Chapter 5
Five
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Declare a Tentative Truce
Darcy had won their silly wager, but what of it? Lizzie couldn’t have known how utterly incompetent the local constable would
be.
Besides, having a new case gave her something to focus her thoughts upon. And this one would prove to be quite the challenge,
for Lizzie had very little to go on aside from a tarnished silver coin, a window of opportunity decades wide, and a maid who
didn’t seem to know anything.
It was quite late by the time the body had been transported into the village under the grumpy Mr. Oliver’s supervision, and given that it had been a very long day of travel already, Lizzie was fighting off yawns.
When Jane had ventured downstairs to inform them that she’d send everyone to bed with supper trays and suggested they all get a good night’s sleep, Lizzie had been all too happy to ignore Darcy’s pointed looks that clearly communicated he wanted to talk, and headed straight to the opulent bedroom she’d been given for the duration of her stay.
The body had spent a multitude of years in the chimney—one more night wouldn’t severely impact their investigation.
Upstairs, a maid had deposited Guy into her bedchamber, and he greeted her enthusiastically. She managed a few quick bites
of cold supper, tossing Guy the rest of her chicken, and had barely managed to wiggle out of her dress before falling fast
asleep in the large four-poster bed, Guy curled up at her feet.
When Lizzie awoke the next morning, her mind was pleasantly swathed in the soft haze of sleep, and so she wasn’t immediately
alarmed to hear soft footsteps and the light sound of rustling fabric. Then there was a soft clunk of something heavy being
set down, and the warm, reassuring weight of Guy’s small body shifted as the dog jumped to his feet and barked once. Lizzie’s
eyes flew open as she remembered that she wasn’t at home in Gracechurch Street. She was in Netherfield Park, and there was someone in her room.
She sat up suddenly, ready to scream, but just barely managed not to when she saw a young woman wearing a maid’s uniform standing
across the room. “Good morning, miss!” she said cheerily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you both.”
“Guy, sit,” Lizzie croaked out, no longer quite so alarmed but still rather unsettled. The maid was about Lizzie’s age, with
auburn hair and fair, elfin features. She was short but quick on her feet. She bustled about the room as if it were entirely
normal to be skulking about in someone’s bedroom while they snoozed the morning away.
Then again, this was Netherfield Park—it probably was perfectly normal.
“Good . . . morning?” Lizzie added once Guy had scampered back and sat next to her, looking up at her for further instruction.
The maid snapped open the drapes, letting in a cheery morning light. Lizzie squinted against it and rubbed her eyes. “What
time is it?”
“Quarter past ten.” The maid laughed at the shock on Lizzie’s face. “But don’t worry, no one else is up yet. After all that
travel and last night’s excitement, I can imagine you all needed a good lie-in.”
Her face turned grave, and Lizzie tried not to shudder at the memory of the desiccated body. She reached out to pet Guy instead.
“Does everyone downstairs . . . know?”
“About the body, miss? I’m afraid that’s not a secret anyone could keep—Jimmy the stable boy saw Sarah running away from the
estate like her skirts were on fire and came right in to report it to the rest of us, so we were all astir until Mr. Grigson
came down and broke the news.”
“It’s a terrible thing,” Lizzie said slowly, although the maid wasn’t acting as though she was as traumatized as poor Sarah
had been. That was . . . probably a good sign?
“Oh, just terrible,” the maid agreed as she poured steaming water from a pitcher into the washstand.
“Mrs. Reed cleaned the drawing room herself, along with Sally. She said it was because she trusted no one else to do it, but really the other maids are too afraid to go in there. I would have done it if ordered, but Mrs. Reed really only needed one other person, and honestly? It gives me the shivers.” She shuddered dramatically as if to prove her point.
“Did the other maid come back?” Lizzie asked. “Sarah? I’m afraid we gave her a real fright.”
“No, miss, she didn’t report for duty this morning. The others say she’s not likely to, either. She’s a real superstitious
sort, and her mum was against her coming to work here to begin with. Jimmy says she holds her breath walking past the churchyard—can
you fathom it? What does holding your breath do?”
“I don’t know,” Lizzie said, but the maid’s mention of superstition shook something loose in Lizzie’s memory. “But she said
something peculiar last night. Something about a curse?”
“Aye,” the maid said, nodding sagely. She turned her attention to a breakfast tray and began pouring tea. “The Netherfield
curse. How do you take your tea?”
The Netherfield curse. The words sent a delicious shiver down Lizzie’s spine. “What on earth is the Netherfield curse?”
“Milk?” the maid asked. “Sugar?”
“Milk,” Lizzie said, getting to her feet and crossing the room to where the maid had the breakfast tray set out. Guy hopped
down after her, sticking close to her heels. She felt a bit odd standing in nothing but a nightgown, hair a mess, while the
other girl was dressed and not a single auburn hair out of place. “I’m sorry, can you tell me your name?”
“It’s Agnes, miss.”
“My thanks, Agnes,” Lizzie said, taking the teacup from her.
In Lizzie’s limited experience, ladies’ maids could be an excellent source of gossip, but Agnes seemed very keen.
Likely whatever Lizzie revealed to her would be repeated downstairs, which wasn’t entirely surprising.
The discovery of the body last night was probably the most shocking thing to happen at Netherfield Park in decades.
Lizzie could use the maid’s apparent hunger for gossip .
. . as long as she treaded lightly. “Now, what’s this about a curse? ”
Agnes began setting out breakfast. “I don’t know the exact details, miss. I was hired on only last month, and didn’t hear
about it until my third day. But everyone in the village says the estate is cursed—those who spend a night under its roof
are doomed to stay forever or die shortly upon leaving.”
Lizzie accepted the porridge topped with clotted cream. “That sounds . . . well, rather severe. Who supposedly set this curse
on Netherfield?”
“Old Mrs. Bingley. I don’t understand why. I was going to ask, but then Mr. Grigson came along, and he won’t tolerate gossip
about the family.”
“Nor should he,” Lizzie said, offering Guy a slice of cold chicken from the plate Agnes had brought for him.
“Of course, miss,” Agnes rushed to say. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s all right. I did ask, after all. And I don’t blame anyone for being curious about a rumored curse. But tell me—do people
actually believe in it?”
“I can’t speak for everyone, miss, but Sarah and one of the footmen didn’t show up this morning, and all the local help goes home at night.”
“What do you mean, they go home at night?”
“They refuse to sleep under this roof. So even if we aren’t finished until half past one, they still walk home, in the dark.”
Interesting. Lizzie ate her porridge as she pondered this so-called curse. Clearly Sarah had been terrified last night, and in the moment
Lizzie had chalked up her reaction to shock and fear. But if the local villagers really believed in a curse . . .
“Do you spend the night here, Agnes?”
“Aye, miss. Me and those that came up from London.”
“And do you feel as though you’re in danger?”
“No, miss. The only dangerous thing about this house is how many stairs there are between here and the kitchen—not that I’m
complaining!”
Lizzie smiled. “Thank you, Agnes. If you hear anything more about the curse, please do tell me. I’m not sure if I believe
in such things, but if other people do, that could prove useful.”
“Useful in what way, miss?”
Lizzie took another bite of the delectable porridge as she considered her next words. When she swallowed, she said, “Useful
in the sense that it might tell me something about who put that body in the flue in the first place. Oftentimes there is a
glimmer of truth in the stories that people tell, no matter how far-fetched they sound.”
“A glimmer of truth,” Agnes repeated. “I like that. Now, will you be wearing your green lawn or the blue muslin dress today?”
Lizzie blinked in surprise. “Oh, you don’t need to—I mean, I am quite accustomed to dressing myself.”
“Suit yourself, miss, but I have been instructed to act as your lady’s maid while you’re here,” Agnes said, showing the first
sign of uncertainty since Lizzie had opened her eyes and seen the girl in her room.
“Oh, well . . .” Lizzie didn’t want her to get in trouble, even inadvertently. “The green lawn?”
Agnes smiled wide. “Excellent, miss.”
A half hour later, Lizzie was washed and dressed, her hair set in an uncharacteristically fancy twist thanks to Agnes’s adept
fingers, and she was taking Guy, his belly full, on his first walk of the day in the Netherfield gardens. The sun was bright
and the gardens verdant and fragrant, if slightly overgrown, and the countryside felt unnaturally quiet despite the twittering
of birds and the rustle of the light breeze. It was peculiar being away from London—by half-past nine in the morning, Lizzie
would have seen no fewer than a dozen people, but here she’d only seen Agnes. As she strolled up and down the garden path,
letting Guy see to his morning business, she couldn’t help but think that this sense of isolation did not bode well for this
case.
“Lizzie!”
She turned at the sound of her name, only to find Darcy standing at the end of the long hedgerow, panting slightly.
“Wait for me!” he called, and jogged after her.