Chapter Three
After a pleasant night with her bed all to herself, Elizabeth woke to her second day of near-solitude with calm resolve.
A messenger had been sent after the Bennets the previous evening, and the prospect of her family returning ere long had only made Elizabeth determined to enjoy the rare tranquility at Longbourn while she could.
Hill had gone to the village for provisions, certain that the family would want a hot meal when they returned to collect Elizabeth, who was in no particular hurry for this eventuality.
She would have been content to remain curled up on a chaise by the fire in the parlor all day, reading the new novel her aunt had gifted her.
Indeed, she did remain in just such an attitude for above an hour, stirring only when she grew a little too warm beneath the blanket she had wrapped around herself.
Elizabeth did not wish to extinguish the fire, for she might then grow too cold before Hill could return and make a new fire.
Instead, Elizabeth decided she would open the window just a little, and a few minutes of wintry air on her face would sufficiently cool her.
She opened the window no more than an inch, and let the gauzy white curtain fall back over the glass, for the sun shone especially bright at this hour on the eastern side of the house.
She lingered near the window, the chilled air a pleasant balm after growing so hot, and the movement of pacing a relief after sitting so long in one pose.
She rolled her shoulders, stretched her legs, and then gave a merry spin of contentment.
And then she stilled, for she heard voices very near to the house.
The voices were both male, and though vaguely familiar, they did not belong to her father nor uncles.
Neither had she heard the sounds of a carriage—this could not signify her family’s return.
Curiosity drew Elizabeth closer to the window, and dread held her fixed there, poised to listen from behind the concealment of the curtains.
“There’s nobody ‘ere, Marv. If there was, I reckon we’d hear the old mum shrieking before we was ‘alfway up the drive.”
“What about the housekeeper?”
“She was going on about her son being laid up at their cottage—their cottage, Marv. She don’t live in the big house.”
“But there’s smoke coming from the chimney.”
“Well, I reckon she don’t fancy freezing to death while she polishes the silver.”
“Lot of silver to be got, eh?”
“An’ I seen the lady o’ the house in some mighty fine jewels, Marv.”
“The girls, too.”
“Aye. Fetch us a fine price, it will.”
“But if they come back, Harry?”
“They ain’t coming back, Marv. Not when they just left the place yesterday, and told the colonel they meant to be gone a whole month.”
“The colonel's wife said she saw the housekeeper buying enough meat for the whole family this morning at the butcher’s.”
“Well, she’s a plump old girl, ain’t she? And I don’t recall nobody asking Mrs. Forster a thing about it, she’s dafter than you, Marv, an’ that’s sayin’ a lot.”
“Oy! I did the drawing, didn’t I? The diagram, George called it. All the entrances and windows to the place, it’s our little treasure map.”
“And you’ve smudged it, you idiot. Give it here.”
“You’ve crumpled it, Harry! We’re meant to deliver that to the boss.”
“Aye, and let’s get on with it, Bloody freezin’ out here, innit? I say we head back, tell ‘em we had a look about and didn’t see nobody. We can come back tonight when it’s full dark and finish the job.”
As the voices grew distant, Elizabeth stood rigid beside the window, her mind awhirl.
There could be no mistaking their intentions, for all their talk of silver and jewelry.
Her fingers slowly rose to her neck, clutching the emerald pendant her uncle had gifted her for her last birthday.
Edward Gardiner had always been generous, but in the last few years, as his business had prospered, he had taken to giving his sister and her daughters fine jewelry on special occasions.
Elizabeth had not shared her suspicions that her uncle wished them to have such things should their mother’s fears ever come to pass—they might keep themselves out of the hedgerows if they could part with their finery.
And apparently Elizabeth was not the only one to consider the value of what her mother thought only of flaunting. The beautiful baubles had done little to attract suitors for the Bennet sisters they adorned, but they had caught the eyes of the wrong sort of men entirely.
Courage and curiosity finally won out, and Elizabeth carefully pulled back the curtain a few inches, revealing the retreating figures of two red-coated officers. One was tall and broad, his black hair long and unkempt. The other was small and lean, and had hair so blond it was nearly white.
She watched them go without recognizing either officer from such a distance, and though she played their words over again in her mind, their voices revealed nothing of their identity to her. Their intentions, however, were perfectly clear.
Elizabeth shivered, and pulled the window closed. The chill on her skin was enough to set her in motion—first she paced in front of the fire, frantically grasping for a solution to her dilemma, and then she was running down the stairs and out of the house.
Elizabeth hugged her cloak tight about herself as she hastened to the Hill cottage, where Alice was tending to her injured brother Johnny; their mother had not returned from the village yet, nor was she likely to for another few hours.
The old widow was one of the most well-liked personages in all of Meryton, and even when the demands of her job were greater than at present, Mrs. Hill managed to make the rounds and visit several acquaintances when she ventured into the village.
After repeated assurances from Alice that her assistance was not needed in tending to Johnny’s ankle, Elizabeth left the Hills’ cottage and made her way to the village.
Sir William Lucas, the local magistrate, had taken his family to Kent and could be of no help to her, but she could appeal to the colonel of the regiment.
After all, he had promised her father that all would be well while the Bennets were away.
Elizabeth would tell Colonel Forster what his men were up to, and he would put a stop to it.
The carriage jostled to a halt, and Mr. Bennet sighed sadly as he stared down at the book in his hand.
It was a rare and beautifully illustrated copy of A Comedy of Errors, which he had purchased at a bookshop he had found when they had arrived in Bedford the previous evening.
He had been so eager to gift it to his Lizzy, though a megrim prevented him from doing so.
He had retired as soon as he returned from his walk about the village to the inn where his family—the cause of his megrim—had taken rooms. He had missed what must have been a boisterous family dinner in the public room of the inn; so rowdy, in fact, that none of his children, his in-laws, or his silly wife had noticed Elizabeth’s absence.
It was not until that morning that Mr. Bennet had awoken, certain of finding his favorite child breaking her fast earlier than their relations, only to realize she was not amongst them.
After spending above an hour questioning every member of the family, he could not learn that anybody had even seen her for the entirety of their first day travelling.
Nobody remembered riding with her in their carriage, or speaking to her at any of their stops along the way.
While his wife was reduced to weeping, shrieking hysterics at this dreadful discovery, Mr. Bennet had been determined to act with alacrity.
Despite the snow that had fallen overnight, that had continued to fall all day, he would get back to Longbourn, to his Lizzy.
The innkeeper, several villagers who interjected their opinions, and even the other men in his party were set against the notion of traveling in such weather; fortunately, his new son Bingley was a foolish fellow, and perfectly willing to accommodate him.
He had been happy to leave the rest of his relations at the inn in Bedford, riding with Bingley and Jane in relative quiet; he perused the book he had purchased his beloved daughter, ignoring the honeyed harmony of the newlyweds for twenty miles.
Now, as Bingley opened the carriage door and confirmed that an axle had been broken, the very title of that tome seemed to mock him.
They had just reached Luton, and it seemed they would get no further any time soon.
Even so, Bingley’s optimism was indefatigable.
He was confident that for the right price, he could inspire somebody in the village to make the repair in all haste.
Mr. Bennet tucked the book into his coat pocket and descended the carriage to have a look at the damage himself.
The most unusual equipage he had ever seen had stopped alongside them, and a large man with a thick Romany accent had joined Bingley and the coachman in assessing the visibly shattered axle.
A window of the colorful caravan opened, and an olive-skinned woman of about thirty peered out at them from beneath a vibrant headscarf.
Bingley immediately greeted her with his usual effusion, explaining their predicament.
She listened, nodded, and then spoke to the tall foreigner in their native tongue.
He clucked his tongue and shrugged his shoulders, and the matter seemed settled.
The woman smiled and pointed at Mr. Bennet.
“Christmas, we understand. You are the father? You come with us?”