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Page 5 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

Chapter Five

Elizabeth’s mind would not quiet itself so she could drift off to sleep.

She was tired—so very tired—but as soon as her eyes fluttered shut, thoughts of Mr. Darcy crowded into her mind, chasing away any hope of slumber.

The hours had ticked by slowly, each minute stretching endlessly as she tossed and turned, her restless thoughts refusing to yield to the comfort of her bed.

She had tried everything: focusing on her breathing, recalling the day’s events, even silently counting backward from one hundred.

Nothing worked. Sleep remained stubbornly out of reach.

What is it about the gentleman that fascinates me so?

she wondered, staring at the shadowy canopy above her bed.

The change in her own feelings perplexed her as much as the man himself.

How quickly she had gone from despising him to calling him a friend.

Elizabeth had always considered herself a forgiving sort, yet when he had uttered that terrible insult at the Meryton assembly, she had vowed never to forget Mr. Darcy’s arrogance and disdain.

The memory of his words had once stung like a fresh wound, yet now, when she thought of him, it was not anger but a strange warmth that filled her chest.

And then he had apologized—sincerely, humbly—and she had found she could not deny him her acceptance.

Their conversations since had been stimulating and unexpectedly delightful.

Beneath his reserved exterior lay a keen wit and a depth of feeling she had not anticipated.

Though he still bore traces of his aloof, unapproachable manner, he made genuine efforts to be sociable.

Each attempt to engage, awkward though it sometimes was, spoke of a gentleman trying to change, and Elizabeth could not help but admire that.

Her pillow was very soft, a goose-down cloud that cradled her weary head.

Elizabeth turned on her side, tucking one hand beneath it, seeking the elusive comfort of sleep.

A yawn escaped her lips, her lashes grew heavy, and at long last, she began to drift towards that blissful oblivion she had longed for since the evening began .

Cree-aa-k.

The sound startled her, slicing through the quiet of the night like a blade.

Her eyes snapped open, her breath caught in her throat, and she stared wide-eyed into the heavy darkness of her chamber.

Her heart began to pound an unsteady rhythm, each beat echoing in her ears as she strained to listen. What was that?

Strange , she thought with a flicker of unease.

Mama keeps all the hinges well-oiled. Mrs. Bennet detested squeaking hinges, and the servants knew better than to leave them untended.

The noise had been distinct, sharp, as though a door had opened and closed slowly, deliberately.

It had not sounded like the groan of an old floorboard beneath a servant’s light tread, either.

Elizabeth lay completely still, scarcely daring to breathe, every nerve on edge.

The darkness of her room felt heavier now, the faint glow of moonlight at the window doing little to chase away the oppressive shadows.

Then, soft but unmistakable, she heard footsteps pass by her door.

They were muffled by the long carpet that ran the length of the hallway, yet there was a weight to the tread—a measured heaviness—that made her pulse quicken.

She pressed her lips together to keep from gasping, her hands clenching the coverlet as if the thin fabric could protect her from whatever, or whoever, was moving about the house at this late hour.

Silence stretched for a moment, making her doubt her own senses, and then came another sound, a dull thump, followed by a low, peculiar hissing noise that sent a shiver racing down her spine.

After that, nothing. The house seemed to fall into a deeper, more suffocating silence, as though it, too, held its breath.

Surely, I am imagining things. The rational thought came slowly, struggling to rise above the flood of unease coursing through her. She tried to comfort herself. Perhaps it was only a servant, up for some trivial reason. Perhaps the sound had been a loose shutter knocking in the wind.

The longcase clock that stood in the drawing room downstairs chimed the hour, the sonorous notes drifting eerily through the stillness. Elizabeth startled again when she counted the strikes—two in the morning. Good heavens, she thought, have I truly lain awake so long?

Yes , she reasoned as she burrowed deeper beneath the warmth of her coverlet, willing the fear to leave her chest. I have stayed awake too long, and my mind has conjured phantoms from nothing. It is only weariness and imagination playing tricks on me.

She clutched the blankets tighter, closed her eyes, and forced her breath to steady.

Slowly, bit by bit, the weight of exhaustion overcame the lingering fear.

As her muscles relaxed and her mind finally yielded to fatigue, the house remained silent around her.

And so, at last, Elizabeth Bennet slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep, unconcerned that the night might hold its secrets beyond her door.

“It is not a lie, Sally.”

Elizabeth stirred from slumber as the low, urgent whisper broke through the haze of dreams. Blinking against the early dawn light that crept through the curtains, she realized the hour was barely six o’clock.

Two maids stood at the hearth, their silhouettes framed by the faint glow of embers.

Sally clutched the ash bucket in both hands, her expression tense, while Molly bent over, her small shovel scraping softly as she scooped the remnants of the previous night’s fire.

“You cannot possibly believe Longbourn is haunted,” Sally hissed, her tone a mixture of annoyance and unease. “Now be quiet, else you wake Miss Lizzy.”

Molly huffed, but said no more, working faster now, the metal of the shovel tapping lightly against the grate as she filled the pail.

Elizabeth remained still, half-hidden beneath her quilt, her mind foggy with sleep yet keenly attuned to the unusual conversation.

Haunted? The word made a shiver crawl down her spine, recalling the strange noises of the previous night—the footsteps and the noises that had left her heart racing in the dark.

Once Sally departed, leaving Molly to finish, Elizabeth pushed herself upright, her hair tumbling loose around her shoulders.

“Oh! I am so sorry, miss,” Molly exclaimed, spinning around with wide eyes and a crimson blush rushing to her cheeks.

She dropped a quick curtsy, brushing soot-stained hands on her apron. “We did not mean to wake you.”

“Never mind that, Molly.” Elizabeth’s voice was gentle, though curiosity prickled at her every nerve. “Tell me, why do you think Longbourn is haunted?” Her tone was casual, but her gaze fixed sharply on the maid’s face, reading every twitch of unease.

Molly bit her lip and cast a furtive glance towards the door, as though fearing Mrs. Hill herself might materialize in the threshold. “Mrs. Hill will scold me for telling tales, miss,” she whispered, voice low as if the very walls had ears.

Elizabeth leaned forward, folding her hands neatly in her lap, her eyes bright with interest. “Mrs. Hill can only scold you if she finds out,” she reasoned softly.

“And she will not, for it is only you and me here. I promise, Molly, I will keep your confidence. Please—I confess to some curiosity and would dearly like to hear what you know.”

For a moment, the girl hesitated, wringing her hands, torn between fear and the desire to unburden herself.

At last, she burst into hurried speech, her words tumbling over one another.

“Things have been disappearing below stairs for a few months,” she said breathlessly.

“At first it was just bread and cheese—a slice here, a wedge there. Then some preserves went missing, and even a few trinkets of more value. Mrs. Hill started keeping careful count. Nothing terrible at first, but when she told Mr. Bennet, he only waved it off, said we were imagining things.”

Elizabeth frowned, her brows knitting together. It sounded like more than a servant’s fancy. “Does Mrs. Hill suspect thievery among the staff?” she asked, recalling Mr. Darcy’s own quiet suspicions about theft at Longbourn.

“She did at first,” Molly admitted, casting another nervous glance at the door.

“But then one Sunday…while we were all at church—every groom, every maid, every footman accounted for—the larder was locked up tight, and Cook had the only key. Yet when we came back, a whole mince pie, a loaf of bread, and three jars of preserves had vanished. The door was still locked, the key still on Cook’s ring.

” Her voice dropped to an uneasy whisper.

“There is no earthly way anyone in the house could have done it.”

Elizabeth sat straighter, unease creeping down her spine. Missing food was troublesome enough, but this…this was pe culiar. “And what of Miss Kitty’s locket?” she prompted.

“Aye, we thought that was Miss Lydia at first, if you pardon my saying so,” Molly said quickly, cheeks pinking.

“But then the mistress’s gloves went missing, and her best candles, and—” Molly’s voice fell to a trembling murmur, her eyes darting about the room as if a phantom might step forward at any moment.

“There are sounds in the walls, miss. Scratching, soft footsteps, sometimes a knock when there’s nobody there. ”

Elizabeth’s pulse quickened. She remembered the heavy tread outside her door last night, the peculiar creaks in the darkness, and felt a chill settle over her skin.

“Sounds in the walls?” she echoed softly, her alarm genuine.

“Molly, I promise you I will not repeat what you have said. But we must be vigilant and uncover the truth. There is surely an explanation to be found.”

The maid’s eyes widened in gratitude, a mixture of relief and fear.

“Thank you, miss,” she whispered. With trembling hands, Molly returned to her task, quickly arranging kindling and coaxing a flame to life.

The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed, its warmth doing little to dispel the unease that lingered in the chamber.

Elizabeth leaned back against her pillows, suddenly exhausted, her mind whirling with unanswered questions.

The flicker of firelight danced across the walls as Molly finished tidying the grate.

At last, when the maid departed, Elizabeth let her eyes close again, though sleep was fitful this time.

Ghosts or thieves, she could not say, but one thing was certain: Longbourn held a secret.

Elizabeth came down to breakfast a few hours later. Lydia and Kitty were still at the table, speaking between themselves.

“You are quite the lay-a-bed this morning,” Lydia chirped, spearing a piece of egg with her fork and popping it into her mouth with an air of triumph.

“I did not sleep well,” Elizabeth confessed as she took a seat and filled her plate with a modest portion of toast and eggs.

The girls giggled, exchanging mischievous looks. “It is the specters and phantoms of All Hallow’s Eve,” they tittered, their eyes bright with mischief.

“Hmm?” Elizabeth looked up from her plate, arching a brow.

“Oh yes,” Kitty said with mock solemnity, “tonight the veil between the living and the dead is thinnest. If you listen closely, you may hear the whispers of wandering spirits in the halls of Longbourn.” She wiggled her fingers dramatically, sending Lydia into a fit of giggles.

Elizabeth managed a weak smile. “Ah, yes, it is October thirty-first,” she said, her mind immediately returning to Molly’s frightened whispers about missing food and strange sounds in the walls. The uneasy feeling that had haunted her since dawn returned, settling like a weight in her chest.

But her younger sisters were far from somber.

“We are going to try the apple-peel trick tonight,” Lydia announced eagerly, reaching for a slice of bread thickly spread with jam.

“If you peel it in one long strip and toss it over your shoulder, it will land in the shape of the initial of the man you are destined to marry!”

Kitty clapped her hands, eyes shining. “And I heard if you put a candle in a dark room and stare into a mirror, you might see your future husband looking back at you!”

Elizabeth stifled a laugh, though a shiver crept down her spine at the thought. “And what if you see nothing at all?” she asked lightly, taking a sip of tea to hide her unease.

“Then you are destined to be a spinster,” Lydia declared with mock horror, her tone far too loud for the hour. “But not me—I am certain I shall see a handsome officer smiling at me from the glass!”

The girls dissolved into another fit of laughter, chattering about roasted nuts to test the fidelity of beaux and soul cakes to please wandering spirits.

Elizabeth tried to join in, but her thoughts wandered.

Molly’s tale of locked doors and missing food mingled uneasily with the memory of footsteps outside her chamber in the dead of night.

For the briefest moment, the cheerful dining room seemed dimmer, as if unseen eyes lingered just beyond its bright windows.

She shook the feeling away, forcing a smile for her sisters’ sake, but deep down she resolved to keep watch that evening. Whatever haunted Longbourn—ghost or otherwise—she intended to uncover the truth.

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