At this, her composure collapsed entirely. She buried her face against her husband’s shoulder, her sobs shaking them both. For once, Mr. Bennet did not tease, nor did he deflect with irony. His arm tightened around her, and he looked over her cap at his daughters with a gravity Elizabeth had not seen since…well, she could not remember.
“We shall speak of it in the morning,” he said firmly. “Tonight, your mother will rest. Hill—hot water, andsomething for her ankle. Jane, fetch a pillow from her chamber. Kitty, Lydia—see that the bed in my room is turned down.”
“And what of the intruder?” Lydia demanded, her eyes still darting towards the upper landing.
“The house will be searched again, from cellar to attic,” Mr. Bennet replied. “And this time, we shall bar every door and window before a single candle is put out.”
“Should we send a note to Netherfield?” Jane asked.
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “Darcy is coming in the morning. Tomorrow is soon enough to inform them.”
Elizabeth watched as her father led her mother slowly towards the west wing, Jane walking ahead with a lamp to light their way. Mrs. Bennet’s steps were halting, her hand still clenched around her husband’s sleeve, but her sobs had quieted into soft, uneven breaths.
In the hall, the younger girls whispered together, their voices high with excitement and fear. The footmen returned with lanterns, their faces set in grim determination as they moved off to carry out Mr. Bennet’s orders.
Elizabeth lingered at the foot of the stairs, staring into the dim shadows above. Somewhere in this house—these rooms she had known all her life—someone had stood beside her mother’s bed with a weapon in hand. Someone had been close enough to touch her.
Her grip tightened on the banister. Whoever this intruder was, he had crossed from mischief into menace. And she had no doubt that when Darcy heard of it, he would treat it as nothing less than war.
Thirty
November 27, 1811
Longbourn
Darcy
TheNovembermorningwassharp and pale, the kind of light that brought the damp air into relief, gilding every drop still clinging to the hedgerows. Darcy sat beside Bingley in the open carriage, the wheels cutting crisp ruts in the half-frozen lane as they made their way towards Longbourn.
In another season—another life—such a ride might have been pleasant, but Darcy’s mind was far from idle enjoyment. Instead, it was occupied wholly with the business at hand. The hours since the Netherfield Ball had been restless ones; his thoughts had returned again and again to Elizabeth’s words before their final set, her voicelow but charged with unease as she told him more of the “incidents” at Longbourn.
What had seemed, weeks ago, the petty work of a malicious prankster—or at worst, an opportunistic thief—had now taken on a darker cast. A figure seen in the night. Objects arranged with deliberate symbolism. A hand, perhaps, on the edge of violence. And last night…
Darcy’s jaw tightened. The image of Mrs. Bennet on the stairs, as Elizabeth had described it, haunted him more than he liked to admit. Whatever else could be said of her nerves or her tendencies to exaggerate, her terror had been real. He had seen it in Elizabeth’s eyes when she spoke—no artifice there, only the pale echo of her own fear.
He glanced at Bingley, who was humming under his breath, his usual cheer somewhat tempered but intact.
“This morning,” Bingley said, glancing over, “we may at last put some of this business to rest. Bennet will search with us, yes?”
Darcy inclined his head. “Elizabeth wrote her father is now fully committed to it. We begin with the places where the disturbances were heard.”
Bingley gave a brisk nod. “The sooner the better.”
They reached Longbourn in short order. The Bennet home sat quietly under the gray sky, its chimneys trailing thin threads of smoke into the cold air. It lookedthe very picture of domestic peace, but Darcy knew better now than to be deceived by appearances.
As they dismounted, Hill met them at the door, curtsying but keeping her voice low, as though the walls themselves might be listening.
“Miss Elizabeth is in the drawing room, sir,” she said to Darcy. “Mr. Bennet is with her.”
Darcy stepped inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and hearth smoke meeting him at once. He followed the sound of a soft voice and entered the drawing room to find Elizabeth standing near the fire.
She was pale, and though she greeted him with composure, there was a tautness to her posture that spoke of a sleepless night. Her eyes—bright even in weariness—held him for a moment, and he thought he saw the faintest flicker of relief cross her features before her expression settled into something more guarded.
“You did not sleep,” Darcy said, without preamble.
Her mouth quirked, not in humor but in acknowledgment. “I suppose it shows.”
“Only to one who looks for it,” he replied, stepping nearer. “Will you tell me?”
