Page 51 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

Bingley swore softly under his breath and offered a hand to haul him fully upright. “We thought you were in the library with Bennet. When you were not, we split up. Bennet and I took different wings of the family quarters—Darcy, I had no notion you had found a way into the old passages.”

Darcy steadied himself against the wall, willing the last of the vertigo to pass. “The panel at the end of the servants’ hall. She found scraping on the stone—fresh marks. We followed it through to here.” His voice roughened. “She was holding my hand.”

Bingley glanced down the corridor towards the darkness where the glow had been. “Then she cannot be far. But she might not be alone.”

The meaning of that settled heavily between them.

Darcy set his jaw. “We need more light. And men.”

Bingley’s expression hardened into a seriousness Darcy rarely saw in him. “Agreed. The entrance we came through is still open—I shall send for Hill to bring lanterns, and have the footmen join us.”

Darcy’s instincts were pulling him forward—towards the place where the right-hand passage stretched into shadow—but he knew the folly of going alone, half-blinded and unsteady.

Whoever had struck him had moved with precision and speed; to follow without light was to walk willingly into the same fate.

Bingley gripped his arm briefly. “Darcy, I swear, we will find her.”

Darcy met his friend’s gaze. “We must.”

Bingley disappeared back through the panel, the faint sound of his boots on stone fading into the hum of voices from the kitchen beyond.

Darcy leaned back against the wall, forcing his breath to steady. The emptiness of the corridor pressed in on him, the silence broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere far off.

She had been here. Moments ago, her hand in his, her voice filling the dark—and now nothing but cold air and the echo of her fear.

His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, but he ignored it, fixing his eyes on the blackness ahead. Whatever lay beyond, whoever had taken her, they could not have gone far. And Darcy would follow, lantern or no, until he found her.

When Bingley returned, it was with two footmen bearing lamps and Mr. Bennet close behind, his expression grim.

Darcy straightened, meeting Bennet’s gaze without flinching. “She is in there somewhere. And we have no time to lose.”

Bennet’s jaw tightened. “Then let us have her back.”

With that, they turned into the darkness together, the lamplight spilling forward over the rough floor, chasing the shadows ahead .

The lamps threw long, shivering shadows along the narrow passage as they advanced.

Every step seemed to stir the air, cold and stale, tinged with a scent that was part ash, part mildew.

The further they went, the more the evidence of ruin pressed upon them—doorways choked with collapsed beams, charred fragments clinging stubbornly to the edges of the frames.

In some places, the blackened timbers had fused to the stone itself, mute testimony to a fire that must have burned hot and fast.

Darcy could see now why the place had been walled off. This was not merely decay—it was a wound sealed over and forgotten.

At intervals, he caught sight of objects scattered amid the debris—an old candlestick, warped from heat; the twisted remnants of a chair leg; fragments of crockery mottled with soot.

Once, in the dust near the wall, he spotted a child’s wooden soldier, its paint blistered away, one leg missing. He did not linger over it.

“Good heavens,” Bingley murmured behind him. “It is a wonder any part of this house still stands.”

“It is part of the old basement and staff quarters,” Darcy murmured. “They must have built the new house right on top of it.”

At last they reached the place where Darcy remembered the glow ahead. A door loomed in the wall, its panels dark with age, the iron latch cool under his palm.

He turned to the others. “Be ready. We cannot know what lies beyond.”

Mr. Bennet nodded, his expression drawn. The footmen shifted their grip on the lamps, and Bingley stepped to Darcy’s side. Together, they eased the door open, the hinges protesting in a long, slow groan.

The beam of lamplight spilled into a wide chamber, the air heavy with the scent of long disuse.

Dust motes swirled in the disturbed air, their dance revealing the shape of a great four-poster bed against the far wall.

Its hangings were moth eaten, but the mattress was not bare—blankets, mismatched and worn, lay rumpled upon it, as though someone had slept there recently.

They fanned out, their boots crunching over grit. A small table in the corner bore a chipped basin, and on the mantel above the long-dead fireplace, Darcy’s eye caught the glint of something familiar. He crossed the room and picked up a small brass clock.

“This is from the blue drawing room,” he said, his voice tight. “And here—” he gestured towards the hearth, where a porcelain figurine sat half-hidden behind a pile of ash, “—that is from Mrs. Bennet’s own chamber.”

Bingley’s brow furrowed. “So this is where he—” He stopped himself, glancing at Mr. Bennet, and then continued, “—kept what he took. Some of it, anyway”

Darcy did not answer. His attention had shifted to the far end of the room, where another door stood. This one bore the marks of heavy alteration—the edges were uneven, and the faint line of mortar told him it had once been bricked up entirely.

He ran a hand over the surface. “This was sealed when the rest of the wing was closed. It appears someone recently broke through again.”

The three men set their shoulders against it. The hinges gave grudgingly, opening just enough to admit a breath of crisp air.

Daylight dazzled them after the gloom, making them squint.

The opening, not more than two feet wide, revealed a narrow step down into what had once been a sheltered corner of the rear grounds.

The doorway was half-smothered in a thick curtain of ivy, and at its base lay a steaming heap of kitchen refuse and dung—a midden, the sort of place no one would willingly wander near.

Darcy crouched to examine the threshold.

“The bricks have been removed with care—no jagged edges, no mortar crumbling. And see here—” he touched a section where the bricks had been neatly stacked just inside the wall, concealed beneath the tangle of ivy, “—they were arranged to disguise the opening from anyone passing by.”

Bingley stepped back, his mouth set. “What are we to do now? If he—” he glanced briefly at Bennet, “—left this way, then where has he taken her?”

Darcy rose, brushing dust from his hands.

“No. This is not how he left with her. He could not have brought her through the servants’ hall without being seen, and no one has passed through the main floors unnoticed.

There must be another exit—somewhere further within these old passages. We simply have not found it yet.”

He turned back towards the dark corridor, the lamplight beckoning him forward once more. “We shall find it. We have no choice.”

Darcy turned from the ivy-choked exit and stepped back into the stale gloom of the old passage, the lamplight stretching his shadow ahead of him. The air in here seemed heavier now, as if the room they had just searched had given them only the smallest taste of the truth buried within these walls.

“We will go back the way we came,” Darcy said, voice firm. “And we will examine every foot of this corridor. Somewhere there is a turning, a gap—something that was overlooked when this wing was sealed. ”

Bingley, grim-faced but steady, nodded. Mr. Bennet followed close behind, his mouth set in a line that Darcy had not seen before—one of genuine resolve rather than sardonic detachment.

They moved slowly, the lamps throwing flickers of gold over the blackened stones.

The fire damage was more pronounced here than Darcy had noticed on the first pass—deep cracks in the mortar, scorched beams hanging like bones from the ceiling.

In places, the floor was warped, as if heat had passed beneath the flagstones themselves.

He slowed as they approached a section where the wall seemed to bulge slightly, the plaster uneven. Kneeling, he ran his fingers over the base of the wall. A faint dusting of grit fell away, and with it came the barest whisper of air against his skin.

“A draft,” he murmured. “From somewhere beyond.”

Mr. Bennet crouched beside him. “There should be nothing beyond this wall except the inner structure between here and the family wing. Unless…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing. “Unless the old servant passages ran behind it.”

Just as Elizabeth had suggested. Darcy pressed his palm to the stone. “And they were bricked up imperfectly.”

They followed the wall, searching for a break.

Twenty feet further on, Darcy’s lamp caught something in the dust—a scuff, lighter than the surrounding grime, shaped as though the heel of a boot had scraped against the floor.

Beside it, a narrow groove cut through the layer of ash and soot, as if something heavy had been dragged.

“This is fresh,” he said, pointing it out to the others. “And not the mark of one of us.”

Bingley swung his lamp towards the wall just above the marks. The beam revealed a narrow seam in the paneling—so fine it was nearly invisible except for the faint difference in color where the edge had been handled.

Darcy set his shoulder against it and pushed. The panel gave, but only an inch. He shifted his grip and pulled instead. With a low groan, the wood slid back on concealed runners, revealing an opening just wide enough for a man to pass through sideways.

Beyond lay darkness, deeper than before, but Darcy could smell fresher air—damp stone and earth, like a cellar with an open vent.

Mr. Bennet looked in, his face pale but determined. “This… I have never seen this passage before.”

“It was meant to be hidden,” Darcy said quietly. “And it has been used recently.” He nodded towards the marks on the threshold—clear impressions in the dust where a boot had stepped in, turned, and stepped out again .

They entered one by one, the lamps casting a wavering glow along the narrow walls.

The passage sloped downward almost immediately; the floor here was less damaged but colder, the stones slick with moisture.

The sound of their own footsteps seemed louder, echoing strangely as though the space curved away unseen.

Darcy’s heart pounded, not from the exertion but from the knowledge that they were closer now—closer to understanding how Elizabeth had been taken from under her family’s roof without a sound.

At a bend in the corridor, the floor leveled out and widened into a small junction. To the left, the passage ended abruptly in a heap of fallen masonry. To the right, the air stirred faintly, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of outside air—green and damp, like a garden after rain.

Darcy motioned for silence and crept towards the source.

After ten paces, the wall on the right revealed another door, this one narrower than the first but fitted with iron hinges.

It bore the same telltale signs as the door behind the ivy—mortar stains where it had once been bricked up, newer scratches along the edge from where it had been forced open again.

“This will lead out,” Darcy whispered.

Bingley’ s voice was low but urgent. “If it leads out, then it also leads in.”

Darcy met his gaze. “Precisely.”

They braced themselves, hands on the door.

The hinges creaked, a sound almost deafening in the enclosed space, and then the door swung open into a concealed alcove outside.

The opening was screened by a tangle of overgrown shrubs, their wet leaves brushing against his coat.

Beyond them lay the lower garden wall, and a narrow path leading towards the copse at the edge of the property.

Darcy stepped through, scanning the ground. The soil was disturbed in irregular patches, some shallow, some pressed deep—as though a man had stood here more than once, waiting.

Mr. Bennet emerged behind him, staring out towards the trees. “If someone has been coming and going this way, they could reach the road without being seen from the house.”

Darcy turned back towards the open door. “And bring stolen objects—or worse—to and from just as easily.”

Bingley’s grip tightened on the lamp handle. “So, what now?”

Darcy’s answer came without hesitation. “Now we search every inch of these old halls until we find where else they lead. If he—” his jaw clenched briefly, “—removed Elizabeth from this place, there is more than one way he can move about unseen. And I intend to find every last one.”

The others nodded, the flickering lamplight catching in their eyes. Together, they stepped back into the darkness, the door swinging shut behind them with a heavy, final sound.