Page 15 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Lydia was standing in the doorway to their shared room, her hair still undone, pointing accusingly at the open wardrobe. Her arms were crossed, and her face was flushed. “I had sweets. Peppermint drops. I put them right behind my old shawl. Now they are gone. And someone rifled through everything!”
Kitty rolled her eyes and perched on the edge of the bed.
“If it had been me, I would not have taken just sweets. I would have taken back all the things you stole from me last month. Like my embroidered handkerchiefs. Or my green ribbon. Or my copy of The Minerva Tales, which you said you never touched and then returned with a grease stain. ”
“That was there already!”
“It was not. ”
Lydia huffed and looked towards Elizabeth, as if expecting a ruling. But instead of defending herself, her expression changed—her brows raised, her lips pursed. “Unless…” she began slowly. “Maybe it wasn’t Kitty. Maybe it was…Longbourn’s ghost.”
Kitty snorted .
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “Do not be absurd, Lydia.”
Lydia tilted her head. “Why not? Everything’s been strange lately. Footsteps. Things are going missing. Maybe great-grandmother Bennet is back from the grave, searching for her silver thimble.”
Elizabeth tried to muster a scoff, but the image of the flickering light in the window—and the candle melted across her own dressing table—rose too quickly in her mind.
“Ghosts do not light candles,” she said flatly. “And they do not rummage through wardrobes for sweets.” She turned and headed downstairs before Lydia could retort.
The drawing room was empty, and the household still sleepy from the night’s excess. Elizabeth crossed the foyer and paused before her father’s study. The door was slightly ajar.
She tapped once and pushed it open. “Papa?”
Mr. Bennet glanced up from behind a book. He sat at his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose, surrounded by crumpled bits of correspondence and his untouched breakfast tray.
“I am going for a walk,” Elizabeth said, pulling on her gloves.
He looked over his glasses. “I hope the air might help settle your nerves. You were rather affected last night. ”
Elizabeth stepped further in. “I only wished to make you aware…about a candle. In my room. It had been lit while I was outside. Left burning. It nearly set the dressing table alight.”
He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Lizzy, I hardly think this warrants another inquisition. You must have forgotten you had left it burning.”
“I did not.”
He shook his head. “You were distracted. It was a lively evening. These things happen.”
Her chest tightened. “I have not forgotten a candle in years. Someone was in my room—again.”
“And yet, no one saw them. Nothing was taken. And the house remains perfectly intact. Save perhaps your composure.” He gave her a sharp look.
“I left the company of Sir William and the warmth of the fire to conduct a full search of this house last night—at your behest. I found nothing. No stranger. No ghost. And no grand conspiracy. Perhaps you are not so unlike your sisters as you would hope.”
The words hit harder than he seemed to realize. Elizabeth stood still, stunned.
“I am not making a pretense,” she said quietly.
Mr. Bennet waved a hand towards the door. “Have your walk, Lizzy. Perhaps some fresh air will put things into perspective.”
She stepped out without another word, the door clicking closed behind her.
Mr. Bennet
He hated dismissing Elizabeth's concerns, but hoped his casual attitude would ease some of her fears.
Mr. Bennet's natural indolence felt like shackles.
He fought with his very nature, mind insisting he investigate while his desire for peace protested.
What was a gentleman to do? His fear for his family mounted steadily, and he hoped everything could be resolved without too much trouble or inconvenience.
The air outside was damp and sharp, the fog lifting slowly as she made her way down the path that wound through the Longbourn grounds.
Fallen leaves crunched under her boots, gold and brown and curling with frost. The sun pressed weakly against the mist, turning the landscape into a blur of soft color and shadow.
Elizabeth walked quickly, trying to push the sting from her chest.
It should not have hurt. Her father had always been flippant, always avoided seriousness when it did not serve him.
But this— this —was different. He had dismissed her .
Not merely her concerns, but her voice. It was easier, she realized, for him to believe she had been careless than to face the possibility that something truly was wrong.
To believe her meant doing something. It meant disrupting the quiet order of his world. And Mr. Bennet would always choose convenience over confrontation.
So he would call her fanciful. Silly, even. Just like Kitty. Just like Lydia, and that, more than anything, made her heart ache.
She pressed a gloved hand to her chest, the pain sharp behind her ribs. She did not need validation, but she had hoped—just once—that he would listen.
She reached the edge of the fields and turned towards the woods, the trees welcoming her with their silence. And though her heart felt heavy, her feet kept moving.
She would not be silenced. Not now.
The narrow path through the trees was scattered with curled leaves and broken twigs, and Elizabeth found herself grateful for the sturdiness of her boots.
The forest was hushed in that particular way it often was after a night of noise and revelry, as if even the birds were reluctant to disturb the stillness.
She let the quiet settle over her, let it press into her skin like balm.
Each step further from Longbourn lifted a little of the weight from her shoulders.
The air, crisp and tinged with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, filled her lungs more deeply than it had all morning.
Her gloved fingers brushed against the brittle ferns lining the trail, and she tilted her face up towards the pale sun just now breaking through the trees .
The tears that had stung behind her eyes since leaving her father’s study did not fall. She would not give them the satisfaction. But the ache in her chest gradually dulled, soothed not by resolution, but by the reliable rhythm of her movement. One foot in front of the other. Breath in. Breath out.
This was where she found herself again. In the open air, alone with the rustle of the wind in the trees and the steady beat of her own thoughts.
Her father’s words still stung. Perhaps you are not so unlike your sisters.
It was not just the dismissal that wounded her, but the fact that he had not wanted to believe her.
That he would rather call her careless than consider the possibility that someone had entered her room—twice.
He could not fathom that the household might be in danger or that his peace might be disturbed.
She loved him. That would never change. But she had long understood that Mr. Bennet’s detachment was as much a defense mechanism as a personality trait.
He could be intelligent, even wise—but he was not courageous when it came to domestic matters.
He avoided conflict, especially if it threatened the comfort of his routine.
How inconvenient for him, she thought bitterly, that one of his daughters has decided not to be conveniently silent.
And yet, as the forest path curved and opened into a small clearing, she felt the bitterness ease. She stopped for a moment, resting one hand on the rough bark of a birch tree, and let herself breathe—really breathe.
A squirrel darted up a branch. Somewhere in the underbrush, a pheasant startled and took flight. The sun found her through the trees at last, catching in her brown curls and warming the crown of her head. She closed her eyes and let it settle there like a blessing.
When she opened them again, her mind felt clearer.
Her father might not trust her. But she believed in herself.
And she was not alone. Mr. Darcy did not dismiss her—at least, he listened. He had taken her seriously. Stood beside her. Offered not platitudes, but presence. His nearness last night had been comforting in a way that surprised her, and when she had spoken, he had heard her.
She resumed her walk, posture straighter, chin lifted against the wind. Something had shifted—between herself and Mr. Darcy, yes, but more importantly, within her. The fear was still there. The unease. But now it walked beside her, not ahead of her.
And she would not be ruled by shadows. Not today.
She followed the path deeper into the trees, the steady crunch of leaves beneath her feet grounding her thoughts. Whatever lay ahead—light or shadow—she would meet it with open eyes and an unshaken spirit.