Page 12 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Eleven
The cold woke her. Not the ordinary chill of late autumn, but a biting, bone-deep cold that seemed to have crept into her very marrow.
Elizabeth lay curled in a tight ball beneath her blankets, her breath visible in the faint gray air that hovered just above her face.
The fire in her hearth had gone completely out—there was no faint ember, no comforting crackle. Only silence and cold.
She opened her eyes slowly, trying to make sense of the darkness. The sun had not yet risen; her room was still wrapped in the dim, colorless light of pre-dawn. She shivered and tugged the quilt higher—but something was wrong. Very wrong.
The window. It was open .
The curtains stirred ever so slightly in the draft, and the frost-laced air poured through the narrow gap. She had closed it after briefly enjoying an autumn afternoon breeze. She remembered closing it and pulling the drapes.
With a sharp intake of breath, Elizabeth sat up, her teeth beginning to chatter. Her bare feet flinched at the icy floorboards as she padded across the room and pushed the window shut with trembling fingers. The latch clicked into place, sharp in the silence. But her hand froze on the sill.
There, resting against the wood, was a slip of paper. It had no writing—no message or mark save one: a large X scrawled in black ink, harsh and deliberate.
A chill prickled along her spine, a deeper, colder sensation than the morning air could account for. Her breath caught, and for a moment she simply stood there, staring at the paper as if it might vanish. But it did not.
She snatched it up quickly and crossed to her dressing table, tugging open the top drawer and tucking it beneath a stack of ribbons. Her hands were shaking. When she turned back towards the bed, she saw them.
Footprints .
Dirty, damp, distinct. Tracked across the rug from the window to the foot of her bed. Not hers—her slippers had not touched the rug. These prints were larger. Heavier .
Her breath hitched. She closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again, hoping the image would change. It did not.
The doorknob rattled just as she was about to move, and the door creaked open.
“Miss?” It was Sarah, one of the upstairs maids, carrying an armful of kindling and looking harried. “Begging your pardon, I did not mean to wake you—I came early to stoke the fire, what with the frost last night and all.”
Elizabeth turned towards the window instinctively, but said nothing.
Sarah paused halfway to the hearth and frowned.
“Stars above, it is like ice in here! Fire must’ve gone out hours ago.
” She bustled to the grate, kneeling and beginning to build a fresh fire, chattering as she worked.
“Odd, that. I banked it proper last night.
Must ‘ave drawn too cold. You should have sent for me, miss—you will catch your death sleeping in this freeze.”
Elizabeth gave a faint smile and slipped back beneath the bedcovers, pulling them tightly around her.
“I shall be warm again soon, I am sure,” she murmured.
Sarah clucked her tongue and kept working, none the wiser.
“And your poor hands, look at you! I shall bring hot tea after this, never you fear. Might even talk cook into porridge if she is in a mood for kindness.” As she bustled around the room, Sarah remarked absently on the state of the rug, saying she would have it cleaned immediately before departing.
Elizabeth nodded, her thoughts far from breakfast. She kept her gaze fixed on the canopy overhead, refusing to glance towards the rug, or the drawer now holding that silent, ominous message.
It was not the cold that made her tremble now. It was the knowledge that someone had been in her room—someone had come while she slept, left no sound but footprints and a mark she did not yet understand.
And worse still—no one else knew it had happened, either. She would wait and watch. But she would not sleep again without locking the window herself.
By the time the fire had taken hold and tea was brought up, Elizabeth felt warm enough to rise. She moved slowly, still unsettled, but determined not to let the morning’s discovery consume her entirely. She would tell Jane—eventually—but not yet. Not until she had made sense of it herself.
The gown she selected was a deep russet wool trimmed with narrow black braid, warm enough for the chill and autumnal in tone.
Sarah fastened the back carefully, chatting as she smoothed the folds, her words a soft murmur Elizabeth barely registered.
She tied a black ribbon at her waist and chose her plainest fichu—Guy Fawkes Day was hardly the time for fashion.
Still, when she glanced in the mirror, the effect was pleasing.
Serious, but not somber. Appropriate, considering.
Downstairs, the household had already begun to stir with energy. The scent of toasting bread and roasting apples drifted in from the kitchen, and the sound of Kitty and Lydia’s laughter met Elizabeth even before she reached the breakfast room.
“There you are at last, Lizzy!” Lydia cried as she swept into view, already in a pretty green frock with her hair half done. “You will never guess what I overheard Hill telling Mama! The officers are coming to the bonfire tonight— all of them!”
“I believe it is customary,” Elizabeth replied with a small smile, pouring herself some tea. “Guy Fawkes Day is a national holiday.”
“It should be a dance, too,” Lydia said, twirling once. “With so many men in uniform, how can it not be?”
“I imagine the bonfire is the draw,” Elizabeth said dryly.
Kitty giggled and leaned closer to Jane, who sat demurely by the window, a mending basket untouched in her lap. “Will you kiss Mr. Bingley by firelight, Jane? You must! It would be so romantic. ”
“Kitty!” Jane flushed and laughed, more embarrassed than truly offended. “Do be quiet.”
“Oh, let her dream,” Lydia said. “I shall kiss an officer if Jane will not grant her suitor the privilege. One with brown eyes. Or blue. I am not particular.”
Elizabeth shook her head fondly. Their merriment was infectious, and a balm against the chill that still lingered in her bones. “Do you recall the fireworks last year?” she asked, glancing at Lydia. “Papa hired that fellow from Meryton who nearly set his own coat alight.”
”I loved it!” Lydia said at once. “The explosions were the best part! I hope he brings the squibs again—the noisy ones that make Mama shriek.”
“Sir William Lucas is providing the effigy this year,” Kitty added. “I heard he has had it stuffed with straw and dressed in one of his old coats. Papa says it is to be the best one we have ever had.”
Elizabeth raised her brows. “Then poor Guy will meet a fitting end.”
“You will see,” Lydia said, eyes gleaming. “This year will be better than ever. The fire! The music! The company!”
Elizabeth nodded, though her thoughts drifted again—to the footprints on her rug, to the paper tucked into the drawer upstairs. The contrast between the festive excitement in the room and the silent dread that clung to her like smoke was sharp. But she would not let it ruin the day.
Never.
She sipped her tea, letting herself be drawn into the chatter. Today was Guy Fawkes Day. Bonfires would blaze across England, and for one night, even unease might be forgotten in light and sound and laughter.
The bonfire crackled and roared in the orchard behind Longbourn, casting long, quivering shadows across the assembled guests.
Sparks leaped into the night sky, glowing briefly like stars before vanishing into the November darkness.
Elizabeth tugged her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her breath fogging in the chill air as laughter and shrieks of delight rang out around her.
Children dashed about with sparklers and squibs, while the older folk sipped warm cider and gathered in clusters to talk.
The smell of burning wood, roasted chestnuts, and damp earth filled the air.
An effigy of Guy Fawkes sat atop the pyre—already engulfed in flames, its limbs curling and blackening in the firelight.
“Well, that is a bit dramatic,” murmured Elizabeth to Charlotte, who stood beside her.
“Only a bit?” Charlotte laughed. “My father insisted on giving a speech about the treasonous nature of the Plot and how the King was divinely spared.”
“I noticed. And yet he seemed disappointed that no one cheered at the mention of divine providence.”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered as she caught sight of Mr. Darcy standing near the edge of the gathering.
He looked utterly out of place—tall and serious, his fine features lit by the dancing firelight, his coat immaculate even in the muddy orchard.
He had arrived with Mr. Bingley not an hour before, and his presence had made her chest tighten in ways she would rather not acknowledge.
She turned back to the fire, determined to enjoy the night. But before long, a familiar voice sounded just behind her.
“Miss Bennet.”
She turned. “Mr. Darcy.”
They stood for a moment, the noise of the crowd around them seeming to fade.
“May I walk with you?” he asked, tilting his head towards the less-crowded edge of the orchard .
“Certainly.”
They walked in silence at first, away from the fire’s warmth and into the cool shadow of the trees, the flickering light chasing after them through the branches. Elizabeth tucked a loose curl behind her ear, unsure whether she was more vexed by his nearness or her own reaction to it.
“You have quite the gathering here,” Darcy said at last.
“We always do something for the Fifth,” she replied. “Though my mother insists it is far too much fuss for so little reason.”
“And do you agree with her?”
Elizabeth smiled faintly. “Not at all. I like the symbolism—of light driving away darkness, of loyalty, even of rebellion. It feels... human.”
Darcy was quiet for a moment. “My aunt once said the celebration was vulgar. But I disagree. I find it... grounding. Honest, even.”