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Posted on Friday, 8 December 2006

Chapter One

Put this way, my behaviour sounds wanton, with no regard to propriety, but my love and I communicate in a completely different way than the rest of society, and because of this I cannot help but cast aside the regular conventions. My love’s presence was not corporeal, but cerebral, and his urgent whisperings were not of passion, but fear and warning.

Elizabeth!

Bennet! I opened my mind and let him in. The warning came as one vivid block – not pictures or words, but thought patterns that surpass such forms of communication. Your father is in danger. He needs you. And then an outpouring of comfort, wrapping me as if in his firm embrace. Though I have never known the physical feel of such intimacy from him or anyone, other than the caresses of a parent, it was as real and reassuring as if he were holding me against his chest, my ear pressed to his pounding heart.

I think I will need to tell you some history of my family so you can understand my story better. We are of a longstanding line, dating to before the Norman invasion. Throughout the intervening years between the day the first Bennet built his castle in the shelter of the Malvern Hills until now, 1812, there have been rumours of prescience and second sight attached to various of my ancestors. It is a so-called gift that runs in my family, though I do not doubt that Lady Elizabeth Bennet, my namesake, who was burned at the stake in 1623 for practicing witchcraft, thought it more a curse than anything else.

That first castle, which is said to have been built upon Roman remains, has since been rebuilt, expanded and reduced with the fluctuating fortunes of the family, until its present form. Now, in addition to crenulated stone towers and dark, Tudor halls, there is a lofty Georgian wing that stretches to the very edge of the moat – a remnant of the early fortifications that the family hung onto despite other restorations and modernizations.

Centuries of opportunism, gambling, and greed reduced our once prosperous estate and left us upon the fringes of the echelon we were born to inhabit. Impoverished peers are still accepted, but not encouraged unless society finds their eccentricities sufficiently interesting. My father was a man of letters, not horses and cards. He was happy with a quiet country life and a circle of no more than four and twenty families, whose foibles he found sufficiently amusing to turn his back upon London and all it had to offer. He was devoted to my mother, and she to him. The day she died, five years before the time I write about, a light was snuffed out in his life. He tried to live unchanged, for me, but the effort was too much for him. The house crumbled around us from the years of neglect that sparse income and poor management wrought. Finally it was decided not only that we must retrench, but also that for his health he needed to relocate away from the damp of our moated home.

Father leased a townhouse in Harrowgate, where his doctor set him on a strict regimen of taking the waters. He wouldn't hear of me staying with him. The town was too unfashionable for a young lady making her debut into society. He said that my chances of meeting a husband would be lessened even more than they had been during our retired life at Longbourn Keep. At least our neighbourhood boasted some very fine families, my cousins amongst them, and I knew my father harboured the hope that I might one day be joined in wedlock with one of them. However, I could not stay home alone without a companion, so I was sent up here to London to live with my Aunt and Uncle Phillips, my mother's sister and her husband, in order to take in the delights of the season.

I did not sleep at all that night. After my love left me, with a caress as soft as the rose petals that trailed across my window, I packed a travelling bag and then sat in the cold embrasure and stared out into the night, watching as the stars dimmed and the sky took on a pale glow in the east. I could think of nothing else but my father and the pain he must surely be suffering.

My father and I have always had a strong bond - not the same clear communication as exists between my love and myself, but an awareness of when one of us is affected strongly by our emotions or physical pain. It was this that my love sensed in the night, and this that urged him to wake me. It was this I was feeling now, faint at the great distance between London and Yorkshire, but an ever-present dull ache that chilled me more than my fireless room.

As soon as the sun arose, I sent for the carriage. I left a letter for my aunt and uncle, and with no more than my portmanteau and my loyal abigail, I set off for Harrowgate, hope growing ever dimmer as the pain grew stronger. Six hours upon the road it left me, and I knew at that moment that my beloved father was no more. I leant my head back upon the cushions and wept as the carriage wheeled me into darkness. I reached out for my love, casting my mind as far as I could manage, but could not find him. I was alone in my loss with only Annie, small and confused on the seat beside me, no doubt wondering if her mistress had finally gone mad.

Longbourn Keep, 1641

Was it only last week that I ventured to the De Bourgh Masquerade Ball? It seems like a lifetime ago, and at the same time, less than a moment. How was I to know that at the home of my worst enemy, the family that brought ruination to my family and scorching death to my mother, I would find love fairer than the fairest summer night? Your gown billowed like a cloud and your flaxen tresses glowed in the light of myriad candles. When your blue eyes held mine and your rosebud lips parted, I was forever lost. An angel more divine could not exist anywhere in God's heavens. I want you to grace my world for a lifetime.

Later, I crept up to your balcony and you welcomed me with a smile of such sweet innocence, I fell at your feet and kissed the hem of your gown. Oh, that you should love me as much as I do you! You professed to with a tender kiss upon my cheek. I can feel it even now, my skin imprinted with your pledge. And I pledged myself to you at the same moment as the nightingale sang. Or was it the lark? Time has lost all its bearings.

But now, waiting here in the crumbling pavilion, I begin to doubt. Have they discovered our pact? Will they keep you from me? I light a lone taper, and then another. Set them in the gilt sconces my father installed so many years before, gold and glitter tarnished now with age and disuse. I gaze out the window, hoping to see lantern’s glow twisting through the darkness of the maze.

Chapter Two

My father’s health had improved considerably in the months that he had been following Mr Jones’ regimen. Every day he walked to the pump room to take the water and had lately begun walking further, into the countryside. It was on just such an outing that tragedy befell him. While walking along a narrow lane, he was struck by a passing carriage and left for dead in the hedgerows. Hours later, a young lad out badgering with his dog found him. The boy ran for the nearest cottage to raise the alert just as Mr Jones, concerned at my father’s lateness, came down the lane in his gig. My father was alive, but unconscious. Mr Jones brought him home, put him to bed, and attended to him, but his injuries were too severe for any chance of survival.

“Please, do not try to spare me,” I begged. “If my father had not lain there for hours, without aid, would he have lived? If the driver of the coach had stopped and rendered assistance . . .”

Mr Jones placed his hand on mine and looked directly into my eyes. “Miss Elizabeth, I believe immediate help would only have afforded your father a few hours more. He still would have passed away before your arrival.”

I wiped a tear. “I would have liked to hear his voice one more time. To tell him how much I valued him. To . . .” I could not go on. Mr Jones sat quietly as I shed newly raised tears.

“May I see him?” I asked at last.

He nodded and led me upstairs to my father’s bedchamber where he was laid out according to custom. I sat with my father until the candles gutted in their holders and then allowed Annie to guide me to my chamber and settle me in for the night. I had said my goodbyes and now all that was left was to gather strength and face my future.

As I lay my head upon the crisp linen pillowcase, I felt warmth envelop me. My love spread his thoughts over me like a soft eiderdown. Sleep. I am with you. And I drifted into a deep and restful slumber.

After breakfast Mr Jones called upon me. He informed me that all the arrangements for returning my father’s body to Longbourn Keep had been made, and a coach was waiting to take me to my home as soon as I felt ready to make the long journey to Herefordshire. I thanked him for everything he had done for my father and me.

“There is one more thing, Miss Elizabeth,” he said. “Your father regained consciousness for a few moments before he died. I believe he was trying to leave a message for you. I recorded his words and though they do not convey anything to me, I hope you will find his meaning in them.”

He passed me a sealed envelope and then took his leave. Annie and I quit the house less than an hour later, and made our sombre way back to the beloved land cupped below the Malvern Hills – my father was returning home to be laid to rest beside my mother in the little churchyard. They would be together again, as true lovers should. I only hoped I would find my love waiting for me, to bring something of happiness to my empty days.

In the coach I opened the paper that Mr Jones had given me, my eagerness as great as my apprehension. My Father’s final message to me. What could have been so important to say that he would have struggled into consciousness to utter the words before he breathed his last?

In letters more careful than one expects from a man of medicine, was clearly written:

Elizabeth . . . tell Elizabeth . . . Thomas . . . George . . . would have told . . . the paper . . . in William’s brook . . . in the library . . . William . . . the key . . . the cat . . . on the pavement . . . the map . . . the letter . . . in the brook.

I stopped reading, trying to find some meaning in the words that seemed to appear at random on the page. What was this about my uncle and cousins? And the cat, the pavement, the brook – it made not the least bit of sense. I read on, hoping the rest of what had been transcribed would shed some light onto what I had just read.

Tell Elizabeth . . . take care . . . danger . . . this feeling I have . . . should have told Elizabeth . . . had to be sure . . . I did tell . . . I think he knows . . . tell him . . . trust . . . do what is right . . . blessing.

That was all there was. It made no sense to me at all. The only thing I understood from it was the warning – take care . . . danger – that was clear enough. But the rest . . . what was the feeling he had? A premonition of peril? Or was he talking about that wordless communication that sometimes passed between him and me? The way we could feel each other’s pain in times of injury or emotional torment? I had no way of knowing. And who was it he was referring to in the end? Whom did he tell? Whom did he think knew? And what was his final blessing?

Had he discovered the connection between myself and my love? I had never told my father that I could communicate mentally with one of my cousins. But what if he had found out some other way? Did he know which of my cousins was my secret love?

But where did the danger come in? And what was the key? The cat? The map? And where was the brook? The river that ran through Longbourn estate was dammed to form the moat, and there was a run-off at the weir that went to the overflow pond, but none of these waterways had ever been referred to as William’s brook.

There was no solving it. I lay my head against the squabs of the carriage and thought back to my home and what was waiting for me there. I would not be going to Longbourn Keep – that was rented out to a wealthy merchant, Mr Bingley, and his wife and daughter. I was to stay at the parsonage with Mr and Mrs Gardiner until a companion was found for me. The reverend was a very worthy man and a good friend of my family. His wife was a lady of fashion and sense, but she had a brood of growing children that took up most of her time.

Longbourn Keep was mine no longer. It was settled by entail to the male line, and with my father’s death it would go to his brother Thomas. But there was a small parcel of land in my father’s estate that had been purchased in the last century, after the entail that had been established in the sixteenth century. This land, and the modest house upon it, was now mine. My father’s steward lived there, but other arrangements would have to be made for him and his family. I had no desire to live upon the good graces of friends and relations – I felt a great desire to make a home for myself, for as long as I needed to – if only my love would reveal himself to me.

When we were young I understood the necessity of secrecy. We found each other by accident. At first I thought the feelings I would get – the pictures and ideas that would come into my head – were just another part of me. Slowly I began to realise that no one else that I knew had experience of such things, and rather than be accused of madness, or get burned at the stake like my unfortunate ancestor, I kept silent. But I also continued the communication, which was a form of companionship to me in my relatively solitary childhood. It wasn’t till I was grown that I realised it must be one of my cousins I was communicating with and not a ghost or other type of supernatural spirit. But he would never tell me which cousin he was. And I would never dare to go to any one of them and ask outright.

I have three cousins, my Uncle Thomas’ sons. The two eldest are twins, William and George. As a child I followed them about worshipfully and they would have little to do with me unless it involved making me play a part in one of their dubious schemes. William was a half hour senior to George, and he wore the mantle of heir with ponderous gravity and pride. George was more carefree. He maintained that missing out on being heir bothered him not a whit. He was supposed to take orders, but still, at the age of six and twenty he had not yet committed himself to the church. Their younger brother, Frederick, was a Colonel in the army and currently on a tour of duty on the continent.

I was always very attached to all three. The twins were what gentlemen ought to be – handsome, with quick minds and a pleasing air. Both were ambitious, wanting to raise their position in society. I told myself all the time that this was a natural and understandable trait, but I have to admit that I sometimes feared their ambitions might lead them to behaviour that I might have difficulty condoning. I understood what drove them to this and so could view it with compassion rather than judgement. Our family carries a stigma to this day because of that terrible event that took place in 1623. Frederick, however, had never allowed the shame to affect him. His view was that what is past is past and if society insisted on holding it against him, then his only recourse would be to prove by example that he was untainted by our questionable history.

The reason that this disgrace still haunted us almost two centuries after the fact was because the other family of note in our neighbourhood was descended from the very Earl that accused Lady Elizabeth Bennet of witchcraft and was instrumental in bringing about her death.

Her son grew to be a scapegrace who also died young and badly – it was rumoured that the De Bourgh family should have been implicated in his murder. It was hardly surprising that the scorn of the De Bourghs and bitterness of the Bennets had been passed down from generation to generation, and that with the difference in the fortunes of the two families, the De Bourghs had the greater portion of public sentiment.

The Gardiners welcomed me with all the generosity of their natures as I practically fell from the chaise, worn and weary from my travelling back and forth across the length and breadth of England. I thought my tears were all spent, but their compassion undermined my composure and I found myself sobbing helplessly upon Mrs Gardiner’s breast. As the Reverend took care of the pressing arrangements for my father’s funeral and interment, she took me to the room she had prepared for me and tucked me in a soft bed with three water bottles.

I slept again, deeply and dreamlessly, and the next day I was able to face my cousins as they came bearing their condolences. My uncle, suffering from a debilitating illness himself, was unable to visit but sent his deepest regrets. My cousins offered to do anything within their power for my comfort in my regrettable circumstance. I thanked them for their generosity but declined any offers of help. I had already sent off a letter to a spinster cousin from my mother’s side and had great hopes that Charlotte Lucas would agree to be my companion.

“I intend to live at Hunsford,” I said, “as soon as it is empty and my companion arrives.”

“It is unthinkable!” said William. “We will be only too happy to have you with us at Lucas Lodge. You cannot set up house with some mousy spinster cousin – only consider how it would look.”

“How would it look?”

George laughed. “Don’t mind William. He’s finally got himself into Lady Catherine’s good graces and he doesn’t want anything interfering with his chances with the heiress.”

I looked at my cousin in shock. “You want to marry Lady Anne De Bourgh? Lady Catherine would never agree to such a match.”

“There are many things I would do for social advancement,” said William, “but marry Lady Anne is not one of them. As much as I am capable of pandering to her mother, I could not abide looking at Anne’s sickly face across the breakfast table every day.”

“Then who is the heiress?”

“Miss Bingley!”

“Do not listen to him, Cousin Elizabeth, I have no designs upon Miss Bingley. It is more likely that George will court her.”

“Never! I have someone else in mind.” He glanced expressively at me. “But now is not the time for such talk. Cousin, I agree with William. You cannot close yourself up in that ramshackle house with dowdy Cousin Charlotte. You would find yourself at your wit’s end within the week.”

“I enjoy Charlotte’s company and if she agrees to become my companion, it is all that I ask. I have recently lost what is most dear to me and I will enjoy living away from society for a pace.”

“But Hunsford! A Bennet live where once a steward was housed?” William curled his lip in distaste.

“Hunsford belongs to me,” I said fiercely, and then I shook my head and smiled. “Come, let us not argue. It is a small house but at one time it was a fine establishment. The hunting box of Sir William Lucas himself, if I recall. It will be well fitted up before I move in at any rate. I am sure there will be enough shelves in the closets to match my needs.”

“Shelves in the closets!” laughed George. “Happy thought indeed! If you are so decided, there is nothing more we can do but wish you all the best in your new establishment.”

After my cousins had gone, I walked in the garden and pondered the visit. If either one of them was paying court to Miss Bingley, where did that leave me? Was my love Frederick, after all? Or was my love the kind of man who would spurn affection and marry for money? Maybe this connection of mind and soul was all he wanted from me, and in the light of day we would never be together, hand in hand. And how I longed for that! Didn’t he? My misgivings seeped from me and ran upon the riffling breeze, through lilac tree and wisteria, columbine and calendula, past hedge and hedgerow and out across fields dotted white with sheep.

Don’t fret. A gentle stroke. Trust me . . . the time will come. But not yet, not yet my love. He was there, surrounding me with a current of tender feeling that was sprinkled with soft laughter. But behind it all was an elusive mist of tentative uncertainty.

I sighed, knelt to gather bluebells, and sent my own message of acceptance and longing.

Longbourn Keep, 1641

If my father knew what I have done today! What we have done today, you and I. But he will never know, unless it is possible to see what passes upon this mortal plane from the spirit world. Though he was my father I can say he is well gone and not feel an ounce of guilt. He who allowed them to drag my mother through the streets. Allowed her to be held up to the mockery of peasant and peer alike. Did nothing when they lit the fires about her but weep and wail in his tower room. She was his wife who he professed to love with all his heart but he did not denounce their claims that she cast spells and spoke to beings that were not there. Was his life of such value that he refused the chance to die with her?

I would die with you, my love, if that were our only way to be together.

But instead my father built this shrine. This lovely pavilion hidden from the world by secret paths through tangled yew. His shrine to her, yet how I have defiled it! If only he knew he would have spit in my wretched face, but I know that I have loved more true here than he ever did. His was an empty love, all gaudy and gold, pretty poetry formed of vacant words. And if he truly loved, he would have cared for the child she bore him. Kept me by his side to grow in the strength of his shadow. But my singed heart was left to wilt upon a deserted slope. I grew up wild and unwanted and taunted him with my excesses only that he would look upon me. But his bitter anger was all that came my way.

From the time my mother melted in flame to the time I found you, my sweet, I never knew love. You must have been some secret present from the creator who saw something to redeem in me. For redeemed I have been, just from the look in your eyes. The soft turn of your cheek inflames me. My head, buried in your silken breast, takes me beyond heaven.

And now that he is gone, we are free my love.

So come. Please – I cannot bear another minute without you in my sight, your body within the reach of my hand. The sound of your voice in my ears. Your honeyed lips upon my mouth.

The window fogs from my breath as I gaze out to see the first moment of your coming. I wipe it with the handkerchief you embroidered for me. I must not miss that first second – that first strand of light, that first telltale step murmuring upon the grass. The whisper that echoes with the message: you are on your way to me.

Chapter Three

Posted on Friday, 15 December 2006

I gazed out my bedchamber window, down upon the churchyard. They were burying my father. The procession trailed like a black snake between the gravestones. My cousins followed directly behind the coffin, all the leading gentlemen of the community behind them, the farmers, servants and labourers taking up the rear. It was a testament to my father that so many came – he had been a sort of a recluse, especially in the years since my mother’s death, but he had treated everyone with kindness and been a fair and considerate landlord and neighbour.

When they reached the gravesite and stood in a semi-circle by it, I was able to more clearly discern the gentlemen in attendance. I was not surprised that Lord Lewis De Bourgh was not of their number. He was above paying his respects in person – an insincere note was all that could be hoped for. Not that I cared in the least. I was inured to the arrogance of that family.

A tall figure standing off to one side caught my attention. Immaculately dressed and aloof, it was Mr Darcy, one of the last people in the world I would have expected to find at my Father’s graveside. Could it be that I had misjudged him?

The Darcys were closely related to the De Bourghs. Their family was almost as long established in these parts as ours, and though never amongst the peerage, the Darcys were wealthy and influential. Their estate, Netherfield, was no more than three miles from Longbourn Keep, and yet for all the interactions between our families there could have been an ocean between us. As I was growing up, I only saw him from a distance, passing through the village in his carriage with his young sister who, still now not yet out, was even more a stranger to me than he.

Last spring I was first introduced to him at an assembly in Meryton. My cousins, two years younger, had been at Cambridge with him, but had never been of the same circle.

“Look at him,” William said, glancing across the ballroom. “The great Mr Darcy condescending to attend our local rustic assembly.”

“He does not appear to be enjoying himself,” responded George with a smirk. “No one worthy enough for him to dance with but his cousin Lady Anne De Bourgh. What pleasure could he find there?”

“You could remedy that,” said Frederick. “Introduce him to our Elizabeth. I have noticed him staring her way, bewitched by her vivacious sparkle.”

I laughed and disclaimed. I had noticed his eyes upon me a few times, but their expression seemed more vacant than enchanted.

“Bewitched!” cried William. “You do choose your words well, Frederick. That is probably his greatest fear – to have Elizabeth Bennet cast a spell upon him. He would expect nothing less from the descendant of a renowned witch.”

“This is the nineteenth century!” said Frederick. “Anyone of any intelligence and education must discount such nonsense.”

“That family,” said George, “expects no less from us than black magic.”

“Black magic from the ladies of the family,” agreed William, “and seduction from the gentlemen.”

“Indeed,” said George. “Fitzwilliam Charles Bennet is said to have seduced Lady Jane De Bourgh, before she married into the Darcy family.”

“They murdered him for it!”

“Please do not discuss all that ancient history now,” I said in an angry whisper. “He is close enough to hear you.”

“What care we?” said William. “He holds us in disdain for our ancestry, like his imperious aunt and uncle. What right do they have for such superiority when they are descended from nothing short of murderers?”

“Hush!” I cried in earnest as I noticed Mr Darcy stop and his expression darken.

A little later, chance brought me close enough to overhear a conversation between Mr Darcy and his friend, an affable gentleman who I had danced with earlier in the night and was about to lead out Miss King.

“Why do you not dance, Darcy?”

“I have danced with my cousin. I know no other ladies present.”

“And one cannot be introduced at an assembly?” his friend laughed. “They would be very tedious affairs if that were so.”

“I do find them tedious.”

“Look at that young lady over there. I danced with her once already and found her very charming. I could make the introductions.”

Mr Darcy turned his head my way, and I realised that they were speaking of me. I looked away, trying not to appear conscious, wondering how I would respond when they approached me, but my apprehension was all for naught.

“She would not want to dance with the scion of a house of murderers.” At his friend’s confused expression he continued. “I am in no mood to dance, especially with Miss Bennet. Return to your partner and enjoy her smiles.”

I almost ran from the room. The twins had been right – he was just the same as the De Bourghs, and I felt that if I never met him again I would be well pleased. But my wish was not to be granted. Not long after this incident, I was passing by the refreshment table and Mr King, the master of ceremonies, stopped me.

“Miss Bennet, you must let me introduce you to Mr Darcy,” he said. “He is without a partner, and though he dislikes dancing in general I know he could not resist a lady of such radiant beauty as yourself.”

I blushed and hesitated, wishing myself anywhere but in the ballroom at that exact moment.

Mr Darcy bowed stiffly. “I would be honoured if you would join me on the dance floor,” he said, holding out his hand.

His empty words did not impress me. “Thank you, but I do not mean to dance anymore tonight,” I said with cold politeness. I knew my refusal was as welcome to him as his curt nod of acceptance before he walked away was to me.

Mr King was left looking a trifle bemused; but ever the good host, he offered to fetch me a glass of lemonade and was not happy until he had settled me in a corner on a comfortable chair and had been assured repeatedly that I was well and only slightly fatigued. My love came to me then. That was the night that the tenor of our relationship changed. We slipped subtly from familiar friendship to the discovery of our depth of feeling for one another. He was apprehensive and in need of reassurance. I sensed his uncertainty and though I knew not what had affected him so, all I wanted was to assuage his discomfort. The warmth of sentiment that flowed between us could not be denied.

So, in a darkened corner of a crowded ballroom I was first made love to, like many a young lady swept off her feet by soft words and tender looks. Only this love was not some tawdry seduction; it was sweet and pure – like a song had burst forth in my heart.

On the evening of my father’s burial, I slipped out from the house and went to visit his new grave as the blue of the sky became blushed with pink. His headstone was not yet cut, but I crouched by my mother’s stone and took it into my arms as I gazed at that mound of fresh dug earth that housed my father’s bones. They were both gone from me forever now, but they were again together and that bittersweet knowledge softened the edge of my melancholy.

One never knows what life will bring; all one can do is take what is given and try and make the best of it. My father’s death was untimely, painful and heartrending, but I could not allow myself to dwell upon that, nor to dwell upon the fact that whoever had knocked him down must have known it and done nothing. The magistrate of Harrowgate was doing what he could to discover who had taken my father’s life so carelessly and Mr Jones had promised to keep me apprised of any developments in the case, but retribution would not bring me serenity. Only forgiveness would.

And in the fading light, as the sky burned and then dimmed to darkened embers, I sat by his grave and struggled to forgive as I knew I needed to. Dusk had taken over as I finally rose from the ground and made my way into the church to light a candle and say a prayer. The nave was dark, the moon not yet up to spill through the tall windows, but candles still burned in one corner. I took one and used it to light another, then sent my silent prayer out into the night. Afterwards, I noticed a draught coming from the open vestry door. I went over to close it, and saw a figure, with a parcel of some sort under one arm, disappearing down the path to the lych gate.

Reverend Gardiner, going home, I thought, closing the door and retracing my steps. But when I came out from the dark of the church onto the porch I almost bumped into Mr Gardiner himself.

“I came to bring you in,” he said gently. “Mary was beginning to worry.”

“Were you not just now in the vestry?”

“No. Was someone here?”

“The door was left open. I saw a figure hurrying down the path. He seemed to be wearing a robe, and he was carrying something under his arm.”

Together we went to the vestry and the reverend lit a branch of candles. “Nothing appears to be missing,” he said, after walking about the room. “I wonder who it could have been and what he was doing.”

“Maybe it was your curate?”

“Indeed, I will ask him in the morning. Come now, child. It is late and you have had much to contend with today. I pray that you were able to find the solace that you sought tonight.”

“I was, thank you.”

And it was true. Aside from the mystery of the stranger in the church, my communion in the darkness had eased my heart and soul. It was as if a weight had lifted and I was free from at least one of the burdens I had to bear. We left the church and walked toward the parsonage in silence. The moon was now up in a velvet sky. An owl swooped from an old oak and swept across the pasture to my right. I followed it with my eyes and was rewarded with the sight of a figure slipping from the open field into the shadow of the woods. Was it the interloper from the vestry or someone that I knew as well as I knew my own heart?

I sent out the question. My love, are you there? Is that you?

I am always with you, came my answer, warm and caressing as a summer’s breeze.

After breakfast, Mr Stone, the family’s attorney, paid me a call to discuss my situation. He began by saying all that was correct in regard to my bereavement. He said it with sincerity and fondness, and not just as a matter of course. With that out of the way, he withdrew papers from his case in a businesslike manner and looked me directly in the eyes.

“Of course you understand about the entail,” he said.

I nodded. I was brought up knowing that my childhood home would be lost to me upon my father’s death.

“The trust is a little more complicated,” he went on.

I had some knowledge of the trust as well. In 1665, Lord William Bennet had fears that his profligate son, George, would gamble away his entire inheritance. On his deathbed he set up a trust that made it impossible for any part of the estate to be sold without the agreement of all the other family members who had attained their majority. At various times since then some deals were made, but the bulk of the land and much of the chattels were still intact.

“Your uncle,” said Mr Stone, “is now in possession of all that comprises the original estate, but cannot sell even a teaspoon without the combined consent of your cousins and yourself. Anything that was added to the estate since 1665 he may do with as he wishes. You may come to me at any time for advice, if you find yourself put into a position where you are unsure how to act.”

I suddenly realised what a great responsibility was now upon my shoulders. My father loved the history of our home and had taught me to love it as well. He had instilled in me the belief that Longbourn Keep was of great importance not only to us, but also to the country as a whole and that our legacy was to preserve it as best we could. Unfortunately through lack of funds, mismanagement and neglect, the farms that should have supplied abundant income were no longer profitable. The capital that could have restored the family fortunes had disappeared long before the estate had come to my father’s hands. If my uncle and cousins wished to break up the estate, my choice would be the deciding factor. I hoped it would never be more problematic than whether or not to sell the family silver.

“Thank you,” I said, appreciating his offer and the tact with which he proffered it.

“As for yourself, you are by no means destitute. Hunsford, and its surrounding meadows and woodlands, belongs to you, as well as the effects your mother brought into the marriage. You will be able to live modestly.” He then smiled at me, saying, “I expect that you will soon marry at any rate so I have no worries on your behalf.”

I thanked him again and then we discussed the repairs to be made to Hunsford to prepare it as my residence. In little short of a month I would be mistress of my own home and half a dozen servants.

And there, I supposed, I would wait for my love to reveal himself and request my hand, or end my days an old maid. I must have sent the thought unknowingly for the next thing I knew I was swathed in a riffle of amusement and a burst of affection that was more comforting than any corporeal lover’s tender hug.

Longbourn Keep 1641

The blue of your eyes rivals the sky at midday. Celestial, like your pure soul. My father would never have been able to see that. Your name would have blinded him to everything that is sweet and wonderful and good about you. But we need worry about that no longer. Death has done me a great favour.

Now all that is left is for this, longest of nights, to pass. I think I shall be driven mad if you do not arrive soon. Oh cruel love, what keeps you? Even as the word crosses my mind, I denounce it. Cruel you could never be. If you are late, I know you have good reason. And surely the truth is that you are late not at all. It is I, who in my impatience to behold you, am early. For me the seconds drag like hours without you by my side. When you are with me, I swear time will stand still so we can love for all eternity.

But why do you still stay away, love? Even now your light should be glinting through the yews.

Chapter Four

Posted on Friday, 22 December 2006

Charlotte’s response to my letter finally arrived a week after I sent it. I took it to the rose garden to peruse at my leisure while Mrs Gardiner taught her children their lessons in the parlour. Charlotte’s kindness and compassion when referring to my father’s death brought tears to my eyes, and her acceptance of my offer elated me as nothing else had these last few days. It is not that I had not felt welcome in the parsonage. I had, and the laughter of the children had been a blessed balm to my spirits, but it was not my home and all my time there I felt as if I were in Limbo, never to start a life of my own.

It did not help that my love had been silent since Mr Stone’s visit. Nor that I had spent fruitless hours pondering the last words of my father, which Mr Jones had written down for me.

I sat under a bower, a profusion of blossoms above my head, and put the letter in my pocket. It was a relief to know that soon I would be set up in my own home, with Charlotte to keep me company, but still I had a mystery to solve. I had read my father’s message so often that I knew it word for word. It roiled inside my head, tumbling over and over as I attempted to decipher it.

Elizabeth . . . tell Elizabeth . . . Thomas . . . George . . . would have told . . . the paper . . . in William’s brook . . . in the library . . . William . . . the key . . . the cat . . . on the pavement . . . the map . . . the letter . . . in the brook. Tell Elizabeth . . . take care . . . danger . . . this feeling I have . . . should have told Elizabeth . . . had to be sure . . . I did tell . . . I think he knows . . . tell him . . . trust . . . do what is right . . . blessing.

I could still not make out my father’s meaning. Thomas, George, and William, of course, referred to my uncle and the twins. But did my father mean he would have told them something to relay to me, or he would have told me something about them? Surely I could not fear my own relations. No – he meant that they would help me, I thought.

What was most confusing was the part about the paper. If the paper were in a brook it would be of no use to anyone. Or had he lost an important paper in this unknown brook and regretted it because it was something he wanted me to read?

The library was the most tangible thing in the message. Longbourn Keep had an excellent library where my father had spent the majority of his time. And the key, it could be the key to the locked grilles, where we had placed the oldest books before letting the house to Mr Bingley.

The cat, I supposed, must be the cat on our family crest. It was an unusual beast, believed to be a mountain lion or a wildcat, but upon its head it was wearing an antlered skull, as if like a mask. Family legend says the cat tricked its prey by pretending to be a deer, and using such means hunted to great advantage. My forebears, opportunists that they were, lived by this example and hid their true allegiances. They survived many a shift of power to be accepted by whichever regime came out on top, from the time of the Saxons to the present day. The family motto, emblazoned on a scroll below the crest, was Mark the Cat and Follow.

But why my father would have thought it necessary to mention the cat, I had no idea. Was it part of the warning? To beware of people with false facades? My uncle? My cousins? What ill could they possibly wish me?

What followed was even more confusing. The pavement, the map, the letter and the brook were seemingly unconnected things. What had they in common?

And the feeling he had – was it a premonition of danger to me? Something that he should have told me but told someone else instead, because he was not sure? That seemed to be the only way to interpret that part of the message. But whom did he trust so much to tell such a thing? And why did this person not come forward and do what was right and tell me?

Lastly came his blessing, which I thought completely out of place in this warning. Unless . . . . unless he was giving me the blessing to do what was right. Placing his trust in me. But what was it he wanted me to do? Did it mean that I needed to find a paper or a letter, and that the paper or letter was in the library, in a book – not a brook? Mr Jones must have heard him incorrectly. And if I needed a key to do this, then the book I needed to find was on the locked shelves of the library.

Longbourn Keep was no longer my own, and besides which it was let to the Bingley family. But there were still things there that belonged to me. Furniture of my mother’s. Linen. Dinnerware. Paintings. Books. I resolved to visit the Bingleys and ask their permission to go through the house and mark the things that were mine, and order them to be packed and delivered to Hunsford. I did not see how they could possibly refuse.

It was not a long walk from the parsonage to Longbourn Keep. The morning was fine and I looked forward to treading the old paths I knew better than the lifelines upon my palms. I followed the river along until it split off at the weir that directed part of the water away towards the overflow pond, and the sluice that kept the level of the water adjusted in the moat. Between these two diverging arms of water was a broadening wedge of garden. At its widest expanse, my ancestor, Lord Thomas Bennet, had built an intricate maze of yew hedging. At its heart was a pavilion – an ornate and whimsical structure – that had been erected for his ladylove, his dearest wife Elizabeth.

As a child I had spent many hours of countless days lost in the overgrown shrubbery, trying to find my way to the pretty folly. One of my cousins would always have to rescue me and lead me to the centre. Even then the paint upon the outside walls of the pavilion was peeling, and the colourful ceilings inside were sagging, but I would sit and dream of what it had been like in all its glory as whichever cousin it was who had accompanied me laughed at my romantical fancies.

Today I bypassed the maze completely. I had long since learned my way in and out, but I had no time to make a pilgrimage to the centre. I had an appointment with the tenants of the manor and I had no intention of keeping them waiting.

I went into the house by the main entrance, not one of the many side doors or through the scullery and kitchens, as I had been wont to all my life. I looked up at the crest that crowned the doorway – crowned every major doorway in the house and flanked both sides of the great fireplace in the Tudor hall. There was the cat, dancing black against a blue shield, paw held forward as if in attack, antlers rising from its head like some incongruous crown. And behind the shield was a plaque with a queer geometrical design. The significance of the design was unknown – we simply accepted it as we accepted the many strange things our house held – priest’s holes, secret stairs, sliding panels. Nothing surprised us with the notorious history of our family.

The butler opened the door for me and bowed low, smiling. I curtsied. It was a game we had played since I was a girl, whenever I used the main entrance.

“It is a pleasure to see you, Miss Bennet,” he said, “You are expected.” And then he led me down the hall.

Mr and Mrs Bingley were most affable people. They invited me into the drawing room and served tea, all the time apologizing for presuming to entertain me in my own house. I reassured them that it was quite all right and besides, Longbourn Keep was no longer my home but now belonged to my uncle. After a half hour of conversation, they consigned a maid to assist me and told me to feel free to go into whatever part of the house I needed in order to locate all my personal belongings. I asked if I might have the key for the locked shelves in the library and Mr Bingley sent for the housekeeper, who was in possession of a set of keys for all the various locking cupboards.

I spent several hours sorting through linen, dinner services, and oddments of furniture. I left the maid in charge of packing the smaller things away in a trunk and I went to the library to search through the books. My hands were shaking as I turned the key in the lock of the grille-work. I was certain that soon I would hold in my hands the paper that would clear up the mystery of my father’s message.

Though I was eager to make my discovery, I went about my task slowly and handled each book with great care. The volumes were old and valuable – the last remnants of the collection of Lord William Bennet who had instituted the trust and his predecessor, Lord Thomas Bennet, who had left a few volumes of his own poetry with those of Shakespeare and some lesser known authors.

Every moment I expected to find the paper, and every moment I was to be disappointed. In ten minutes I had carefully gone through every book in the small collection, and been rewarded by nothing but a fair amount of dust upon my clothing. I went through every book again, leafing through the pages slowly but the result was unchanged. There was no loose piece of paper in any of the books. I did, however, find something that caught my interest. It was a book of poetry by Thomas Bennet entitled, From This Romeo to His Juliet, and it was dedicated to his wife, Elizabeth Bennet – the very one that had been burned at the stake.

I sat with the slim volume in my hands and felt overcome with pity for this couple who loved so well but were so cruelly parted. Elizabeth Bennet was convicted of witchcraft for nothing more than having been discovered speaking to someone who was not present. Unfortunately for her it was the puritanical Lord Lewis De Bourgh who had come upon her and proclaimed her a witch. If she was a witch than so am I, for we are no different, she and I.

I opened the book and my eyes rested upon a poem entitled The Maze.

Here, in the trees so tightly grown
No minotaur doth wildly roam,
Nor Roman foot in sandaled shoe
Anymore walk under skies of blue.
Here dwells another beast, you see
Hidden now, and no longer free,
Till sunlight spills upon his face
And wakes him in this field of grace.
This pleasure trove, this hall of love
Welcomes him now to all above . . .

I may not be educated in the art, but I believe my ancestor’s talent was not as fine a thing as his love of his lady. But despite the uneven metre, despite the fact that I could find little meaning in his brave words, I felt drawn to the book and wanted to read more. Maybe I thought I could bring myself closer to my namesake by reading these poems dedicated to her. I never imagined that what I held was a key to another mystery I didn’t even know existed. All I do know is I made a decision at that moment to borrow the book and return it in a day or two. Along with it I quickly took up a copy of Romeo and Juliet, to compare the separate tales of star-crossed love.

After relocking the case, I looked about the library and its half empty shelves. Some of these books had belonged to my mother and so had become mine, but the prospect of searching through the entire library at that moment, as tired as I was, daunted me. I held the two books to my chest and made to go. As I turned I noticed that the silver candlesticks that usually stood on either side of the mantle were no longer there. I wondered why anyone would have wanted to move them, but did not feel any great concern. I would have forgotten them completely had I not decided to slip upstairs to make a nostalgic visit to the nursery where I had been raised and spent the better part of my childhood.

Shafts of sunlight from narrow, uncurtained windows filled the room with afternoon light. The old furnishings were in dustcovers, but I threw them back from the table and chair where I had worried sums and memorized dates from dusty history tomes. I sat and leaned upon the table, surprised by the rush of tears that suddenly overcame me. I had managed so well until now, but in this room it finally struck me that I was saying goodbye today, not only to the house, but to a large part of my childhood. These cherished walls were no longer mine to live in, to love, to protect. And no longer would they shield and sustain me as they had done all my life. I gazed around, and through my tears I noticed that something was missing.

A picture no longer hung on the wall. It had been of my mother in her youth – a miniature. But it had been painted by Thomas Gainsborough, and had certain monetary value, though the value to me was much greater than money. It was the only picture of my mother that was mine. I went over to the wall where it ought to have been hanging, searched the floor, looked behind furniture and under dust covers, but to no avail.

I went to the window and sat upon the window seat, trying to understand the implications of my discovery. First the silver candlesticks were missing and then the painting of my mother. I could see no reason that they would have been moved, and the thought that someone had stolen them was difficult to contemplate. The staff at Longbourn Keep was the same that had served my father and myself for years. I trusted every one of them, from the housekeeper to the lowliest scullery maid. And for the Bingleys to have anything to do with the missing articles was unthinkable.

One fact remained clear, and I dreaded the prospect. I could not leave without mentioning the missing objects to Mr and Mrs Bingley. My greatest fear was that my disclosure would in some way offend them as if I was casting aspersions upon their characters.

At times of physical exhaustion I tend to ease the barriers in my mind that keep my thoughts private, and before I knew it my love had come to comfort me, surrounding me with his familiar affectionate aura.

I need you, Bennet. It is so difficult to do this on my own.

I am here with you. Always with you.

That is not what I mean. I want you here beside me. I want to touch you – to look into your eyes. To know who you really are.

You know me better than any living soul.

But not your person. Come to me.

Be patient love. It won’t be long now.

When? I filled the question with longing.

Soon Elizabeth. His answer came in a strong burst like a thousand sparks shooting from a single fire all at once. The air sizzled with excitement. Very soon. The excitement rose to a crescendo and then abruptly stopped.

The door opened and my cousin walked into the room.

“Elizabeth,” he said, “I have been sent to get you by our hosts. They would like to offer you some refreshment before you return to the parsonage. I had a feeling I would find you here.”

“A feeling?” It was all that I could manage to say. I was still unsteady after the tumult of sensation that had just coursed through me.

“I guessed that you would be here. I know your old habits, Elizabeth.” He smiled down at me and held out his hand. “Come, let me help you up. You have overtaxed yourself and look quite done in.”

“I am fine, George,” I said, smoothing my skirts as I attempted to collect my wits.

I was very aware of his hand on my elbow as he helped me to rise. I looked into his face, searching for any sign that he had just a moment before been caught up in explosions of emotion like wildfire, but he was not looking at me. His eyes were directed to the window and I turned to see what had caught his attention.

“The old oak has been cut down!” I cried.

“Yes – it blew down in a frightful storm we had in January. I’ve not been up here since or I would have noticed before. Look.”

My gaze followed his pointing arm. The maze was clearly visible, as it had never been before. The pavilion, lovely but derelict, rose like a phantom faery castle from the centre. And all around the yew trees wove their secret paths. Only from this height they were secret no longer. And as I looked at them I realised that the trick to knowing the way to the centre of the maze had been before me in my own house every day of my life.

“The pattern behind the crest,” I whispered.

“It is the map,” said George, nodding his agreement.

Longbourn Keep 1641

When I have all but given up hope I see your light flick and flitter. Flutter as you trip on your tiny feet unerringly through the hedges, onward, turning and twisting till your lantern gleams with purpose at the foot of my stair. I am at your side in a heartbeat, and your feet touch the ground no more.

I will happily carry you anywhere. I hold you now in your billowing satins and Spanish lace. You would still be the most beautiful thing I have ever beheld, even in the rudest of cottons – but, in truth, there is no fabric fine enough to adorn you. I whisper such thoughts into your perfect shell of an ear, as I breathe in the scent of roses that always surrounds you. You laugh – a sound sweeter than silver bells.

“I thought you liked me best dressed in the light of candles alone,” you whisper.

I am almost undone.

I carry you to the bed, pause a moment to gaze upon your angel face before I take my taper and light every candle in every gilt sconce, every gold-plated candlestick, until our haven is filled with the warm glow of a thousand flickering flames.

I return to sit at your feet as you reach your arms behind your back and begin to work upon your buttons.

Chapter Five

Posted on Friday, 29 December 2006

My cousin and I walked along the familiar hallways and staircases of Longbourn Keep in silence until we came to the drawing room. A waiting servant opened the door for us and we went through.

“I see you have found her,” Mr Bingley said to George.

He smiled. “She was in her old nursery, reminiscing, as I suspected she would be.”

Mr Bingley looked beyond my cousin to me. “How did you get on with your task? I hope it was not too tiring.”

“Or too painful,” interjected his wife, “to be again in your home under such circumstances. Were you able to find everything you sought?”

I could hardly tell them that I had not found the mysterious letter my father’s last message had alluded to, so I simply said that I had and thanked them both kindly once again. They then introduced me to their daughter who had been out shopping in Meryton when I had met them earlier.

“Mr Bennet was so kind as to bring me home,” she said, gracing George with a dulcet smile. “Small town shops can be so fatiguing, but I did manage to find a new pair of gloves.”

I answered her with a polite commonplace. So this was the heiress William and George had been discussing. She was dressed with a quiet elegance that bespoke money. Her dark hair was arranged in lustrous curls, which I could tell she well knew became her. The salons of London were filled with young ladies of her stamp, but here in the country she must have been creating quite a stir, and enjoying it too. I suddenly became conscious of my worn and dusty gown and my undoubtedly dishevelled appearance.

“You are a great reader?” Miss Bingley asked me, her inflection upon the words giving the impression that to admit to such a distinction would put me in the bracket of a bluestocking.

“Oh,” I said, remembering the books in my hands. “I do enjoy reading, but not more so than most people.” I turned to George and held out the books. “I found these while I was in the library and felt the urge to read them. I know they are no longer mine – do you think Uncle Thomas would mind if I borrowed them for a day or two?”

He glanced at them. “Romeo and Juliet? You are welcome to them, I am sure, though why you would want to read something we were forced to suffer through in the school-room, I shouldn’t imagine.”

I blushed slightly. “One is actually the poems of our ancestor, Lord Thomas – dedicated to his wife Elizabeth. They are both rather old and thereby valuable.”

His eyes gleamed momentarily at that but all he said was, “I trust you will take excellent care of them.”

I thanked him as Miss Bingley said, “Lady Elizabeth Bennet? Was she not beheaded or some ghastly thing?”

“Burned at the stake,” I responded.

She gave an exaggerated shudder. “All old families have such fascinating histories. I imagine there are many secret places in homes such as this with so many antiquated wings.”

“We just now uncovered one of the secrets,” said George.

“I do hope it is not a dungeon filled with skeletal remains. I should leave this house at once!”

Her mother uttered an exclamation and her father urged her not to be silly. I was unsure how to react, but George only laughed.

“Nothing quite so exciting,” he said. “We have just discovered the key to the maze.”

“The maze! I adore the maze,” she cried.

“Do you mean to say you have not yet known how to find your way through the maze until today?” asked Mr Bingley.

“Not at all. Since we were young we have known how to get in and out, though it took Cousin Elizabeth a few more years than my brothers and I. We had to rescue her from there innumerable times. No – what we discovered today is that there has always been a map to the maze in almost every room of this house.”

“Yes, “I said. “Now that the old oak tree is no more, the nursery gives a view onto the maze that shows all the pathways, all the false trails and dead endings. The pattern is quite distinct.”

Mr Bingley’s eyes lit up. “The curious design behind your family crest!” he exclaimed. “I had always wondered at its significance.”

Mr Bingley had a quick mind, but I imagined that one did not become wealthy through business ventures without one. I realised that now was my time to make my other revelations, no matter how reluctant I was to broach the subject.

“There is a new mystery, however, that has me puzzled,” I ventured. I attempted to say it lightly, but I think Mr Bingley caught the strain in my voice.

“I would say you are more worried than puzzled.”

I nodded. Everyone was attending to me now; Mr and Mrs Bingley with concern, Miss Bingley with the fascinated interest of one who is hoping for something she can turn to her benefit as the food for good gossip, and my cousin with a quizzical arch to his eyebrows.

“There may be a very simple explanation,” I said, “and I do not want to jump to false conclusions, but I noticed that the two silver candlesticks that usually sit on the mantle in the library were not there.”

“It is most likely that they have been moved,” said George a little too quickly. I shot him a glance. He had that expression I recognised from the intrigues he and William played when they were younger, when they were trying to hide some indiscretion from their parents and expecting me to play along. I found it difficult then because I had never been a good liar. Now I could see no reason why he should want to perform a cover up.

“The servants move things all the time,” said Miss Bingley, eager to assist him. “I shouldn’t wonder they are stuffed in the back corner of a cupboard somewhere because the footman was plagued with forever shining them.”

“I will ask the housekeeper,” said Mr Bingley, ringing the bell. “Did you notice anything else?”

I hesitated a moment before saying, “In the nursery. A miniature of my mother has always hung upon the far wall. It is not there.”

“Could it not be packed away in a trunk somewhere in the attics?” asked George.

Mr Bingley’s expression became grave. “This portrait of your mother, was it by Gainsborough?”

“Yes.”

“I remember noting it – a very fine piece of his work. This is serious indeed.”

“Perhaps the housekeeper put it away for safekeeping,” I said, more with the hope of easing his concern than with any real conviction.

But when Mrs Hill was questioned she was as surprised as I had been to discover the items were missing.

“I polished those candlesticks only two weeks ago,” she said. “Lord Bennet prized them greatly as heirlooms and I always saw to them myself.”

“Would you be so good as to go over the house and discover if there is anything else missing?” Mr Bingley asked.

“At once,” she said. “Something of this nature has never happened under my supervision before. You can be assured that I will do my utmost to get to the bottom of this.”

Mrs Hill was a good soul, and a trusted and loyal servant of many years standing. She took great pride in her management of the house, and I could see that she had taken umbrage.

“I’m certain there must be an explanation,” I said, “some reason for them to have been misplaced.”

“Misplaced!” she snorted, affronted by the idea that anything could possibly have become misplaced under her stewardship. “If some pilfering scoundrel has ingratiated himself with one of my chambermaids and convinced her to steal from this house, I shall have her cast out without reference and I shall see him horsewhipped!”

“Hill!” said George in his most cajoling manner. “No one in your employ would ever venture to turn you such a trick. There must be some mistake. I will come and do the inventory for you.”

“Don’t you try and turn me up sweet, Master George,” she said. But from her tone I could tell that she was already mollified. George had always been able to get around her. They left the drawing room together and as soon as the door closed behind them, Mr Bingley began apologizing to me. I held up my hand to stop him.

“This is exactly why I was reluctant to bring the subject up,” I said. “I do not hold you at fault in any way.”

“I am afraid that I feel just as Mrs Hill does. If something has gone missing during my tenancy, it is my responsibility to see that all is done to find it and the person accountable for the disappearance.’

“Daddy, I really do think you are making much too much of an issue over a few trifling little ornaments,” said Miss Bingley.

He looked at his daughter, his face unreadable. “Am I?”

The refreshments were served then, but the pleasant nature of our previous conversation could not be regained. Mrs Bingley did her best to keep a polite exchange going, but I was feeling miserable, Mr Bingley preoccupied, and Miss Bingley simply bored. It wasn’t until George returned that she perked up.

“Have you charmed away Mrs Hill’s resentment?” she asked.

“Poor dear Hill, she takes everything to heart so.”

“She was foolish to be cross, as if we had accused her of stealing!”

“Hush child,” said her mother. “She was justified in her reaction. Your father and I feel just as she does.”

“This is all too fatiguing,” said Miss Bingley. “Mr Bennet, why do you not escort your cousin and me through the maze. I would dearly like to explore that precious little folly in the centre.”

“There is nothing I would rather do,” he said, “but I have actually returned only to bid you all farewell. There are some urgent matters I must attend to.” He faced me and added, “Elizabeth, I had meant to walk you to the parsonage. I hope you will forgive me leaving you on your own, but rest assured I shall come to see you in a day or so.”

“There is no need to concern yourself. I had no expectation of company, but you put me in mind that I must end my visit now too. The Gardiners will wonder what has become of me.”

“Then I will walk with you as far as the gate.”

We said our goodbyes and I had to submit to Mr Bingley’s apologies once more. Miss Bingley again broached the idea of exploring the maze and I promised to accompany her in the next few days.

“As long as Mr Bennet is able to escort us and protect us from the unknown,” she said. It was easy to see that I was not a necessary element to the proposed outing.

When we got outside, George took my elbow and steered me quickly towards the gate.

“You put me on quite a spot there, Cousin,” he said. “Could you not have told me about the missing things before blurting it out to everybody?”

“I would have told you sooner, but we discovered the secret of the maze and it put the subject out of my mind. But I do not see how my telling the Bingleys should have placed you in an uncomfortable position. Mr Bingley needed to know.”

George gave me a long look, began to say something and then hesitated, as if changing his mind. “We will talk about this more when I next see you,” he said. He took my hand and raised it to his lips. “Until then, do not let this matter worry you. Think, instead, of me.” He winked and let go of my hand. I said nothing, but stood watching as he turned and ran around the house towards the stables, without looking back. I could not have spoken if I had wanted to - all my being was taken up with sending out the thought:

And then will you tell me who you are?

When I arrived back at the parsonage, Mrs Gardiner rushed up to welcome me saying, “I hope it was not too much of a strain on you, going to your old home and sorting through all your belongings.”

“It was difficult being in my old home surrounded by so many memories, but the tears I cried there I needed to cry in order to move beyond my loss. I believe I found everything and will have no need to go back, other than to return these books. The arrangements have all been made for my things to be delivered to Hunsford by cart when the house is ready. The Bingleys were very affable and accommodating.”

Mrs Gardiner took my hands and patted them. “I am pleased that it went so well, but you look as though you have tired yourself out. It is unfortunate that, when you really need a restful evening, tonight is one of those rare occasions that we are entertaining.”

I smiled. “Do not concern yourself, Mrs Gardiner. Truly I am fine. After I have washed and dressed for dinner I am sure I shall look forward to being sociable. Who is coming tonight?”

“It is only Mr Darcy so I do not think his presence should be too taxing, as he will have much to discuss with my husband. After dinner we should have a long respite until they join us in the drawing room.”

I was surprised, to say the least. I had no idea that Mr Darcy, who I had always thought to be standoffish, should be on such cordial terms with the Gardiners as to be so casually referred to as only Mr Darcy. I had not spoken to him above five times in my entire life – never had he been a visitor at Longbourn Keep. I went upstairs to prepare for dinner and chastised myself for my indecision in choosing a gown for the evening. Why did it matter what I wore just because I would be sitting down to the same table as Mr Darcy? He might be well acquainted with my friends but he was nothing to me.

I had three evening gowns of black silk. I chose the simplest one, without a touch of lace or ribbon and no flounces, nothing that would make Mr Darcy think that I was trying in any way to impress him. It was rather the reverse. Though I had seen him at my father’s funeral, I had not forgotten his remarks at the assembly. I was still assured of his arrogance and pride, and his aversion for all Bennets in general.

When I entered the drawing room he was already there, alone, the reverend and his wife not yet down. He rose and bowed stiffly.

“Good evening Miss Bennet. I seem to have arrived early. I do apologise.”

I assured him that there was nothing to apologise for and took a chair at some distance from him. I regretted my choice of seat promptly as there was no needlework close at hand to take up while we waited for the Gardiners.

“Allow me to express my sorrow at your loss. Your father was a good man. He shall be missed greatly by all who knew him.”

This was condescension indeed. I doubted Mr Darcy had been acquainted with my father at all. I nodded my thanks as I cast around for some topic to introduce for conversation. If we were to be in the same room together for a few minutes it was preferable that we talked rather than sit in silence.

“I regret that I had not the opportunity of knowing him better,” Mr Darcy continued, with such sincerity that I could almost believe that he meant it.

I knew not how to respond. To say what came directly to my mind would have been impolite. Instead I attempted to temper my thoughts with some humour. “I am sure it was the fault of your ancestors and not your own.” Even as I spoke the words I realised that they sounded petty rather than amusing, and I blushed.

He leaned forward, his face at once earnest. “Come, can we not set aside the past and lay the family ghosts to rest?”

“I would like that,” I whispered.

“I understand you will be making your home at Hunsford soon.”

I almost stared at him, surprised that he knew of my plans, but then I supposed that it was just a part of the local gossip that anyone could not help but hear whether they had an interest in it or not. “Yes, with my cousin Charlotte as a companion.”

“It is a charming house with a fair prospect – the view of the pond across the meadow and Longbourn Keep in the distance. I wish you happy there.”

“You know the house?” I asked in surprise.

“Of course. I have lived in these parts all my life.”

“Yes, but it was only the abode of my father’s steward.”

“That fact did not prevent my observing it, or noticing how well situated it is,” he said, with the hint of a smile.

It is a good thing that Mr and Mrs Gardiner arrived at that moment, for I was at an absolute loss for words. Mr Darcy’s attitude towards my living at Hunsford, and towards Hunsford itself, was the complete opposite to the reaction I had got from my cousins when I had discussed the subject with them. I had always thought him consumed with pride – a judgement I had made, I realised, because of the estrangement of our families, the stories my cousins had told me, and one evening’s encounter at a public assembly. Tonight he was proving to be nothing short of kind and unassuming. Which was the real Mr Darcy?

The conversation at dinner was general. Mr Darcy did not say much, but listened attentively to Mr Gardiner and encouraged him in his story telling. As soon as we had retired to the drawing room, I asked Mrs Gardiner if Mr Darcy were always as congenial a guest or if his behaviour tonight was an anomaly.

“I know many people call him proud,” she answered, “but I have never seen it. I will own that he is reserved and can be diffident when in a large company, but here, with us, he is always as you see him tonight. He and my husband share a common interest in the welfare of the poor tenants on the estates. Ever since they began working on a project together, they have become fast friends.”

“My cousins did not find him to be at all forthcoming at Cambridge.”

Mrs Gardiner eyed me speculatively. “Had you never considered that that your cousins may not have extended the hand of friendship towards him?”

I had to concede her point, though it cost me greatly to do so. Knowing that I shared such a deep bond with one of my cousins, and not knowing which one it was, made me hesitant to face the flaws in their characters. It was hard for me to reconcile the person I knew so intimately with any one of my cousins’ outwardly aspects. All I knew was that hidden behind the bravado was a tender and loving man – a man with worldly faults – but a man who cared deeply. It was as though he were the antlered cat, and the face he showed the world was not his true face at all. I all at once felt contrite for judging him, for I was not perfect either – nobody was – and whatever faults we possessed, we would work through them together. Bennet, I sent, wishing him by my side.

Elizabeth, was my instant reply, like a gentle smile.

Mrs Gardiner was speaking of her children and I made an effort to wrench my thoughts away from my love and show an interest in how Emma had fared with her memorization and what Frank had drawn in his margins when he ought to have been conjugating French verbs. It was not difficult because I dearly loved the children and enjoyed hearing of their progress in their studies.

The gentlemen joined us sooner than expected, and I was petitioned to play. I acceded to the request, but warned Mr Darcy that I was no proficient at the pianoforte. For some reason I was nervous and my playing suffered for it, but I persevered through four songs and was able to perform the final one without too many stumbles. Mr Darcy was kind enough to say that he enjoyed it and found nothing lacking in my performance, proving that he was much more polite than I had ever previously supposed, or that he was tone deaf.

“If I practiced more, I would not have to flub and slur my way over the difficult passages,” I said, “but I fear that I was never a good student. The sun’s rays through the French windows in the music room always lured me out of doors before my scales were half-way completed.”

“You enjoy nature.”

“My father used to call me a young rapscallion for I was always to be found in the boughs of one or other of the trees in the orchard, often as not picking the blossoms in the spring or eating green apples at the end of summer.”

He smiled at that and I was suddenly aware of how attractive he was. It was generally agreed that he was a very handsome man, but I had never been impressed by the fact, put off by what I had always assumed was disdain but now knew to be reticence.

“When I was five I fell out of a tree and broke my arm,” he said. “And that was the end of my climbing career. I envy you.”

If anyone had told me that I would spend an evening at the parsonage conversing with Mr Darcy and actually enjoying it, I would have laughed in his face, but after he said goodnight and I was up in my chamber readying myself for bed, I realised that my mind had been completely distracted from my troubles. For the first time since that night I awoke in fear and rushed off to my dying father, I had been my old self. And to make the contentment of the evening complete, my love came to me. I asked him no questions about who he was or when we would finally meet face to face and acknowledge what was between us, I just lay in the pillow of our love and drifted off to sleep.

Longbourn Keep 1641

How can you sleep after such bliss? I cannot get enough of looking upon you. I stroke your golden curls away from your Dresden cheek, place a feather kiss on your brow. Your eyelids flutter but you do not awake. I cannot bear to leave your side, but I get up and quench all the candles but the one that burns directly above your head, spilling its glow to light your face ever so softly. Outside the darkness wanes.

I want the darkness to stay forever – to live the rest of our lives in the light of this one candle, only if morning will not come.

If I were a poet this is the hour I would set pen to parchment. Strange – this is the first that I have ever understood my father. Now, when no reason to exists. But he penned books of poetry to my mother, and I can only think that it was at a moment like this one that his quill felt the urge to spill ink across the page with words of love.

I have not read any one of his poems. But maybe tomorrow I shall open his book and read with un-jaundiced eye what I once spurned.

Your breathing brings my ear close to your lips. I listen to the intake and exhale and feel your warm, sweet wind. There is no symphony ever played that could move my heart as yours does. You breathe violin and cello and an airy, mysterious flute. And interlaced is the pulse of your heart, the thrum of your blood singing to me: I am yours.

And I, my darling one, am yours as well. Now. This night. And forever more.

Chapter Six

Posted on Friday, 5 January 2007

Morning light streamed through my window and I was drawn from my bed to the embrasure. I looked out upon the churchyard, dotted unevenly with gravestones, and thought about my parents, gone from me much too early. But I am not made for melancholy, and the outdoors beckoned. I knew that if I went out beyond the church and into the woods I would find secret dells of bluebells under the spreading oaks, and further still the river meandering on its way towards Longbourn Keep, as yet unfettered by weir or sluice.

As soon as I had breakfasted I was out and headed for the trees. At the call of my name, I stopped and turned. It was my cousin William, coming through the lych gate.

“Good,” he said, “I had hoped to have some time with you in private.”

My heart lurched. At that moment I realised that I did not want him to be my secret love. I had been almost assured of its being George, though there still was a lingering doubt. I would even have been happy for it to be Frederick – of the three he was the most like me; but William? Though he was as handsome as George and nearly as charming, there was a littleness about him that did not sit well with my image of my love.

But then again, if William were the one, it would only mean that his outward aspect had caused me to misjudge him. My love would always be his own caring self inside, no matter who he turned out to be. And knowing him I would be better able to understand his need to keep his identity secret for so long.

I waited for him to come to me, uneasy, but at the same time willing to hear what he had to say.

He stopped before me and took my hand. “I need your complete understanding,” he said.

I felt that I could barely breathe. “You have it.”

“You know that George and I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you, or the family, but . . . the trust makes it all very awkward for us.”

His words put me a bit at sea. “George? The trust? What have they to do with . . .”

“Please, Elizabeth, you must listen to me. The trust makes it impossible for us to gain so much as a farthing from the estate. It is a hindrance. I . . . we have overextended our private resources. All we needed was a few hundred pounds to appease the creditors. That was why we did it. George was certain you had guessed by now, so he sent me to talk to you. The Bingleys need not know. I will speak to them and explain the misunderstanding. George has already smoothed Hill’s ruffled feathers.”

It took me a few moments to comprehend what he was telling me. This was no confession of love, but something sinister. “You and George! You stole the candlesticks and my painting?”

“Cousin, please – steal is such a harsh word. They were ours and we took them. The painting was a mistake. It shall be returned.”

“The candlesticks are part of the trust and cannot be sold without the express agreement of the entire family.”

“Would you have stood in our way had you understood our need? Would Frederick? Father? I am assured you would all have agreed to sell a few objects to keep the devil from our door – but time was of an essence. We could not wait.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you in need of money? Do not you and George each have two thousand pounds per year? And what of Uncle Thomas?”

“The capital is gone. We are wallowing in debt. You know what our family is, Elizabeth. Gambling is in our blood. But I know that though we have suffered severe reverses we will come around. All we need is a little ready money. You will support us in that. You must.”

I gaped at him. The revelations continued to worsen. He wanted me to comply with their breaking of the law? Condone vice and weakness by calling it an inherited trait that cannot be helped? I wondered how much of the debt was William’s and how much was George’s. As children William always led and George followed.

“William, how can I turn my back when I know you have acted outside of the trust?”

We had been walking distractedly through the garden without paying attention to where we were going, but now my cousin took my arm, led me to a bench and sat me down. “The trust is unfair; it will beggar us.”

“And you also seem to be forgetting one thing. Your father is the one who has inherited Longbourn Keep, not you or George. You would have no right to simply take anything you wish, trust or no trust.”

William rubbed his forehead. “Elizabeth – we did not want anyone to know, but father’s mind is gone. His last illness took a great toll on him, but before he lost his senses completely he called in his lawyer and passed everything on to me. I am, in essence, Lord Bennet now.”

“But you still need to follow the mandate of the trust.”

“We shall, from now on. I will get permission in writing from Frederick, and with your approval George and I will be able to sell some trifles and recoup our fortunes.”

‘Trifles,’ I thought. ‘It will take more than trifles – it will take the whole of the estate’s assets and possibly the Keep and all the property too.’

I remembered then what Mr Stone had told me. You may come to me at any time for advice, if you find yourself put into a position where you are unsure how to act. I now realised that he had expected my cousins to try to bend me to their will and his words had been more than an offer of help – the words had been a warning.

“You must give me time to think,” I said. “This is all . . . unexpected, and I really do not know what I should do about the things that you stole. How can you expect me to look the other way?”

“It was unwise, perhaps, to act as we did, but Cousin, please have some mercy. It was not stealing.”

“How did you go about it, then? Go to Longbourn Keep on a social visit and then pop into the library and secrete the candlesticks in your greatcoat pocket? Borrow Hill’s keys without her knowledge and let yourselves in when the family was asleep? I can see no way you could have got those things from the house without employing underhanded means.”

William laughed uneasily. “Nothing quite so melodramatic. Miss Bingley quite willingly took them for us. That is why the mistake was made with your mother’s miniature portrait. We suggested the candlesticks to her, and she obligingly procured them. When she saw the painting, she thought it might be of use to us and included it in the bag she left for George.”

“You brought Miss Bingley into your little intrigue?” I said with disgust.

“Really Cousin, I had no idea you were such a stickler for propriety. Miss Bingley thought it a wonderfully good idea and shares our opinion that the trust is iniquitous.”

“And where did she leave this bag for George?”

“In the church vestry.”

I clapped my hand to my mouth. “So that was George the other night in the vestry?”

“Yes – you interrupted him and he ran off – not thinking it a good time to meet you.”

I sat and stared about the garden. The overflowing flowerbeds should have pleased my eye with their abundance of colourful blooms, but I was struggling with feelings of outrage, disappointment, and confusion.

“Yet you assure me that such clandestine behaviour as all of you have been involved in is perfectly honest and respectable.”

“I admit it was a trifle irregular – but dire straits call for dire measures.”

I wanted nothing more than to end the conversation and get away from William. I felt ill just thinking about what he and George had done – and thought so lightly of – particularly that they had taken advantage of Miss Bingley’s position in the house. And I feared what more requests they would make of me. I could not let them strip the estate of all its belongings and have it fall into ruin. My father’s life ambition had been to sustain Longbourn Keep, and I felt compelled to do the same.

“I must think on it William,” I said.

He smiled and then took my hand again and kissed it. I shivered slightly under his touch.

“I hope you will come to see it our way,” he whispered. And then he left me sitting there staring blankly into the blue sky.

I did not go for the walk in the woods to find bluebells that day. Instead I paced the garden and pondered, worrying myself to a sick headache and an inevitable sleepless night.

I awoke listless and ill humoured. I had slept but little and when I had, my dreams were unpleasant. In one, I saw my father lying underneath a hedgerow, blood upon his face, and a voice from behind saying, “I am Lord Bennet now.” In another I walked through the maze and all the ways I knew to get to the middle were blocked. I cried out to my love for help and all three of my cousins appeared. They sat and smirked and refused to take me to the pavilion. “You are part of the trust,” they said. “We cannot break the trust.”

What bothered me more? Their disregard for the trust? The fact that they had used Miss Bingley? That they had acted so swiftly, before my father was even in the grave? Or that one of them was the man I loved, and if it were so, he was flawed more that I cared to admit? Was their action indeed as wrong as I believed it to be? Longbourn Keep belonged to their father now, and if William was to be believed, had already been passed on to him, as the eldest. I knew it to be a great liability. Was it fair for me to expect William and George to have the same vision as I did? The estate did not mean to my cousins what it did to me. All I cared for was the survival of the Keep – to them the Keep could be used for their survival. Was I wrong to stand in their way because of my emotional attachment to rocks and mortar?

After breakfast, I went to Mrs Gardiner and asked her if there were a task I could perform. I needed some activity to take my mind away from my dilemma. I know she thought I was making myself ill, grieving for my father, and had no suspicion of the troubles that were haunting me. It was best that she did not know. She smiled on me with compassion and asked if I would change the flowers in the church.

It was cool and restful in the dimness of the nave. I took the vases that stood before the altar and carried them outdoors. The curate had left a basket for the dead flowers and a bucket of fresh water. I tossed the old water on a nearby grave and refilled the vases, then left them by the stairs while I picked an armload of flowers in the parsonage garden. I carried such a profusion of blooms that I could barely see over them, and as a result I would have walked straight into Mr Darcy, had he not put out his hands to stop me.

“I beg your pardon,” I said.

“For giving me such a delightful sight?” he asked.

“The flowers are indeed pretty.”

“I was not referring only of the flowers, but of the overall effect of you and the flowers, Miss Bennet.”

I blushed at the unexpected compliment. “I must put them in the vases, and then into the church.”

“Would you permit me to assist you?”

“I did not . . . I mean to say, I do not want to detain you, Mr Darcy. You must have some pressing business to attend to.”

“I need to confer with Mr Gardiner, but he does not seem to be about at the moment, so I am yours to command.”

By this time we had come to the steps of the church where I had left the vases. I laid the flowers down and, sitting on a step, began to arrange them. Mr Darcy sat also and handed me blooms as I desired them. We made casual conversation and in this manner my chore was soon completed.

“Just tell me where you want them placed and I shall do it for you,” said Mr Darcy, picking up one of the arrangements.

As he walked into the church by my side, the flowers loosed their fragrance into the hallowed place. I pointed out where to put the vase and then stood by the altar, waiting for him while he went back to bring the other. The second placed, he joined me and we stood in silence for a few moments just absorbing the peace that surrounded us.

“I think I must look for Mr Gardiner now,” he regretfully said.

I smiled at him and watched him go, then turned back to gaze at the stained glass window behind the altar. I was caught by the play of light and colour as the sun streamed through the glass. They knew what they were doing, those craftsmen from the past, when they created such beautiful works. This was something to guard and cherish and keep in good repair so that future generations could share the wonder I was experiencing now. It was the same with Longbourn Keep. I knew now for certain what answer I would give my cousins; I just hoped I would find the strength somewhere to withstand their attempts to sway me.

After luncheon I took the books to Mrs Gardiner’s small salon and sat upon the window seat to read. I opened the volume of Romeo and Juliet first, but the words upon the page were unfamiliar to me.

This barefoot friar grit with cord his greyish weed, For he of Francis’ order was, a friar, as I rede.

It was not Shakespeare’s familiar play at all, but some other work. I closed it and looked at the cover again. The Tragicall History of Romeus and Juliet was imprinted upon the leather in gold. And below was the author’s name – Arthur Brooke. Brooke. I opened the book and inside the cover was a bookplate, that of Lord William Bennet, my ancestor who had set the trust in place. Is this what my father meant, then?

the paper . . . in William’s brook . . . in the library

If this book, indeed, were William’s Brooke, then the paper, or at least some clue to the mystery, must be found in it. I paged through it again, but encountered not even a scrap of paper. Determined to solve the mystery, I turned to the front page and began to read.

The day deepened to evening and a chambermaid entered to light the candles. I laid down the book with a sigh. Three hundred and fifty lines and not a hint of a clue to anything my father had said. I could neither make head nor tail of the book. Not only was the verse ponderous and dull, but also my mind was running ahead of the words, trying to fit them to my father’s message rather than Romeus and Juliet’s history.

I set it aside and picked up the book Thomas Bennet had written for his Elizabeth. Even his stumbling poetry would be an improvement upon what I had been reading. I turned to the first poem, The Antlered Cat.

What strange surprise would hunter see
This antlered beast so bold and free,
Head held high, coat of brightest gold
He strides in glory t’ward the fold.
The gods have caged him in the night
Now resurrected by my light
He hunts this plain, this square of earth,
Forever more to prove his worth,
And while our hearts do intersect
He is bound and sworn to protect.

I thought it an odd sort of love poem, mainly centred on the cat from the family crest rather than the object of Thomas Bennet’s love. What had that long ago Elizabeth made of his verses? I could never know, but I was filled with sadness that the mask of the antlered cat, which my forebears had hidden behind all the centuries before her, and William and George were still attempting to hide behind, had failed to protect her from the cruelty of ignorance and an agonising death.

Longbourn Keep 1641

Outside, there is a whiffling sound, like a surreptitious step. I open my eyes; sleep, that traitor, had closed them an instant. Surely not more than an instant?

Is someone at the door of our sanctuary? I sit up and listen. I will not have our idyll violated for anything in the world. I slip from the sheets – my body rebels at leaving your warmth. With stealth I reach the casement and ease it open. The moon reveals nothing but a dangling branch. A mouse scurries across the porch.

Only a mouse. I heave a sigh and close the window – make my way back to you.

You stir as I return. Your eyes flicker open. “What breaks the night?” you ask, your voice filled with sleep.

“Nothing more than a mouse.”

“Is it time for me to depart?”

“The moon still rides the sky, holding darkness in her train. You may stay a while longer in my arms.”

“Would that I could stay in your arms forever.”

“Soon, love. Tomorrow, if you will.”

“Tomorrow cannot come quickly enough,” you whisper as sleep overtakes you again.

I will be content if tonight never ends. Tomorrow the world will engulf us; tonight is ours alone. I circle you with my arms; pair my limbs with yours. Skin to skin. We melt together under silk.

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