She glanced up at him, reading in his face that he meant more than just the shadowed space in the east wing. “After the ball,” she repeated.
“After the ball,” he echoed.
They parted at the door, Mr. Bingley calling his warm goodbyes from the drive. Darcy mounted with the easy grace of a man long accustomed to the saddle, but his eyes found hers one last time before he turned his horse towards Netherfield. The connection held for a moment—silent, steady—until the distance and the lingering mist blurred him from sight.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway a breath longer than was necessary, the roll of plans warm beneath her arm, before turning back into the house. The drawing on that fragile paper was no longer just ink and lines. It was a promise, aquestion, and perhaps a key—to Longbourn’s past, and to something far more dangerous to her peace of mind.
The house had been still for hours when a piercing scream shattered the silence.
Elizabeth was out of bed before her mind could form a thought, fumbling for her dressing gown and rushing into the corridor. Doors were opening all along the landing, voices rising in alarm. Kitty stood in the doorway of her chamber, white as the linen at her back, her hands trembling so violently that the candle in her grasp threw erratic shadows up the wall.
“There was a man—” she gasped, her voice breaking into a sob. “He was standing right there—right over my bed!”
Lydia appeared at her shoulder, hair loose down her back, her eyes wide. “Kitty, you are shrieking like you have seen a ghost. Oh! Have you? Perhaps the lost heir mistook your room for mine.”
“I did not see a ghost!” Kitty’s voice climbed almost to a wail. “He was real—tall, with hollow cheeks and wild, tangled dark hair—his teeth—” She shuddered violently. “I think they were rotting. I could not see him clearly; it was too dark, but—oh, he was dreadful! And he held a candle—”
Elizabeth stepped forward, taking Kitty by the arm. “You are shaking. Come, sit down.”
Mr. Bennet, now at the threshold, rubbed his brow as though already weary of the matter. “You have always had a vivid imagination, Catherine. I daresay the flicker of a branch against the window was transformed into a highwayman in your mind before you even opened your eyes.”
Kitty stared at him in disbelief. “I know what I saw! He was right there—his shadow fell across my pillow!” Her voice broke, tears spilling over.
Mrs. Bennet, who had followed in a rustle of night-robe and cap ribbons, fanned herself. “My poor child, you will be quite ruined by this house! We must—”
Mr. Bennet lifted a hand. “Enough. You will sleep with Jane tonight. That should cure you of these fancies.”
Elizabeth, watching her father’s face, caught what she suspected he meant to hide. His eyes, though narrowed, held an alertness that belied his indifference; his jaw was tight, his manner too brisk.
Jane emerged from her own chamber, calm as ever, and wrapped an arm around Kitty’s shoulders. “Come along, dear. You will not be alone.”
Lydia, lingering behind them, tossed her head. “And you most certainly shall not sleep in my room. If your man comes for you again, I do not wish him coming for me as well!”
Kitty burst into another sob and allowed Jane to lead her away.
Elizabeth stood in the corridor a moment longer, listening as their footsteps retreated. The candlelight quivered along the walls, throwing the corners into deeper shadow. Something in the air felt unsettled—as though the house itself were holding its breath.
When she returned to her room, Mary appeared in the doorway, her hair braided neatly despite the late hour. She slipped silently inside, closed the door, and climbed into the bed beside Elizabeth without a word.
They lay there in the darkness, the warmth of Mary’s presence a quiet reassurance. Neither spoke.
Elizabeth stared into the shadows above her and let her mind betray her into longing. How different this night would be if Darcy were here—his arm around her, his voice steady in the dark, the quiet certainty that nothing in the world could reach her while he stood guard. The thought made her ache in a way that was both frightening and sweet, the pulse of fear in her blood slowly giving way to something far moredangerous.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, and listened to the soft rhythm of Mary’s breathing.
Mr. Bennet
He felt bad for putting doubt in Kitty's mind. Mr. Bennet felt his daughter would be able to rest easier if she believed it had been a nightmare.Let this ball end quickly so we might find a swift conclusion,he silently prayed.And may my girls remain safe.
Elizabeth
The household rose late the next morning, moving about with the subdued quiet of those still unsettled from the night before. Even Lydia’s usual chatter was dampened; she sat at the breakfast table stirring her tea into apale, lukewarm whirlpool, glancing towards Kitty’s drawn face and saying nothing. Kitty, pale beneath her curls, kept her gaze on her plate, pushing her toast back and forth rather than eating it.
Mrs. Bennet, however, regained her spirits the instant her eye lit upon the calendar and she recalled that this was the day of the Netherfield Ball. “My dears! This will not do!” she cried, her voice rising in tones of forced gaiety. “We must not go looking pale and wretched. I shall order hot baths for each of you at once—Jane first, of course—and you must all take care with your complexions. The gentlemen will be out in full force tonight, and we must look our very best.”
Mr. Bennet looked over the edge of his newspaper with a dry smile. “It is remarkable to me, Mrs. Bennet, how swiftly you can forget our household troubles when there is a ball in prospect.”
She waved a hand, unwilling to be drawn. “Nonsense. A mother must think of her daughters’ futures.”
