Chapter 11 #2
It was a twenty-minute walk to said cottage, which was tucked into a small valley on the way to the village.
Naturally, Lizzie had insisted they walk, and Darcy hadn’t argued.
He was too busy berating himself for not thinking to ask whether Sally had any living relatives who also had access to Netherfield Park.
“Careless,” he muttered as they turned from the country lane to a smaller track leading toward the cottage. It was what his
father would have said if he’d been there. It was what he always said when Darcy missed something important.
“Maybe,” Lizzie said, “but I think we were purposefully misled. I keep thinking back about it now, and Sally was careful to
not refer to her grandparents in the present tense. Almost as if she wanted us to believe they were no longer with us.”
“And I suppose she did that because she wanted us to not do what we’re about to?”
“Very likely,” Lizzie said cheerfully. The cottage was in sight, and although Darcy couldn’t see any activity around it, it
looked far from neglected.
“What is our plan?”
Lizzie bit her lip. “We’re outsiders here. I don’t think we’ll be able to fool any locals into telling us what we want to
know, so . . .”
“So we’ll just have to rely on our natural charms,” he deadpanned.
Lizzie let out a snort. “You can be almost charming when you put your mind to it.”
“Which is more effort than I am typically inclined to expend, but today I shall make an exception.”
The Burtons’ cottage was a small, one-story stone home surrounded by a stone fence that enclosed a tidy, well-kept garden. Darcy caught sight of an old woman sitting on a bench under a nearby tree. She held a piece of knitting, and she didn’t seem to notice as they approached.
“Hello?” Lizzie called out. “Good morning, madam.”
The woman looked up slowly and blinked at them in surprise. Then her face broke out into a happy smile. “Oh, hello!”
Darcy couldn’t help the small bow that his deeply instilled manners prompted. “Good day, madam.”
The old lady laughed, sounding delighted. “My, aren’t you handsome?”
“Uh . . .” Darcy did not know how to respond to that. Then he realized that she was talking to Guy, who had approached the
woman and sat at her feet, looking up with mournful brown eyes. Darcy cleared his throat in embarrassment.
Lizzie, however, grinned. “He is, isn’t he?”
The woman set aside her knitting and offered a hand to Guy, who sniffed it and then happily allowed her to pet him. “Is he
yours?” the lady asked.
“He is indeed, although I like to think I am his as much as he’s mine.”
Guy flopped onto the ground, exposing his pink belly for scritches. The woman chuckled and complied. “Hello, handsome. Aren’t
you a handsome one?” When she looked up, she said to Lizzie, “Hold on to the handsome ones, miss.” Then her gaze slid to Darcy,
and she added, “But only if their hearts are true.”
Lizzie laughed. “Thank you for the advice. Are you Mrs. Burton?”
The woman didn’t respond, but neither did she refute Lizzie. She gave Guy another pat.
“I’m Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and this is Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
At that, Mrs. Burton looked up, something like alarm in her eyes. “Oh my! A lady and gentleman come to visit, and I’ve made
no preparations!” She made to stand, slowly, and Darcy winced at her pained movements—it appeared as though her joints troubled
her.
“Oh, no—please stay seated,” he said, taking Mrs. Burton’s hand and guiding her back down to her seat. “We don’t wish to inconvenience
you.”
“It’s no trouble,” she insisted, but she didn’t try to rise again. “But where is Amy? She really ought to be seeing to you.”
Darcy exchanged a puzzled look with Lizzie, who kept her smile gentle and polite, but didn’t seem to know who Amy was, either.
“We’re quite all right as we are, Mrs. Burton,” Darcy said. “But thank you for your concern.”
Mrs. Burton smiled and Lizzie continued. “I’m afraid the reason for our visit is a little unconventional, Mrs. Burton. As
we mentioned, we’re staying at Netherfield Park. My sister is Mrs. Bingley.”
Almost instantly, the good humor drained from the woman’s face. “You’re staying at Netherfield Park?”
“Yes,” Lizzie continued brightly. “We’ve only recently arrived, but—”
The woman’s wrinkled hands grabbed at Lizzie’s. “You must not stay there. Did your sister not warn you? No one is to stay there.”
The forcefulness of her words gave Darcy pause. He did not believe for a solitary moment that Netherfield Park was actually
cursed, but the vehemence in Mrs. Burton’s voice was real. Was she . . . scared?
“May I ask why?” Lizzie asked gently.
But Mrs. Burton didn’t answer. She looked about the garden as if searching for someone. “Where is that girl?”
Lizzie was undeterred. “Mrs. Burton, I don’t know whether you’ve heard the dreadful news, but something was discovered at
Netherfield Park this week.”
The old woman went very still, and she didn’t meet Lizzie’s gaze. “Oh?”
“A body was found,” Lizzie said. “Stuffed into the chimney.”
The old woman’s laugh was worn and cracked but contained genuine mirth. “You’re having me on.”
“I’m telling the truth, Mrs. Burton.”
The woman looked at Darcy. “She’s lost all sense. A body? In a chimney?”
“I’m afraid she’s right,” Darcy told her gravely, and watched as confusion fell over Mrs. Burton’s face like a heavy veil.
“A body in the chimney,” she repeated. “But no, that’s not right.”
“Who’re you?”
A newcomer’s voice, rough and hostile, cut through the garden.
Lizzie and Darcy turned to see an elderly man in a patched jacket with a slight stoop to his shoulders hurrying toward them with as much haste as the carved cane he leaned on allowed.
As he drew closer, Darcy was surprised to find the man taller than he, despite the slump to his posture.
In his prime, the newcomer had likely cut an imposing figure.
Now time and age seemed to weigh him down.
“Mr. Darcy,” Darcy said. “And my companion, Miss Bennet.”
“Yes?” the man said, eyeing them with suspicion. “What is it you want?”
“Mr. Burton, I presume?” Lizzie asked. “As I was just telling your wife, we are staying—”
“Allan, where’s Amy?”
Lizzie stopped, startled by Mrs. Burton’s interruption. Mr. Burton, however, did not look surprised. In fact, he looked weary.
“She’ll be along soon, dove.”
“Oh. All right.” Mrs. Burton sat back down and picked up her knitting.
Lizzie continued. “As I was saying, we’re part of the party come to stay at Netherfield Park. I understand that you and Mrs.
Burton were the caretakers for the previous Mrs. Bingley for many years. We were wondering if we could ask you some questions.”
Darcy watched Mr. Burton closely. The man seemed to be weighing the request, and it was clearly not one he wanted to grant.
But eventually he nodded and said, “Wait here.”
He went over to his wife and took her by the hand. “Let’s get you inside, dove.”
“Oh, is it time for luncheon?”
Lizzie glanced at Darcy, confused. It was not yet midmorning.
“Mm-hmm, and Amy has something lovely prepared.”
“Oh, wonderful. Amy’s a marvel in the kitchen.” She turned to Lizzie and Darcy. “Would you two like to join us?”
“How kind of you, Mrs. Burton,” Darcy said quickly, “but I am afraid we can’t. Thank you for the offer.”
Mr. Burton led her into the cottage and Lizzie hissed, “What did you say that for?”
“Because I don’t think there’s anyone named Amy in that cottage preparing a luncheon. I think Mrs. Burton’s memory is addled.”
“Oh,” Lizzie said, taking that in. “Oh. How can you be sure?”
Darcy picked up the bit of knitting that she had left behind on the bench. The ball of yarn had rolled into the grass. “I
don’t mean to be impolite, but does this look like . . . anything to you?”
“Normally, I’d make a remark about men and their inability to identify women’s handiwork, but in this instance, you are correct.”
Lizzie plucked the knitted article from his hands. It was a lopsided rectangle with bumpy rows of purls and dropped stitches,
and the stitches alternated between too tight and overly slack.
“Just so you know, Mrs. Greenfield, the housekeeper at Pemberley, taught me how to knit,” Darcy informed her defensively.
He had the pleasure of watching her jaw drop. “Now you’re having me on.”
Before Darcy could defend his knitting abilities, Mr. Burton returned, and he was back to looking aggravated. “Now, I don’t know what it is you want—”
Darcy held his hands up in a placating gesture. “We mean no harm, sir.”
“You’re from Netherfield,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“Indeed. Mrs. Bingley is my sister,” Lizzie explained. “And we heard that you were the caretakers of the estate for many years.
I’m sure by now you’ve heard of our, uh, rather unpleasant discovery?”
Mr. Burton nodded. “Aye. But we don’t know anything about that.”
“You never had any hint that there might be something—someone—dead within Netherfield Park?” Darcy asked. It wasn’t as though
he disbelieved the man entirely, but if the unidentified man had died during Mr. Burton’s tenure, the smell alone . . .
“No,” he said sharply.
“When was the last time the drawing room fireplace was swept?” Lizzie asked quickly, her tone slightly more placating.
The man let out a snort. “When did Mr. Geoffrey Bingley die? Probably a fair bit before then.”
“Really?” Darcy asked. “You didn’t once order a chimney sweep or light a fire in the room for the last . . . forty years?”
“Mrs. Bingley, God rest her soul, was an eccentric. Too much loss.”
“What do you mean?” Lizzie asked.
“She withdrew into herself, after Mr. Geoffrey died. Didn’t want to replace the staff—not that anyone blamed her at first, of course.
It was a tragedy watching them all die, one by one.
It could have been us. Susannah and me, we were just married.
She stayed home the day the housekeeper fell sick with smallpox—she had burned her hand the day before, and the doctor wanted her to rest. The next day, word had spread.
We didn’t dare approach the estate, until there was no one left alive in that house but Mrs. Bingley. ”
“How awful,” Lizzie murmured, and Darcy repressed a shudder.
“And after that?” Darcy prompted. “You never moved into the manor house?”
Mr. Burton shook his head. “This is our home. I told Mrs. Bingley she’d have to hire someone else to stay the night if she
wanted that. Otherwise, we’d come home at the end of each day.”
“But in almost fifty years, you never once spent the night?” Lizzie asked.
Mr. Burton gave her a sharp look, as if he knew what she was really asking. “No. And I know the rumors, too. I’m a god-fearing
man, young lady. I don’t hold with any nonsense about curses. Mrs. Bingley herself never wanted anyone to stay.”
That seemed particularly odd to Darcy—he didn’t know a single well-bred lady who lived alone, without servants. He thought
of the army of servants and the paid companion at Pemberley, all to keep Georgiana supervised and occupied during their father’s
absence. “You didn’t think that odd?”
“It’s not for me to say, sir.”
“In all that time, Mr. Burton, you wouldn’t have any idea of who might have been in the chimney, or how they might have ended
up there?” Lizzie asked.
“Of course not. We were just as shocked as anyone when we heard.”
It was clear to Darcy that Mr. Burton would not be offering any speculation. “But it seems likely, does it not, that if someone
was killed at Netherfield and their body hidden within the house, that it would have occurred during the period of time when
the only occupants of the house were Mrs. Bingley and occasionally your family?”
Mr. Burton’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, sir?”
“He’s not implying anything,” Lizzie rushed to say. “But if there is anything you can share that might shed some light—”
“I’m sorry, no.” The man glared. “I’d like you both to leave now.”
Lizzie tried once more. “Mr. Burton, please understand—he was a person. If you lost a loved one with no explanation, wouldn’t you want someone to find out the truth about what happened to them?”
Darcy watched Mr. Burton’s face—he was not taken in by Lizzie’s emotional entreaties. A bushy gray eyebrow rose, and he said,
“And you, a stranger to Netherfield and this county, are just the person to right this wrong?”
“Why not?” Lizzie asked. “My sister is the new mistress of Netherfield Park, and this discovery certainly hasn’t done any
favors for her reputation.”
Mr. Burton let out a small guffaw. “Aye, that’s the most honest thing you’ve said to me yet, Miss Bennet.”
“Both reasons can be true, though,” Lizzie argued. “I can want to both help my sister and find the truth.”
“A word of advice, Miss Bennet? Let it lie. Bad things have happened at Netherfield Park. Mrs. Bingley was unhappy there,
and her husband and his family before her. If you care for your sister, then encourage her to go back to London. Now, good
day.”
He turned and walked back to the cottage as fast as his two legs and cane would take him, leaving Lizzie, Darcy, and Guy standing
in the garden. But Darcy had one last question he couldn’t let rest. “Mr. Burton?” he called. “Who is Amy?”
The old man stopped. He turned slightly. “Sally’s mother,” he said gruffly.
“Oh,” Lizzie said. “And she—”
“She’s dead,” he said abruptly. “Died of a fever, although those fools in the village will probably tell you the Netherfield
curse got to her, too.”
And with that, he walked into the cottage and slammed the door behind him.
Darcy looked down at Lizzie. “What do you think?”
“I think,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, “that I can’t believe you know how to knit.”
“After all that, my knitting abilities are what you’ve focused on?”
“That,” she said, “and the Burtons are most definitely hiding something.”