“Perhaps it was nothing,” he said. “But I will have Hill and Carter check the house immediately. And—” his eyes flicked to Darcy “—thank you, sir. For your vigilance.”
Darcy nodded, but his gaze returned to the house, where the upper windows now remained dark.
As the search began and the crowd continued to cheer at the next round of fireworks, Elizabeth found herself once again beside Mr. Darcy. They said nothing, only stood together at the orchard’s edge, watching the fire burn and the house loom dark and silent in the background.
Yet something had changed—between them and in the air around them.
The fire crackled. The stars watched in silence. And somewhere, deep in the shadowed halls of Longbourn, something unseen stirred.
The search of the house turned up nothing.
At least, that was what Mr. Bennet reported when he returned some time later, looking more annoyed than alarmed. He claimed that Hill and Carter had gone through every room, including the attic and cellar, and found nothing but dust, linens, and a mouse behind the warming closet.
Elizabeth did not believe it. Not entirely.
“Perhaps it was only a trick of the firelight,” Mr. Bennet offered, brushing soot from his cuff. “Glass reflects oddly at night, and you have had a long few days, Lizzy. Let us not frighten your mother unnecessarily.”
But Elizabeth was not convinced it had been a trick of the light. She had seen it. So had Darcy.
And he stood now beside her once more, silent and watchful. His gaze swept the house, then the gathering, then the orchard behind them—as if calculating the perimeter of a battlefield.
“You are not satisfied,” she said softly, almost without meaning to.
He did not look at her, but the set of his jaw confirmed her suspicion. “No.”
“Nor am I.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Around them, the night resumed its revelry. The final roundof fireworks exploded overhead in a shower of red and silver, drawing oohs and laughter from the assembled guests. Lydia squealed somewhere to their left, likely in pursuit of a scarlet-coated officer. Jane and Bingley were deep in quiet conversation beneath a bare-limbed oak, their faces warm in the firelight.
And still, Elizabeth felt the cold.
Not from the weather, which had eased slightly under the blaze of the bonfire, but from within. The same bone-deep chill that had seized her that morning returned now in full force.
Darcy noticed. He shifted closer—not touching her, never that bold—but near enough for her to feel the heat of his presence. It helped. More than she could say.
“I found something,” she said suddenly, before she could talk herself out of it. “This morning. On my windowsill.”
That caught his attention. He turned his full gaze to her now, steady and alert.
“What was it?”
“A piece of paper. With an X. Nothing else. And footprints—muddy ones—on my rug. From the window to my bed.”
Darcy’s expression darkened instantly. “You did not tell anyone?”
“Not yet. I was not sure… But now…”
“You must tell your father.”
“I will,” she said. “Tomorrow. I do not want to alarm the household again—not with the guests here, not on a night like this.”
Their eyes met then—truly met—and in that moment, Elizabeth felt something unspoken pass between them. Not affection, not yet. But something truer than fear, stronger than propriety. A shared understanding. A promise.
The final firework burst above them with a great clap of sound, scattering gold across the darkened orchard. Beneath it, Elizabeth stood with Mr. Darcy at her side, the world both alight and shadowed, and the future suddenly more uncertain—and more alive—than it had ever been. She put aside all thoughts of mysterious specters and the odd circumstances at Longbourn in favor of Mr. Darcy’s pleasurable company.
Chapter Twelve
November 5, 1811
