Chapter 8
Eight
In Which Lizzie and Darcy Learn the Origin of the Netherfield Curse
Darcy was excited about his lead, meager as it might be. Solving mysteries could be tedious—following an endless string of
leads in the hope of uncovering a vital detail took determination and persistence—but he was looking forward to calling on
Miss Jeffries. So he was rather taken back when they rejoined the ladies and the first thing Jane said was, “I must return
home.”
“Is everything all right?” Bingley asked her, concerned.
“No,” Jane said peevishly, casting a look at Lizzie. “It appears I am to throw a ball.”
Darcy turned to Lizzie and raised an eyebrow. She looked somewhat sheepish.
“A ball?” Bingley echoed. “I thought you didn’t—”
“I’ll explain on the way,” Jane said, moving toward the carriage. The others made to follow her, but Darcy did not.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “What about the print shop?”
“What print shop?” Lizzie asked.
“I got a lead on our dead man,” Darcy explained. “Not a name, so don’t get too excited, but the vicar said we could look through
the parish registers . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Bingley said, already helping Jane into the carriage. “But . . .”
“Go,” Lizzie said. “We can walk back to Netherfield when we’re done.”
“Would you like my assistance, Jane?” Charlotte asked.
“Not at the moment, thank you,” she said. “And Lizzie . . . thank you. I think.”
“Walk?” Darcy echoed as Bingley joined Jane in the carriage and it pulled away, leaving him with Lizzie and Charlotte.
“Oh, don’t give me that—you walk the distance easily back home. It just appears farther because we’re in the countryside,”
Lizzie said. “Now, where are these registers, and what did the vicar say?”
Darcy summarized his visit with Mr. Thomas. In the telling, his lead didn’t appear to be all that thrilling. A village this
size, and how many people were born or buried in any given month? Year? It seemed silly now to think they might find their
dead man this way. And that was supposing he had been from the county and not someone passing through.
But Lizzie was not as doubtful as he might have expected, and even Charlotte nodded in approval when Darcy told them about the agreement he’d struck with the vicar. “It will be a fair amount of research,” Charlotte said, “but it’s better than what we accomplished.”
“Oh?” Darcy looked to Lizzie.
“Well, we might not have any solid leads,” Lizzie said, “but I feel as though I’ve learned a fair amount about the people
of Meryton this morning.”
She told him about their encounter with the ladies in the haberdashery, and the rumors that swirled around Netherfield Park.
By the time she finished recounting her impromptu announcement of a ball to be held at Netherfield, Darcy was beginning to
understand why Jane was somewhat frantic to get back to the estate.
“How will a ball solve the issue of Jane’s ostracization?” he asked. “If they think the estate is cursed—which is absurd—then
why would they come to a ball?”
“For the spectacle,” Charlotte explained. “The one thing society enjoys above all is a diversion.”
“And if it’s bound to end in scandal, all the better,” Lizzie added. “None of them will miss it, not even Mrs. Fitzgerald.
I’m certain of it!”
“And how do we ensure it doesn’t end in scandal?”
Lizzie looked at him as though he were very silly indeed. “By solving the mystery of this dead man’s identity and proving
that whatever the cause, it’s not something anyone needs to worry about now. Once everyone realizes that there is no curse,
then Jane can get on with charming them.”
Darcy didn’t say what he was thinking, which was that if the ladies of Meryton had rejected Jane over something as trivial as rumors about a house she’d inherited, then they likely weren’t worth knowing.
He did not pretend to understand why ladies cared so much about such connections, but he knew they did—and he could tell that seeing Jane vindicated was important to Lizzie.
The Jeffries Print Shop was on the opposite end of the high street from the church, in a small storefront with rather dusty
windows. A new-looking sign hung above the door, painted green with gold lettering, incongruous with the tired appearance
of the building. But when Darcy held open the door for the ladies and they stepped inside, they found it quite busy indeed.
The air in the shop was warm but not oppressively so, and it smelled of ink, dust, and oil. Two men labored in the back of
the shop on a printing press, not even bothering to look up from their work. A small breeze drifted into the shop with their
arrival, rustling newly printed papers hung on lines that zigzagged through the shop. A young lady stood amid the pages, hanging
new sheets as they were printed.
“Oh, hello,” she said, turning to greet them. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” Lizzie said, smiling. “We’re told that you are in possession of the parish registers?”
It was a curious thing—the young lady’s polite smile seemed to freeze, and something more guarded took its place. “Really?
Who told you that?”
“Mr. Thomas,” Darcy said, withdrawing the letter of introduction the vicar had written. “I’m Mr. Darcy, and this is Miss Bennet and Miss Lucas. We’re staying at Netherfield Park—Miss Bennet is Mrs. Bingley’s sister.”
“Oh,” said the young lady, looking to the men running the press. One of them nodded at her and she left them to their work
and approached the trio. “This wouldn’t have something to do with the body that was discovered there last night, would it?”
“Does the entire village know about it, then?” Lizzie asked.
“Afraid so,” said the young lady cheerfully. “I’m Miss Clara Jeffries, the owner of this establishment.”
“Owner!” Lizzie exclaimed.
Miss Jeffries raised her chin a hair. “Yes, owner. My grandfather established the business, and I took it on when my father
passed.”
“That’s wonderful,” Lizzie said. “I mean, about owning the business—not about your father’s death. My condolences.”
Darcy regarded the young lady, who didn’t look to be that much older than they. It must take a fair amount of fortitude to
run a business like this, especially in a small village such as Meryton. And to do it as a young, unmarried lady must be all
the more challenging.
“Miss Jeffries, we were told that you were in the process of printing copies of the parish registers for Mr. Thomas. It’s
imperative that we inspect them, and we’ve gotten Mr. Thomas’s permission. He wrote a note for you.” Darcy handed her the
note and watched as she took it and read it.
Miss Jeffries didn’t scowl exactly, but her brow furrowed and the lines only deepened as she read. When she finished, she looked up and said, “I’m afraid I’ve gotten behind on this project—we’ve received an order for sheet music from a publisher in London. I haven’t finished printing the new one.”
“That’s all right,” Darcy said. “We can take the handwritten registers and muddle through ourselves.”
But Miss Jeffries shook her head. “Mr. Thomas’s note says that you’re allowed the ones that have been printed, if you pay
for the printing costs. But I’m afraid I need the originals if I am to finish the job in a timely manner.”
Darcy didn’t want to be perceived as forceful, but this was the only decent lead they had, especially since Lizzie hadn’t
gotten anywhere with the ladies of the village. “Can we—”
“It’s all right,” Lizzie said sweetly. “We can come back, if that would be easier for you?”
“I can deliver them,” she offered, and Darcy thought that was surprisingly generous, until she added, “If you’re willing to
pay for the printing costs up front, of course.”
“Of course,” Darcy echoed. Investigations often had a common language, and it was money. “I’m happy to settle things right
now, if you wish.”
Miss Jeffries didn’t even try to hide her pleasure. “Thank you, sir. That will be fifteen shillings.”
He began to withdraw his purse, and she added, “Each.”
He hesitated, astounded at the cost. Fifteen shillings apiece?
Why, they’d better be leatherbound and gilded.
He’d bought two volumes of Plutarch’s biographies just before leaving London, and those had only been thirteen shillings for the two.
But Miss Jeffries was watching him, and the expression on her face suggested she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“How many volumes?” he asked her.
“Three.”
Darcy counted out the coins, and Miss Jeffries swiped them up quickly. “I’ll just write you a receipt,” she said sweetly,
and turned to disappear into the back of the shop.
Charlotte leaned in and whispered to Lizzie and Darcy, “Printing an entire bound book must be an expensive endeavor—but the
cost does seem rather steep.”
“Miss Jeffries is a keen businesswoman,” Darcy muttered in a low tone.
“Printing is costly,” Lizzie said. “She might have made the original offer to lend credence to her business. It’s difficult
to be taken seriously as a woman.”
Before they could speculate further, Miss Jeffries returned with a slip of paper in her hand and presented it to Darcy. “I’ll
work on finishing them up as soon as possible,” she promised.
“When might that be?” Darcy asked.
“Another day or two at least. I’m not a binder, but if you want them covered it’ll be another day or so—”
“No need! We’ll take them unbound.”
“We so appreciate the amount of work you must put into this project,” Lizzie added.
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll bring them around to Netherfield Park when they’re complete. How are you enjoying your stay there?”
The way she asked the question made the back of Darcy’s neck prickle.
“Last night’s excitement notwithstanding, we are liking it very much,” Lizzie said.
“You three are braver than I,” Miss Jeffries said.
“Oh, do you believe in the so-called curse as well?” Darcy asked.
“I do, sir.”
Lizzie stepped on his foot. “Please disregard Mr. Darcy,” Lizzie said. “He’s naturally a skeptic.”