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Page 41 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

Mrs. Bennet, however, had no eye for their needlework just then.

She was intent upon plying Mr. Collins with attentions, leaning towards him in her chair, her voice lowered to a syrupy sweetness that she no doubt believed persuasive.

“Another biscuit, Mr. Collins? Or perhaps one of Cook’s almond cakes?

They are especially fine today. And tell me, have you heard from Lady Catherine of late?

She must be most eager to hear your impressions of Hertfordshire. ”

Her guest mumbled something noncommittal, his expression caught between discomfort and self-importance. He accepted another biscuit, though with less enthusiasm, and soon his shifting in the chair grew more frequent. At last, with a faint clearing of the throat, he rose.

“I shall just go to my chamber to see to some correspondence,” he announced, brushing crumbs from his waistcoat.

“Lady Catherine insists I write regularly. I have not yet had a reply to my last…” He trailed off, perhaps recalling too late the sensitive nature of the subject, and with an awkward bow to the assembled company, left the room without another word.

From the corner came a muffled snicker. Lydia’s shoulders shook; Kitty covered her mouth with one hand, her sewing needle poised in the other. Mary cast them a swift, disapproving glance—one which plainly communicated her opinion of unseemly mirth—but she refrained from voicing her censure.

Elizabeth silently thanked her for it. For now, their united efforts to keep Mr. Collins from writing to Lady Catherine about her nephew’s supposed engagement—and thereby interfering in matters infinitely more important—remained intact. The fewer ripples in that particular pond, the better.

Sir William Lucas’s drawing room was already a pleasant chaos when the Bennets arrived—candles glowed in every sconce, laughter rose above the gentle scrape of chairs, and a set of musicians were tuning in the corner.

The rugs had indeed been rolled up, and the polished boards gleamed under the light, ready for the evening’s dancing.

Mrs. Bennet swept forward with Lydia and Kitty in her wake, eager to greet Lady Lucas and claim the best position for observing the proceedings.

Jane was soon claimed by Mr. Bingley for a turn about the room, and Mary gravitated towards the pianoforte, speaking quietly with one of the Lucas daughters.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, found herself beside Charlotte near the refreshments table.

Charlotte, with her usual clear-eyed assessment of a room, glanced over Elizabeth’s shoulder and remarked in an undertone, “Your cousin is not hovering near Mary this evening.

I confess I thought them very much in company at Mrs. Phillips'.”

Elizabeth allowed herself a small smile. “That was before Mary informed him they would not suit. She was forthright and quite unshaken in her resolve. I believe his pride is still mending.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows rose, a spark of interest lighting her eyes. “Indeed? I had thought him rather… attentive. And now that his affections are unengaged—” She trailed off delicately, as if weighing the import of her next words.

Elizabeth caught the implication at once and said warmly, “If you mean to suggest your own interest, Charlotte, you have my blessing. Only know that Mr. Collins has set himself firmly against Mr. Darcy and me. Should you marry him, you may find us on the most civil, but distant, of terms.”

Charlotte tilted her head, studying Elizabeth’s expression. “That is a grave warning. I should hate to lose your company, Lizzy.”

“I should hate it too,” Elizabeth said honestly, “but I would never counsel you against your own advantage. Mr. Collins will inherit Longbourn one day, and you know better than most the security such a position affords.”

Charlotte’s gaze wandered across the room to where Mr. Collins stood, speaking earnestly to Sir William. Her expression was thoughtful, calculating in the way Elizabeth had long recognized—Charlotte’s was a practical nature, inclined to consider comfort and stability over romantic sentiment.

Returning her attention to Elizabeth, Charlotte asked softly, “Tell me then about your courtship. I had heard whispers, but you have said nothing yourself.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks warmed, though she kept her voice steady.

“Mr. Darcy and I are…in an understanding. It has not been announced, but it is known to a few. Mr. Collins has been attempting to contact Lady Catherine about it—though, so far, his letters have gone unanswered.” She did not add why those letters had gone astray, nor how Kitty and Lydia’s interception had spared her no small amount of vexation.

Before Charlotte could frame a reply, a shadow fell across them.

Mr. Darcy had entered the room and was making his way towards Elizabeth with deliberate purpose, his dark eyes fixed on her.

Charlotte, ever perceptive, excused herself with a graceful curtsy, her lips curving in a private, knowing smile.

She crossed the floor to where Mr. Collins now stood alone, and with an air of polite interest, began conversing with him.

Elizabeth, from her vantage point, saw Mr. Collins’s posture alter almost at once—shoulders squaring, chin lifting—as if her friend’s attention had revived his sense of importance.

Charlotte listened with polite patience, though now and again her glance flicked towards Elizabeth, as if gauging her reaction.

Darcy came to stand beside her, inclining his head in greeting. “Miss Bennet.” His voice was low, meant for her alone. “How are you faring?”

“Well enough,” she said, allowing a smile to touch her lips. “There have been no further…disturbances since the last disaster.”

He studied her for a moment, as though weighing the truth of her words, then inclined his head slightly. “I can only be pleased about that.”

Something in his tone—quiet, sincere—made her pulse quicken. For a moment, the crowded room seemed to recede, and she felt the odd sense of standing with him alone in a quiet, separate space, removed from all the rest.

Elizabeth had not meant to watch Charlotte too closely, but it was difficult not to notice how her friend gravitated towards Mr. Collins through the remainder of the evening.

At dinner, Charlotte contrived to take the seat beside him, engaging him in quiet conversation between courses.

Mr. Collins, flushed with renewed self-importance, discoursed at length about the duties of a clergyman in an elevated parish, and Charlotte listened with a polite attentiveness that seemed to embolden him.

Elizabeth could only hope her earlier words had prepared Charlotte for the realities of such a connection. Still, she could not entirely fault her friend—Mr. Collins was, at least in the eyes of the world, a secure prospect.

After the meal, Sir William clapped his hands and declared the evening would not end without a proper dance.

Servants having previously rolled up the drawing room rugs, the chairs were pushed back, and the small assembly arranged themselves with cheerful anticipation.

Mary was coaxed to the pianoforte—her playing, though lacking in brilliancy, was steady and reliable—and soon the opening strains of a lively country dance filled the air .

It was then that Darcy appeared at Elizabeth’s side. “Miss Bennet,” he said, offering his hand with a small, deliberate bow, “would you do me the honor?”

She accepted, her fingers brushing his in a fleeting yet unmistakable way that sent a little thrill up her arm. They took their places opposite one another, and when the music began, they moved in time, advancing and retreating, turning and crossing in the intricate figures of the dance.

Elizabeth found herself unusually conscious of every point at which the steps brought them near—his eyes meeting hers in the turn of a set, the warm clasp of his hand as they passed, the faint curl of his mouth when some remark between them made her laugh.

“I cannot recall when last I enjoyed a dance more,” he said quietly, his gaze holding hers a fraction longer than the step required.

“Perhaps,” she teased lightly, “because you so rarely dance?”

“Perhaps,” he allowed, though his voice had deepened, “but I think it more likely because of my partner.”

Elizabeth felt the words slip under her guard, leaving her with a curious mixture of pleasure and disquiet. She returned her attention to the figures of the dance, but when, at the close, he bowed over her hand, his eyes still held that steady, warm regard.

“Now I have a taste,” he murmured so only she could hear, “of what it will be to dance with you at the Netherfield Ball. I find I look forward to it more than I had thought possible.”

The moment—quiet, private, almost startling in its intimacy—was abruptly broken by the approach of Mr. Collins, who seized Darcy by the arm with the air of a man in urgent possession of valuable intelligence.

“My dear Mr. Darcy,” he began, drawing him aside with scant ceremony, “I have the most gratifying news to share—though of course, you are already well acquainted with the facts. The beautiful and accomplished Miss de Bourgh—so fair, so gentle, and, I may add, born to be mistress of two great estates—remains, I understand, quite prepared to unite her destiny with yours. Indeed, it has long been the dearest wish of her noble mother, my most honored patroness, that such an alliance should take place, thereby joining in one the vast consequence of Rosings and Pemberley.”

Elizabeth, left to stand a few paces away, could not help hearing every word.

Part of her was irritated by Mr. Collins’s presumption; another part found the entire scene absurd enough to be faintly amusing.

Darcy, to his credit, did not so much as glance towards her, but listened with patient composure until Mr. Collins paused for breath.

“I had a letter from my relations only the other day,” Darcy said evenly. “Tell me, is your information more current than mine?”

At this, Mr. Collins’s complexion shifted alarmingly from red to a blotchy white. “Lady Catherine has been…uncharacteristically unresponsive to my most recent missives,” he admitted with visible discomfort. “I can only suppose her ladyship’s attention is occupied with matters of great import.”

“Indeed,” Darcy replied, his tone neutral.

Mr. Collins, clearly unsettled, muttered something about seeking out Miss Lucas and shuffled away, casting one last, sulky glance in Darcy’s direction before fastening himself to Charlotte’s side.

Darcy rejoined Elizabeth, his expression betraying the faintest glimmer of dry amusement. She met his gaze, her lips curving despite herself.

“It appears,” she said lightly, “that Mr. Collins’s intelligence was not quite as up to date as he supposed.”

Darcy’s eyes warmed at her tone, but he only offered his arm, and together they moved towards the next set.

It was late when the Bennet carriage rattled back up the drive; the lamps casting long fingers of light over the frost-silvered lawn.

The house lay in darkness save for a single candle burning in the entry, left to guide their return.

The night was sharp and still, their breath fogging in the air as they crossed the threshold.

Sarah appeared from the shadows of the hall, looking pale and uneasy. “Mr. Bennet, sir—“ she began, but he waved her off with an indulgent smile.

“It is nearly midnight, my dear. Whatever it is, can wait until morning.”

“I am afraid it cannot, sir,” she said, her voice faltering. “It is your study…sir.”

Something in her tone drew all of them forward at once. Elizabeth was first to the door and stopped short, the others crowding behind her.

The room was a disaster.

The curtains had been yanked from their hooks and lay crumpled across the carpet, their tassels torn away.

Wadding from the small chaise Mr. Bennet often used for reading lay scattered across the floor in tangled heaps, pulled from great holes cut in the fabric.

His desk drawers gaped open, their contents swept into untidy piles.

Books were strewn in disarray, several with pages crumpled or torn, as though someone had rifled through them in haste.

And on the desk, the space where his jewel-encrusted snuffbox had always rested was bare.

Elizabeth’s gaze was drawn, unwilling yet compelled, to the mirror over the mantel. Across its glass, in a jagged, uneven scrawl, words had been smeared in something dark and ruddy:

You Supper

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel, its steady beat oddly at odds with the chaos of the room.

Mr. Bennet stepped forward, surveying the scene with a dry, almost brittle humor. “Well,” he said, “I suppose our mysterious visitor intends to dine on me. Not a very practical choice, mind you—tough meat and little fat.”

“Mr. Bennet!” Mrs. Bennet’s voice trembled; whether with fear or indignation it was difficult to say.

“This is no jest. Someone has been in the house—this very night while we were away! And to leave such a…a horrid message. Oh, I declare, it is past endurance.” She clutched her shawl closer about her shoulders.

“Perhaps it is time to notify the magistrate. That is Sir William Lucas, is it not?”

“Indeed,” Mr. Bennet said, but there was a shadow in his eyes that belied his light tone.

Elizabeth glanced towards the doorway. “Where were the servants?”

Sarah swallowed. “We…we had the evening off, miss. As you said we might, seeing as there was to be no supper served here tonight. None of us heard anything.”

“So this part of the house was empty,” Jane murmured, her voice tight with concern. “Whoever did this knew we would all be away.”

Lydia stepped closer to the mirror, her expression a mix of curiosity and unease. “It looks like…blood,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“Paint, most likely,” Mary countered, though her voice held little conviction. “But the words—what could they mean?”

Elizabeth’s eyes lingered on the crimson letters. You Supper. The message was not only strange—it was personal, unsettling. Whoever wrote it wanted them to feel watched.

She folded her arms tightly, suppressing the shiver that threatened to rise. “It means,” she said softly, “that our culprit grows bolder still.”

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