Page 50 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

Thirty

The November morning was sharp and pale, the kind of light that brought the damp air into relief, gilding every drop still clinging to the hedgerows. Darcy sat beside Bingley in the open carriage, the wheels cutting crisp ruts in the half-frozen lane as they made their way towards Longbourn.

In another season—another life—such a ride might have been pleasant, but Darcy’s mind was far from idle enjoyment.

Instead, it was occupied wholly with the business at hand.

The hours since the Netherfield Ball had been restless ones; his thoughts had returned again and again to Elizabeth’s words before their final set, her voice low but charged with unease as she told him more of the “incidents” at Longbourn.

What had seemed, weeks ago, the petty work of a malicious prankster—or at worst, an opportunistic thief—had now taken on a darker cast. A figure seen in the night. Objects arranged with deliberate symbolism. A hand, perhaps, on the edge of violence. And last night…

Darcy’s jaw tightened. The image of Mrs. Bennet on the stairs, as Elizabeth had described it, haunted him more than he liked to admit.

Whatever else could be said of her nerves or her tendencies to exaggerate, her terror had been real.

He had seen it in Elizabeth’s eyes when she spoke—no artifice there, only the pale echo of her own fear.

He glanced at Bingley, who was humming under his breath, his usual cheer somewhat tempered but intact.

“This morning,” Bingley said, glancing over, “we may at last put some of this business to rest. Bennet will search with us, yes?”

Darcy inclined his head. “Elizabeth wrote her father is now fully committed to it. We begin with the places where the disturbances were heard.”

Bingley gave a brisk nod. “The sooner the better.”

They reached Longbourn in short order. The Bennet home sat quietly under the gray sky, its chimneys trailing thin threads of smoke into the cold air. It looked the very picture of domestic peace, but Darcy knew better now than to be deceived by appearances.

As they dismounted, Hill met them at the door, curtsying but keeping her voice low, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

“Miss Elizabeth is in the drawing room, sir,” she said to Darcy. “Mr. Bennet is with her.”

Darcy stepped inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and hearth smoke meeting him at once. He followed the sound of a soft voice and entered the drawing room to find Elizabeth standing near the fire.

She was pale, and though she greeted him with composure, there was a tautness to her posture that spoke of a sleepless night.

Her eyes—bright even in weariness—held him for a moment, and he thought he saw the faintest flicker of relief cross her features before her expression settled into something more guarded.

“You did not sleep,” Darcy said, without preamble.

Her mouth quirked, not in humor but in acknowledgment. “I suppose it shows.”

“Only to one who looks for it,” he replied, stepping nearer. “Will you tell me?”

She nodded, clasping her hands before her as though to still their tremor.

“It was after we had all gone to bed. I had just spoken with Jane about—about the ball—when we heard a scream. We all rushed out. My mother was halfway down the stairs, slumped, her slipper halfway up the flight. Kitty and Lydia went to her at once.”

Darcy listened without interruption, though his hands curled slightly at his sides.

Elizabeth drew a steadying breath. “I looked up and saw—someone. A shadow at the top of the stairs. The figure turned and fled. My father gave chase, but by the time he reached the landing, whoever it was had vanished. We searched the house, but found nothing.”

“And before that?” Darcy pressed gently.

Elizabeth’s eyes darkened. “She says she saw him in her room—long hair, a beard, filthy clothing—and a knife.”

A slow, deliberate anger coiled in Darcy’s chest at that last word. “Then it is not mischief any longer,” he said. “This person—man or otherwise—has entered the realm of violence. You are all in real danger.”

Elizabeth held his gaze, unflinching. “I have thought so for some time.”

At that moment, Mr. Bennet entered, closing the door behind him with unusual firmness.

“Darcy, Bingley.” He nodded to each in turn. “I am sorry it has come to this, but my wife’s…encounter has convinced me. We must find him or her, or whatever devil plagues this house. ”

“I am glad to hear you say so,” Darcy replied. “Where shall we begin?”

Mr. Bennet’s eyes moved between them. “We start where the noises have been heard most often—off the kitchen, near the servants’ hall.”

Elizabeth spoke then, her tone steady but certain. “I have considered something. The sounds may not come from the open passages, but from within the walls themselves. Old servants’ corridors, perhaps—hidden spaces.”

Her father frowned. “The servants have reported nothing.”

“That does not mean they have not heard anything. Besides, they were in their beds when these things occurred,” she countered, “and the sounds could be muffled in those narrow halls.”

Darcy met her eyes. “It is worth investigating.”

Mr. Bennet departed, intent on searching upstairs in the family wing, where most of the incidents had occurred. Jane and Bingley were elsewhere.

Darcy and Elizabeth moved together through the warm bustle of the kitchen, where the cook and scullery maid watched them with wide eyes, whispering behind their aprons.

At the far end of the hall, the light dimmed, and the air grew cooler.

The stone flooring underfoot was worn smooth by decades of passage .

Elizabeth slowed, her gaze sweeping the corners with care. Then she stopped. “Here.”

Darcy followed her look to a place at the very back of the hall, where the stone showed fresh marks—thin arcs and scratches, as though something heavy had been dragged or shifted across it.

“Scraped,” she murmured, crouching to touch the marks with her fingertips. “Recently.”

Darcy knelt beside her, running a hand along the wainscoting. There—a faint give beneath his palm. He pressed harder, and a panel shifted.

“Help me,” he said quietly. Together, they worked the panel free, revealing a narrow, shadowed opening.

Elizabeth stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “I recall no mention of this on the current floor plan.”

“It appears to have been closed long ago,” Darcy replied, peering into the darkness. “But not well enough to keep someone out…or from getting in.”

Elizabeth’s voice was quiet but certain. “This must be where the servants and Alfred Moore died.”

The air beyond was colder still, carrying a faint musty tang. Darcy reached into his coat and produced a small tinderbox, lighting a single stub of candle from the kitchen. The weak flame threw a narrow circle of gold into the passage beyond.

They stepped inside together, Darcy keeping Elizabeth close. The corridor was narrow enough that his shoulder brushed the wall; the plaster was rough under his palm. Behind them, Mr. Bennet remained in the servants’ hall, the panel left open to admit what little light the overcast day could offer.

The passage stretched ahead before dividing into a T. The left-hand way was completely collapsed—bricks and stone tumbled into a mound that smelled faintly of damp earth.

They turned right. The darkness pressed close around them, the candlelight trembling over the uneven walls. Somewhere ahead, a faint glow glimmered—warmer than their own light, as though from another candle or lamp.

Elizabeth’s hand found Darcy’s without a word. Her fingers were cool but steady, and he tightened his hold in silent reassurance. His own heart was pounding, though whether from the nearness of danger or from the fact of her hand in his, he could not have said.

The sound of their footsteps seemed amplified in the close space, each creak and scuff magnified by the stillness. Darcy’s senses sharpened; he listened for any rustle, any breath not their own .

Elizabeth stopped suddenly, tilting her head as though to catch some faint sound. He saw her lips part, the flicker of her eyes towards him—

And then, her gaze shot wide.

Before Darcy could speak, her grip on his hand tightened painfully, and she drew in a breath that broke into a scream—high, sharp, and cut short in the same instant that the candlelight shattered into black.

Something struck the side of his head, hard enough to send pain blooming white behind his eyes. The world pitched; the floor came up to meet him, cold stone against his cheek.

For a heartbeat—or an eternity—there was nothing but darkness and the distant echo of that scream.

And then there was nothing at all.

The first sensation that returned to him was cold—the chill of stone beneath his temple, sinking into bone and muscle. Then came the throb, deep and insistent, at the side of his skull. He drew a breath that rasped in his throat, the air thick with dust and the faint acrid tang of old mortar .

Light flared against his closed eyes.

“Darcy? Darcy!” The voice was urgent, almost sharp with alarm. A hand gripped his shoulder and shook.

He forced his eyes open. The dim, wavering glow of a candle wavered above him, resolving into Bingley’s anxious face.

“Good heavens, man, what happened? Can you sit up?”

Darcy pushed himself to his elbows, the world tilting before settling into uneasy focus. The narrow walls of the hidden corridor loomed around them, shadows crowding close. The air was colder now, the faint glow ahead gone entirely.

He swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Elizabeth—”

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “She is not here?”

Darcy’s pulse spiked, cutting through the haze. “No. She was—she was with me. We saw a light ahead. Then—” He touched the tender spot at his temple, finding a sticky warmth there. “Someone struck me. I heard her scream.”