Darcy inclined his head. “I am obliged to you for the suggestion.”
Bingley, overhearing this, looked up from where he sat beside Jane. “Why, Darcy, what a curious line of inquiry! Are you contemplating a treatise on Hertfordshire estates?” His tone was light, but his eyes held genuine curiosity.
Darcy did not attempt to evade. “Not quite. I came across a reference in an old journal—an account of a manor house in the area having burned to the ground. I simply wished to learn more about the situation and what happened after the fact.”
Elizabeth, keeping her expression composed, felt a ripple of interest pass through her. She did not miss how Mr. Darcy deliberately did not name the estate.
“A fire, you say?” Bingley leaned back in his chair. “How very dramatic. I cannot think which house that could be. Miss Bennet, do you know of such a tale?”
Jane shook her head gently. “No, I cannot recall hearing of one.”
Miss Bingley glanced up from the embroidery frame, her brows lifting in polite surprise. “My word, Mr. Darcy, you do choose the most singular topics for conversation. Surely if such a catastrophe had occurred in this district, it would be common knowledge?”
“Not necessarily,” Darcy said evenly. “If it happened many decades ago, it might linger only in private records or the recollection of the elderly.”
Mrs. Nicholls curtsied and withdrew, leaving behind a faint sense of expectancy in the room.
“Well,” Bingley said cheerfully, “if you wish to speak with someone in particular, I daresay I can arrange an introduction. I have become very well acquainted with the residents in the area.”
“That would be most useful,” Darcy replied. His gaze flickered briefly towards Elizabeth, and though his expression was unchanged, she read the message plainly enough: they had just taken their first step towards uncovering the truth.
Elizabeth, pretending interest in the rain-darkened view from the window, listened closely as the conversation shifted back towards lighter matters. The card tables were being folded away by a pair of footmen, and Mrs. Hurst began describing a musicale she had attended in Town, extolling the talent of a certain Italian tenor. Miss Bingley added a string of details meant to impress, but Elizabeth’s attention remained fixed on Darcy’s remark about the journal.
When the room’s noise swelled enough to mask private speech, Darcy crossed to where Elizabeth sat. His gaze flicked towards Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst, still occupied at their embroidery, and then to Bingley and Jane, whose conversation was quietly absorbing them both.
“I think,” he said in a voice pitched for her alone, “that speaking with someone who was there will be essential. Based on the dates in the journal, the fire occurred within living memory. Of course, those who know will be very old now.”
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly. “Do you believe it to be connected to the other…oddities?”
“I cannot yet say,” he admitted. “But if a manor burned so completely that it had to be rebuilt—or abandoned—it would have been a significant event. Such occurrences often leave behind more than rubble.”
“More than rubble?” she echoed, a faint smile touching her lips.
His answering look was steady. “Rumours, perhaps. Secrets, if one listens closely enough.”
She found herself matching his tone. “And you intend to listen?”
“Only if you will as well, Miss Bennet.”
Before she could answer, Miss Bingley’s voice rang out. “Miss Eliza, will you not join us? Louisa has just completed the most charming floral motif, and I am certain you will admire it.”
Elizabeth rose, smoothing her skirts. “With such an invitation, how could I refuse?” She caught Darcy’s faint, knowing glance as they rejoined the others, the unspoken promise between them as tangible as any vow.
Chapter Nineteen
November 18, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
“Ihope,mydear,that you have ordered a good meal for this evening.”
Mr. Bennet looked over the top of his newspaper, a peculiar gleam in his eyes. Elizabeth, seated halfway down the table, recognized it instantly. It was the same glint that heralded one of her father’s more mischievous turns—a moment when he was prepared to bait his wife for his own amusement. She smothered a sigh, silently willing Mrs. Bennet not to grow too overwrought before the fun had run its course.
The breakfast room was awash with the pale gold of a late autumn morning, the sunlight streaming in through the tall sash windows and pooling on the polishedfloorboards. The table was laid with a modest but hearty spread—thick slices of ham cooling on a platter, a dish of eggs gone slightly cold from waiting, a basket of rolls wrapped in a linen cloth, and a small plate of Mrs. Bennet’s prized quince preserves, already half-empty thanks to Lydia’s generous appetite. A faint clatter of cutlery and the occasional rustle of the newspaper were the only sounds until Mrs. Bennet, perched at the head of the table with a teacup in hand, looked up sharply.
“Are we to have guests?” she asked curiously, her voice edged with a brightness that hinted at excitement. Elizabeth could almost see the wheels turning in her mother’s mind—some unlooked-for dinner guest meant the possibility of good gossip, or better yet, a romantic prospect for one of her daughters. Mrs. Bennet leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing with speculative hope. “Oh, it is Mr. Bingley, is it not? I invited him to dine weeks ago. Finally!”
