One of her candles lay on its side, half-melted into a puddle of wax that had spilled across the polished wood and down the front of the drawer. The wick was blackened—spent, but still faintly warm. The cloth underneath it was scorched at one edge.
A cold rush of panic gripped her chest.
She had not lit that candle. Hands trembling, she reached for it, then drew back as the wax cracked under her fingertips. Her mind raced. She had left her room hoursago. The candle had not been burning then.I would have remembered.
The window—still locked. The servants were at the celebration. But someone had been here. Again.
A soft knock startled her. It was Sarah entering with her apron already in hand.
“Oh, heavens,” the maid exclaimed, rushing to the table. “Miss, this could have been terrible! We are fortunate the whole house did not catch fire!”
Elizabeth stood frozen as Sarah began scraping up the wax with a bit of cloth and muttering to herself about carelessness and mischief.
But Elizabeth knew it was not carelessness. Nor was it mischief. This wasdeliberate.
She stared at the candle, then at the warped cloth, and the panic in her chest deepened. The light in the window. It had not been a reflection. And after it had vanished, it had beenthis.But did this happen before or after the search?
Someone had lit a candle in her chamber. Someone had been there while she stood below, watching the flicker from the orchard.
Suddenly, the warmth and joy of the night felt very far away. Her fingers shook as she readied forbed, the faint scent of smoke still lingering in the air. She checked the window latch three times, then drew the curtains closed.
Climbing into bed, she curled beneath the quilts, seeking solace in their weight. Her thoughts whirled—of danger, of footprints, of shadows and flame.
But as her eyes drifted towards sleep, they wandered unbidden to Mr. Darcy—his story, his voice, the way he had walked beside her like an equal, steady and sure.
She admired him. More than that, shetrustedhim. And though fear lay coiled just beneath her ribs, it was his face—his calm, quiet presence—that steadied her. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in days, she did not feel entirely alone.
Mr. Bennet
He had once dismissed the mysterious circumstances around Longbourn. This event, though, could not be ignored. Mr. Bennet would keep his own counsel and maintain his outwardly uncaring demeanor.Perhaps all would be made known in due time.
November 6, 1811
After the noise and light of the Guy Fawkes celebration, the stillness in the house felt almost strange—thick and muffled, as though the very walls were recovering from the revelry. Outside, pale sunlight filtered through the haze of morning fog, throwing soft beams across Elizabeth’s chamber. The air remained crisp, and though Sarah had drawn the drapes and laid a warming pan in the bed before dawn, the corners of the room still felt cold.
A tray sat on the small table near the window, brought up while she was still in her dressing gown. It held a neat breakfast: a soft-boiled egg in its dish, lightly toasted bread, a small dish of stewed apples with cinnamon, and a pot of strong black tea with cream and sugar beside it. Elizabeth sat slowly, the steam curling around her face as she took the first careful sip.
She should have been hungry after the night before, but her appetite wavered. Instead, she pulled thetoast apart in small pieces and stared at the dressing table, her gaze fixed on the corner where the candle had stood.
Sarah had done her best. The wax had been scraped away with impressive diligence, and a clean cloth now lay beneath the candlesticks. But still, a faint residue remained—a subtle clouding of polish, a puckered spot where the fabric had been scorched. Evidence. Proof. And yet, meaningless to anyone but her.
She set her tea down and rose.
The morning sun shone weakly through the fog, making the colors in her wardrobe appear muted and grey. She selected a sprigged muslin gown, pale ivory patterned with tiny cornflower-blue blossoms. It was heavier than most, suitable for the cool air, with long sleeves that buttoned neatly at her wrists. The bodice was trimmed in dark blue ribbon, and she tied a matching sash at her waist before pulling on her half-boots. Her spencer hung nearby—navy wool lined with silk—and she draped it over her arm, longing for the fresh air outside.
She needed to move. To walk. To breathe something that was not smoke or suspicion.
As she stepped into the hallway, she was immediately met by the rising pitch of argument echoing from down the corridor.
”Iknowthey were there!“ Lydia’s voice rang out, unmistakable in its indignation.
“You hide things in your wardrobe and expect them not to go missing?” Kitty snapped. “That is your own fault!”
Elizabeth sighed and followed the noise.
Lydia was standing in the doorway to their shared room, her hair still undone, pointing accusingly at the open wardrobe. Her arms were crossed, and her face was flushed. “I had sweets. Peppermint drops. I put themrightbehind my old shawl. Now they are gone. And someone rifled through everything!”
Kitty rolled her eyes and perched on the edge of the bed. “If it had been me, I would not have taken just sweets. I would have taken backallthe thingsyoustole from me last month. Like my embroidered handkerchiefs. Or my green ribbon. Or mycopy of The Minerva Tales,which you said you never touched and then returned with agrease stain.”
