Page 6 of Searching for Elizabeth (A Pride and Prejudice Variation)

—morning—

Fitzwilliam Darcy took several hours to ride to all the places Miss Elizabeth commonly walked: the fields, the forest, and of course Oakham Mount. He did not see any sign of her.

As he searched, Darcy thought back to the conversations he had had in Meryton the afternoon before. He had claimed to have a message for Miss Elizabeth Bennet from her mother, requesting that she add an order for the butcher to her customary errands, and he had casually asked owners and clerks of various establishments if they had seen Miss Elizabeth that afternoon. After asking at the bookstore, the haberdasher, the milliner, the greengrocer, the butcher, and the dairy shop, he had still not learned where Elizabeth was. However, he had heard so many wonderful things about her, he was even more enamored—if that was possible—than when he set out to find her.

Every person who took the time to talk to him told at least one charming story about her. One young man referred to her as the “Angel of Longbourn,”

and he thought of his friend Bingley, who always called the objects of his infatuation “angel.”

He made sure to deliberately smooth the frown that had creased his brow before asking the young man, Bernie Millcroft, what he meant.

Bernie had blushed a bit and said, “Well, that is what my family often calls Miss Lizzy. Actually, lots of the tenants do, and some folks in town do, too. She is always helping people, even if it means hard work. My family lives on Longbourn land, and a year ago, our house flooded. After we thought everything was clean and fixed, we found out that there was a mold growing, and my pa had to learn about limewash. Well, Miss Lizzy came one day to help with the first go-round of cleaning, but she then spent several days helping with the limewash. For a daughter of the master’s family to help like that…it is unusual, is it not? But almost every tenant family I know has a story like that, and that is why we call her the Angel.”

Several people told Darcy that they could talk all day about her, and he had been of a mind that he could listen all day, if he were not so frantic about her whereabouts.

Darcy had returned to Netherfield after more than a dozen conversations. He ate his dinner on a tray in the library and then retired early.

But he had not slept. He had tried, reading until his eyes got blurry and he pinched the bedside candle out. But then the torture had started: he rolled and turned and resettled himself before turning again. He had punched up his pillows and thrown back the covers and then scrambled to snatch them up again, because the night was cold. Of course, at that point, Darcy started worrying about how cold Elizabeth might be, wherever she was. He got up and poked the fire, as if him doing so while he was snug in Netherfield would somehow help Elizabeth.

Wherever she was.

In the morning, feeling exhausted from so many hours of anxiety and so few minutes of sleep, Darcy rode hard across the fields, and as he returned to the house, he decided to strategize his search.

He thought he had been lied to yesterday at Longbourn. Or at least, he thought, critical information has been withheld. Given that, he was not positive it was a great idea to visit today in the same polite this-is-just-an-ordinary-call manner.

It might, however, be wise to find a way to talk to each person in the Bennet household separately. He remembered that he had not seen Mary yesterday, and he thought she was the best candidate for information about Elizabeth. He wrote her name at the top of his list.

As he wrote each of the other Bennets’ names, Darcy considered each one. Jane had been crying, he was sure of it, and she had looked guilty or ashamed of something. Lydia was very young but bold and outspoken; she might tell truths with little urging. Kitty was quieter and gigglier than any of the other daughters. Mr. Bennet had seemed appreciative that Darcy shared so much of his family’s private matters in order to warn him about Wickham; also, Mr. Bennet had not displayed any tell-tale signs of lying when he had said that Elizabeth was living with her aunt in Meryton—

Suddenly, Darcy remembered that Elizabeth had another aunt, one she had seemed very close to. That uncle and aunt were in trade, and they lived in London. Where? Darcy asked himself. He pictured the Netherfield drawing room where Miss Bingley had mocked the Bennets behind their back. Ah! She had said they lived in Cheapside, within sight of the uncle’s warehouses. Someone had said the name Gracechurch Street. Darcy wrote down everything he remembered, which unfortunately did not include the aunt and uncle’s surname.

Mrs. Bennet seemed to be the worst of the lot. Darcy would not be surprised to find out that she had deliberately lied, at least by omission, and he wondered if she would try to require the entire family to back her lies. He sensed that Elizabeth’s mother was not all that concerned about his beloved’s well-being.

Damnation!

The servants of Longbourn were almost certain to know why there had been such a hubbub there yesterday. Mrs. Hill, the housekeeper, had a kindly look to her face, and Darcy remembered several weeks ago hearing that her husband was a sort of man-of-all-work who the Netherfield steward asked to fix a spit jack. If there was a lady’s maid—or two or three! there were a lot of ladies!—she would be likely to know quite a lot. Darcy had dealt with two different men and a young boy in Longbourn’s stables. He knew that many servants are reluctant to gossip about the family who employed them, especially to strangers, but servants almost always knew a lot.

It might be good to call on Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. Yesterday, it had seemed clear that Mrs. Phillips had truly not known anything about what had transpired at Longbourn, but he had also seen her run out of her house, no doubt intending to find out. But would she share the correct information, or would she participate with whatever lie or concealment Mrs. Bennet was perpetrating?

Darcy had another brainstorm. How many times had he observed Elizabeth enter a group of people and head directly to Charlotte Lucas? Obviously, the two were friends. Miss Lucas’s name went on the list.

More chats with merchants and tenants might also turn up something. However, he could not blunder around asking about Miss Elizabeth to all and sundry. Doing so would inevitably start rumors. Even if he was eager to marry Elizabeth, should it be necessary to save her reputation, she would not thank him for being the person who ruined it!

Suddenly, a thought rose up that felt very upsetting to Darcy. He could not help but shake his head as he remembered yet another family member he could question:

The night of the ball at Netherfield—was it really just two nights ago??—one of Elizabeth’s cousins had introduced himself to Darcy. His name was…Mr. Collins, and he was Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s parson; he claimed he would inherit Longbourn after Mr. Bennet’s death. Mr. Collins had been thrilled to realize that Darcy was the nephew of his patroness, but his fawning manner had disconcerted Darcy as much as had his faux pas with the self-introduction.

During the ball, he had noticed that the Collins fellow had seemed strangely possessive about Elizabeth. Now, thinking about yesterday’s upset at Longbourn, Darcy had the awful feeling that the parson had meant to propose to Elizabeth. Darcy did not think Elizabeth would accept an offer of marriage from him, and he rather thought that her father might not give his permission, either, because Mr. Collins had seemed to be quite…ignorant, perhaps even unintelligent. And cleanliness was not something he seemed to care about; Darcy remembered the stains on his pastor’s frock, and he had noticed distinct odors as the man tried to give him news about his aunt.

Somehow, the thought that Miss Elizabeth’s mysterious whereabouts might have something to do with Mr. Collins made Darcy’s blood run cold.

He looked at his long, long list of possible people to talk to. Oh, good, he thought, something I am really good at.

On the other hand, there was something Darcy was good at: delegation.

Ordering a lunch tray and a pot of coffee brought up, he began to write some messages to send express, to London, and other messages to send by servant, in Meryton. He promised himself a nice long nap after his letters were finished.