Chapter 7
Seven
In Which Lizzie Extends a Rather Impulsive Invitation
Jane was acting odd.
Normally, Lizzie’s older sister was sweet and easygoing, and she very rarely made demands. Which was why Lizzie was so perplexed
when Jane had not only insisted upon accompanying them into the village along with Charlotte but had also proposed a last-minute
change of plans. Arguing for propriety was one thing, but trying to direct the course of the investigation . . .
Something was amiss.
“Jane, is everything all right?”
“Everything is fine,” she said. “Now, once we are inside, please don’t make any overt mentions of murder, dead bodies, or
any other indelicate topics. Do remember to hold your shoulders back and smile.”
She sounded so much like their mother in that moment that Lizzie nearly stumbled. “Might I remind you that we are looking into a suspicious death, and I only agreed to come with you rather than go to the vicar because you said that ladies have the best gossip!”
“Hush!” Jane said, already reaching for the door.
Lizzie had little time to do anything but cast a puzzled look at Charlotte, who appeared as baffled as she, before a bell
tinkled overhead, drawing the gaze of every lady within the small shop, including two women behind the counter wearing green
aprons.
“Good day!” Jane squeaked.
Lizzie stared at her sister. Jane never squeaked.
No one spoke immediately—in fact, Lizzie got the sense that there had been conversation just a moment ago, but now it was
quickly hushed upon their arrival. The moment stretched out into awkwardness until finally one of the green-aproned ladies
said, “Good day, Mrs. Bingley.”
But that was it. No follow-up questions, no offers of help locating buttons or a bolt of silk. Not even a banal comment upon
the fine weather they were having! Lizzie eyed the other women of the shop with suspicion and realized they were doing the
same.
So the news had spread.
Next to her, Jane shifted uncomfortably, and Lizzie remembered her sister’s orders. Well, if she couldn’t ask questions directly,
she could play the part of visiting sister, and perhaps pry information out of the ladies that way.
“What a charming shop!” Lizzie exclaimed. “Jane, you described it so perfectly in your letters, I feel like I’ve been here
before.”
The shop was, in fact, nothing special. It contained the requisite ribbons and silks, buttons and needles, and bolts of fabric alongside yarn and other various notions.
Compared to the haberdashery that the Bennet ladies frequented in London, this one was rather small.
But Lizzie noted the way the two women behind the counter—likely the proprietors—seemed to take her comment with matching smiles.
They had the same dark hair streaked with gray, and shrewd eyes, and Lizzie guessed they must be sisters.
“Is there anything I can help you find, miss?” the younger-looking one asked. Her face was framed by curls while her sister
favored a more severe style with little embellishments.
“Hair ribbons,” Lizzie said. “Mrs. Bingley told me you had a lovely selection?”
“Of course,” she said.
Lizzie stepped forward, dragging Charlotte along, and pretended to admire the small selection of ribbons, using this as an
opportunity to survey the rest of the women. There were about eight shoppers in total, all women ranging in age from a young
teenage girl about Lydia’s age to a woman older than her mother. And every single one of them was doing their very best to
study Jane, Lizzie, and Charlotte without appearing to care about them.
Lizzie let out a tiny sigh. Oh, how she loathed society’s games.
Jane approached a lady only a little older than themselves. “Miss Nelson, how lovely to see you again.”
Miss Nelson actually jumped, dropping the card of lace she’d been inspecting. She rushed to pick it up, and then when she had straightened back up said, “Mrs. Bingley! Hello!” as if she hadn’t seen Jane come in just moment earlier.
Lizzie felt her hands tighten into fists.
“How is your family?” Jane asked.
“Well,” Miss Nelson said. “And how is . . .”
The words seemed to die in her throat and she cast a nervous glance around the shop, as if hoping for someone to rescue her.
Lizzie abandoned the ribbons and stepped around the display. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Jane’s sister
from London. And this is our dear friend, Miss Lucas.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Miss Nelson said, although her expression seemed to say that this was not the distraction she had
been looking for.
Lizzie affected a voice not unlike Lydia’s—breathy and overly enthusiastic. “We’ve been dying to visit, ever since Jane left
us to marry Mr. Bingley. And everything about Meryton and the countryside is just so charming. Wouldn’t you agree, Charlotte?”
“Absolutely darling,” Charlotte added in a very impressive impersonation of a London lady’s drawl.
“It is so wonderful to meet one of Jane’s new friends,” Lizzie continued, having the distinct pleasure of watching Miss Nelson’s
eyes widen in surprise.
“Oh, well . . . I don’t . . . I mean, the pleasure is all mine?”
“You must come to tea while we’re here—mustn’t she, Jane?”
“Of course,” Jane said, and it almost pained her to hear how eager her sister sounded. “You and your mother would be very welcome, Miss Nelson.”
“That’s very kind,” a flustered Miss Nelson responded. “But I just . . . well, you see, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to because . . .
because . . . I fear . . . my mother would not allow it!”
And with that, Miss Nelson fled from the shop, the little bell tinkling sadly behind her.
Lizzie turned to face her sister. Jane had gone very, very pale, and her mouth had fallen open in shock.
“Is it true, then?” asked a woman with strawberry-blond curls. She abandoned the bolt of linen she’d been inspecting. “We
heard that a body was discovered in your drawing room, and there can be no other reason why Mrs. Nelson wouldn’t allow Sophie
to call.”
Her cheeks turned pink as soon as she said the words, as if she didn’t quite believe her own audacity, but this was exactly
what Lizzie had been hoping for.
“It’s true, unfortunately,” she said gravely. “Some poor soul was stuck in the flue. It’s quite upsetting, of course. Mr.
Bingley is making burial arrangements with the vicar.”
“Who was it?” another woman asked, this one a tall, thin lady wearing a pink lawn dress.
“We don’t know,” Lizzie said. “I’m afraid he’s been gone too long to tell. But . . .”
“But what?” the lady in pink asked.
“Oh, Jane, I hope I’m not overstepping?” Lizzie asked, fluttering her eyelashes at her sister, who stared back at her in wide-eyed shock. “It’s just that Mr. Bingley would very much like to learn his identity. He feels awfully sorry for what happened. What if the man had a family?”
The other ladies murmured in sympathy, and Lizzie heard one remark: “Can you imagine?”
Jane didn’t seem to have caught on to Lizzie’s scheme, but Charlotte was nodding in sympathy. “The poor family,” she said.
“Would any of you happen to know who it might be?” Lizzie asked.
“We’ve been racking our memories all morning,” said the lady with the strawberry-blond hair. “But no one has the faintest
clue!”
“All the caretakers over the years are accounted for,” added the woman in pink. “And the previous Mrs. Bingley didn’t accept
visitors.”
“It’s a waste if you ask me,” said strawberry curls. “My gran used to tell me stories about all the parties at Netherfield
when she was a girl—the ballroom was the most beautiful room she’d ever seen.”
“How’d he die?” asked the teenage girl, drawing gasps from those around her.
“Gwen!” her mother scolded, but Lizzie noted that none of the other ladies looked away. They stared at Lizzie expectantly.
“That’s the mystery,” Lizzie said, shaking her head sadly. “We have no way of telling whether it was a tragic accident or—”
“Nonsense!” said a woman by the button displays. She jutted her chin out defiantly. “My John heard it from Mr. Jones that the man’s skull was cracked—his death was no accident!”
The solicitor in Lizzie wanted to point out that a cracked skull did not preclude an accident, but she knew that semantics
would only be wasted on this audience. “Accidental or not, it is tragic. If only we knew the circumstances . . .”
“This is proof,” the defiant woman said. “Proof that Netherfield Park is cursed, just as we all thought!”
There it was. Lizzie tried not to smile in victory.
“There’s no such thing as curses and you know it, Julia Watkins,” the woman in pink said primly.
“Then what do you call the streak of misfortune that befalls everyone who spends one night under that roof?” Mrs. Watkins
asked.
“We don’t have to listen to this nonsense,” said the mother of the teenage girl, but her daughter was listening with rapt
attention, and she herself made no move to leave.
“Misfortune?” said the lady in pink. “The previous Mrs. Bingley was an eccentric, but any rumors of a curse—”
“Her husband was thrown from his horse!”
“A tragedy—”
“And then all her servants took ill!”
“Coincidence—”
“And she let no one into the manor for decades, just her caretakers!” Mrs. Watkins was getting worked up, and now she turned to Jane.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Bingley, but you see—that manor has history. And all these years no one knew what your husband’s great-aunt was up to, despite many offers of help and company, and now to hear there was a body hidden in the walls . . .”
“I—” Jane looked uncertain, and cast a desperate glance at Lizzie.
“Scandalous,” whispered strawberry curls.
Jane seemed to crumple. Before she could respond, the bell tinkled once more, and everyone turned to see a formidable woman
enter the shop. She was not tall, but she held her head high and her silk dress was very fine—as fine as anything Lizzie would
see at a tea party in London. Immediately, she noticed how every other lady in the shop seemed to bow their head slightly
toward her . . . even Jane.