Chapter Eight
It was a lovely day. Elizabeth secured her bonnet as she stepped outside, the morning air cool upon her face. Much to her disappointment, she did not encounter Mr. Darcy on her stroll.
Dew lay upon the fields and trees like scattered jewels, and the ground crunched lightly beneath her feet. The movement quickly warmed her, driving away the lingering chill.
Elizabeth inhaled deeply, delighting in the clean, bracing scent of cold earth and woodsmoke drifting from distant chimneys.
Her breath came out in soft white puffs, vanishing as soon as they formed.
She walked with purpose, though her thoughts lingered on a certain gentleman with dark curls and earnest eyes.
Had he risen early as well? Had he changed his mind about riding? She tried not to dwell upon it—it would be unseemly to appear so eager—yet disappointment tugged at her, nonetheless.
Moving almost instinctively, she crested Oakham Mount and descended the other side. As she neared the base of the rise, she turned toward her father’s fields that bordered Netherfield’s lands.
It was not a large stretch of land—only a few acres.
This particular plot was part of the home farm, out of the way as it was.
Its location was peculiar. The rise of Oakham Mount kept it shielded from the elements to a point.
Crops in that area often sprouted sooner and were harvested earlier as a result.
It was ideal for winter wheat, but the seed had not yet been spread.
Elizabeth picked her way over the freshly plowed field, treading carefully so as not to roll her ankle or stumble. The sun began to climb over the trees, bathing her path in a soft morning glow. The dew sparkled in the light, adding brilliance to the day.
Despite her earlier disappointment, the surrounding beauty lulled her spirits into peaceful contentment. Birds called faintly from the hedgerows; a farmhand far off shouted to another, their voices muffled but cheerful.
She smiled to herself. Even without Mr. Darcy, the morning holds its pleasures.
Something flashed out of the corner of her eye, and she turned.
That is not dew.
She moved cautiously toward something glimmering in the dirt.
It was at the very edge of the field. A large boulder marked the boundary between Netherfield and Longbourn.
Just beyond was a tract of public land the villagers called ‘the common.’ Carefully, she crouched down, shifting dirt away from whatever shimmered in the ground.
Gasping, she lifted a golden object from the soil.
It was weighty, and she felt certain it was solid gold. And old, if I had a guess. Roman, perhaps.
Her pulse quickened wildly. Gold—real gold—in her hand!
The metal was cold from the earth, its intricate design half-worn by time but unmistakably ancient.
Her breath seized as a hundred possibilities raced through her mind: was it a lost treasure?
A burial site? A feeling of exhilaration spread through her, and she tugged off her bonnet.
Elizabeth stuck the object—a bracelet—into its depths.
Cautiously, she moved more dirt away. With every handful, more treasure was uncovered. Soon, her bonnet was full.
I cannot leave it here. No, that would be unwise.
Elizabeth removed her cloak, shivering slightly, and proceeded to add the contents of her bonnet to it.
She continued to dig in the soil, adding more and more to her garment, draped across the ground.
Meticulously, she searched the surrounding area, and after a half hour’s search, she felt confident she had found it all.
Her fingers were numb from the cold, dirt streaked her gloves, and her breath came fast with exertion—and excitement. The gleam of gold and silver scattered across her cloak seemed almost unreal in the morning light, as though she had stepped into the pages of a fanciful tale.
I have never seen the like, she thought.
Worried someone might discover her, she did not take inventory; instead, she wrapped the cloak into a bundle and hefted it.
It was heavy, but nothing she could not handle.
Resolved to get everything to her father as quickly as possible, Elizabeth took a shortcut through the trees, circumventing the mount in favor of getting back to Longbourn quickly.
Her feet moved over the fallen leaves as quickly as she could with her cumbersome bundle, her heart hammering—not from fear, but from a giddy, breathless sense of wonder.
“Papa,” Elizabeth said breathlessly, pushing her father’s library door closed behind her. “I have something to show you.”
Mr. Bennet glanced up and gave his daughter a wry smile. “If you have a cat in that cloak, you had best hide it from your mother. You know how she feels about hair on the furniture.”
Elizabeth shook her head mutely, setting the bundle at her feet. “Clear your desk, if you please, while I lock the door.”
Mr. Bennet looked intrigued but did as she said without questions or argument. As the lock clicked into place, Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. She had made it without being seen. Quickly, she turned back to her father and picked up the bundle.
Mr. Bennet had cleared every paper, quill, and book from his desk, leaving only the flickering glow of two hastily lit candles.
Elizabeth draped the cloak over the desk, revealing the contents.
Her father gasped and collapsed into his chair.
The candles illuminated the astonishing array that was now spread before him.
Gold aurei—three, perhaps four hundred of them—lay in a heap, having fallen out of the amphora that had previously held them.
The imperial profiles of Trajan, Hadrian, Marcus Aurelius, and Constantine caught the candlelight like captured suns.
Beside them, a far larger mound of silver denarii shimmered in varying tones of age, some so crisp and sharp in strike that they looked newly minted, others worn smooth by hands long turned to dust. The jewelry, brilliant and exotic, was mixed among the other things.
A pair of intricate snake bracelets coiled as though alive; two heavy golden torcs whose workmanship spoke of Celtic kings subdued under Rome; a signet ring bearing an intaglio of a god Elizabeth could not name; a garnet pendant glowing like wine in the firelight; and a delicate filigree hairpiece that seemed fragile enough to dissolve under breath.
Further back lay the silver tableware: a shallow bowl engraved with a mysterious symbol, a twisted-handled ladle, two serving plates chased with elegant borders, and a small mirror’s silvered backing dulled by centuries.
Scattered around them were more humble but no less evocative pieces—a set of hairpins that looked to be made of ivory, a fragment of a writing tablet, a tiny bronze key, and a child’s toy horse.
The library was locked, the curtains drawn, the house silent around them; yet the air hummed with the weight of history, of secrets buried for nearly two millennia—and now, impossibly, resting atop Mr. Bennet’s desk in the heart of Longbourn.
Elizabeth’s pulse thundered in her ears.
The enormity of what she had dragged home wrapped itself around her and tightened.
The objects looked like museum pieces—like treasures she had only ever read about in books.
And they were hers. Or rather—Longbourn’s.
Or perhaps the Crown’s. Even now her mind twisted in confusion and awe.
“Where did you find this?” Mr. Bennet’s words were reverent as he stroked one of the bracelets.
“It was near the border to Netherfield, but on Longbourn land. You know the place: the field at the base of Oakham Mount.”
Her father sucked in a breath. “This is astonishing. Are you certain there is nothing more?”
“I am certain. I spent thirty minutes digging in the dirt.” She held up her filthy gloves as a testament to her efforts. “If there was anything else, it was not readily located.”
“And you managed to carry it all?”
Elizabeth grimaced. “It was not without effort. I rested when I could.”
Her father nodded. “We must go back. I want to be absolutely sure.”
“The chances of being seen rise with every passing minute,” she reminded him. “If we are to go, we must do so at once.”
He nodded. “Let us hide this.” He pulled a wooden crate out from behind his desk, the remnants of a recent book delivery.
With great care, he added each object to the box.
He secured the lid and then carried it across the room.
Placing it on the floor, he put two other crates full of books on top of it.
“Let me don my great coat, and we shall leave.”
Elizabeth lifted her cloak, soiled as it was, and put it on. As she tied her bonnet, she resolved to take a basket with her—just in case.
Her hands still trembled. Not entirely from the cold.
Mr. Bennet walked quickly, but Elizabeth kept pace without issue.
They took the shorter path again, a track untrod by regular foot traffic.
In a short time, they reached the field.
She led her father to the boulder, and together they combed through the area.
Each scraping sound, each rustle of clothing, felt dangerously loud in the morning stillness.
To Elizabeth’s surprise, they found more gold coins in another jar.
It was partially buried under the boulder.
With the help of a tree branch, they shifted it just enough to release the amphora from the compacted dirt.
After searching for another stretch of time, Mr. Bennet agreed they had likely found everything.