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Page 8 of Strange Happenings at Longbourn (Darcy and Elizabeth Variations #11)

Chapter Eight

Elizabeth was summoned to her father’s study just after luncheon.

The room was its usual state of organized chaos—papers in loosely stacked piles, books opened and abandoned mid-paragraph, and the faint scent of old tobacco lingering in the air.

Mr. Bennet looked up from behind his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose.

“Ah, Lizzy, good. I have a task that requires some measure of competence and clear-headedness,” he said, waving his hand towards the window as though gesturing in the direction of some invisible chore.

Elizabeth raised a brow and folded her hands before her. “Do tell. That sounds far too serious to suit my idle feminine mind. ”

Mr. Bennet gave her a dry smile. “I find myself in need of an inspection of the old Shipton cottage and I cannot be troubled to go—too many tiresome letters to write to too many tedious relations—but the new tenants are arriving within the week, and the place must be made ready. I would like you and Jane to walk out there, take stock of what needs repair, and compile a list.”

“You trust us with estate matters?” she teased, though a flicker of anticipation stirred within her.

“I trust you not to faint at the sight of cobwebs or complain of manure,” he said blandly, then added with a grunt, “And I trust Jane to keep you from wandering off into philosophical reflections when there is work to be done.”

Elizabeth dipped into a mocking curtsy. “We shall not disappoint you.”

Moments later, she and Jane set off from the house with a modest basket that contained pencil, paper, and a wrapped tea cake Mrs. Hill insisted they take along.

The sky had brightened somewhat, a pale autumn sun breaking through the clouds, casting the path ahead in soft golden light.

The wind was sharp, but the walk promised to be pleasant enough.

They had only reached the end of the drive when they encountered two familiar figures approaching on horseback .

“Ladies,” Mr. Bingley called as he dismounted with graceful ease. Mr. Darcy followed, less theatrical but no less imposing. Both men looked flushed from the brisk air.

“Out on a stroll?” Bingley asked cheerfully, his smile broadening as he looked at Jane.

“To a tenant farm,” Jane explained, returning his smile with her usual gentle grace. “Papa has asked us to survey the old Shipton cottage.”

“It has been unoccupied for some time,” Elizabeth added. “The new tenants arrive next week, and my father wishes to know if it is still standing.”

“A sound estate policy,” Darcy remarked, falling into step beside Elizabeth as Bingley and Jane naturally drifted ahead in quiet, cheerful conversation.

Darcy’s tone was casual, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. “It must be a challenge to have even one farm lying fallow,” he said after a pause. “The loss of income can be…noticeable.”

Elizabeth nodded, adjusting the basket on her arm. “Indeed. The farm was not always a loss, however. The Shipton family held that land for three generations. There was once pride in their work, a sense of stewardship.”

“But not in the last generation?”

She shook her head. “No. Mr. Shipton—the last—lacked the work ethic of his father and grandfather. Over time, yields dropped. He neglected the hedges, let the fields go to weeds, and grew careless with his accounts. There was no malice, I think, just idleness. Eventually, he could not meet the rent. My father allowed delay after delay, but it was no use. He had to evict him last spring.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened slightly. “That cannot have been easy.”

“It was not,” she agreed. “Mr. Shipton left bitterly. Swore vengeance, in fact. The villagers spoke of it for weeks. He vanished not long after, and no one has seen him since.”

Darcy’s brow furrowed as he looked towards the winding path ahead, the hedgerows whispering in the wind. “Strange, then, that his name should return to your household under such...uncanny circumstances.”

Elizabeth tilted her head. “You think it more than coincidence?”

He did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice was low and thoughtful. “I think it worth remembering.” He gestured to footprints on the path before them, indicative that someone had come this way recently.

Elizabeth glanced up at him, a slight shiver brushing her spine. Not from the wind.

The path to the Shipton farm lay ahead, dappled with fallen leaves, quiet, and waiting.

They had fallen behind the others on the wooded path, their pace slowed by the frost-hardened earth and a conversation that had turned, unexpectedly, to local superstition.

Elizabeth had asked, with a half-smile, if he believed the strange happenings at Longbourn might have a supernatural cause.

Darcy resisted the urge to smile outright. “I do not believe in spirits, Miss Bennet. But I will confess, the tenant’s name caught my attention.”

She tilted her head in curiosity. “Shipton?”

He nodded. “Yes. It reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten. Have you ever heard of Mother Shipton?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I cannot say that I have.”

“She was born Ursula Southeil,” he explained, his voice thoughtful.

“A Yorkshirewoman, sometime in the late fifteenth century. A poor girl said to have been born in a cave during a thunderstorm, disfigured from birth and rumored to have unnatural powers. They called her a witch—though in truth, she was more of a seer. A prophetess.”

Elizabeth’s eyes widened slightly, her interest clearly piqued. “And what did she prophesy?”

Darcy gave a small shrug. “All manner of things. Some nonsensical, others oddly specific. Her predictions were compiled in pamphlets and chapbooks—sold widely, even into the last century. I remember seeing one in my tutor’s collection.

People invoked her name whenever strange things occurred.

I find myself wondering what Mrs. Shipton might have said about all of this. ”

Elizabeth grinned. “Probably something ominous and cryptic, just vague enough to fit anything at all.”

He chuckled quietly. “Then she would have made an excellent politician.”

The cottage came into view as they crested a gentle rise, and Elizabeth’s first impression was one of quiet neglect.

Once a pleasant, modest dwelling, Shipton Cottage now stood sagging against the encroaching autumn wilderness like a weary old man too proud to fall.

Ivy clung to the walls in unruly patches, some of it dead and brown, others green and climbing through broken windowpanes.

The small fence enclosing the kitchen garden was in disrepair, slats missing entirely in places and the gate hanging askew from one hinge.

The garden itself was a tangled snarl of weeds and brittle stalks, long overtaking whatever herbs or vegetables had once grown there.

A rake lay abandoned near the door, its handle cracked and warped from long exposure.

The once-white paint on the cottage exterior was chipped and peeling, exposing gray wood beneath.

The thatched roof bore dark patches of moss and a visible sag over the right corner, suggesting damage that might worsen with winter rains.

“Oh dear,” Jane murmured softly, clutching the basket as they paused just outside the gate.

“It is not the worst I have seen,” Mr. Darcy said as he approached from behind, surveying the scene with critical eyes.

“But it shall require immediate repair.” He turned towards Mr. Bingley.

“You had best pay attention. This will be useful in your own learning. Make note—roof repairs first. Sagging near the eaves, likely a broken support beam. Best have a carpenter out to assess it before the new tenants arrive.”

Bingley, ever obliging, drew out a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. “Roof—yes. Anything else?”

Darcy moved forward, inspecting the door, which hung half off its hinges. He gave it a push, and it swung open with a loud creak. “The front door must be rehung and secured. It looks as though it has not latched properly for months.”

Elizabeth followed, entering the dim interior with care as her boots scraped against warped floorboards.

Inside, it was musty and cold. One of the windows had a cracked pane, a jagged hole in one corner stuffed with wadding.

Darcy pointed it out immediately. “Glazier’s work there. At least two windows need new panes.”

“And the porch,” Bingley added, pointing behind them. “It gave a bit when I stepped on it. Nearly threw me sideways.”

Darcy nodded. “The supports are rotting. That must be rebuilt entirely.”

Elizabeth trailed behind them, scribbling furiously in her notebook, listing:

Repair roof, likely beam damage Rehang and secure front door Replace broken windowpanes (2 or more) Rebuild porch supports Clean and clear kitchen garden Repair garden fence Repaint exterior Check for structural floor damage Replace rusted hinges on cupboards Inspect chimney, stove, and flue Interior cleanin g

As Darcy crouched to examine the old iron stove in the small kitchen, Elizabeth stood back, her pencil paused in midair.

His coat stretched slightly across his back, highlighting the lean strength of his frame.

There was something so natural in the way he bent to inspect the hinge on the door, fingers brushing dust from the surface with careful thoughtfulness.

Not a man accustomed to such labor, perhaps, but one not above it when duty called.

And there it was again—that curious flutter. A light sensation low in her chest that made her hand tremble ever so slightly as she returned to her list. Elizabeth frowned at herself.

He is your friend , she reminded her heart sternly. Only just a friend. A very new one at that. Do not be foolish.

Still, she could not help admiring how seriously he considered the needs of those who would live in this modest home.

He spoke with the authority of a man who understood responsibility—and not only understood it but welcomed it.

What sort of landlord must he be to the tenants of Pemberley? Surely a kind and generous one.

Darcy stood and looked around the room once more before straightening his coat. “There is little more to see inside. Bingley and I shall walk the perimeter. I want to check the chimney and the back fencing. ”

Jane handed the basket to Elizabeth and nodded. “We shall finish the list,” she said with a smile.

Once the gentlemen stepped out into the pale afternoon sun, silence fell over the small cottage. Only the rustling of wind through dry branches and the faint chirp of sparrows filled the air.

“You were quite absorbed, Lizzy,” Jane said lightly as she knelt beside the hearth to note the cracked stonework along the base.

Elizabeth shot her a quick glance. “Absorbed in my task, you mean.”

Jane’s eyes sparkled. “No, I meant with Mr. Darcy. I saw the way you were watching him when he examined the stove.”

Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed. “You imagine far too much, dearest. I was observing a friend. A thoughtful friend, yes, but nothing more.”

Jane tilted her head, unconvinced but gentle. “He seems to admire you.”

“Then it is a very new sentiment,” Elizabeth replied with forced levity, returning to her list. “We are only just now becoming acquainted on better terms. Do not start dreaming up romances for me, Jane. Your imagination is nearly as rapid as Mama’s.”

Jane laughed softly, and Elizabeth was grateful for the shift in mood. Yet as she wrote down the final notes, she could not deny the truth stirring quietly within her.

She had watched him—more than once, and it had not felt like friendship alone.

As Jane turned her attention back to the cracked hearth, Elizabeth rose and crossed to the window, peering out at the figures moving about the side of the cottage.

Darcy stood with his hands on his hips, head tilted as Bingley gestured animatedly towards a collapsed portion of fence.

The wind caught the edges of his coat, lifting it slightly as he turned—just in time for his gaze to meet hers through the glass.

Elizabeth felt her breath catch. He didn’t smile, but his eyes held hers for a long, steady moment before he nodded once, as though in silent understanding.

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