Darcy was on his feet before she had quite finished. “I will accompany you. That wing is chilly in this weather, and it would be inconsiderate to send you there alone.”
Mary, either oblivious or entirely willing to assist them, nodded. “Thank you both. It is the green-bound copy with the gilt edges.”
The house was quieter beyond the drawing room, the murmur of conversation fading until only the muted drumming of rain on the roof and the occasional creak of old timbers kept them company. Elizabeth led the way towards the east wing, the air cooling perceptibly as they left the well-heated heart of Longbourn. The scent of beeswaxpolish gave way to something older, fainter—wood that had slept in shadow for decades.
Darcy walked a pace behind her, his steps steady, his presence a weight at her back she found she did not mind carrying. “It is remarkable,” he murmured as they turned into the long corridor, “how a few feet can carry one from the warmth of a sitting room into what feels like another house entirely.”
“It has always been so,” Elizabeth said softly. “When we were children, Jane would never let us linger here after dark. Lydia liked to pretend she heard whispers.”
“And you?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I did not hear them. But I sometimes…wanted to.”
His brow lifted at that, but he said nothing, only followed her to the far end where the corridor narrowed and bent slightly, as though to avoid some hidden obstruction.
Elizabeth slowed, letting her hand trail lightly over the paneling. The wood here was different—less finely joined, the paint just faintly out of harmony with the rest. She rapped it lightly with her knuckles; the sound came back hollow.
Darcy stopped beside her. “Here,” he said, laying his own hand flat against the panel; its breadth nearly spanned the width of one board. “It is newer work than the rest.You can see the joinery—deliberately set to hide something.”
The closeness of his voice sent a small shiver down her spine. “The old servants’ quarters?”
“It would fit with your aunt’s account,” he said. “But until we find a way in, we can only speculate.” His gaze moved to her face then, and lingered, as though he were weighing something beyond the matter of hidden rooms.
Elizabeth looked away first, bending towards the narrow window seat at the turn of the corridor. Mary’s sermons were not there—only a film of dust and a small heap of what looked like dead ivy leaves. She brushed her gloved fingers over them, then straightened, aware of Darcy watching her.
“I suppose we shall have to tell Mary her book is lost to the ages,” she said lightly.
“Not lost,” he returned, his tone quiet but sure. “Merely misplaced until the right hands find it.”
The words, though plainly about the book, touched something warmer, more perilous. Elizabeth felt her breath slow, the air between them charged with unspoken things. She could hear the rain pattering against the small leaded panes, could see the faint sheen of damp on the dark wool of his coat where the shoulders had notquite dried.
“We should return,” she said, though her feet did not move.
“Yes,” he agreed, but he did not move either. For a moment longer they stood in that dim stretch of corridor, the hollow panel before them, the weight of the rain-wrapped house pressing close. Then, as though some unspoken accord had been reached, they stepped back into motion—side by side now—retracing their way towards the warmth and light.
Elizabeth was aware, absurdly, of the faint brush of his sleeve against hers as they walked. It was nothing accidental, inevitable in a narrow hall. And yet, when they reached the threshold of the drawing room, she found herself unaccountably reluctant to part from the cool quiet of the east wing and the man who had shared it with her.
They stepped back into the drawing room to find it much as they had left it—though Lydia and Kitty had now taken possession of the hearthrug, with their heads together in conspiratorial glee. The warmth hit Elizabeth like a soft wave, scented with tea and Mrs. Bennet’s favored rosewater. Darcy lingered near the door a moment, his gaze sweeping the room in that habitually measured way of his, before following Elizabeth towards the tea table.
“Did you see it?” Lydia pounced before they had gone three steps, her eyes bright with anticipation. “The ghost? Did it scratch at the walls? Did you hear moaning?”
Elizabeth’s lips twitched. “We found no ghost—only dust, draughts, and the absence of Mary’s Fordyce sermons.”
“How disappointing,” Kitty sighed. “We hoped you might come back pale and trembling.”
“I think you mistake your wish for my welfare,” Elizabeth said dryly.
Darcy, standing just behind her, inclined his head to the younger sisters. “If your ghost inhabits the east wing, Miss Lydia, it must be a remarkably polite spirit—there was no sign it had moved about without permission.”
Lydia frowned, uncertain whether he teased her or not. “Oh, but I shall prove it exists before the ball,” she declared, undeterred. “Then you must dance with me out of gratitude for solving the mystery.”
Elizabeth caught the faint curve at one corner of Darcy’s mouth and felt a spark of warmth in her chest. That small, private amusement was worth more to her than a dozen polished compliments.
Mary, seated by the window, looked up from her embroidery. “No book, then?”
“I am afraid not,” Elizabeth replied, moving to her side. “It must have found its way into some other hiding place. We did discover, however, that part of the paneling there is newer than the rest. Perhaps you should keep your sermons in more conventional places.”
Mary’s brows rose at that, but she nodded gravely and bent back to her work.
