Darcy stared at the final lines of Georgiana’s letter, his thumb tracing the edge of the parchment. A thought—dangerous in its tenderness—had begun to takeshape in his mind even before he’d fully realized it. What would Elizabeth think of Georgiana? And more telling still, what would Georgiana think of Elizabeth? He could picture it with disarming clarity: Elizabeth seated beside Georgiana at the pianoforte, encouraging her to play louder, to play boldly. Elizabeth would not coddle her, he suspected, but she would be kind. She would see the sharp intelligence behind his sister’s shyness, would coax it forth with that steady, spirited grace of hers. Georgiana, for her part, would likely be wary at first, but Darcy imagined her responding to Elizabeth the way he had—despite herself, despite her caution. They would suit, he thought. Not only in temperament, but in spirit. The idea filled him with a quiet longing, one he hardly dared name. For now, it was only a hope, folded between the lines of two letters and locked behind his ribs. But still, it pulsed. If Georgiana’s letter marked the beginning of her return to the world, then perhaps… perhaps Elizabeth could be part of it.
Chapter Eleven
November 5, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Thecoldwokeher.Not the ordinary chill of late autumn, but a biting, bone-deep cold that seemed to have crept into her very marrow. Elizabeth lay curled in a tight ball beneath her blankets, her breath visible in the faint gray air that hovered just above her face. The fire in her hearth had gone completely out—there was no faint ember, no comforting crackle. Only silence and cold.
She opened her eyes slowly, trying to make sense of the darkness. The sun had not yet risen; her room was still wrapped in the dim, colorless light of pre-dawn. She shivered and tugged the quilt higher—but something was wrong. Very wrong.
The window.It was open.
The curtains stirred ever so slightly in the draft, and the frost-laced air poured through the narrow gap. She had closed it after briefly enjoying an autumn afternoon breeze. Sherememberedclosing it and pulling the drapes.
With a sharp intake of breath, Elizabeth sat up, her teeth beginning to chatter. Her bare feet flinched at the icy floorboards as she padded across the room and pushed the window shut with trembling fingers. The latch clicked into place, sharp in the silence. But her hand froze on the sill.
There, resting against the wood, was a slip of paper. It had no writing—no message or mark save one: a large X scrawled in black ink, harsh and deliberate.
A chill prickled along her spine, a deeper, colder sensation than the morning air could account for. Her breath caught, and for a moment she simply stood there, staring at the paper as if it might vanish. But it did not.
She snatched it up quickly and crossed to her dressing table, tugging open the top drawer and tucking it beneath a stack of ribbons. Her hands were shaking. When she turned back towards the bed, she saw them.
Footprints.
Dirty, damp, distinct. Tracked across the rug from the window to the foot of her bed. Not hers—her slippers had not touched the rug. These prints were larger. Heavier.
Her breath hitched. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again, hoping the image would change. It did not.
The doorknob rattled just as she was about to move, and the door creaked open.
“Miss?” It was Sarah, one of the upstairs maids, carrying an armful of kindling and looking harried. “Begging your pardon, I did not mean to wake you—I came early to stoke the fire, what with the frost last night and all.”
Elizabeth turned towards the window instinctively, but said nothing.
Sarah paused halfway to the hearth and frowned. “Stars above, it is like ice in here! Fire must’ve gone out hours ago.” She bustled to the grate, kneeling and beginning to build a fresh fire, chattering as she worked. “Odd, that. I banked it proper last night. Must ‘ave drawn too cold. You should have sent for me, miss—you will catch your death sleeping in this freeze.”
Elizabeth gave a faint smile and slipped back beneath the bedcovers, pulling them tightly around her.
“I shall be warm again soon, I am sure,” she murmured.
Sarah clucked her tongue and kept working, none the wiser. “And your poor hands, look at you! I shall bring hot tea after this, never you fear. Might even talk cook into porridge if she is in a mood for kindness.” As she bustled around theroom, Sarah remarked absently on the state of the rug, saying she would have it cleaned immediately before departing.
Elizabeth nodded, her thoughts far from breakfast. She kept her gaze fixed on the canopy overhead, refusing to glance towards the rug, or the drawer now holding that silent, ominous message.
It was not the cold that made her tremble now. It was the knowledge that someone had been in her room—someone had come while she slept, left no sound but footprints and a mark she did not yet understand.
And worse still—no one else knew it had happened, either. She would wait and watch. But she would not sleep again without locking the window herself.
By the time the fire had taken hold and tea was brought up, Elizabeth felt warm enough to rise. She moved slowly, still unsettled, but determined not to let the morning’s discovery consume her entirely. She would tell Jane—eventually—but not yet. Not until she had made sense of it herself.
The gown she selected was a deep russet wool trimmed with narrow black braid, warm enough for the chill andautumnal in tone. Sarah fastened the back carefully, chatting as she smoothed the folds, her words a soft murmur Elizabeth barely registered. She tied a black ribbon at her waist and chose her plainest fichu—Guy Fawkes Day was hardly the time for fashion. Still, when she glanced in the mirror, the effect was pleasing. Serious, but not somber. Appropriate, considering.
Downstairs, the household had already begun to stir with energy. The scent of toasting bread and roasting apples drifted in from the kitchen, and the sound of Kitty and Lydia’s laughter met Elizabeth even before she reached the breakfast room.
“There you are at last, Lizzy!” Lydia cried as she swept into view, already in a pretty green frock with her hair half done. “You willneverguess what I overheard Hill telling Mama! The officers are coming to the bonfire tonight—allof them!”
