Page 53 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

“And how did I know about it?” His hand came to rest possessively atop the stack of books.

“Grandfather left it all here. Me mother kept it all for me and gave it to me on her deathbed. ‘Did ya know,’ said she, ‘that ye’re a gentleman?’ I laughed at her, o’course.

But then I hired a lad to read ’em to me.

And me ma was right. If Da woulda lived, she woulda taken me to meet my wealthy relations sooner. ”

The words chilled Elizabeth to the bone. Whoever he was, this man’s hatred ran deep—and it was personal.

“I used the drawings!” he yelled suddenly, his voice so loud in the enclosed space that Elizabeth flinched.

He snatched up one of the books and shook it at her, the pages fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird.

“Me grandfather drew it all. But there was no mention of a fire. He only raged about losing his home. I figured he got disinherited. When I got here…nothing was as he drew it. But I found a way. I always does.”

He chuckled darkly, his teeth flashing in the candlelight. “And to see you scum living my life. No, I can’t let that continue. It be my responsibility to get the you-suppers out!”

You-suppers? Elizabeth frowned behind the gag. And then it struck her— usurpers . That was what had been scrawled on the mirror in Papa’s study. The man was not altogether literate; the word must have been spelled phonetically.

The vagabond swaggered forward and leaned down into Elizabeth’s face until she could smell the brandy on his breath—hot, acrid, and thick. His teeth, now inches from her, were blackened at the gums and pitted with decay.

“You are your da’s favorite,” he hissed.

“I saw it—saw how he favored you. He never talked down to you; no, indeed. I knew ‘twas you I needed. He’ll trade you for everything else! Besides, you’re to marry that toff.

You and the older one will have rich husbands.

It’s not like you need Longbourn any longer. ”

He stepped back and took another long drink from the decanter, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. This time, when he set it down, the glass hit the table with a thunk that sloshed its contents dangerously close to the rim.

Elizabeth could see it now—his pupils blown wide, the slight sway in his stance, the way his fingers twitched against the decanter. The drink was wearing at his self-control, and though that should have frightened her, it also meant his grip on reason might slip.

The man staggered across the room towards the wall, where a fire poker leaned casually against the cold hearth.

He picked it up with a slow, deliberate motion, testing its weight in his hand.

The iron was dark and pitted with rust at the tip, but the rest of it gleamed faintly in the candlelight, as though recently handled.

“I hear ’em,” he muttered, tilting his head as if listening to something far away. His eyes narrowed to slits. “They be close.”

Turning back towards her, he grinned—a wide, mad grin that bared those ruined teeth once more. “Time to meet me cousin.”

Darcy

The air in the servant’s passage was colder than the rest of Longbourn, the damp seeping through Darcy’s greatcoat and into his bones.

Every footfall sounded too loud, the faint scuff of boots against stone echoing in the narrow space.

He kept his steps measured, forcing himself to move quietly despite the urgent thrum of his pulse.

Somewhere ahead, Elizabeth was in the hands of a man who had already proven himself reckless, desperate—and perhaps unhinged.

Darcy’s mind refused to dwell on what might happen if they did not reach her in time.

The image of her being dragged away in the dark still flashed behind his eyes, her scream cutting through him like a blade.

Bingley moved at his side, jaw tight, his usual cheer replaced by grim determination.

Behind them came two of Longbourn’s footmen, armed with a lantern and whatever tools they could grab in haste.

The flicker of the lantern cast long, shifting shadows along the walls, distorting the space until it felt like walking inside the ribs of some great beast.

“Here,” Bingley murmured, pointing to a faint scrape along the stone floor. “These marks are fresh.”

Darcy crouched, running a gloved hand over the rough surface. The grit shifted under his fingers, and he could see the faint, irregular trail leading deeper into the warren of passages. He straightened without a word and pressed forward, the passage bending sharply to the left.

The air grew closer, tinged with the stale scent of neglect—dust, mildew, and something faintly acrid, like old smoke.

They had entered the section from the old house, the part long abandoned after the fire.

Darcy could see blackened patches on the walls, the ghost of flames etched into the stone.

In places, the ceiling sagged ominously where beams had been weakened decades ago.

They stepped over a fallen lintel, and Darcy’s mind kept time with the pounding of his heartbeat. He thought of Elizabeth alone in some hidden chamber, her keen mind working even now to find a means of escape. But she could not fight the man’s greater size, and if cornered, he might—

Darcy forced the thought aside and kept moving.

The passage narrowed again, the walls pressing closer. A flicker of the lantern revealed soot-streaked doorways, all collapsed inward, nothing beyond them but rubble. The air felt heavier here, the weight of history pressing down with every step.

Bingley’s hand touched his arm lightly. “Do you hear that?”

Darcy froze. Somewhere ahead, faint, but unmistakable, a man’s voice, muffled but harsh. He could not make out the words, but the tone sent a sharp jolt through him. It was the cadence of someone issuing orders… or threats.

They moved in unison now, each step slow, deliberate, as though the very air might betray their presence.

The lantern’s light grew stronger against the wall to their right, spilling from a gap where rotted paneling met stone.

The smell of burning wax drifted towards them—beeswax candles, recently lit .

The marks on the floor ended at a battered door set into the wall, half-hidden behind an ancient beam. It was old oak, the grain dark with age and streaked where damp had seeped into it over the years. From within came a faint scrape, then the unmistakable sound of glass meeting wood.

Darcy’s throat tightened.

He turned to the others, lifting a hand for silence. The footmen shifted their grip on the lantern and tools, their faces pale in the flickering light. Bingley met his gaze, his eyes asking the question neither of them dared to voice aloud.

Darcy took a steadying breath, forcing his voice low. “She is in there.”

Every nerve in his body urged him to burst through and drag her to safety. But the man inside was unpredictable—too sudden a move, and Elizabeth might pay the price.

He laid his hand against the door, feeling the vibration of faint movement on the other side. His jaw clenched, and he whispered, “We go in… but we do it quietly.”

They positioned themselves, each man tensed, waiting for Darcy’s signal. The wood beneath his palm felt warm from the candlelight inside. In the stillness before action, Darcy allowed himself one thought— Hold on, Elizabeth. Just a moment longer.

And then, with a silent nod, they were ready.