Rain pelted the windowpanes, drumming steadily in a relentless tattoo. A glance outside told Elizabeth the roads would be washed out before too long, the paths turning to rivers of mud beneath the dark, roiling clouds. Trees bent in the wind, their skeletal branches rattling against each other like the dry bones of some monstrous creature.
Once more unoccupied and restless, Elizabeth sat on her bed, candlelight flickering across her pale features. Everything she tried so diligently to keep from her mind came rushing back, unbidden and heavy. One thought tumbled over the other, each one sharper, darker than the last, until the concern for Tommy’s future—indeed for all their futures—returned with full force, pressing down upon her chest until it was difficult to breathe.
There must be some way to prevent tragedy, she mused desperately, twisting her hands in her lap as the wind howled outside.
The valise.
The word echoed in her mind, clear and cold, slicing through the confusion like a blade. Her mind latched onto the detail, onto the hope it might hold answers. Mr Bennet had barely examined the contents and then stored it in the attic. Why had he not destroyed it? Perhaps her father had not considered it, lost in grief after her mother’s death and the child they had lost with her. His mind had certainly been on other things then, drowning in sorrow and fear.
Determination filled her, pushing her to her feet, her movements quick despite the trembling in her hands. She went to her dressing table, striking the flint with unsteady fingers until the candle caught, casting a small circle of light against the gloom. Shadows leapt across the walls, long and twisted, as she opened her door and stepped into the silent corridor, the flame swaying with each step. Now was the time to borrow trouble.
The house was strangely quiet, the sort of silence that made every creak of the floorboards sound like a cannon blast, every gust of wind like a scream. She wondered briefly where her sisters were, praying they would remain occupied elsewhere, far from the attic where she now ventured.
Longbourn stored generations of secrets in its attic, hidden away beneath dust and darkness. Old furniture draped in yellowing sheets, trunks filled with clothing from decades past, dolls missing eyes,and broken cradles—all were crowded together like ghosts of a forgotten past. In the summer, the attic was blisteringly hot, and in the winter, it was bitterly cold, but today the air was merely chilly, damp with the storm’s breath as it seeped through the old roof tiles.
Mr Bennet had hidden the valise in a trunk, but which one? She moved through the maze of crates and furniture, the candle’s flame flickering with each step as she cast her gaze about, searching for a sign, a memory, a hint. She forced herself to think logically, to remember that her father would have hidden it out of sight, away from the trunks the family used for travel.
At the farthest wall, tucked beneath a low beam, were three trunks. One she recognised instantly—it was filled with her grandmother’s gowns, which she and her sisters had used for dress-up games as children, pretending to be ladies of society as they paraded around the nursery. The memory brought a fleeting smile to her lips before it vanished.
Elizabeth opened the first of the other trunks, the hinges groaning in protest. It was filled with hats and bonnets, the scent of old straw and mothballs rising up in a dusty cloud. She rifled quickly through it, confirming its contents before carefully shutting the lid and turning to the last trunk. She was required to remove several crates that had been stacked in front of it. Someone had ensured it could not be readily accessed.
The hinges creaked as she lifted the lid, her breath catching when she saw it—the valise, nestled at the bottom, untouched since that terrible day so many years ago. The leather was cracked and worn, but she knew it as if it had been yesterday.
Heart pounding, she pulled it out, clutching it to her chest for a moment before quietly closing the trunk. The candlelight reflected off the brass fittings, dull but persistent, as if the valise itself were demanding to be opened.
Elizabeth made her way back to her room, her steps quick and careful, the valise under one arm, the candle in the other. She locked her door, pressing her back against it as she exhaled shakily. She placed the valise on her dressing table, the rain drumming steadily against the window as thunder rumbled overhead.
She opened it, the scent of old fabric and lavender sachets long since faded drifting up to meet her. The contents were as scrambled as she remembered, chaotic and silent witnesses to a life once lived. She lifted the gown, unfolding it carefully, letting the fine material slip through her fingers like water. It was beautiful, finer than anything she owned, even wrinkled and worn as it was.
Next came the empty coin purse, the baby gown so small and delicate it brought tears to her eyes, the brush and comb, the handkerchiefs neatly embroidered with initials she did not recognise. Each item was a fragment of a puzzle she had yet to solve, each a piece of a mystery that had defined so much of her family’s fate.
Finally, she pulled out the black book, tied shut with a faded ribbon, and the small writing box that felt heavier than its size should allow. These, she knew, were the keys to the truth. Mr Bennet had hidden them away, perhaps afraid of the answers they might hold, but Elizabeth could no longer ignore them.
She untied the ribbon, the edges slightly frayed from use, and opened the book, the pages crackling as she turned to the first entry, her eyes scanning the scrawling, feminine handwriting.
May 5, 1806 Mama says I am not well—not fit to be mistress of my estate. I heard her plotting with the steward. She means to arrange for me to have a companion and will not give me control of my estate when I reach one-and-twenty. The date isclose—I need only wait until September.
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed, her pulse quickening as she read.
June 1, 1806 Mother has received word. My uncle has died unexpectedly. She is already scheming to marry me off to my cousin. Hopefully he has more sense than to capitulate to my mother’s whims. Thankfully, he is bound by mourning customs and could not offer for me now even if he desired the union. After much contemplation, I have made my decision. I shall write to G and tell him to come. He will save me from my mother’s machinations.
June 15, 1806 My courses have not come now since January. The cut of my gowns will hide my growing stomach for now, but that will not work for long. I have written to him—he told me he would come for me. I await his reply to my letter with great anticipation. The timing of the birth is very close to my birthday. I shall marry my child’s father and take control of what is mine. My mother will have no say.
July 10, 1806 The plans are set. G will come for me at the end of the month. I pressed for an earlier arrival, but he could not come away before then. My lying in is not so close, so we will travel to London first. He has rented rooms there and will sendout inquiries regarding a midwife to deliver our child. Our intention is to go to Scotland before the babe comes. I am not yet of age, and so we must elope. When we return to Kent, my mother will have no choice but to give way to my husband.
July 31, 1806 He comes for me tonight. I have retreated to my room with claims of a headache, ever grateful that Mama's desire to smother me in shawls kept her from noticing my growing girth. Though I know it will bolster my mother’s pronouncements that I am unfit, it suits my purposes at the moment. She usually leaves me alone for several days when I am ill, and I have arranged for my maid to conceal my disappearance for at least one full day.
Elizabeth’s hand trembled as she touched the page, the ink faded but the emotion behind it clear. Whoever this woman had been, she had loved deeply and hoped fiercely. And she had run, fleeing a world that sought to trap her.
Thunder cracked, loud enough to shake the window panes, but Elizabeth did not flinch. Her mind was spinning, trying to piece together what she had read, trying to understand what it meant for Tommy, for her family, for everything they had fought to protect.
She pressed a hand to her lips, closing the book carefully, and turned her gaze to the writing box, the final key to the secrets that could either doom them or save them all. Exhausted, she decided the rest of her investigation could wait. She returned everything to the valise before tucking it deep under her bed, where the maids never cleaned.
Chapter Twenty-One
The rain of the previous day had ceased, leaving the air sharp with the scent of wet earth and the heavy dampness that often followed such storms. The roads were deeply rutted and washed out in places, and Jane, in consequence, had spent the night at Netherfield.
Elizabeth had every intention of locking herself in her room after breakfast to continue her investigation into the contents of the valise, her mind still whirling with the mystery she had unearthed. However, the note from Jane changed the entire trajectory of her morning. In short, Jane had awoken with a slight headache, and Mr Bingley, the ever-attentive suitor, had insisted she remain until after tea to recover fully under the care of his sisters.
