Page 14 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Twelve
The bonfire burned long into the night, its flames reaching hungrily into the inky sky.
By the time the final fireworks had faded and the last of the effigy’s ashes drifted into the orchard soil, the celebration had shifted from spectacle to merriment.
Torches and lanterns were hung from tree branches and poles, casting flickering light across the lawn and orchard.
Tables had been set out with punch, cider, and what baked goods the kitchen could spare.
Fiddlers arrived from Meryton, and soon the dancing began.
Elizabeth stood with her cloak wrapped loosely around her shoulders, laughter warming her even in the late autumn chill.
She watched as Kitty, cheeks flushed, tried to drag an officer onto the makeshift dancing green, while Lydia had already found a willing partner and was skipping and twirling with abandon.
Their eyes sparkled with delight—and something else, too.
The punch bowl was suspiciously low, and the girls’ laughter was loud, unrestrained.
No one seemed inclined to interfere. Mrs. Bennet, awash in the glow of social triumph, was fanning herself beside Lady Lucas and regaling her with some tale about hat ribbons.
Mr. Bennet had retreated to the edge of the orchard with Sir William and Bingley, nursing a mug of cider and exchanging good-humored complaints about the noise.
Jane, as ever, was luminous. She and Bingley stood apart from the crowd beneath a tree lit by hanging lanterns, heads bent close in conversation. They looked as if they had stepped out of a painting—soft smiles, glowing skin, gentle voices, all golden under the lamplight.
And then there was Mr. Darcy. He had returned to her side after speaking with her father and had remained there through the fireworks and the rising festivities.
Somehow, they had not been drawn into the dancing, though several neighbors had attempted to persuade them.
Their refusal, unspoken but mutual, seemed to suit them both.
Now, they strolled slowly around the edge of the orchard, where the music softened and the lamplight faded to silver shadows.
“You are remarkably quiet, Miss Bennet,” Darcy said, his voice low and warm. “And yet I sense your thoughts are not idle.”
Elizabeth smiled up at him. “I was just considering how strange it is that a celebration meant to commemorate an act of treason should bring so much joy.”
“Perhaps it is not the treason we celebrate,” he replied, hands clasped behind his back. “But the survival that followed. The perseverance.”
She considered this. “Do you often think in such terms?”
He gave a slight nod. “More than I used to. My father encouraged reflection. He believed a man should examine his thoughts as often as he examined his accounts.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “A thorough education, then. Did he also teach you how to dance?”
Darcy gave her a sideways glance, with the ghost of a smile on his lips. “He did not. I had a dance master, like other gentlemen. Though I fear the lessons did not take.” His teasing voice made her chuckle .
They walked on in silence for a time, the distant strains of the fiddle carrying through the night air. Then Darcy spoke again, more slowly.
“When I was eight, I tried to run away.”
Elizabeth’s brows lifted. “Truly?”
“Yes. I had decided I was to become a soldier. I stole a wooden spoon for a sword, packed a satchel with apples, and made it as far as the stables.”
“What stopped you?”
“A blizzard. And my mother.” He paused. “She found me in the hayloft, wrapped me in her shawl, and sat with me until I fell asleep. She never scolded me but only said that bravery was not the same as stubbornness, and that both required a measure of wisdom.”
“That sounds very much like something you would say.”
He looked at her then, and Elizabeth felt the warmth of that gaze settle beneath her skin.
“I have not told anyone that story in years.”
“I am honored you shared it with me.”
“I wanted to.”
Something in his voice—quiet, genuine—stirred her chest in a way that caught her off guard. The noise of the celebration faded around them. She could hear the wind in the branches, the gentle creak of an old oak. And she could feel something shifting between them, something unspoken but undeniable.
When the dancing finally waned and the guests began to depart, Elizabeth returned inside, her head spinning not from cider, but from closeness—from the softness in Darcy’s eyes, from the way her hand had brushed his when he helped her over a tangle of roots, from the way he had lingered in farewell, as though he, too, had been reluctant to end their time together.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Sarah was nowhere in sight as Elizabeth made her way up the stairs. The hall was dim, the sconces nearly spent. She entered her room and closed the door behind her with a sigh. She froze as she turned. Her dressing table was in disarray.
One of her candles lay on its side, half-melted into a puddle of wax that had spilled across the polished wood and down the front of the drawer. The wick was blackened—spent, but still faintly warm. The cloth underneath it was scorched at one edge.
A cold rush of panic gripped her chest.
She had not lit that candle. Hands trembling, she reached for it, then drew back as the wax cracked under her fingertips. Her mind raced. She had left her room hours ago. The candle had not been burning then. I would have remembered.
The window—still locked. The servants were at the celebration. But someone had been here. Again.
A soft knock startled her. It was Sarah entering with her apron already in hand.
“Oh, heavens,” the maid exclaimed, rushing to the table. “Miss, this could have been terrible! We are fortunate the whole house did not catch fire!”
Elizabeth stood frozen as Sarah began scraping up the wax with a bit of cloth and muttering to herself about carelessness and mischief.
But Elizabeth knew it was not carelessness. Nor was it mischief. This was deliberate .
She stared at the candle, then at the warped cloth, and the panic in her chest deepened. The light in the window. It had not been a reflection. And after it had vanished, it had been this. But did this happen before or after the search?
Someone had lit a candle in her chamber. Someone had been there while she stood below, watching the flicker from the orchard.
Suddenly, the warmth and joy of the night felt very far away. Her fingers shook as she readied for bed, the faint scent of smoke still lingering in the air. She checked the window latch three times, then drew the curtains closed.
Climbing into bed, she curled beneath the quilts, seeking solace in their weight. Her thoughts whirled—of danger, of footprints, of shadows and flame.
But as her eyes drifted towards sleep, they wandered unbidden to Mr. Darcy—his story, his voice, the way he had walked beside her like an equal, steady and sure.
She admired him. More than that, she trusted him. And though fear lay coiled just beneath her ribs, it was his face—his calm, quiet presence—that steadied her. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in days, she did not feel entirely alone.
Mr. Bennet
He had once dismissed the mysterious circumstances around Longbourn. This event, though, could not be ignored. Mr. Bennet would keep his own counsel and maintain his outwardly uncaring demeanor. Perhaps all would be made known in due time.
November 6, 1811
After the noise and light of the Guy Fawkes celebration, the stillness in the house felt almost strange—thick and muffled, as though the very walls were recovering from the revelry.
Outside, pale sunlight filtered through the haze of morning fog, throwing soft beams across Elizabeth’s chamber.
The air remained crisp, and though Sarah had drawn the drapes and laid a warming pan in the bed before dawn, the corners of the room still felt cold.
A tray sat on the small table near the window, brought up while she was still in her dressing gown.
It held a neat breakfast: a soft-boiled egg in its dish, lightly toasted bread, a small dish of stewed apples with cinnamon, and a pot of strong black tea with cream and sugar beside it.
Elizabeth sat slowly, the steam curling around her face as she took the first careful sip.
She should have been hungry after the night before, but her appetite wavered. Instead, she pulled the toast apart in small pieces and stared at the dressing table, her gaze fixed on the corner where the candle had stood.
Sarah had done her best. The wax had been scraped away with impressive diligence, and a clean cloth now lay beneath the candlesticks.
But still, a faint residue remained—a subtle clouding of polish, a puckered spot where the fabric had been scorched.
Evidence. Proof. And yet, meaningless to anyone but her.
She set her tea down and rose.
The morning sun shone weakly through the fog, making the colors in her wardrobe appear muted and grey.
She selected a sprigged muslin gown, pale ivory patterned with tiny cornflower-blue blossoms. It was heavier than most, suitable for the cool air, with long sleeves that buttoned neatly at her wrists.
The bodice was trimmed in dark blue ribbon, and she tied a matching sash at her waist before pulling on her half-boots.
Her spencer hung nearby—navy wool lined with silk—and she draped it over her arm, longing for the fresh air outside.
She needed to move. To walk. To breathe something that was not smoke or suspicion.
As she stepped into the hallway, she was immediately met by the rising pitch of argument echoing from down the corridor .
”I know they were there!“ Lydia’s voice rang out, unmistakable in its indignation.
“You hide things in your wardrobe and expect them not to go missing?” Kitty snapped. “That is your own fault!”
Elizabeth sighed and followed the noise.