Page 33 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak, Mary set down her spoon and fixed Mr. Collins with a look of quiet firmness.
“Cousin, you would do well to remember that it is not our place to interfere in matters that concern only the parties involved. Mr. Darcy has shown himself to be a man of honor, and Elizabeth is perfectly capable of conducting her own affairs.”
Mr. Collins sputtered. “Yes, well, of course, I only—ah—spoke out of an abundance of—er—concern…” He subsided into uneasy silence, earning a grateful glance from Mary.
The rest of the meal passed in a whirl of conversation and laughter, Mrs. Bennet alternating between declaring that she “knew it from the start” and speculating on how many dishes would be required for the wedding breakfast. Darcy bore her exclamations with remarkable patience, his gaze often finding Elizabeth’s, as though to silently reassure her that he was not frightened off.
By the time the dessert course was served—a modest plum tart with cream—Mrs. Bennet was making plans to call on Mrs. Phillips to “share the most delightful news.” Kitty and Lydia were talking over one another about bonnets and gowns, Jane’s cheeks were faintly pink from Bingley’s soft-voiced attentions, and Mr. Bennet watched the scene with dry amusement, sipping his wine.
It was a supper unlike any other at Longbourn, full of warmth, mischief, and the quiet certainty—at least in Elizabeth’s heart—that something momentous had begun.
Darcy had not thought supper at Longbourn would prove such a lively—and revealing—affair, but by the time the ladies withdrew and the port was set aside, he found himself half amused, half determined to ensure certain matters remained firmly under his control.
Later, when the company reassembled in the drawing room, he secured a place beside Elizabeth near the far end, away from the immediate clamor of Kitty and Lydia’s chatter and Mrs. Bennet’s unrestrained exclamations.
The fire cast a warm glow over her features, softening her sharp wit into a look of quiet contentment.
They spoke in low voices, her dark eyes meeting his with a spark that still managed to unsettle him—though not unpleasantly.
Across the room, Mr. Collins’s watchful presence intruded on the moment.
The clergyman stood stiffly, hands clasped before him, brows drawn so tightly that they nearly met in the middle.
His feet shifted on the carpet, his eyes darting from Darcy to Elizabeth and back again, as though calculating how this development might upset his own ambitions. Darcy’s jaw tightened.
Then Mary, with a serenity that seemed to unnerve her cousin, approached and addressed him on some matter of scripture.
Collins blinked, torn between his desire to listen for any stray remarks from Darcy and Elizabeth and his duty to respond to the young lady engaging him.
In the end, he turned reluctantly to Mary, though his glances still flickered towards them .
Darcy leaned closer to Elizabeth. “Your cousin will be a difficulty.”
Her lips curved in a wry smile. “Yes. But I have an idea.” She turned her head and called softly, “Kitty? Lydia? A word, if you please.”
The younger girls skipped over, all curiosity. “What is it?” Kitty asked, while Lydia’s gaze flicked hopefully towards the tea tray as if she might be rewarded with cake.
“I require your assistance,” Elizabeth began. “Mr. Collins must not be allowed to send any letters to Lady Catherine de Bourgh while he remains here.”
Lydia’s eyes widened. “Why? What has he done?”
“Nothing yet,” Elizabeth said smoothly, “but he might cause trouble if given the chance. You two are to keep watch—intercept any letters before they are sent. Can you manage that?”
Kitty exchanged a glance with her sister. “What is the benefit for us?”
Elizabeth arched a brow, but Darcy, recognizing an opportunity, interjected. “If you succeed, I shall take you both shopping in London for new gowns—your choice of fabric—and introduce you to my sister, Miss Darcy.”
Kitty’s mouth fell open. “London?”
“With your sister?” Lydia added, her eyes sparkling with visions of silks and promenades .
“Yes,” Darcy said, suppressing a smile at their enthusiasm. “Though you must keep this matter strictly between us. Agreed?”
Both girls nodded so vigorously that their curls bounced, then flitted away, already whispering and plotting like conspirators.
Elizabeth turned to him with a look of mock severity. “Are you certain you wish to introduce Georgiana to those two? They are wild, and seemingly untameable.”
He studied her for a moment, then allowed a small smile. “Their behavior is not entirely sound, especially for Town, but they are young. Youth can be taught if guided properly. Perhaps they simply need the right motivation.”
Her eyes softened, and he had the distinct impression she was not only considering his words, but reassessing him as well.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth sat back against the settee cushions, her hands folded in her lap as she observed the comfortable murmur of conversation around the drawing room.
Across from her, Mr. Darcy—no, Darcy , for she could no longer think of him so formally—was speaking with Jane, though his gaze kept returning to her with a subtle warmth she felt in the pit of her stomach.
The day had been filled with unexpected turns: Mr. Collins’s blundering, Jane’s glowing countenance whenever Mr. Bingley spoke, and Darcy’s request to enter into an official courtship.
She had once thought herself immune to such fluttering feelings, certain she would only be swayed by admiration grounded in reason.
And yet… she felt certain—utterly certain—that this was the right path.
Their understanding of each other had grown more quickly than she had ever thought possible.
When Jane and Bingley’s conversation drifted towards the others, Darcy moved to the chair beside her, leaning slightly so their words would not carry. “You have been quiet for several minutes, Miss Elizabeth. Are you regretting our arrangement already?”
She smiled, shaking her head. “Not at all. I am considering how swiftly things have changed. This morning, I had no thought of announcing a courtship. And now, here we are.”
“I could say much the same,” he replied, his voice lower now, more personal. “A month ago, I was determined to keep to myself, and yet… I am glad I failed in that.” His eyes searched hers, earnest and unguarded. “I have not felt such ease with anyone in years.”
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Perhaps it is because I have never been afraid to contradict you.”
“That,” he said, allowing a trace of amusement to soften his expression, “is likely part of it.”
They spoke for a while longer—of their childhoods, of her love of long walks, of his preference for early mornings at Pemberley when the mist still lay over the lake. The conversation was gentle and private, the kind that lingered in her thoughts long after the words faded.
At last, the hour grew late, and Bingley rose reluctantly, glancing towards Jane as if hoping she might urge him to stay. Darcy stood as well, offering Elizabeth a parting bow that felt almost reluctant. The gentlemen departed into the cool night, leaving behind a hush that settled over the house.
Upstairs, the family began to disperse. Mr. Collins passed Elizabeth in the hallway with a pompous inclination of the head. “I trust there will be no further disturbances this evening,” he declared, as if his own decree could keep the wind from rattling the windows or the floorboards from creaking.
Elizabeth smiled faintly but said nothing, retreating to her chamber. The house soon quieted to a stillness unique to the late hours, where even the faintest sound seemed amplified.
She was only half asleep when a noise stirred her—a gentle, deliberate knocking at her door. Heart quickening, she sat up and listened. It came again, soft but distinct.
Slipping from bed, she crossed to the door and eased it open. The hallway stretched before her, dim and empty. No figure waited, no whisper of movement met her ears. Only a single candle sat on the floor, its flame swaying gently in the draft.
Her breath caught. She reached down, noting the candleholder’s age and wear, and the scent of the beeswax—distinct, warm, familiar. Memory pricked at her: her mother’s missing beeswax candles, lamented weeks ago when they vanished from her stores.
A shiver ran down her spine. The corridor’s chill pressed against her night-robe, and the faint creaks of the old house seemed louder in the emptiness. Blowing out the flame, she gathered the candle and hurried back into her room, bolting the door behind her.
Sliding beneath the covers, she drew the blankets close, the weight of the day’s warmth battling the unease prickling at her skin. Whatever its origin, the candle was now in her possession—but the questions it raised would not let her rest.
She lay in the darkness, the extinguished candle resting on her dressing table like a silent sentinel.
The room felt colder than before, though Elizabeth had pulled the covers snugly about her shoulders.
Her mind would not still; it darted between possibilities—had someone placed the candle there as a message?
Was it some misguided jest? Or was it a trace of the petty thefts that had so unsettled the household?
Each thought led to another, and the restlessness in her chest refused to be soothed.
She turned onto her side, staring into the shadows that pooled in the corners of her chamber.
The faint light of the waning moon crept through the curtains, tracing silver across the floorboards.
The house was silent but for the occasional sigh of the wind and the groan of the timbers.
She closed her eyes, willing herself not to think of the candle, but the image of its flame persisted, dancing behind her eyelids. At last, she deliberately turned her mind elsewhere—anywhere that might bring her peace. And so, inevitably, her thoughts wandered to Mr. Darcy.
She pictured the moment earlier that day when he had asked her father’s permission to court her—how earnest his voice had been, how unfeigned the light in his eyes.
There was a steadiness about him, a kind of moral anchor that, once she had learned to look past her initial prejudice, she found both rare and reassuring.
She thought of his quiet attentions during their walks, his habit of listening more than speaking, and the way his words, when offered, were carefully considered rather than flung into the air without thought.
He was not a man to waste speech. And yet, when he did speak, the weight of his sincerity seemed to settle into her very bones.
Elizabeth recalled the moments at Netherfield when he had looked at her from across a crowded room—his gaze unwavering, as if he were trying to learn the truth of her without a single word.
Even then, when she thought him the proudest man she had ever known, something in that attention had quickened her heart.
Her lips curved faintly in the dark as she remembered his unexpected humor—the wry, subtle remarks that came when she least expected them, catching her off guard and making her laugh in spite of herself.
There was a tenderness in him, too, one that he seemed almost reluctant to display, as though uncertain it would be welcome.
She thought of the way he had looked at her earlier in the evening, as though he could scarcely believe she had agreed to the courtship. That look… It had settled over her like a warm cloak, making her feel, for one heady moment, that sh e was the only woman in the world who truly mattered to him.
Her breathing slowed. The tension in her limbs loosened.
In her mind, she imagined his voice—low, rich, steady—speaking her name.
She imagined walking the grounds of Pemberley with him, the lake glinting under a summer sun, the quiet between them filled with the kind of comfort one only finds in perfect understanding.
The image held her, soft and golden in her mind’s eye. And as the last of her unease faded beneath the gentle weight of these thoughts, her eyes grew heavy. The shadows in the room receded, the cool air no longer bit at her skin, and she drifted slowly into sleep.