Page 44 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Two nights before the rain finally broke, the household woke to another disturbance.
Elizabeth was roused by the muffled sound of something heavy hitting the floor.
She sat up, heart quickening, straining to listen.
For a moment, there was only the patter of rain against the windows.
Then came the faint creak of a board in the corridor—slow, deliberate, as if the weight upon it were cautious.
Pulling on her dressing gown, she crossed to the door and pressed her ear against it. The corridor beyond lay in darkness, the only light the dying glow from a lamp left too long on the table at the far end. She could see nothing, but the sense of being watched prickled across her skin.
In the morning, the evidence was plain. The large vase in the upper hallway—the blue-and-white Chinese porcelain her mother prized—lay in shards upon the carpet. Beside it, a single playing card rested face-up: the king of spades, its edges damp as if touched by wet fingers.
Mrs. Bennet’s shriek upon seeing the ruin could have rattled every window in the house. “That was a wedding gift from my Aunt Gardiner! Oh! This is a persecution, that is what it is! We are persecuted in our very home!”
Mr. Bennet stood frowning down at the shards. “It would seem our ghost has a taste for the dramatic,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction. Mr. Collins had appeared, only to complain about the destruction of his future inheritance before shuffling back to his chambers.
The next night, the boldness increased. Lydia’s ribbons—half a dozen of them—were found knotted together into a long rope, dangling from the banister over the stairwell. At the end, tied like some grotesque ornament, hung one of Mrs. Bennet’s lace caps, soaked through with what appeared to be wine.
Kitty declared it “proof” the ghost was attempting to fashion a noose. Lydia insisted it was only a “ghostly jest” meant to amuse her.
Elizabeth, however, could not ignore the implication of deliberate mockery. These were not random mischiefs—they were messages. The choice of objects, the placement, the single card—all spoke of an intruder who wished to be noticed and understood, even if the language was one of menace.
Mr. Collins once again appeared to complain and attempted to instruct the servants on proper clean up. When Mr. Bennet scolded him for acting the master, Mr. Collins slinked away with a reproachful look cast at the rest of the party.
On the third morning, the household came down to find the kitchen door wide open, rain blowing in over the flagstones.
In the center of the wet floor sat a pewter plate with four apple cores neatly arranged in an X.
Beside it lay a scrap of paper, the ink smeared but the words still legible: Get out.
The rain had at last given way to a thin, uncertain sunlight, though the sodden fields still lay heavy and dark under the pale sky.
Elizabeth had scarcely stepped into the breakfast room that morning before Hill announced that Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were calling.
Grateful that her cousin had opted to remain in his chambers for the day, Elizabeth greeted the gentlemen.
Mr. Bingley, cheerful as ever, came in with the air of a man determined to see the best in any weather.
Darcy followed, removing his gloves with unhurried precision.
His greatcoat still bore a faint sheen of damp, but there was something almost invigorated in his manner, as though the clearing sky had matched his own temper.
“My father has been persuaded that the…incidents at Longbourn warrant further inquiry,” Elizabeth said once the usual courtesies had been exchanged. “He assures me the house plans are here somewhere.”
“Somewhere?” Darcy’s brow lifted just slightly, the corner of his mouth nearly twitching upward.
“That was the sum of his instruction,” she replied, with a faint wryness in her tone. “He has promised to assist us, but I suspect his assistance will consist of telling us when we have found the correct drawer.”
They adjourned to the library. The air within was cool, carrying the scent of paper, leather, and the faint tang of wood smoke from a small fire. Afternoon light fell in soft bands across the floorboards, gilding the spines of books and the edges of the heavy writing desk.
Mr. Bennet was already there, seated at his usual table with a book open before him.
He did not rise. “You will find the rolled plans in one of the long drawers of that cabinet,” he said, gesturing vaguely towards a large, many-compartmented piece near the window.
“Or perhaps in the drawer beneath the old estate ledgers. I forget which.”
Elizabeth glanced at Darcy, whose expression was politely neutral. “Will you help us look, sir?” she asked her father.
“I have every confidence in your capabilities,” Mr. Bennet said, turning a page. “And in Mr. Darcy’s.”
That, apparently, was the extent of his commitment.
The search began. Elizabeth moved to the tall cabinet, opening drawers one by one, while Darcy knelt to examine the lower compartments. Now and then their hands brushed over the same handle, sending a faint, unwelcome awareness humming through her fingertips.
“Your family’s records are thorough,” Darcy remarked, straightening with a sheaf of yellowed correspondence.
“My father’s predecessors were rather more industrious than he in such matters,” Elizabeth replied, lowering herself to her knees beside him to check the next drawer. “Though in fairness, they did not have Lydia to distract them. ”
Darcy’s brief laugh was low and almost reluctant, but it warmed her nonetheless.
At last, after more than half an hour’s work, Elizabeth drew out a long, tightly rolled bundle tied with faded ribbon. She untied it and spread the papers across the desk.
The plans were drawn in a precise, elegant hand—ink lines softened now by time, corners curling.
They traced the shape of the house as it now stood, but also contained faint notations in the margin: alterations, additions, and in one place a lightly sketched rectangle that appeared to have been crossed out entirely.
“Here,” Elizabeth said, pointing. “This wing—look at the oddness of the corridor.”
Darcy leaned in, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. “And here,” he murmured, indicating the shaded block where no rooms were marked. “It appears to have been closed off entirely. This could well be your servants’ quarters. This must be where the new house meets with the old.”
She felt a small shiver—whether from the nearness of his voice or the implication of the drawing, she could not be certain.
Mr. Bennet watched it all with a keen eye, standing and coming forward to take a look. "You are correct, Mr. Darcy." He took off his spectacles and cleaned them with a handkerchief. "I ought to have been more engaged from the beginning. You have my heartfelt apologies."
"It is never too late to begin again, sir." Mr. Darcy nodded in acceptance.
From across the room, Mr. Bingley called, “What have you found? Treasure? Secret staircases?”
“Not yet,” Elizabeth answered, carefully rolling the papers again. “But perhaps the ghost has a more practical hiding place than the attics.”
“It will have to wait,” Darcy said quietly. “It is already late, and you have preparations for the ball. We should search after Netherfield—when the household is settled and you can spare the time.”
Elizabeth hesitated, but nodded. “After the ball, then.”
Mr. Bingley and Mr. Bennet nodded in agreement.
"We shall have to defy your mother's edict to forgo a search." Mr. Bennet's wry humor felt ill placed and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She knew her father often fell to such things to ease his own anxieties.
Darcy’s eyes met hers, steady and searching, as though the agreement bound them to more than the mere opening of a locked door.
Darcy helped her re-tie the ribbon around the plans, his fingers brushing hers in a way that was no accident of clumsiness .
“Keep these safe,” he said, his tone low enough that only she could hear. “Do not let them out of your possession.”
Elizabeth slipped the roll into the crook of her arm, feeling the crisp edges of the parchment against her sleeve. “I am quite capable of guarding a few sheets of paper, Mr. Darcy.”
“I have no doubt.” His lips curved just slightly, but the expression did not quite reach his eyes. “It is not the papers for who I am concerned.”
Her breath caught—not from fear, but from the steady weight of his regard. She looked away first, turning towards the window where Mr. Bingley was admiring the way the late sun lit the orchard after the rain.
“It is a fine thing,” he said cheerfully, crossing the room to join them. “The air smells fresh enough to be spring again. I should like to see the gardens tomorrow—if I may impose.”
“You are welcome, of course,” Elizabeth replied, grateful for his easy intrusion.
Darcy straightened, collecting his gloves from the desk. “If you wish it, we can examine the eastern exterior then. The plans will be more easily compared to the outside once the ground is firm.”
“That would be sensible,” Elizabeth agreed, though her heart gave an odd little leap at the thought of another search in his company.
Mr. Bingley was already moving towards the door. “I had best see that the horses are not chilled. My sister will scold me for bringing them out in such damp air.”
As they stepped into the hall, Darcy lingered a moment, allowing his friend to pass ahead. “Elizabeth,” he said softly, “I am glad your father sent for me. It is better to have certainty than to live with shadows.”
She glanced up at him, reading in his face that he meant more than just the shadowed space in the east wing. “After the ball,” she repeated.
“After the ball,” he echoed.