Elizabeth reached over and took her sister’s cold hand. “No,” she murmured honestly. “Not at all. I am afraid too.”
They lay in silence after that, with the wind battering the windows and the distant creak of the house settling around them. Though Elizabeth closed her eyes, she knew it would be a long while before sleep truly came.
When she finally drifted into slumber, her dreams were dark and uneasy. She wandered through the shadowed halls of Longbourn, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floors. Doors opened of their own accord, revealing rooms filled with smoke and the faint sound of crying. Whispers slithered through the air, too quiet to catch yet chilling all the same. At one turn in the corridor, a figure loomed in the distance—tall, indistinct, its features swallowed in shadow.
Her pulse quickened, dread twisting in her stomach as she tried to move, to flee, but her feet seemed fixed to the floor. The figure began to advance, and the air grewheavy, pressing down on her chest. The whispers rose to a dissonant hum that scraped at her nerves.
And then—warmth. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her away from the darkness. She turned her head and found herself looking into Mr. Darcy’s steady gaze, his expression calm and certain, as though nothing in the world could harm her while he held her. The shadows seemed to recoil from him, receding into the corners until they vanished entirely. The oppressive hum faded into silence.
“You are safe,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, the sound resonating through her. The fear in her chest loosened, and her breathing steadied.
In the next moment, the smoke and shadows dissolved into light, and she was standing in a sunlit meadow, the wind soft and warm against her skin. Darcy’s hand remained in hers, solid and reassuring, and for the first time all night, her heart felt light.
Mr. Bennet
He did not believe for a moment that the wine had been spilled by a servant. Someone was in his house.What can be done?The incidents were growing worse, not better. What if someone eventually got hurt? Mr. Bennet was at a loss. He had no idea where to begin.
Chapter Twenty
November 19, 1811
Meryton
Elizabeth
“Girls,comeherethisinstant.” Mrs. Bennet’s voice carried sharply down the hall, cutting through the peaceful quiet of the morning. One by one, the Bennet ladies emerged from their chambers, heads poking out like curious birds from their nests. Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane, who looked puzzled, while Kitty and Lydia’s eyes gleamed with barely contained excitement, as though they hoped for news of a ball or a visit to Meryton. Mary, as ever, appeared wary, her book still in hand as they filed dutifully into their mother’s suite.
“Sit, sit,” Mrs. Bennet commanded, gesturing imperiously towards the settee and chairs as though she presided over a grand audience. The air in the room smelled faintlyof lavender water and starch from the lace-edged handkerchiefs stacked neatly on a nearby table.
“I have just spoken with Mr. Collins at length,” she began, her voice rising with significance. “His patroness is a great lady who gives him plentiful advice. She detests when there is strife between families and sent him here to make amends.”
“We surmised this from his inane conversation last night,” Elizabeth quipped, leaning back in her chair with an arched brow. Kitty and Lydia immediately dissolved into giggles, covering their mouths with their hands, while Jane and Mary remained impassive.
“That is enough out of you.” Mrs. Bennet scowled, her fan snapping shut with an audiblecrack. “Mr. Collins has informed me that the olive branch he wishes to extend is an offer of marriage to one of my girls! Is that not exciting? We shall not lose Longbourn after all!”
Elizabeth’s stomach sank like a stone in cold water. The thought of tying herself for life to the pompous, self-important parson made her feel faintly ill. “And who have you resolved to put forward?” she asked, forcing the question past lips that suddenly felt dry. She did not wish to reveal her growing regard for Mr. Darcy, but she knew with perfect certainty she would do almost anything to avoid being shackled to Mr. Collins.
Mrs. Bennet sniffed with self-importance. “I have not yet directed him towards any of my daughters. Of course, I informed him that Jane has a suitor. He expressed interest in you, Elizabeth, but I begged him to let me consider which of my daughters would best suit before he settled on a choice. You see, I know of your foolish desire to marry for mutual affection, and I cannot risk losing my home by putting forward a child who will refuse the best offer of marriage she is likely to receive.”
That was uncharacteristically shrewd of her mother, and though the words were unjust and cutting, Elizabeth could not bemoan the outcome—at least she would be spared the necessity of fending off Mr. Collins’s attentions.
“Then who, Mama?” Mary asked, her voice timid but steady.
“I do not know. My dear Lydia is much too lively for a parson’s wife, but the position comes with a future as mistress of Longbourn. What say you, my pet? Shall I tell Mr. Collins you are amenable to his intentions?”
“La, never!” Lydia tossed her curls, her eyes flashing. “I am dreadfully sorry, Mama, but I simply cannot abide such a boorish man. He would drain the very life out of me, I assure you! Perhaps Kitty would be abetter choice.”
“Me? Why? I am just as lively as you, dear sister.” Kitty folded her arms across her chest and stuck out her tongue in defiance.
“Girls!” Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands, the sound sharp enough to cut through their squabbling. “One of you must marry him. We will lose our home otherwise. Can we not come to an agreement?”
“What of Mary?” Lydia’s sly glance slid towards their quieter sister. “Mary dearest, did you not express interest in Mr. Collins before he arrived?”
“I did.” Mary bit her lip, the faintest blush staining her cheeks.
“And?” Mrs. Bennet leaned forward, eyes bright with expectation. “He is a very smart match. You will have a comfortable home in Hunsford, and then later here! It is a perfect arrangement.” Her gaze swept over Mary critically. “It is a shame you are the least well-favored of my children. There is too much of your father in your face. While his features look well on a man, they do not suit a woman.”
Elizabeth winced inwardly. Why must her mother wield her tongue like a blade? Mary was not ugly—her plainness was only accentuated by the severity of her dress and hair. With a softer touch, she might be thought handsome enough.
