Page 24 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Seventeen
Elizabeth found herself unoccupied on Saturday afternoon.
Jane and Mr. Bingley had gone on a walk with the ladies of the house, their cheerful voices fading down the lane not long after luncheon.
Mr. Hurst had fallen asleep in the drawing room almost before the breakfast things had been cleared away, his snores blending with the ticking of the mantel clock.
Mr. Darcy had cited the need to attend to some business matters and retired to his chambers with a sheaf of papers in hand.
Thus, Elizabeth sought something to occupy her time, the quiet of the house pressing upon her in a way that made her restless.
She had no needlework at hand, and her mother had sent no books when their trunks were packed and delivered to Netherfield.
With the prospect of several idle hours before her, she decided to see whether the library might yield some diversion.
She pushed open the door and was at once pleased to see the fire crackling merrily in the grate, its warmth casting a golden glow over the room.
A faint scent of beeswax and old paper lingered in the air.
But her pleasure was short-lived. With just a glance at the shelves, she deflated.
They were nearly empty—long stretches of polished wood interrupted only here and there by lonely, dust-coated tomes leaning at awkward angles.
“What an abysmal sight,” she murmured aloud, her voice echoing faintly in the stillness.
She walked to the nearest shelf, her boots whispering over the carpet, and climbed a footstool so she could reach the top.
Unfortunately, her efforts brought her little more than a book on agriculture that was fifty years out of date, its pages warped with damp.
Frustrated, she climbed down, brushing her hands against her skirts as though to rid them of the disappointment as well as the dust.
A voice from the doorway made her start. “I could have informed you that you would not find anything here to read.”
Mr. Darcy stood leaning against the door frame, his arms folded, a hint of amusement in his eyes and a decidedly cheeky smile upon his face. “I have a few books in my chambers, if you need something to entertain yourself.”
Elizabeth’s brows rose. “Does Mr. Bingley have no interest in improving the state of his library?” She rubbed her hands again, more from habit than necessity. “Why, I have never seen such empty shelves.”
“I am afraid Bingley finds little pleasure in the written word. He reads when forced.” Mr. Darcy’s chuckle was low and warm, his head shaking slightly. “Despite my urging, he has yet to add a single book to the shelves here.”
Not yet ready to concede defeat, Elizabeth stepped back until she could see all the shelves at once, tilting her head as she surveyed the room.
“Shall we consolidate the scattered books?” she asked.
“Most are at eye level, but look—there are two volumes bound in black on the top shelf, just there.” She pointed towards the far corner, where shadows pooled and the upper shelves were cloaked in neglect.
If one looked closely, the black bindings were just visible, pushed to the very back.
He followed her gaze, frowning. “I did not notice those. Very well, let us go to it.”
They set to work without further ceremony, moving in opposite directions.
Mr. Darcy, with his long arms, claimed the upper shelves while Elizabeth gathered everything within easy reach.
Dust rose in faint clouds as they lifted each volume, motes dancing in the firelight.
One by one, they carried their findings to a central set of shelves, until a modest but more orderly display began to take shape.
Elizabeth trailed her fingers along a shelf, stirring another faint puff of dust. “The Vicar of Wakefield , The Mysteries of Udolpho , Camilla … and yet half these spaces are bare,” she observed, her brows drawing together.
Mr. Darcy, examining a small stack of volumes— The Seasons by Thomson, Johnson’s Lives of the Poets , and a rather battered Gulliver’s Travels —nodded gravely.
“It is a meagre collection for so fine an estate,” he agreed. “A library should be the heart of a house, not an afterthought.”
Elizabeth’s smile tilted wryly. “Then this one is in sore want of a pulse.”
Mr. Darcy held up another small stack from the far corner, the leather bindings cracked but still serviceable.
“It is not entirely without merit—see here: Young’s Annals of Agriculture , Tull’s Horse-Hoeing Husbandry , Evelyn’s Sylva , and even a copy of Newton’s Principia —though I suspect it is more ornament than study, given the dust on the cover.
There is also Miller’s Gardener’s Dictionary , and a rather fine edition of Bacon’s Novum Organum .
Practical works, all, but they seem to languish unread.
” His mouth quirked faintly. “I fear Netherfield’s shelves reflect more the taste of a steward than a master. ”
Finally, after collecting all the other books, Mr. Darcy climbed onto the stool and reached for the two black leather-bound volumes.
He brought them down with care, brushing away a thin veil of dust. “They are journals,” he observed, with a note of surprise.
“I would not have expected such a thing here.”
He handed one to Elizabeth. She opened it carefully, the binding cracking in protest, and wondered how long it had been since anyone had done the same. “This one begins in the year 1740,” she said after a moment, scanning the faded ink. “It ends in 1741.”
“This one starts where that left off, but most of the pages are not filled,”Mr. Darcy replied, holding it up. “These could prove interesting reading. Would you care to join me on an adventure to the past, Miss Bennet?”
She grinned. “Indeed, sir, I would be honored to embark on this mission with you.” Moving to a pair of armchairs near the fire, she gestured for him to join her. “Shall we take turns reading aloud?”
Darcy agreed, and they settled themselves, the fire’s glow spilling over the worn leather covers.
Elizabeth began .
January 1740 – I grow ever more worried about Alfred.
He is restless and longs for a life filled with greater adventure than a landowner can offer.
MB feeds his obsession. Both speak of taking a boat to the West Indies.
How do I impress upon my son his duties to our tenants—to our family name?
My dear wife begs me to be patient with him.
I have tried, but my patience wears thin.
“Who is MB?” Elizabeth wondered aloud.
“A neighbor or a friend, perhaps. And who is Alfred?”Mr. Darcy tilted his head, studying her expression. “Does the name sound familiar?”
Elizabeth shook her head. She opened the front cover and tilted the page towards the firelight, squinting at the faint lettering on the nameplate.
“Milton Moore,” she read. “Why, the Moores own Netherfield Park. No one in the family has lived here for as long as I can remember. The estate is always leased.”
“We ought to have checked the nameplate first.”Mr. Darcy’s dry observation made her chuckle.
They continued reading. Through Milton Moore’s words, they learned Alfred had eventually run off to London, only to return six months later a much humbler man. The journal did not detail what had happened, but the tone made it clear that something in Town had altered him.
Mr. Moore also wrote about the mysterious MB, who had remained in London, living a life of debauchery while his father and younger brothers toiled at the estate. The entries closed in December of that year, the handwriting on the last pages shaky and uneven.
“I confess I am very curious about what is to come.” Elizabeth leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “Who is the other heir? There are not many estates nearby. Perhaps he is from Stevenage. B could be for Bennet, but those initials do not belong to any ancestor I know.”
Darcy stretched, then closed the journal with care and set it aside. “Perhaps we can peruse the other after tea,” he suggested.
Elizabeth nodded, though she hesitated before returning the volumes to the shelf.
She slid them behind the other books they had gathered, irrationally anxious they might vanish before they returned.
The fire crackled softly as they left the room together, their shared curiosity about the journals lingering like a secret between them.
Tea that afternoon seemed to last an eternity.
Elizabeth sat with her cup and saucer cradled between her hands, its steam long since faded, her thoughts miles away from the polite chatter in the drawing room.
Miss Bingley spoke at length about the latest fashions from Town; Mrs. Hurst recounted a small soirée she had attended two winters ago; Bingley attempted—without success—to draw Jane into discussing the weather.
Elizabeth answered when addressed, but her attention was elsewhere—fixed on the quiet man across the table.Mr. Darcy, too, seemed only half-present, his replies brief, his eyes drawn more than once to hers.
Each time their gazes met, a flicker of understanding passed between them: they were both thinking of the black-bound volumes hidden on the library shelf.
When at last the tea things were removed, Elizabeth rose with a polite smile. “I believe I should stretch my legs before the fire makes me entirely drowsy.”
“I think I shall do the same,”Mr. Darcy said at once, with the careful nonchalance of a man not wishing to appear in collusion.
Miss Bingley arched a brow but said nothing, merely adjusting her skirts and remarking to Mrs. Hurst that the room was intolerably drafty.
Once free of the drawing room, Elizabeth’s pace quickened, the click of her half-boots against the polished floor echoing faintly.Mr. Darcy fell into step beside her, the barest trace of a smile tugging at his mouth.