“I confess I am very curious about what is to come.” Elizabeth leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Who is the other heir? There are not many estates nearby. Perhaps he is from Stevenage. B could be for Bennet, but those initials do not belong to any ancestor I know.”
Darcy stretched, then closed the journal with care and set it aside. “Perhaps we can peruse the other after tea,” he suggested.
Elizabeth nodded, though she hesitated before returning the volumes to the shelf. She slid them behind the other books they had gathered, irrationally anxious they might vanish before they returned. The fire crackled softly as they left the room together, their shared curiosity about the journals lingering like a secret between them.
Tea that afternoon seemed to last an eternity. Elizabeth sat with her cup and saucer cradled between her hands, itssteam long since faded, her thoughts miles away from the polite chatter in the drawing room. Miss Bingley spoke at length about the latest fashions from Town; Mrs. Hurst recounted a small soirée she had attended two winters ago; Bingley attempted—without success—to draw Jane into discussing the weather.
Elizabeth answered when addressed, but her attention was elsewhere—fixed on the quiet man across the table.Mr. Darcy, too, seemed only half-present, his replies brief, his eyes drawn more than once to hers. Each time their gazes met, a flicker of understanding passed between them: they were both thinking of the black-bound volumes hidden on the library shelf.
When at last the tea things were removed, Elizabeth rose with a polite smile. “I believe I should stretch my legs before the fire makes me entirely drowsy.”
“I think I shall do the same,”Mr. Darcy said at once, with the careful nonchalance of a man not wishing to appear in collusion.
Miss Bingley arched a brow but said nothing, merely adjusting her skirts and remarking to Mrs. Hurst that the room was intolerably drafty.
Once free of the drawing room, Elizabeth’s pace quickened, the click of her half-boots against the polished floorechoing faintly.Mr. Darcy fell into step beside her, the barest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.
In the library, the fire had burned low, but it was still bright enough to read. Elizabeth retrieved the journals from their hiding place, brushing her fingertips over the worn leather as though greeting an old acquaintance. They settled into the same armchairs as before,Mr. Darcy taking up the second volume and opening to the first page.
The early entries continued much in the same tone as the previous journal—matters of estate management, weather reports, notes on harvest yields. But scarcely a fortnight in, the hand grew less precise, the lines more hurried.
Mr. Darcy read aloud, his voice deepening at the shift in tone.
February 2nd, 1742 – I write tonight with a heaviness I have never known. Longbourn is gone. The fire came in the black of night, springing up in the main hall with no warning. I could see the glow from our upper windows, and within minutes every man in this household was roused. Alfred was first out the door, shouting for buckets and ropes, for men to follow him. I followed with all speed, my heart pounding with dread.
The scene was chaos—flames devouring the roof, smoke choking the air, the cries of the women piercing above theroar. Alfred went in, again and again, pulling servants from the inferno, bearing the mistress of the house on his shoulders, even emerging once with two frightened cats clutched to his chest. I called for him to stop. He did not heed me.
The last time he went in, the roof groaned and split. The house collapsed in a great shower of sparks, the sound like thunder. He did not come out. In that instant, I knew—my boy was gone. Others perished, though I have not the will to set down their names. The damage is beyond repair. And always, I think of MB, whose wicked influence stoked Alfred’s reckless spirit. It was MB’s drunken revel that left the candles burning. It was his folly that set the blaze.
Darcy’s voice was quieter now, and he glanced at Elizabeth before continuing.
February 5th – MB has fled, though word reaches me that he boasts of the fire as though it were some adventure. God forgive me, but I wish him drowned in the Thames. It would have been better had he stayed in Town, for then my son would yet live. My wife weeps without ceasing; I cannot bear to see her thus. The air here smells of smoke, even now, and every corner holds a memory too sharp to endure. We have resolved to quit Hertfordshire for good. Netherfield will be leased. My dear daughter will inherit in time, but as her husband holds lands in the north, they will not reside here.It is agreed that her second son will one day have it, should he live to manhood.
Mr. Darcy closed the book softly. For a long moment, only the faint hiss of the fire filled the room.
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “I have never heard of an estate burning near here—let alone Longbourn! To think the house I grew up in is not the original structure. No one has ever spoken of it—at least, not in my hearing.”
His gaze lingered on her, solemn and searching. “Such events have a way of being swallowed by time, Miss Elizabeth, though for those who lived them, they never truly fade.”
Elizabeth sat back in her chair, the weight of the story pressing upon her. In her mind, she could almost see the night as Mr. Moore had described it—the rush of feet, the shouts, the searing light against the winter darkness—and the shadow of loss it left behind.
Elizabeth remained still for a long moment, her eyes on the small black-bound volume in Mr. Darcy’s hands. “This means,” she said at last, “that the MBisa Bennet. But I do not recall anyone… Perhaps the Bennets who lived at Longbourn then were another branch of my family?”
Mr. Darcy turned the book over thoughtfully. “Given the year, it is entirely possible. 1740—that would be your…great-grandfather's time, correct?”
She nodded slowly, her mind turning over the possibilities. “And yet… If my own kin were saved by the son of Netherfield’s master, I should have thought the story would be told often—perhaps even with pride. But I have never heard a word of Alfred Moore or of this MB.”
Darcy’s expression darkened slightly. “If MB truly caused the fire, even by accident, his name may have been deliberately forgotten—scrubbed from polite recollection. And if he was known to the Bennets of that time, perhaps they too preferred silence to the reopening of such a wound.”
Elizabeth shivered faintly, though the fire was warm at her back. “It is a tragic thing to give one’s life in such a way. I cannot imagine the courage it would take to return into the flames again and again.”
“I can,” Mr. Darcy said quietly, his gaze steady on hers. “A man who loves—be it his family, his friends, or his duty—would think of nothing else in such a moment. He would act, no matter the cost.”
Their eyes held, and Elizabeth’s breath caught. She looked away first, her fingers smoothing an invisible crease in her skirt. “I wonder who MB truly was. Mr. Moore speaks of him with such loathing, yet with enough familiarity to suggest they had oncebeen friendly.”
Mr. Darcy leaned back in his chair, one long leg stretched towards the hearth. “The tone implies a neighbor, perhaps from a family of some standing, but without the discipline expected of a landholder. He could have been as many heirs—idle and indulged.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth mused, “the very thing—a man of means, grown careless through excess. If he remained in Town, perhaps he had no ties here beyond friendship with Alfred.”
