The Events at Branxbourne by Caitlin Williams

Are you all looking forward to the royal wedding tomorrow? I have been working hard on my new release which will be available very soon-hurrah! I’m in the finishing stages, so now I can afford to spend some time relaxing in front of the television. I’ll be watching the ceremony – eating and drinking too much, and oohing and aahing over the outfits. Love all the pomp and circumstance. Megan and Harry seem very much in love; she has definitely found her prince charming.

But sadly, in my latest book, Elizabeth Bennet’s fairy-tale has turned into a nightmare, and her happily ever after is in doubt. Have a read of the blurb and the first chapter below.

The Events at Branxbourne

Lady Lambert, or Elizabeth Bennet as she was once known, appears to have made the perfect match. Having refused Mr Darcy’s proposal of marriage at Hunsford, she is now married to a viscount. Yet beneath her fine clothes beats a heart filled with regrets. Dark secrets lurk in every corner of her elegant London townhouse, and while she might have many excellent and numerous carriages at her disposal, they all seem to take her places she does not truly want to go.

Into her, now desolate, existence comes Mr Darcy again, a changed man, a better man, the very best of men, and still very much in love with her. Is it all impossible? She ought to resist him, yet she cannot stay away. Theirs is a dangerous, scandalous love that proves impossible to resist.

In an age when women are owned by their husbands, can a wife escape a man she has come to loathe, and when there is blood on her hands, how will Elizabeth explain herself?

The book will be released on, or soon after the 2nd June and will be up for pre-order on 22nd May, and a short blog tour will begin on the 2nd June 2018.

For now, here’s the first chapter of The Events at Branxbourne…..

Branxbourne House, Nottinghamshire
September 1817

ELIZABETH

Rationality fails me. Everything fails me, even the ability to panic. My mouth opens, my throat and chest contract as if to scream, but no sound comes. Is it any wonder I am numb and my mind empty? This sorry end, I could hardly have predicted; therefore, I know not how to act. Ridiculously, my chief concern is for the fine fabric of this dressing stool. My bloodied hands are gripped around the edges of the seat, no doubt staining it, and while I am sorry to be the cause of its ruination, I cannot move. The stool caught me, afterwards, when I fell back in shock, and I have not moved since.

Yet moments before, my limbs were busy, fast, and furious in their anger, and powerful too. They have managed a murder, taken a life. My husband, my lord, my master—his legs twisted one around the other in an odd manner—lays motionless at my feet.

We are three years married; three years of misery and disharmony. Never attuned to one another, never in step, not until now. Only in this final moment are we together, both so terribly still, so horribly silent.

Dense, crimson blood flows from a cut at the back of his head, working its way through his thinning, blond curls. It is not the bright red, watery blood of an accidental injury—the kind made by a scrape or a fall or the prick of a misplaced sewing needle. This blood will not be easily wiped away nor pressed into nothingness by a wet handkerchief. It is dark, the colour of violence, and there is far too much of it. It has its own peculiar smell—what am I reminded of? Something decaying. Rusted iron, perhaps, or rotting apples?

It runs down the side of his pale face to pool on the highly polished floorboards beneath him. I wish it would stop there but it does not. A small stream begins to form, flows towards my feet, and points me out, accuses me. “There she is. This girl here in the pretty beaded shoes. She is the murderess.”

They are shoes never meant for my ignorant, country feet. I cannot fill them, was not destined for this role. I am no viscountess. I fool no one, least of all myself. Society will be proved right. How they will all crow in triumph and tell one another they are not surprised. This, they will say, is the sort of thing one can expect when a man marries so far beneath him.

It will be printed in every newspaper; the events at Branxbourne will be spoken of at every dinner party for years to come. Future guests here, those far better behaved than I have been, might ask to see this room. For a small tip, the staff will tell them what they saw, embellishing the tale with each recount. “This is where it happened. This is the very room in which Lady Lambert killed her husband—in cold blood; and when they took her away, she was calm, just apologised for getting blood on the dressing stool, as if such a thing mattered. Poor soul had run mad, you see.”

Lady’s Bedroom

A sound finally escapes me, a laugh, and I suppose I must be hysterical for it is not seemly at such a time, not unless I do want everyone to think me mad. That is not my design; it would not be right. I must keep some of my morals correct. My actions were born not of insanity, only anger.

There is a quiet knock; the door opens and Bassett, my little maid, comes in, her eyes wide with shock as she surveys the scene. “Oh, madam, they’ll hang you.”

She is right, but I am unperturbed at the idea. Hanging is merely falling, after all, and I have been falling for quite some time now. I am heartily sick of the sensation, of hurtling out of control, tumbling deeper and deeper, unable to stop. Something was bound to break at some stage—be it my spirit or my will, perhaps a few bones. So, it is to be my neck that will snap. What of it?

Basset, as sweet and kind a girl as ever there was, is not equal to the scene before her. She wipes her hands on her apron and looks to me, eager for instruction. When I have none to give and only offer her a dumb shake of my head, she is panicked. “I’ll fetch Mr Darcy, shall I? ’Appens he’ll know what to do.”

I remain silent as she scurries off, telling me not to move before she shuts the door behind her. As if it were possible for me to move! I am nothing but a statue in this very grand room with its beautifully turned furniture, expensive art, rich materials, and elaborately painted ceiling.

Yes, Bassett will ask him, and Mr Darcy will come. He will take masterful command; he will have a plan. Though he is the reason I began falling in the first place. Would I be sitting here with blood on my hands if Mr Darcy had not re-entered my life? Most likely I would still be in Hanover Square—alone but not a murderess, hopeless but not about to hang, desolate but not disgraced.

Mr Darcy was my downfall, yet he was well worth it. I would do it all again. To have felt the strength of his unyielding love, I will willingly hang. How can I fear Hell, when I live there already, and I will not miss Heaven, for I have felt that too. Heaven is him.

Really hope you enjoyed this teaser chapter – come over to JustJane1813.com on 22nd May for the cover reveal and some competition fun.