“It has been unoccupied for some time,” Elizabeth added. “The new tenants arrive next week, and my father wishes to know if it is still standing.”
“A sound estate policy,” Darcy remarked, falling into step beside Elizabeth as Bingley and Jane naturally drifted ahead in quiet, cheerful conversation.
Darcy’s tone was casual, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. “It must be a challenge to have even one farm lying fallow,” he said after a pause. “The loss of income can be…noticeable.”
Elizabeth nodded, adjusting the basket on her arm. “Indeed. The farm was not always a loss, however. The Shipton family held that land for three generations. There was once pride in their work, a sense of stewardship.”
“But not in the last generation?”
She shook her head. “No. Mr. Shipton—the last—lacked the workethic of his father and grandfather. Over time, yields dropped. He neglected the hedges, let the fields go to weeds, and grew careless with his accounts. There was no malice, I think, just idleness. Eventually, he could not meet the rent. My father allowed delay after delay, but it was no use. He had to evict him last spring.”
Darcy’s jaw tightened slightly. “That cannot have been easy.”
“It was not,” she agreed. “Mr. Shipton left bitterly. Swore vengeance, in fact. The villagers spoke of it for weeks. He vanished not long after, and no one has seen him since.”
Darcy’s brow furrowed as he looked towards the winding path ahead, the hedgerows whispering in the wind. “Strange, then, that his name should return to your household under such...uncanny circumstances.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “You think it more than coincidence?”
He did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low and thoughtful. “I think it worth remembering.” He gestured to footprints on the path before them, indicative that someone had come this way recently.
Elizabeth glanced up at him, a slight shiver brushing her spine. Not from the wind.
The path to the Shipton farm lay ahead, dappled with fallen leaves, quiet, and waiting. They had fallen behindthe others on the wooded path, their pace slowed by the frost-hardened earth and a conversation that had turned, unexpectedly, to local superstition. Elizabeth had asked, with a half-smile, if he believed the strange happenings at Longbourn might have a supernatural cause.
Darcy resisted the urge to smile outright. “I do not believe in spirits, Miss Bennet. But I will confess, the tenant’s name caught my attention.”
She tilted her head in curiosity. “Shipton?”
He nodded. “Yes. It reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten. Have you ever heard of Mother Shipton?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I cannot say that I have.”
“She was born Ursula Southeil,” he explained, his voice thoughtful. “A Yorkshirewoman, sometime in the late fifteenth century. A poor girl said to have been born in a cave during a thunderstorm, disfigured from birth and rumored to have unnatural powers. They called her a witch—though in truth, she was more of a seer. A prophetess.”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly, her interest clearly piqued. “And what did she prophesy?”
Darcy gave a small shrug. “All manner of things. Some nonsensical, others oddly specific. Her predictions were compiled in pamphlets and chapbooks—sold widely, eveninto the last century. I remember seeing one in my tutor’s collection. People invoked her name whenever strange things occurred. I find myself wondering what Mrs. Shipton might have said about all of this.”
Elizabeth grinned. “Probably something ominous and cryptic, just vague enough to fit anything at all.”
He chuckled quietly. “Then she would have made an excellent politician.”
The cottage came into view as they crested a gentle rise, and Elizabeth’s first impression was one of quiet neglect. Once a pleasant, modest dwelling, Shipton Cottage now stood sagging against the encroaching autumn wilderness like a weary old man too proud to fall. Ivy clung to the walls in unruly patches, some of it dead and brown, others green and climbing through broken windowpanes. The small fence enclosing the kitchen garden was in disrepair, slats missing entirely in places and the gate hanging askew from one hinge.
The garden itself was a tangled snarl of weeds and brittle stalks, long overtaking whatever herbs or vegetables had once grown there. A rake lay abandoned near the door, its handlecracked and warped from long exposure. The once-white paint on the cottage exterior was chipped and peeling, exposing gray wood beneath. The thatched roof bore dark patches of moss and a visible sag over the right corner, suggesting damage that might worsen with winter rains.
“Oh dear,” Jane murmured softly, clutching the basket as they paused just outside the gate.
“It is not the worst I have seen,” Mr. Darcy said as he approached from behind, surveying the scene with critical eyes. “But it shall require immediate repair.” He turned towards Mr. Bingley. “You had best pay attention. This will be useful in your own learning. Make note—roof repairs first. Sagging near the eaves, likely a broken support beam. Best have a carpenter out to assess it before the new tenants arrive.”
Bingley, ever obliging, drew out a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. “Roof—yes. Anything else?”
Darcy moved forward, inspecting the door, which hung half off its hinges. He gave it a push, and it swung open with a loud creak. “The front door must be rehung and secured. It looks as though it has not latched properly for months.”
Elizabeth followed, entering the dim interior with care as her boots scraped against warped floorboards. Inside, itwas musty and cold. One of the windows had a cracked pane, a jagged hole in one corner stuffed with wadding. Darcy pointed it out immediately. “Glazier’s work there. At least two windows need new panes.”
“And the porch,” Bingley added, pointing behind them. “It gave a bit when I stepped on it. Nearly threw me sideways.”
