Page 52 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)
Chapter Thirty-One
Elizabeth fought like a lioness, but to no avail.
Her captor was far larger and much stronger than she, and the grip of his calloused hands was like iron.
He dragged her away from Darcy, whom he left lying unconscious on the filthy floor of the abandoned hallway.
Her breath came fast and harsh in the blackness, and the pounding of her own heart filled her ears.
It was very dark—so dark that she could barely discern the faint outline of the man hauling her forward.
The man moved without a lamp or candlelight, as though he had memorized every turn of this warren of hidden passages.
Elizabeth’s own flame had been snuffed out the moment he seized her; she thought she heard the sharp hiss as the candle struck the damp flagstones, followed by the faint scent of tallow and smoke.
Blind in the dark, she twisted and pulled against his hold, trying to wrench her arm free, the nails of her free hand clawing at the coarse wool of his sleeve.
There was a sound to her left—a faint shuffling or the echo of a drip from somewhere unseen—and then he yanked her hard to the right, jerking her off balance.
She stumbled into a narrower space, the stale air replaced by the faint smell of dust and candle smoke.
A thin glow appeared ahead as he dragged her into a dimly lit corridor before shutting a door—or something heavy and solid—behind them.
The muffled sound of the latch falling into place echoed in the confines of the passage, and a fresh wave of dread settled over her.
“Now, we can’t have ye wailing yer pretty ‘ead off,” the man said.
His voice was low and rough, with the accent of a man accustomed to hard living.
He pulled a long strip of cloth from his pocket.
The material was rough and smelled faintly of mildew, and bound her hands with practiced efficiency.
Before she could gather her breath to cry out, he forced a dirty handkerchief between her lips and tied it tight behind her head, the fabric tasting of stale ale and smoke.
Elizabeth had her first good look at the man who had tormented Longbourn for weeks.
The wavering light from a nearby candelabra revealed his features in uneven flashes—tall, as her mother had described, with hair hanging in matted black tangles past his shoulders.
His beard was equally unkempt, streaked with gray at the temples and chin, framing a mouth that twisted into a sneer as he looked her over.
The man's eyes were black and sharp, but there was something in them—some wild, untethered spark—that made her skin crawl. His clothing was filthy and worn thin in places, with the seams fraying. Longbourn’s own servants dressed better, and even Meryton’s habitual drunkard maintained more dignity in his appearance.
“‘Tis Miss Elizabeth, is it not?” His tone was mocking, but there was a strange satisfaction in the way he spoke her name.
He sneered again. “Come this way. I’ve another place where we can wait for your rescuers. They will come, and then I’ll have me due.” His hand clamped like a vice around her elbow, yanking her forward down the hall. His boots struck the floor with a measured, deliberate rhythm .
As they walked, he began to talk, his words rolling out in a steady stream, as if he had long been waiting for an audience.
“There’s a veritable maze of passages, all boarded up.
Some of ’em merge with the other servants’ passages.
Why have ’em, eh? How despicable to demand another person goes about unseen and unheard. ‘Tis inhuman.”
He chuckled darkly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “You wealthy types are all the same.
Ye all believe yerselves to be protected from harm because you 'ave money to throw at problems. Yer wealth keeps you blind to things that could cause harm. A smart man woulda made sure his house was his sanctuary.”
Elizabeth had so many questions—who he was, what he wanted—but with the gag in her mouth she could do nothing but listen to the madman’s rambling.
“Left here, then a right,” he muttered to himself as they moved. “And down the steps. Careful, now. That one’s cracked. Wouldna do me any good to have you break your pretty neck afore I get what’s owed me.” His hand tightened painfully on her arm as he half-guided, half-shoved her forward.
“None o’ this should be yours,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “‘Tis mine by right.”
He is utterly insane, Elizabeth thought, eyes wide as she tried to navigate the dimly lit staircase. The steps were uneven, and every creak of the old boards echoed upward into the darkness above. They reached the bottom, where the air felt heavier and cooler, and took a sharp right.
“The section over there be caved in,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head towards a corridor swallowed in shadow.
“But this one—near as I can figure, this section of rooms was for the female servants. That one you and the toff butted in to was for the men. Most o’ the original basement rooms were filled in and then rebuilt on the other side, near as I can tell.
They left the kitchens, the laundry, the pantry, and the cellar. ”
He pushed open a door with his shoulder and shoved Elizabeth in first before shutting it behind him. The heavy wood closed with a dull, echoing thud.
She blinked in the sudden light. There were candelabras around the room, all filled with Mama’s beeswax candles, each one burning steadily.
The golden light fell on a small bed in one corner, clearly not made for more than a single person.
Scattered about were objects she recognized instantly—Papa’s silver decanter sat on the floor beside the bed, its stopper missing.
Mama’s gloves had been strung on a piece of string and hung from the bedpost like some strange scarf.
“Sit.” He shoved Elizabeth into a chair that wobbled under her weight, one leg shorter than the rest so that it rocked slightly when she moved. The jolt rattled up her spine, and the rough rope binding her wrists bit into her skin.
“Now, we wait.”
Frightened but forcing herself to remain calm, she kept her chin lifted, her eyes darting around the cramped, low-ceilinged space.
It smelled of damp stone, candle wax, and the sour tang of unwashed linen.
Shadows clung to the corners despite the light from the candelabras, making the room feel smaller, closer, as if the walls were leaning in to watch.
Her captor moved with restless energy, muttering under his breath, the words too jumbled to make sense. He collected a stack of books from a shelf wedged between two crumbling walls—each identical in size and binding, their leather spines stamped with gold-embossed dates dulled by dust and time.
Journals? she wondered, her mind instantly flicking to the ledgers discovered at Netherfield.
The resemblance was uncanny, though these bore more wear, their corners softened and leather scuffed.
He stacked them on a small, rickety table that wobbled as much as her chair.
Elizabeth recognized it—it had once been stored in Longbourn’s attic, a discarded piece deemed too unstable for regular use .
The man crossed to another part of the room where a large clay bowl with a heavy lid sat on the ground.
Lifting the cover with a grunt, he drew out a loaf of coarse, dark bread and a wedge of cheese so hard it looked more like stone than food.
Without ceremony, he dropped into another chair opposite her, drew a long knife from the sheath at his waist, and began sawing through the bread, his movements slow but deliberate.
His dark eyes remained fixed on her as he cut, the gleam in them unnerving in its steadiness. He bit into the cheese with sharp, yellowed teeth, chewing as though each bite were a challenge to her.
When he swallowed, it was noisy and deliberate.
He reached for the decanter—Papa’s missing crystal one—and took a long swallow.
The rich scent of brandy drifted towards her, cloying and strong, making her stomach tighten.
Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he slammed the decanter down and drove the knife into the tabletop with a sharp thunk that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.
“How long before your handsome gent finds you?” he asked, voice curling with derision. “If ’e’s highly motivated, he could be here within the hour.” His laugh was jagged and ugly, bouncing off the stone walls in a way that made it sound bigger than the man himself .
Elizabeth’s mind screamed with questions— Who are you? Why are you doing this? —but the gag pressed cruelly against her lips kept her silent.
“Ye’ll get yer answers soon enough,” he hissed, as though plucking the thought right from her head. “Yes, I can see the questions in yer eyes.”
He leaned back, crossing his arms, never looking away from her. His posture was one of possession, as though he already considered her a prize won.
“‘Tis a shame it must all come to an end,” he went on, his voice growing harsher. “But I’s tired of the game. I want what is mine and will do whatever it takes to get it.”
Without warning, he stood abruptly and kicked the leg of her chair. The sudden jolt made her flinch, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.
“You’ve no idea what it’s like!” he roared, the sudden heat in his voice echoing in the room. “Forced to beg on the street and resort to all manner of things to stay alive. And just half a day’s journey away, wealthy relatives are living high with not a care in the world!”
Relatives? Elizabeth’s thoughts whirled. Was he speaking of her family? Someone connected to Longbourn?
“Well, says I, why not go and take what is rightfully mine?” His tone turned bitter again, the edges of his words frayed with long-standing resentment. He laughed, but the sound had no mirth—only jagged triumph.