Page 45 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
They parted at the door, Mr. Bingley calling his warm goodbyes from the drive.
Darcy mounted with the easy grace of a man long accustomed to the saddle, but his eyes found hers one last time before he turned his horse towards Netherfield.
The connection held for a moment—silent, steady—until the distance and the lingering mist blurred him from sight.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway a breath longer than was necessary, the roll of plans warm beneath her arm, before turning back into the house.
The drawing on that fragile paper was no longer just ink and lines.
It was a promise, a question, and perhaps a key—to Longbourn’s past, and to something far more dangerous to her peace of mind.
The house had been still for hours when a piercing scream shattered the silence.
Elizabeth was out of bed before her mind could form a thought, fumbling for her dressing gown and rushing into the corridor.
Doors were opening all along the landing, voices rising in alarm.
Kitty stood in the doorway of her chamber, white as the linen at her back, her hands trembling so violently that the candle in her grasp threw erratic shadows up the wall.
“There was a man—” she gasped, her voice breaking into a sob. “He was standing right there—right over my bed!”
Lydia appeared at her shoulder, hair loose down her back, her eyes wide. “Kitty, you are shrieking like you have seen a ghost. Oh! Have you? Perhaps the lost heir mistook your room for mine.”
“I did not see a ghost!” Kitty’s voice climbed almost to a wail. “He was real—tall, with hollow cheeks and wild, tangled dark hair—his teeth—” She shuddered violently. “ I think they were rotting. I could not see him clearly; it was too dark, but—oh, he was dreadful! And he held a candle—”
Elizabeth stepped forward, taking Kitty by the arm. “You are shaking. Come, sit down.”
Mr. Bennet, now at the threshold, rubbed his brow as though already weary of the matter. “You have always had a vivid imagination, Catherine. I daresay the flicker of a branch against the window was transformed into a highwayman in your mind before you even opened your eyes.”
Kitty stared at him in disbelief. “I know what I saw! He was right there—his shadow fell across my pillow!” Her voice broke, tears spilling over.
Mrs. Bennet, who had followed in a rustle of night-robe and cap ribbons, fanned herself. “My poor child, you will be quite ruined by this house! We must—”
Mr. Bennet lifted a hand. “Enough. You will sleep with Jane tonight. That should cure you of these fancies.”
Elizabeth, watching her father’s face, caught what she suspected he meant to hide. His eyes, though narrowed, held an alertness that belied his indifference; his jaw was tight, his manner too brisk.
Jane emerged from her own chamber, calm as ever, and wrapped an arm around Kitty’s shoulders. “Come along, dear. You will not be alone. ”
Lydia, lingering behind them, tossed her head. “And you most certainly shall not sleep in my room. If your man comes for you again, I do not wish him coming for me as well!”
Kitty burst into another sob and allowed Jane to lead her away.
Elizabeth stood in the corridor a moment longer, listening as their footsteps retreated. The candlelight quivered along the walls, throwing the corners into deeper shadow. Something in the air felt unsettled—as though the house itself were holding its breath.
When she returned to her room, Mary appeared in the doorway, her hair braided neatly despite the late hour. She slipped silently inside, closed the door, and climbed into the bed beside Elizabeth without a word.
They lay there in the darkness, the warmth of Mary’s presence a quiet reassurance. Neither spoke.
Elizabeth stared into the shadows above her and let her mind betray her into longing.
How different this night would be if Darcy were here—his arm around her, his voice steady in the dark, the quiet certainty that nothing in the world could reach her while he stood guard.
The thought made her ache in a way that was both frightening and sweet, the pulse of fear in her blood slowly giving way to something far more dangerous.
She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, and listened to the soft rhythm of Mary’s breathing.
Mr. Bennet
He felt bad for putting doubt in Kitty's mind. Mr. Bennet felt his daughter would be able to rest easier if she believed it had been a nightmare. Let this ball end quickly so we might find a swift conclusion, he silently prayed. And may my girls remain safe.
Elizabeth
The household rose late the next morning, moving about with the subdued quiet of those still unsettled from the night before.
Even Lydia’s usual chatter was dampened; she sat at the breakfast table stirring her tea into a pale, lukewarm whirlpool, glancing towards Kitty’s drawn face and saying nothing.
Kitty, pale beneath her curls, kept her gaze on her plate, pushing her toast back and forth rather than eating it.
Mrs. Bennet, however, regained her spirits the instant her eye lit upon the calendar and she recalled that this was the day of the Netherfield Ball.
“My dears! This will not do!” she cried, her voice rising in tones of forced gaiety.
“We must not go looking pale and wretched. I shall order hot baths for each of you at once—Jane first, of course—and you must all take care with your complexions. The gentlemen will be out in full force tonight, and we must look our very best.”
Mr. Bennet looked over the edge of his newspaper with a dry smile. “It is remarkable to me, Mrs. Bennet, how swiftly you can forget our household troubles when there is a ball in prospect.”
She waved a hand, unwilling to be drawn. “Nonsense. A mother must think of her daughters’ futures.”
Mary, sipping her tea with deliberate precision, remarked, “Or perhaps she is simply trying to distract herself from the fact that there is a madman inside the house.”
Mrs. Bennet dropped her spoon with a clatter. “Mary! What a thing to say!”
But Mr. Bennet only grunted, folding his paper. “It may be, Mary, that you are correct. In any event, I find myself agreeing that I ought to take the matter more seriously. I shall pen a note to Sir William after breakfast.”
He rose and muttered under his breath, “I ought to have done it sooner.” Elizabeth, catching the words, sighed. Whether her father’s delay was born of skepticism or stubbornness, she could not say, but she was glad at least to see him move towards action.
The day passed in a flurry of small excitements. Servants hurried up and down the stairs with buckets of steaming water, their arms reddened from the heat. The sharp, clean scent of lavender water hung in the upstairs corridor, mingling with the beeswax polish from the morning’s dusting.
Lydia and Kitty bickered over a length of pearl trim, Lydia insisting it would be “wasted” on Kitty’s gown when it could “elevate” her own.
Kitty snapped that Lydia already had the newer gown, entirely reconstructed after its mysterious destruction, and should leave her be.
Jane sat with quiet industry by the window, finishing a hem in her pale pink muslin, her needle flashing in the sunlight.
Mary polished her shoes until they gleamed and rehearsed under her breath a set of minuets she might play if prevailed upon .
Elizabeth, alone in her chamber, laid out her own gown across the bed.
It was a soft ivory silk, the skirts falling in a graceful drape, the bodice modest but well-fitted.
She had trimmed it herself with the narrow ribbon of silver and blue she had purchased in Meryton—a delicate touch that caught the light like frost on water and pleased her for its understated elegance.
Her hair she dressed in an arrangement of soft curls gathered high, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face.
Sarah, her maid, wove the same silver-blue ribbon through the coiffure and fastened it with pearl-tipped pins, her fingers deft and sure.
Elizabeth fastened her mother’s small pearl drops in her ears—simple, but dear—and clasped around her wrist a slender silver bracelet, a gift from Jane on her eighteenth birthday.
The glass reflected her with more than its usual honesty.
She saw not only the ivory gown and the careful curls, but the faint flush of anticipation in her cheeks and the brightness in her eyes that came, she suspected, less from the prospect of the ball itself than from the thought of a certain gentleman’s company.
She smoothed her skirts with deliberate care, telling herself it was merely to check for stray threads and not to steady her own pulse.
By the time the family gathered in the front hall to depart, Mrs. Bennet was in a state of high agitation, fussing with gloves and reticules and exclaiming over imagined delays.
“Where is my shawl? Oh, this will never do—Jane, stand nearer the light so I may see if that ribbon is straight—Lydia, stop tugging at your bodice!”
Elizabeth lingered for a moment on the threshold of her chamber.
She let her gaze drift over the familiar space—the small escritoire by the window, the neatly folded shawl upon the chair, the shadowed corners where unease had lately made its home.
The fire in the grate burned low, casting warm light on the silver-blue ribbon ends peeking from her sewing box.
For all her affection for Longbourn, she could not deny the relief that washed over her at the thought of leaving it behind, if only for an evening.
The carriage awaited, lanterns glowing in the deepening twilight.
As she stepped into the night air, a faint chill curled around her, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and wood-smoke.
She glanced back once, the tall windows of Longbourn glimmering faintly behind her like watchful eyes, and then turned away towards the promise of music, light, and the company she most wished to keep.