Page 29 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
“Your words were intended to wound. Do not deny it.” Elizabeth shook her head, her voice heavy with disappointment. “Lydia, if you cannot speak kindly, refrain from opening your mouth.”
Mrs. Bennet, whose eyes had been darting between her daughters with increasing agitation, smacked her hand against the table, making the teacups rattle.
“Enough, all of you! Have you no compassion on my poor nerves? The heir to the estate is coming. I have so much to do, and I cannot tolerate your squabbling.”
Gathering her skirts, she swept from the room, calling for Hill in urgent tones, leaving the remaining sisters in a strained, uncomfortable silence.
The Bennet household assembled in the front hall shortly before four o’clock, a flutter of anticipation of varying degrees running through the group.
Outside, the crunch of carriage wheels on gravel signaled the arrival of their expected visitor.
Moments later, the front door was opened, and in stepped a tall, solemn-looking man with greasy hair, a stiff bow and an expression that seemed to struggle between condescension and benevolence.
“Mr. Bennet!” he said in a voice both ponderous and self-satisfied. “It is my great honor to meet you at last.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head. “Welcome to Longbourn, Mr. Collins. ”
Introductions were quickly made, during which Kitty and Lydia exchanged wide-eyed glances. Lydia leaned towards her sister with a wicked grin. “Not handsome,” she whispered audibly enough to earn a warning look from Jane.
Kitty smothered a laugh and hissed, “You can have him, Mary.”
Mary’s lips pressed into a prim line, but she said nothing.
Tea was served in the drawing room, where Mr. Collins settled himself on the edge of his chair and promptly began a lengthy discourse on the beauty of Longbourn.
“Though modest in size compared to the grandeur of Rosings Park,” he intoned, “this house has a certain… rustic charm. Of course, when I am so fortunate as to inherit, I should endeavour to preserve this charm whilst introducing several improvements—purely in the interest of its genteel occupants, you understand. Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself has often encouraged me to take such matters in hand with proper discernment.”
He was mid-way through extolling Lady Catherine’s unparalleled guidance when Lydia piped up, her eyes alight with mischief. “Of course, when you inherit Longbourn, you will also inherit the ghost.”
Mr. Collins froze mid-sip of his tea. “ The…ghost?”
Kitty nodded gravely. “Oh yes, Longbourn is haunted. Everyone knows it. Strange noises in the attic, lights floating about at night, and things disappearing all the time. Only last week, the cook was locked in the larder from the outside.”
“Not to mention,” Lydia added, “the footman’s livery was stolen and found on the goat in the yard. And sometimes you hear footsteps in the corridors when no one is there.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes briefly, mortified. “Really, you two—”
But Mr. Bennet was smiling behind his teacup, clearly entertained.
Mr. Collins set his cup down with an air of solemn authority.
“Nonsense, my dear young ladies. If there be any such…specter, it would assuredly not dare remain in a dwelling where a man of God resides. I can assure you that such apparitions are the product of overwrought fancies, or worse, an ungodly attempt to stir fear in the hearts of the impressionable. Ghosts, if they exist—and I am by no means granting the premise—are contrary to the Divine Order. I should be happy, nay, duty-bound, to address such matters through proper prayer and the reading of Scripture in every chamber, beginning with the attics you me ntion. Lady Catherine herself would commend such a course.”
Elizabeth bit her lip to keep from smiling. Mr. Bennet did not bother to hide his amusement.
When at last the tea things were cleared, Mrs. Bennet, determined to restore some order to the visit, called for Hill to show Mr. Collins to his chamber.
With a final bow and an assurance that he would join them again at supper with “further elucidations on these regrettable superstitions,” he swept from the room, leaving the sisters in various states of mirth and embarrassment.
That night, the wind rose in fierce gusts, rattling the shutters and sending a low, mournful whistle through the gaps in the old window frames.
Elizabeth lay in bed, staring into the darkness, her blankets drawn high against the chill.
The bare branches of the elm outside scraped intermittently against the glass, a sound like skeletal fingers dragging along the pane.
She had just begun to drift towards sleep when it came again—the faint, rhythmic knocking in the walls, as if some unseen hand were rapping from the other side.
Elizabeth froze, her heart leaping into her throat.
She strained to listen, hoping it was her imagination.
But then, as clearly as if someone were standing beside her bed, she heard it: deep, throaty laughter, unfamiliar and menacing.
It was not her father’s voice—of that she was certain.
A sudden high-pitched scream ripped through the stillness.
Elizabeth threw back her covers and rushed to the door, flinging it open to find the upstairs landing already filled with her family.
Jane’s face was pale in the candlelight, Lydia and Kitty were wide-eyed and whispering over each other, and Mary stood stiffly, her hands clutched to her chest. Mr. Bennet emerged from his chamber with a candle in hand, his brows furrowed.
“Stay here,” he instructed firmly, before heading towards the servants’ wing. Elizabeth exchanged anxious glances with Jane before following at a cautious distance.
They found Hill in the dim corridor, trying to calm a young maid who was near hysterics, her apron in disarray and her hands trembling violently. “I stepped in it,” the girl sobbed. “It was wet and sticky, and I thought—it looked—it must be blood!”
Mrs. Bennet arrived just in time to give a shriek of her own before Hill, more composed, bent to inspect the spot on the flagstones.
The faint gleam of red liquid caught the candlelight.
She dipped a finger into it, then sniffed.
“It is wine,” Hill declared flatly. “There is a decanter missing from the small pantry. This was no doubt spilled by the very culprit who purloined the bottle.”
The maid’s sobs subsided into hiccups, though she still looked shaken. Mrs. Bennet fussed over her with a great deal of noise, and Mr. Bennet declared the matter closed. Still, as the family returned upstairs, no one seemed entirely at ease.
In the drawing room, Mr. Collins had materialized in his dressing gown, eager to add his wisdom to the affair.
“I have long said,” he began portentously, “that servants must be kept under the strictest discipline. In my esteemed patroness Lady Catherine’s household, such an incident would have been dealt with swiftly, firmly, and without recourse to unnecessary hysterics.
Were I the master here—which, in due course, I shall be—no such disorder would be tolerated.
And as for this talk of noises and phantoms—preposterous!
Lady Catherine would say such fancies are a sign of weak moral fortitude.
Prayer and moral instruction—that is the antidote to such folly. ”
Elizabeth, still unsettled by the laughter she had heard, could barely muster a polite nod before retreating to her chamber.
Much later, just as she was beginning to drift into a restless sleep, the door to her room creaked open. Mary’s small figure slipped inside, clutching her night-robe tightly around her. Without a word, she climbed into the bed beside Elizabeth, curling onto her side.
“Do you think me childish for being afraid?” Mary asked in a whisper, her voice tremulous in the darkness.
Elizabeth reached over and took her sister’s cold hand. “No,” she murmured honestly. “Not at all. I am afraid too.”
They lay in silence after that, with the wind battering the windows and the distant creak of the house settling around them. Though Elizabeth closed her eyes, she knew it would be a long while before sleep truly came.
When she finally drifted into slumber, her dreams were dark and uneasy.
She wandered through the shadowed halls of Longbourn, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floors.
Doors opened of their own accord, revealing rooms filled with smoke and the faint sound of crying.
Whispers slithered through the air, too quiet to catch yet chilling all the same.
At one turn in the corridor, a figure loomed in the distance—tall, indistinct, its features swallowed in shadow.
Her pulse quickened, dread twisting in her stomach as she tried to move, to flee, but her feet seemed fixed to the floor. The figure began to advance, and the air grew heavy, pressing down on her chest. The whispers rose to a dissonant hum that scraped at her nerves.
And then—warmth. Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, pulling her away from the darkness.
She turned her head and found herself looking into Mr. Darcy’s steady gaze, his expression calm and certain, as though nothing in the world could harm her while he held her.
The shadows seemed to recoil from him, receding into the corners until they vanished entirely. The oppressive hum faded into silence.
“You are safe,” he said, his voice deep and quiet, the sound resonating through her. The fear in her chest loosened, and her breathing steadied.
In the next moment, the smoke and shadows dissolved into light, and she was standing in a sunlit meadow, the wind soft and warm against her skin. Darcy’s hand remained in hers, solid and reassuring, and for the first time all night, her heart felt light.
Mr. Bennet
He did not believe for a moment that the wine had been spilled by a servant. Someone was in his house. What can be done? The incidents were growing worse, not better. What if someone eventually got hurt? Mr. Bennet was at a loss. He had no idea where to begin.