Chapter 15
Constance slumped against the wall of the hidden staircase, wondering if what she heard was the wind whistling through the long-forgotten secret passage or one of Kentworth Abbey’s many ghosts.
Gathering her resolve, she straightened up and hurried on, deeper into the corridor.
It was cold, so cold, as though the very walls breathed out an icy breath.
Cobwebs were thick in all the corners, making her wonder how long it had been since another mortal had trod this path.
At a turn in the passageway, a cold draught blew across Constance’s face, making her stumble back in surprise and alarm. The flame of her candle flickered, then went out. She let out a hollow gasp as she realised she was lost in total darkness, crowded in by the heavy stone walls. Alone.
“Could you use some assistance, my lady?”
Her heart thrummed uncontrollably in her chest. It was him! Lord Alfred! She would know his voice anywhere: deep and comforting, with kindness woven through every syllable.
“How did you find me?” Constance asked as he turned and retrieved another candle from the little shelf in the alcove he had stepped out of a moment before.
“I followed you. These tunnels have a way of curving back around on themselves. Surely you’ve heard of the ghost of the young woman who was lost in them during the Dark Ages?”
He smiled wryly, then took her hand. Lord Alfred was so handsome, his dark hair in perfect array, even in the middle of the night. And his dark, searching brown eyes made her heart pitter-patter in her chest —
Elizabeth let out a frustrated sigh, setting her quill down on the beautiful little writing desk.
She ran her fingers through the curls that had escaped from her coiffure and stood.
To her increasing frustration, the heroic Lord Alfred would not behave at all.
When she had first started scribbling notes about the main characters in her next book, Lord Alfred had been flirtatious and charming, the sort of man to befriend everyone he met.
She had enjoyed the thought of her hero being a dashing colonel, wounded and trapped in a haunted abbey out of nightmares, and yet remaining cheerful despite everything.
He was not supposed to be quiet and well-read, with a surprising sardonic wit.
He was not supposed to be the sort of man who said little, but did much.
Even his looks seemed to be changing. She had meant Lord Alfred to have golden hair and laughing green eyes, but his hair had turned a wavy brown, and his eyes insisted on being dark and piercing.
He seemed, in fact, to be developing an alarming resemblance to Mr Darcy.
Elizabeth sat down again with a huff and began crossing out lines of Lord Alfred’s description. She must rewrite the manuscript that had perished in the fire, and she must not allow herself to be distracted by her daydreams.
There was nothing to be done but allow her mind to rest and try to realign her thoughts with the original manuscript she had begun.
She put her writing away in the safety of the little cubby drawer, lest anyone should stumble upon it.
Soon, the manuscript would grow too big to fit all the pages.
But for now, the little hiding place made her feel more confident in her secret’s safety.
Elizabeth propped her head in her hand and looked out the window at the brightening landscape.
Though every time of day was beautiful at Pemberley, early mornings were the best of all.
Truly, it was no hardship to rise before the others to write, even on days when she had stayed at her desk until late the night before.
She sighed, wondering about her family. Were they well, were they happy, was all much the same in the little cottage?
Surely Jane must write soon. Elizabeth had sent a brief letter to Meryton after the fire, informing them both of the disaster and of their safe escape.
Knowing how her mother and sisters would worry over them, she had followed it up with another, much more cheerful letter shortly after they had arrived at Pemberley.
Describing their hosts’ generosity had taken a little care, least Mrs Bennet imagine things she should not.
Though her mother would certainly consider the unmarried Mr Darcy to be one of the benefits of the place, Elizabeth knew better.
She would not embarrass their generous host with foolish dreams.
At least there had been much she might safely write about.
She had described the long walks they had taken every day about the grounds after tea, when the children were up to the nursery for their naps.
And then there was attending church on the first Sunday they had been in Lambton, and the delicious meals prepared by the French cook.
Mary would be jealous of the very fine pianoforte Mr Darcy had bought for his sister, and of Elizabeth for playing two-handed pieces with Miss Darcy.
At home, Elizabeth had never taken the time to become very proficient at the instrument, leaving Mary alone to lead the way.
But now that she was at Pemberley, Miss Darcy had encouraged her to practice, ever patient with Elizabeth’s stumbling fingers.
Surprisingly, she was improving, slowly but surely.
And then there had been her description of Mr Darcy and his kindness to them.
It would not have done him justice to omit a mention, and yet Elizabeth was sensible of the danger.
It would not do to alert Jane to her true feelings for him.
That could only make her sister worry over her at best, knowing it to be quite impossible for any deeper relationship to grow between them — and Elizabeth hated to think of what might result if their mother was equally cognisant of her feelings.
She had therefore said as little of Mr Darcy as she felt could be reconciled with the favour he had done them. And if, in her caution, she had not quite done him justice, surely that was better than the risk incurred by praising him as she really felt he deserved.
Elizabeth sighed in frustration and told herself to focus.
Mr Tilney was an understanding man, for a publisher, but his patience would not last forever.
If she were to get the finished manuscript to him by the adjusted deadline in the autumn, she would have to spend a considerable amount of time each afternoon at her desk.
But it had been difficult to excuse herself from the company of her friends, and especially Mr Darcy.
“Now, behave,” she said, looking at the quill she had snatched up from the desk. She must think of the romance between her hero and heroine. It was the only romance she ought to concern herself with, for romance between herself and Mr Darcy was impossible.
It was all quite impossible. Elizabeth felt she must clear her mind before trying again. Giving up, if only for the moment, she replaced the quill to sit near the inkwell and went to change.
Once tidy enough to meet the others, Elizabeth went downstairs to the drawing room. Even though it was still quite early, she found Miss Darcy there, practicing as the early morning sunshine streamed through the glass panes.
Miss Darcy looked up and exclaimed with delight upon seeing her. “Oh, Miss Bennet! Come quickly. My brother ordered away for more sheet music, and it was delivered late last night. Come and try this two-handed piece with me.”
Elizabeth was happy to oblige. She sat down to give the piece her best attempt. That, indeed, was not very good, but it did provide them with some laughter. With practice and helpful suggestions from Miss Darcy, the piece sounded more and more as it should.
Her hands were growing tired by the time Mrs Reynold entered the drawing room, scolded Miss Darcy with the familiarity borne of long service and obvious fondness, and sent them to meet the others for breakfast. The interruption was very welcome, as was the meal.
As so often at Pemberley, the time seemed to get away from Elizabeth.
After breakfast, Miss Darcy proposed a game of pall mall, and when this was done, the whole party went to the library on the errand of selecting a book for Mrs Annesley, which became both a kind of contest and a source of much laughter.
It was not until this was done, and Mrs Gardiner had borne away the prize for suggesting that she ought to read Leonora by Maria Edgeworth, that Elizabeth had any thought of leaving the merry party to attempt writing a little more.
Before she could do so, or even so much as begin to make her excuses for leaving them, Mrs Reynolds came in and announced that a letter had arrived for her.
Elizabeth at once forgot her intention and the polite excuse she had begun to manufacture, and remembered only her real delight at the prospect of news from her sister.
“Oh, it is from Jane,” she exclaimed. “Please excuse me, everyone, but I cannot bear to wait another moment before learning what she has to say. You will forgive me for leaving you?”
“Of course you must read your letter,” Miss Darcy said warmly, and the others promptly agreed.
Elizabeth hurried away, clutching the letter eagerly in her hand. Once in her guest room, she went to the large windows to stand before them and soak up the sunshine while she read.
∞∞∞
My dear Lizzy,
How wonderful to have some nice cheerful news from you!
You may imagine how much we have all worried over you, our dear cousins, and our aunt and uncle, and how many prayers of thanks have been said for your safe escape.
I will not conceal that your last letter arrived during a low point for us, especially for Lydia and Kitty.
They long to be out of doors, and have some society, at least that of our neighbours.
But Mama will not allow them to go out, which has cast a pall over the entire cottage.
But that is nothing compared to what you have suffered.
We were so horrified to hear of the fire, but at once relieved to know that you and the rest of our relatives were unscathed.
My dear Lizzy, why did not you mention that you rescued little Hattie from the inferno?
I had instead to hear it from our Aunt Gardiner.
I do not know whether you omitted it out of modesty or fear that I would worry over you, but in either case, I know it now, and you must put up with me being very proud of you indeed.
All things considered, life at the cottage is going very well.
Please do not misunderstand Lydia and Kitty’s restlessness to mean otherwise.
I assure you that your royalty cheques from Mr Tilney arrive every month, and we lack for nothing.
We are so grateful for all your hard work in providing for your family.
We have a sturdy roof over our heads, plenty of good food, and the company of our loved ones.
The only thing that could improve the cottage is to have your absence come to an end.
We miss you terribly, although we understand your need to be in London, and now Pemberley, to concentrate on your writing. Indeed, I cannot quite think where we would put you up if you were to come home. The cottage is cosy, but very close.
It is a blessing, then, that you are settled at Pemberley. I was so glad to hear that Miss Darcy has provided for your every need in your writing desk and supplies. With your descriptions of how beautiful the house and grounds of Pemberley are, you should have no lack of inspiration.
And now, as I close my letter, I should like to add that, as always, news from you and the family is always welcome and needed to keep our spirits high.
With affection,
Jane
Postscript: Dearest Lizzy, are you not growing rather fond of Mr Darcy?
I hesitated about whether to speak of it, but in the end, I cannot resist. If he is everything you said in your letter, I hope it may be so.
Seen in a prudential light, it would be an excellent match for you.
But I know, dearest sister, that Mr Darcy would be truly fortunate to gain so excellent a woman as his wife.