Chapter Four

July 15, 1812

The Lake House

Ramsgate

Elizabeth

Elizabeth’s days in Ramsgate soon fell into a predictable pattern. After rising each morning, she broke her fast with Charles before looking in on Jane. After insuring her sister’s well-being and seeing that she received a tray, Elizabeth would meet with Mrs Palmer to review the menus and any other items that needed her oversight. Since the Bingleys were not entertaining at the moment, meals were simple fare.

Elizabeth quickly endeared herself to the staff. Mr Smythe, the butler, displayed the stoic and serious manner of butlers everywhere, though his eyes twinkled mysteriously more often than not. Elizabeth made it her goal to see the man smile, though her efforts had done nothing more than cause his lips to twitch thus far. Mrs Palmer, a professional and capable member of the household staff, ran Lake House with efficiency, leaving very few matters requiring the mistress’s attention on a day-to-day basis.

Besides the pair that the Bingleys had brought with them, they also employed two additional footmen. James and John were six feet tall and burly, much to Charles's delight. The pair were rather singular—a set of twins with nearly identical features. Elizabeth could not tell them apart, but for the scar John had above his left eyebrow.

Lake House also employed Susan, Elizabeth’s ladies maid, who was competent and diligent in her duties. Along with Susan, Molly and Martha attended tasks on the upper floors of the house, whilst three additional girls and a lad aided Cook on the lower floors. Lake House had not employed a cook in several years, so Mrs Moore, Netherfield’s own mistress of the kitchen, had come with the Bingleys to Ramsgate.

After meeting with Mrs Palmer, a footman would accompany Elizabeth on a walk. She was intent on exploring Ramsgate and wandered as far as she could on foot each day. Her favourite place was the beach, and she found joy in standing and watching the waves as they crashed upon the shore.

After her walk, Elizabeth saw to her correspondence and then partook of a light luncheon. She often joined Jane in her chamber and ate her meals there. However, her sister did little more than pick at the offerings put before her, causing Elizabeth’s concern for Jane’s welfare to grow. She spent afternoons engaged in solitary pursuits whilst Jane continued to rest. Sometimes Charles offered to squire Elizabeth about the town so she could run her personal errands or visit a sight or two, but business concerns usually occupied him if he was not spending time with Jane.

Her existence was not lonely, but neither was Elizabeth content with how her days progressed. As Jane’s cheeks became more and more hollow and she slept longer each day, Elizabeth feared for her sister’s life. In desperation, she penned a letter to her Aunt Gardiner, begging for advice on how to best help Jane and improve her sister’s health, and was thus engaged when Smythe brought the post to her.

Another letter from the mysterious Mr Darcy had arrived on the tenth, and Elizabeth had almost consigned it to the fire after reading it. The man’s officious and pretentious behaviour was difficult to stomach, so she did not bother to pen a reply. Instead, the letter joined the first in the bottom of her trunk.

There were many letters in the post that day, and Elizabeth took the bundle, thanking Smythe warmly. His eyes twinkled as he bowed before departing, and she turned her attention to the small stack of missives in her hand. She set aside two for Charles. The next was for Jane, and Elizabeth was quick to recognise their mama’s handwriting. Another was from Papa, making Elizabeth smile—he must be desperate for sensible conversation if he had taken the time to write to his second daughter.

The last letter in the stack caused her to tense, anger rising within her. By now, she was familiar with Mr Darcy’s handwriting, having perused his previous correspondence numerous times since receiving them, despite having at first consigning it to her trunk. She turned this new letter over and noted that the return direction remained at The Lake House . She marvelled at Mr Darcy’s use of the word ‘ the’ before Lake House. The plaque by the front door simply said ‘ Lake House ,’ and so that was what Elizabeth had called it. Yet, the servants used the same name as did Mr Darcy when they spoke of the residence. She briefly wondered if he was the mysterious absent master.

There is no doubt this missive contains more vitriol, she mused. How had this Mr Darcy managed to once again sneak his letter into the stack of post by the front door? It made no sense. Surely, the servants would have noticed an intruder by now.

Carefully, she broke the seal on the back of the missive and unfolded the paper. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

July 14, 1810

Dear Miss Bennet,

I find myself in a state of uncertainty. Such a predicament has rarely been mine to experience, and I am not certain I enjoy feeling so discomposed. I know not where to begin, and I pray that when I have concluded this missive, you do not think me mad or worse.

First, I must convey my deepest and most sincere apologies for my first two letters. Had I behaved in a more gentleman- like manner, perhaps this letter would be easier to compose. I beg you to forgive my pique and my intemperate words and allow me to begin anew.

My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy, and I am the master of the Lake House. I came by the property through my paternal grandmother, Amelia Lake, who brought this seaside residence as part of her dowry upon her marriage to Gregor Darcy. Lake House soon became the Lake House to all who have enjoyed the place since that time.

My family has never let the property before, and I can only assume that there is a sound reason for it by the time the year reaches 1812.

Yes, Miss Bennet, now we come to the most complicated part of this situation. Do you recall in your first letter that you spoke of the green tracks that graced the stairs and landing before the front door? I abused your supposition terribly, and I am now heartily ashamed of myself. You see, just a few days ago, after a long winter and wet spring, there was finally a day fine enough for my staff to carry out an order I made six months prior, and they painted the railing green. Whilst one of my men was going about this business, an intrepid feline dashed through the paint, leaving green tracks all over the steps and landing.

You might well imagine that your letter was all that consumed my mind as I witnessed the event—the servant yelling and shaking his fist at the now-green cat. I had forgotten that the railing was to be changed from blue to green, and so to see first-hand the making of the green tracks you spoke of rendered me speechless.

Shortly after penning my second missive, I sent out inquiries to my sources in London, seeking confirmation of your other information. I have yet to receive word from them, so I must wait patiently for news. I am in no doubt of your honesty, and that England will shortly be neck-deep in war with France. This does not bode well for certain of my family members, and I wish I could convince my cousin to sell his commission. Alas, he is as duty bound as I and will never do it.

So, Miss Bennet, we come to the crux of the matter. It would seem that our letters have somehow traversed through time, for from my end, it is the year 1810, and from yours, it appears to be 1812. I know not how this phenomenon has taken place, and as a logical man, I struggle to believe that it has occurred at all. Despite this, I am holding two letters from you, and I know that any news of Napoleon’s annexation of the Kingdom of Holland will permanently dispel my disbelief.

Why, then, were we two chosen to experience this marvel? I do not know, and I will eagerly await a reply to this letter to learn your thoughts. Never have I strayed so far from propriety as I do now, but my curiosity and scientific mind cannot let the matter rest.

To give further proof to my claims of being master of the Lake House, I will give you three bits of truth. The first is that in the nursery upstairs, I carved my name into the wall of the wardrobe, much to my grandmother’s vexation. It was done with a penknife, which was promptly confiscated and never returned.

You will find the second truth in the garden. My younger sister hid my father’s snuffbox there after his death. It is in the hollow tree that stands by one wall in the garden. Miss Darcy does not know that I am aware of her treasure—she wrapped it in an oilskin to prevent damage. I do hope she has not moved it, lest you prove me a liar.

You will find the third and final item of proof in the music room. Two summers ago, my sister would not cease playing her favourite score despite having long since mastered it, so I hid the offending sheets beneath a chair. The fitting of the upholstery allowed me to slide it into a small gap where no one, not even the servants, would find it. I do feel guilty about that… Georgiana bemoaned the loss for a time before realising she had the piece memorised. Thus, my efforts proved unfruitful. The chair you seek is a deep blue with white embroidered flowers.

Happy hunting, Miss Bennet. I look forward to hearing from you, if you deign to reply. I will understand if my boorish behaviour has poisoned you from ever wishing to speak—or rather write—to me again.

Sincerely yours,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, reeling from shock and disbelief. Could it be? No! It was impossible! How gullible did this Mr Darcy think she was? Besides, he may have planted this supposed evidence to give the impression that he was speaking the truth.

Curiosity prevailed, and Elizabeth rose slowly from her chair. She meandered out of the parlour and upstairs, reading the letter again as she ascended. Her footsteps took her to the nursery. Servants had worked diligently to ready the room, cleaning, polishing furniture, arranging linens, and ensuring everything was prepared for the arrival of Jane’s child.

She stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on the wardrobe that graced the centre of one wall. It was a stately thing, its surface unmarred by damage. Is this the one Mr Darcy spoke of? Elizabeth crossed the room and tugged open the doors. She started on one side and examined the interior thoroughly. Finding nothing, she moved to the other. Her hands ran down the damage-free walls of the wardrobe, finding nothing. Just as she was about to give up, she froze as the smooth wood beneath her fingers gave way to rough and splintered wood.

Elizabeth pushed the door open further and crouched down. The rough spot was at the back and was not readily visible or accessible. She craned her neck to see, and there it was, just as he said, the jaggedly carved name Fitzwilliam Darcy. The carving’s obvious age disproved her belief that this evidence was recent. She idly wondered how someone had discovered Mr Darcy’s mischief, but then reasoned that a maid had found it and told all.

Intrigued now, Elizabeth perused the letter for the next bit of ‘evidence.’ The garden, was it? Eschewing a bonnet, gloves, and walking boots, she left the house in her slippers, hurrying through the door to the little green oasis in search of the hollowed tree. There were few trees in the garden to investigate, and naturally, the last one she searched contained the cavity mentioned in the letter. The tree, a weathered hawthorn, had a stone bench placed conveniently beneath the boughs. Elizabeth climbed inelegantly onto the seat and stretched to reach the hole.

“Miss Darcy must be taller than I,” she muttered as she stood on her toes so that she could put her hand into the hole. It was not as deep as she feared, and her fingers struck something immediately. Elizabeth closed her outstretched digits around the item and pulled it out. Without taking a seat, she hastily unfolded an oiled cloth to reveal an elaborate snuff box. It was jewel-encrusted, the gemstones forming an elegant ‘D’ that Elizabeth recognised from Mr Darcy’s seal. She cracked the lid and noted that the box was empty before carefully securing it once more in the cloth and returning it to the tree.

Two out of three , she mused as she descended from the bench. Her pace quickened once she was back on the ground, and she scurried into the house. Her steps slowed as she closed the door, and brushing an errant curl from her eyes, she made her way to the music room.

Once she entered, Elizabeth turned and locked the door. It would not do for a servant to discover her searching the chair for the music, especially if seen in a rather undignified position.

The blue chair stood near the fireplace at the far end of the room. It was quite comfortable, as Elizabeth had discovered when she sat in it a few days earlier. The dark blue fabric was soft, and the cushions were plump and cosy. Elegantly done, the tiny white embroidered flowers covering the upholstery added a touch of whimsy to the piece. The seat of the chair was trimmed with a ruffle, and this was the first place Elizabeth resolved to look. She crouched down and lifted it, running her hand up under the seat and searched around the seam. It took but a moment for her to find a small split in the chair’s fabric. Her hand snaked inside and brushed against something that felt like paper.

Grasping the item and pulling it towards her, Elizabeth backed out from her position before the chair and sat up on her knees. Sure enough, in her hand she held a piece of music, a Mozart composition, its edges frayed from frequent use. There were a few pencil marks here and there along the score, but they were so faded that she could not read them.

After standing and smoothing the music, Elizabeth approached the pianoforte and placed the sheets upon the instrument. Settling herself on the bench, she carefully plinked the tune, imagining Miss Darcy playing it repeatedly until her brother had felt compelled to hide it away.

Her hands dropped to her lap, and she reached into her pocket for Mr Darcy’s letter.

“Am I dreaming?” she said aloud to the empty room. With her own curiosity as piqued as Mr Darcy’s was, she resolved to reply to his missive as soon as may be.