Mrs. Bennet, catching only fragments of this exchange, looked up sharply. “What were you doing in the east wing, Lizzy? You know it is draughty there.”
“Searching for Mary’s book, Mama.”
“Oh! Well, so long as you did not take cold.” Mrs. Bennet poured another cup of tea, already turning her attention to Darcy. “And you, sir—how good of you to brave that part of the house. I do hope you will not suffer for it.”
Darcy assured her that he was quite well, his tone polite but his eyes finding Elizabeth’s for a heartbeat longer than civility required. She felt the warmth climb into her cheeks and quickly busied herself with adjusting the tea tray.
The conversation soon shifted back to the weather—how the rain might hinder preparations for the Netherfield ball, how the roads might become impassable if the frost came too soon. Elizabeth listened with half an ear, her mind still turning over the feel of hollow woodbeneath her knuckles, the subtle shift in Darcy’s voice when he had said, “until the right hands find it.”
It was an innocuous remark on the surface. And yet she could not shake the notion that he had meant more—that perhaps he had not been speaking solely of Mary’s sermons, or even of the sealed room.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
November 25, 1811
Longbourn
Elizabeth
Twonightsbeforetherain finally broke, the household woke to another disturbance.
Elizabeth was roused by the muffled sound of something heavy hitting the floor. She sat up, heart quickening, straining to listen. For a moment, there was only the patter of rain against the windows. Then came the faint creak of a board in the corridor—slow, deliberate, as if the weight upon it were cautious.
Pulling on her dressing gown, she crossed to the door and pressed her ear against it. The corridor beyond lay in darkness, the only light the dying glow from a lamp lefttoo long on the table at the far end. She could see nothing, but the sense of being watched prickled across her skin.
In the morning, the evidence was plain. The large vase in the upper hallway—the blue-and-white Chinese porcelain her mother prized—lay in shards upon the carpet. Beside it, a single playing card rested face-up: the king of spades, its edges damp as if touched by wet fingers.
Mrs. Bennet’s shriek upon seeing the ruin could have rattled every window in the house. “That was a wedding gift from my Aunt Gardiner! Oh! This is a persecution, that is what it is! We are persecuted in our very home!”
Mr. Bennet stood frowning down at the shards. “It would seem our ghost has a taste for the dramatic,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Mr. Collins had appeared, only to complain about the destruction of his future inheritance before shuffling back to his chambers.
The next night, the boldness increased. Lydia’s ribbons—half a dozen of them—were found knotted together into a long rope, dangling from the banister over the stairwell. At the end, tied like some grotesque ornament, hung one of Mrs. Bennet’s lace caps, soaked through with what appeared to be wine.
Kitty declared it “proof” the ghost was attempting to fashion a noose. Lydia insisted it was only a “ghostly jest” meant to amuseher.
Elizabeth, however, could not ignore the implication of deliberate mockery. These were not random mischiefs—they were messages. The choice of objects, the placement, the single card—all spoke of an intruder who wished to be noticed and understood, even if the language was one of menace.
Mr. Collins once again appeared to complain and attempted to instruct the servants on proper clean up. When Mr. Bennet scolded him for acting the master, Mr. Collins slinked away with a reproachful look cast at the rest of the party.
On the third morning, the household came down to find the kitchen door wide open, rain blowing in over the flagstones. In the center of the wet floor sat a pewter plate with four apple cores neatly arranged in an X. Beside it lay a scrap of paper, the ink smeared but the words still legible:Get out.
The rain had at last given way to a thin, uncertain sunlight, though the sodden fields still lay heavy and dark under the pale sky. Elizabeth had scarcely stepped into the breakfast room that morning before Hill announced that Mr.Bingley and Mr. Darcy were calling. Grateful that her cousin had opted to remain in his chambers for the day, Elizabeth greeted the gentlemen.
Mr. Bingley, cheerful as ever, came in with the air of a man determined to see the best in any weather. Darcy followed, removing his gloves with unhurried precision. His greatcoat still bore a faint sheen of damp, but there was something almost invigorated in his manner, as though the clearing sky had matched his own temper.
“My father has been persuaded that the…incidents at Longbourn warrant further inquiry,” Elizabeth said once the usual courtesies had been exchanged. “He assures me the house plans are here somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” Darcy’s brow lifted just slightly, the corner of his mouth nearly twitching upward.
“That was the sum of his instruction,” she replied, with a faint wryness in her tone. “He has promised to assist us, but I suspect his assistance will consist of telling us when we have found the correct drawer.”
They adjourned to the library. The air within was cool, carrying the scent of paper, leather, and the faint tang of wood smoke from a small fire. Afternoon light fell in soft bands across the floorboards, gilding the spines of books and the edges of the heavywriting desk.
Mr. Bennet was already there, seated at his usual table with a book open before him. He did not rise. “You will find the rolled plans in one of the long drawers of that cabinet,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards a large, many-compartmented piece near the window. “Or perhaps in the drawer beneath the old estate ledgers. I forget which.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, whose expression was politely neutral. “Will you help us look, sir?” she asked her father.
“I have every confidence in your capabilities,” Mr. Bennet said, turning a page. “And in Mr. Darcy’s.”
