Page 25 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
In the library, the fire had burned low, but it was still bright enough to read.
Elizabeth retrieved the journals from their hiding place, brushing her fingertips over the worn leather as though greeting an old acquaintance.
They settled into the same armchairs as before,Mr. Darcy taking up the second volume and opening to the first page.
The early entries continued much in the same tone as the previous journal—matters of estate management, weather reports, notes on harvest yields. But scarcely a fortnight in, the hand grew less precise, the lines more hurried.
Mr. Darcy read aloud, his voice deepening at the shift in tone.
February 2nd, 1742 – I write tonight with a heaviness I have never known.
Longbourn is gone. The fire came in the black of night, springing up in the main hall with no warning.
I could see the glow from our upper windows, and within minutes every man in this household was roused.
Alfred was first out the door, shouting for buckets and ropes, for men to follow him.
I followed with all speed, my heart pounding with dread.
The scene was chaos—flames devouring the roof, smoke choking the air, the cries of the women piercing above the roar.
Alfred went in, again and again, pulling servants from the inferno, bearing the mistress of the house on his shoulders, even emerging once with two frightened cats clutched to his chest. I called for him to stop. He did not heed me.
The last time he went in, the roof groaned and split.
The house collapsed in a great shower of sparks, the sound like thunder.
He did not come out. In that instant, I knew—my boy was gone.
Others perished, though I have not the will to set down their names.
The damage is beyond repair. And always, I think of MB, whose wicked influence stoked Alfred’s reckless spirit.
It was MB’s drunken revel that left the candles burning. It was his folly that set the blaze.
Darcy’s voice was quieter now, and he glanced at Elizabeth before continuing.
February 5th – MB has fled, though word reaches me that he boasts of the fire as though it were some adventure.
God forgive me, but I wish him drowned in the Thames.
It would have been better had he stayed in Town, for then my son would yet live.
My wife weeps without ceasing; I cannot bear to see her thus.
The air here smells of smoke, even now, and every corner holds a memory too sharp to endure.
We have resolved to quit Hertfordshire for good.
Netherfield will be leased. My dear daughter will inherit in time, but as her husband holds lands in the north, they will not reside here.
It is agreed that her second son will one day have it, should he live to manhood.
Mr. Darcy closed the book softly. For a long moment, only the faint hiss of the fire filled the room.
Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “I have never heard of an estate burning near here—let alone Longbourn! To think the house I grew up in is not the original structure. No one has ever spoken of it—at least, not in my hearing.”
His gaze lingered on her, solemn and searching. “Such events have a way of being swallowed by time, Miss Elizabeth, though for those who lived them, they never truly fade.”
Elizabeth sat back in her chair, the weight of the story pressing upon her. In her mind, she could almost see the night as Mr. Moore had described it—the rush of feet, the shouts, the searing light against the winter darkness—and the shadow of loss it left behind.
Elizabeth remained still for a long moment, her eyes on the small black-bound volume in Mr. Darcy’s hands. “This means,” she said at last, “that the MB is a Bennet. But I do not recall anyone… Perhaps the Bennets who lived at Longbourn then were another branch of my family?”
Mr. Darcy turned the book over thoughtfully. “Given the year, it is entirely possible. 1740—that would be your…great-grandfather's time, correct? ”
She nodded slowly, her mind turning over the possibilities. “And yet… If my own kin were saved by the son of Netherfield’s master, I should have thought the story would be told often—perhaps even with pride. But I have never heard a word of Alfred Moore or of this MB.”
Darcy’s expression darkened slightly. “If MB truly caused the fire, even by accident, his name may have been deliberately forgotten—scrubbed from polite recollection. And if he was known to the Bennets of that time, perhaps they too preferred silence to the reopening of such a wound.”
Elizabeth shivered faintly, though the fire was warm at her back. “It is a tragic thing to give one’s life in such a way. I cannot imagine the courage it would take to return into the flames again and again.”
“I can,” Mr. Darcy said quietly, his gaze steady on hers. “A man who loves—be it his family, his friends, or his duty—would think of nothing else in such a moment. He would act, no matter the cost.”
Their eyes held, and Elizabeth’s breath caught. She looked away first, her fingers smoothing an invisible crease in her skirt. “I wonder who MB truly was. Mr. Moore speaks of him with such loathing, yet with enough familiarity to suggest they had once been friendly.”
Mr. Darcy leaned back in his chair, one long leg stretched towards the hearth. “The tone implies a neighbor, perhaps from a family of some standing, but without the discipline expected of a landholder. He could have been as many heirs—idle and indulged.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth mused, “the very thing—a man of means, grown careless through excess. If he remained in Town, perhaps he had no ties here beyond friendship with Alfred.”
His brow furrowed slightly. “If we wished, we might trace the name through the parish records. Someone in Meryton might recall the gossip, even after all these years.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “You speak as though we are embarking on a grand investigation, Mr. Darcy.”
“Perhaps we are,” he replied with the faintest smile. “Though I imagine uncovering MB’s identity would be more for our own curiosity than any true purpose.”
Still, Elizabeth could not help but feel the pull of the mystery. “It is strange to think,” she said softly, “that Longbourn might have once stood in ashes—and stranger still that a part of its history should have vanished so completely from memory.”
Mr. Darcy glanced towards the blackened journals on the table. “History has a way of shaping the present, even when forgotten. Sometimes, especially then. ”
Elizabeth met his gaze again, a curious warmth settling between them. “Then perhaps,” she said, “it is worth remembering.”
Mr. Darcy inclined his head, the flicker of the firelight catching in his dark eyes. “Perhaps it is.”
Reluctantly, he closed the journal and set it on the small table between their chairs. Elizabeth’s fingers lingered on the worn leather cover, the urge to continue reading pulling at her like a thread she did not wish to let go.
“I suppose,” she said with a quiet sigh, “we ought to make ourselves presentable before the dinner bell.”
Mr. Darcy’s mouth twitched in wry agreement. “If we do not appear soon, Miss Bingley will send a search party—and no doubt imagine us in the most scandalous of circumstances.”
That drew a reluctant smile from Elizabeth, though it did little to banish her frustration.
Together they rose, Elizabeth carefully tucking the journals back behind the other books they had collected, as though concealing a treasure from prying eyes.
The thought of having to sit through an evening of idle chatter, knowing such a story waited here for her, was almost enough to make her groan aloud.
She wished to discuss things further with Mr. Darcy.
They left the library and rejoined the rest of the company in the drawing room.
The scene that greeted them was precisely as Elizabeth had expected: Miss Bingley presiding over the arrangement of a card table with the air of a general placing troops for battle, Mrs. Hurst shuffling a deck with meticulous care, and Bingley attempting to convince Jane to partner with him in the first game.
Mr. Hurst lounged in his usual chair by the fire, a glass of port already in hand.
“Ah, Mr. Darcy, Miss Elizabeth—at last!” Miss Bingley exclaimed, though her eyes held the faintest gleam of suspicion. “We were just settling into a game of cassino before supper. I insist on you both joining us. We shall be six—perfect for three pairs.”
Elizabeth summoned her most polite smile and agreed, though inwardly she longed only to escape back to the quiet of the library.
Every moment spent exchanging cards and pleasantries would keep her from the mystery of Alfred Moore and the fire.
Her mind, however, refused to stay with the game.
Even as she played her hand, she found herself turning over fragments of journal entries, piecing together the shape of a story left unfinished.
Mr. Darcy, seated opposite her, seemed equally distracted. More than once she caught his gaze lingering on her, and in those fleeting glances she read the same unspoken thought: they had only begun to scratch the surface of something worth uncovering.
But for now, they were both captives of courtesy—forced into the small rituals of an evening in company, when all either of them truly wished was to return to the fire-lit quiet and the waiting pages in the library.