His brow furrowed slightly. “If we wished, we might trace the name through the parish records. Someone in Meryton might recall the gossip, even after all these years.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “You speak as though we are embarking on a grand investigation, Mr. Darcy.”
“Perhaps we are,” he replied with the faintest smile. “Though I imagine uncovering MB’s identity would be more for our own curiosity than any true purpose.”
Still, Elizabeth could not help but feel the pull of the mystery. “It is strange to think,” she said softly, “that Longbourn might have once stood in ashes—and stranger still that a part of its history should have vanished so completely from memory.”
Mr. Darcy glanced towards the blackened journals on the table. “History has a way of shaping the present, even when forgotten. Sometimes, especially then.”
Elizabeth met his gaze again, a curious warmth settling between them. “Then perhaps,” she said, “it is worth remembering.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head, the flicker of the firelight catching in his dark eyes. “Perhaps it is.”
Reluctantly, he closed the journal and set it on the small table between their chairs. Elizabeth’s fingers lingered on the worn leather cover, the urge to continue reading pulling at her like a thread she did not wish to let go.
“I suppose,” she said with a quiet sigh, “we ought to make ourselves presentable before the dinner bell.”
Mr. Darcy’s mouth twitched in wry agreement. “If we do not appear soon, Miss Bingley will send a search party—and no doubt imagine us in the most scandalous of circumstances.”
That drew a reluctant smile from Elizabeth, though it did little to banish her frustration. Together they rose, Elizabeth carefully tucking the journals back behind the other books they had collected, as though concealing a treasure from prying eyes. The thought of having to sit through an evening of idle chatter, knowing such a story waited here for her, was almost enough to make her groan aloud. She wished to discuss things further withMr. Darcy.
They left the library and rejoined the rest of the company in the drawing room. The scene that greeted them was precisely as Elizabeth had expected: Miss Bingley presiding over the arrangement of a card table with the air of a general placing troops for battle, Mrs. Hurst shuffling a deck with meticulous care, and Bingley attempting to convince Jane to partner with him in the first game. Mr. Hurst lounged in his usual chair by the fire, a glass of port already in hand.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy, Miss Elizabeth—at last!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, though her eyes held the faintest gleam of suspicion. “We were just settling into a game of cassino before supper. I insist on you both joining us. We shall be six—perfect for three pairs.”
Elizabeth summoned her most polite smile and agreed, though inwardly she longed only to escape back to the quiet of the library. Every moment spent exchanging cards and pleasantries would keep her from the mystery of Alfred Moore and the fire. Her mind, however, refused to stay with the game. Even as she played her hand, she found herself turning over fragments of journal entries, piecing together the shape of a story left unfinished.
Mr. Darcy, seated opposite her, seemed equally distracted. More than once she caught his gaze lingering on her, and in those fleeting glances she read the same unspokenthought: they had only begun to scratch the surface of something worth uncovering.
But for now, they were both captives of courtesy—forced into the small rituals of an evening in company, when all either of them truly wished was to return to the fire-lit quiet and the waiting pages in the library.
Chapter Eighteen
November 17, 1811
Netherfield Park
Elizabeth
Sundaydawnedcrispandbright, with a pale autumn sun filtering through a veil of high clouds. After breakfast, the Bennet ladies joined the Netherfield party for the brief carriage ride into Meryton for church.
The building itself had stood for more than a century, its weathered stone walls streaked with the softened patina of time. High-arched windows were filled with stained glass—muted now by age and centuries of candle smoke—but still catching glimmers of light in rich reds, greens, and golds. The air inside was cool and faintly scented with beeswax and the faint mustiness of old hymnals.
Elizabeth followed Jane into the Bennets’ accustomed pew, conscious of the Netherfield party settling justbehind them. When the parson began his sermon, his voice was steady but unhurried—indeed, so unhurried that Elizabeth’s thoughts soon began to drift. She found herself noting how the placement of one tall stained-glass window, directly behind the pulpit, made the preacher appear to have a faintly luminous halo about his head whenever the sun broke through the clouds. It was an image at once solemn and absurd, and it took a great effort not to smile.
Her gaze wandered inevitably towards Mr. Darcy. He was seated two places down from Miss Bingley, the afternoon light falling in softened hues across his dark hair and strong profile. More than once, she found his gaze already upon her, and the brief meeting of their glances sent an unexpected warmth through her. There was nothing improper in it, yet each glance seemed to hold more than mere politeness.
Miss Bingley, catching one such exchange, bestowed upon Elizabeth a look of thinly veiled sourness, but otherwise kept her attention fixed on her prayer book. Elizabeth noted with quiet relief that over the past few days, Miss Bingley’s pursuit of Mr. Darcy’s attention had seemed less insistent—though whether from resignation or some other cause, she could not guess.
At last, the sermon drew to a close. The congregation rose, the rustle of skirts and boots onstone echoing beneath the high rafters. The Bennets emerged from the church in a cluster, the brisk air brightening cheeks and setting feathers and ribbons fluttering. Behind them trailed the Netherfield party, Miss Bingley gliding with deliberate grace while Mr. Hurst grumbled quietly about the length of the sermon. Once outside in the churchyard, Mrs. Bennet engaged in animated conversation with Lady Lucas, her voice carrying clearly over the autumn breeze.
“…and I have every hope for dear Jane and Mr. Bingley,” Mrs. Bennet declared, smiling broadly. “They suit one another so very well. Such a match would be the pride of the neighbourhood.”
Elizabeth approached the path towards the carriages when Mr. Darcy came to her side. “Tell me, Miss Bennet,” he said, lowering his voice so that only she might hear, “what would your mother say if not one, but two of her daughters were to be courted by eligible men?”
She arched a brow. “Do you mean anyone in particular?”
His expression was steady, though there was the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “I do.” He inclined his head towards a quieter stretch of the churchyard. “Would you take a turn with me for a moment?”
