass window she had oft wondered about set within the outer wall, the one she had only been privileged enough to observe from afar. The moonlight filtering in through its coloured panes created a dappled mosaic effect upon the hardwood floor, almost as if a giant rose were blooming there at her feet. It was flanked on either side by half a dozen tall, pointed windows filled with plain glass, allowing light to pour in unobstructed, brightening the space, and she had no doubt that the aspect of the park would be magnificent.
She moved closer and peered out onto the shadowy grounds. Close to the house were the formal gardens, of course, but fortunately they did not spoil the view of the woods farther afield. A glint of brightness above the tree tops caught her attention—the same white-stone tower she had spotted from her bedchamber earlier. She was determined to find it before the end of their stay and have a closer look.
Putting those fancies aside, Elizabeth stepped back a few paces so she could more fully gaze upon the ornate window that had so captured her imagination. It was enormous, at least ten feet across and equally tall, and was encircled by a thick border of pale stone bricks in alternating sizes. There was elaborate scrollwork carved into the masonry along the casement, like petrified vines encroaching on the glass. It was almost as if it had been set back in a pile of prickly brambles.
The image itself was largely what she had gleaned from a distance, but on closer inspection the details gave her a greater understanding of the significance of the tableau. It was clearly a depiction of King Arthur—no, wait, perhaps Lancelot—proffering a golden flower to Guinevere. The flower might have been a rose, as suggested by the thorny growth that intruded upon the scene, or possibly a daffodil by its rendering. The lady appeared pleased with the gift; her angular face wore a faint smile as she reached out to accept it. Absolutely lovely!
From behind her, Charlotte’s voice lightly echoed out of the shadows. “This room is quite something, is it not?”
“’Tis marvellous!” Elizabeth exclaimed, returning to the centre of the room and spinning about in the colourful mosaic cast by the window. It was magical; she felt as though she were dancing inside a brilliant jewel.
Charlotte, still standing near the doorway, laughed. “Lady Catherine does not visit it often, as she is not a great reader like her husband was, but it is well worth seeing.”
“If I lived at Rosings Park, I doubt I would ever leave this place.” Elizabeth paused a moment, then admitted, “Save to walk the grounds. Kent is the Garden of England, after all.” And I must find that tower!
“Once you have gaped your fill, do come and sit with me.”
Elizabeth pulled her gaze from the magnificent window and turned it to Charlotte, who was strolling towards a set of comfortable-looking chairs near the hearth.
Sinking down into the seat across from Charlotte’s, Elizabeth emitted a contented sigh. “Do you think Lady Catherine would mind if we took these chairs back with us to London? The ones in the library there are not nearly so delightful.”
“I dare say Lady Catherine does not enter this room more than once in a decade, so you are likely safe.”
In Book Two of the Happily Ever Afterlife Series, the newly married Mr and Mrs Darcy travel to Rosings Park to attend the funeral of Anne de Bourgh, strange things begin to happen, and Elizabeth is soon learning more about her husband's deceased cousin than she ever could have imagined.
