Page 1 of Mr. Darcy and the Mysterious "Miss B"
Prologue
Longbourn
July 1810
Elizabeth Bennet stood at her father’s graveside and tried to make sense of a world that no longer included him. Three days ago, Papa had been reading in his study, complaining about Mrs Bennet’s latest scheme to marry off Mary to the new vicar in town. Now he lay beneath six feet of Hertfordshire earth, and Elizabeth felt as though she might follow him there.
The July heat was suffocating beneath her heavy mourning dress, and the veil that covered her face made everything seem distant and unreal. She had made it through the burial—which had been attended by the entire family, even though it was not customary for women to do so.
Since there were no sons, Mrs Bennet had refused to let her husband be buried with only his brothers-in-law in attendance. No, they all had attended. To show their support, Lady Lucas, Charlotte, and the rest of the Lucas family had also all appeared, as had Mrs Gardiner with her husband, and Aunt Phillips.
Now that the burial was over, neighbours whispered their condolences, but their words felt hollow. What comfort could there be when the one person who truly understood her was gone?
“Lizzy.” Jane’s hand found hers, warm and steady despite her own grief. “Mama needs us.”
Elizabeth looked towards their mother, who was sobbing so loudly that even the rector had paused his prayers. Mrs Bennet clung to Mr Phillips, her brother-in-law, whilst Kitty and Mary stood on either side like sentries. The scene was wretched to behold. For all her mother’s theatrical nature, this grief was real. Papa might have retreated to his library to escape her dramatics, but he had loved her in his way.
“Poor Mama,” Elizabeth murmured.
“Lizzy.” The name came in a sharp whisper—from Lydia, of all people, who had scarcely uttered a word since Papa had passed. At fifteen, she had always been the family’s most troublesome child. Boisterous and vivacious, she had been stubborn and a pain in her father’s side—although Elizabeth often thought her father held Lydia in high regard because of the way she could liven up any situation.
Until now.
Now she looked years older, her face pale and drawn. A shadow of her former self. “Uncle Morton is here.”
Elizabeth followed her sister’s gaze to see a slight, elderly gentleman making his way through the cemetery gates. Mr Morton—Papa’s second cousin and the heir to Longbourn—approached with careful dignity, leading on his cane as he walked. Though well past seventy, he carried himself with the quiet strength. His gentle nature and his ability to produce sweets seemingly out of thin air had always endeared him to the girls.
Not so the younger man who walked behind him.
James Morton, Uncle Morton’s nephew and heir, had all the appearance of respectability but none of its substance.Where his uncle’s face showed genuine concern, James wore an expression of calculated sympathy that reminded Elizabeth why Papa had never trusted him.
“My dear girls.” Uncle Morton’s voice was sincere as he embraced first Elizabeth, then Jane. “I am deeply sorry for your loss. Your father was a man of great wit and wisdom. We shall all miss him terribly. I do beg your pardon for missing the burial. I aimed to be here sooner but a horse was lame and had to be changed.”
His simple words accomplished what the rector’s lengthy sermon had not—they brought tears to Elizabeth’s eyes. Here was someone who had known Papa not as the master of an entailed estate or the father of five unmarried daughters, but as Thomas Bennet himself: clever, witty, devoted to his books and his elder daughters despite his many faults.
“Uncle Morton,” Elizabeth managed, using the name they had called him since childhood. “Thank you for being here. I am afraid Mama is not in any condition to talk.”
The old gentleman glanced towards Mrs Bennet, who was still wailing about the uncertain future that awaited her poor girls. “Your mother’s distress is perfectly understandable,” he said. “Please do not worry yourselves about any practical matters during this period of mourning. Such things can wait.”
Relief flooded through Elizabeth so suddenly she nearly swayed. The question of their future at Longbourn—the fear that had lurked beneath her grief these past three days—could be set aside for now. Uncle Morton’s word was his bond; they had known him too long to doubt it.
“You are very kind, sir,” Jane said, tears tracing paths down her pale cheeks.
James Morton stepped forward then, his dark eyes surveying the mourners. “Indeed, my uncle’s generosity is well known,” he said, his tone carrying undertones that made her stomach turn. “Though I daresay the ladies understand that such generosity cannot extend indefinitely.”
The words eliciting no small discomfort among the company. Mr Phillips frowned, whilst Mr Gardiner fixed James with a hard look.
“James,” Uncle Morton said, but his reproach was unmistakable.
“I merely speak of practical realities,” James replied, his smile never faltering. “The ladies must eventually consider their circumstances. Better to acknowledge such truths than to harbour false hopes.”
Jane’s hand tightened around hers, but before she could respond, Lydia stepped forward with surprising composure.
“You are quite right, Mr Morton,” she said, her young voice steady. “We are indeed aware of our circumstances. We are also aware that a gentleman of true character would not speak of such matters at our father’s graveside.”
The quiet rebuke, delivered with perfect politeness, left James speechless. Uncle Morton’s weathered features creased into what might have been a smile, whilst several neighbours nodded approvingly.
“Well spoken, my dear,” Uncle Morton murmured, placing a gentle hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “Your father would be proud of such composure.”
