“We have looked in every corner, madam,” she addressed Mrs. Bennet directly. “The servants’ rooms, the linen cupboards, under mattresses and in trunks. There is no sign of the missing keys, nor the silver, nor your gloves, ma’am, nor the crystal decanter. Nothing.”
Mrs. Bennet gasped audibly and pressed a hand to her breast.
“But worse still,” Mrs. Hill continued, casting a wary glance around the room, “some of the staff have reportedtheirbelongings missing. Blankets, shawls, and pillows. One of the footmen claims two of his shirts are gone. And Cook says food has gone missing again—this time from the locked larder. She swears she secured it last night herself.”
Elizabeth felt a chill course down her spine. The pattern was clear—increased frequency, varied, and disturbingly personal. No longer just trinkets and wine, but comforts, necessities.
Mrs. Bennet let out a strangled moan and rose from her chair as though propelled by a sudden gust of wind. “We shall all bemurderedin our beds!“ she cried, her hands trembling violently. “They have blankets and pillows tosmotherus, and knives from the kitchen to slit our throats! We are beingwatched,hunted!”
“Mama—” Jane began, setting aside her embroidery in alarm.
But Mrs. Bennet could not be consoled. “They have taken my gloves, my silver, my peace of mind! What shall I do? Whatshallwe do? It must be gypsies! Or vagrants! Or highwaymen dressed as servants—oh, Iknewwe should never have let that new scullery maid in—!”
“Mama, please—” Elizabeth tried, but it was too late.
”Icannotstay down here,” Mrs. Bennet declared, turning in a flurry of shawls and skirts. “I must lie down before I fall into a swoon. Hill! Hill, attend me!”
“Yes, madam,” Mrs. Hill replied wearily, stepping aside to allow her mistress to storm from the room.
They could still hear her muttering all the way up the stairs—something about poison in the tea and a letter to Lady Lucas—and then, at last, the house fell silent again.
Kitty released a breath. “Do you think she will stay upstairs all day?”
Mary did not look up. “We can only hope.” Her wry wit came as a surprise, and Elizabethchuckled quietly in response.
The humor faded quickly. Elizabeth met Jane’s gaze across the room. Her sister’s calm demeanor was cracking; concern darkened her expression. There was no denying it now: something was terribly wrong at Longbourn.
Chapter Eight
November 1, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Elizabethwassummonedtoher father’s study just after luncheon. The room was its usual state of organized chaos—papers in loosely stacked piles, books opened and abandoned mid-paragraph, and the faint scent of old tobacco lingering in the air. Mr. Bennet looked up from behind his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose.
“Ah, Lizzy, good. I have a task that requires some measure of competence and clear-headedness,” he said, waving his hand towards the window as though gesturing in the direction of some invisible chore.
Elizabeth raised a brow and folded her hands before her. “Do tell. That sounds far too serious to suit my idle feminine mind.”
Mr. Bennet gave her a dry smile. “I find myself in need of an inspection of the old Shipton cottage and I cannot be troubled to go—too many tiresome letters to write to too many tedious relations—but the new tenants are arriving within the week, and the place must be made ready. I would like you and Jane to walk out there, take stock of what needs repair, and compile a list.”
“You trust us with estate matters?” she teased, though a flicker of anticipation stirred within her.
“I trust you not to faint at the sight of cobwebs or complain of manure,” he said blandly, then added with a grunt, “And I trust Jane to keep you from wandering off into philosophical reflections when there is work to be done.”
Elizabeth dipped into a mocking curtsy. “We shall not disappoint you.”
Moments later, she and Jane set off from the house with a modest basket that contained pencil, paper, and a wrapped tea cake Mrs. Hill insisted they take along. The sky had brightened somewhat, a pale autumn sun breaking through the clouds, casting the path ahead in soft golden light. The wind was sharp, but the walk promised to be pleasant enough.
They had only reached the end of the drive when they encountered two familiar figures approaching on horseback.
“Ladies,” Mr. Bingley called as he dismounted with graceful ease. Mr. Darcy followed, less theatrical but no less imposing. Both men looked flushed from the brisk air.
“Out on a stroll?” Bingley asked cheerfully, his smile broadening as he looked at Jane.
“To a tenant farm,” Jane explained, returning his smile with her usual gentle grace. “Papa has asked us to survey the old Shipton cottage.”
