Lizzy Bennet Ghost Hunter

by Jemma Thorne

  The front door opened as I watched, and then Charlotte appeared! She and Mr. Collins came down the short gravel walk together to meet us at the carriage.

  My friend looked healthy, even happy. That was a blessing, and a relief to a worry that I hadn’t realized. Charlotte greeted her family and then stepped over to embrace me.

  “Lizzy! It is so good to have you here. I have looked forward to it for weeks!” She smiled hugely and followed as Mr. Collins led us inside their home, talking the entire time about the quality of this and the price of that, and which craftsman, who was so well known, handcrafted the furniture. So, married or no, he was much the same.

  We set up with tea in the drawing room, which was a bit cramped, but held all the comforts, thanks to Charlotte’s knowing hand. Tea was something to do with my hands, and I was glad for it.

  Mr. Collins continued on with his exposition regarding their residence.

  A sudden snore alerted us to Sir William’s impending nap. Charlotte swooped over just in time to retrieve her father’s teacup before he spilled it on her barely worn rug as he dropped off under the influence of his son-in-law’s rambling. Soon his snores made cheerful punctuation to Mr. Collins’ continuing speech.

  More than once as he spoke, Mr. Collins glanced at me with a look that I was sure he meant to say, don’t you regret what you’ve lost by refusing me?

  I did not. I was here to visit Charlotte, not to revisit or regret any choices I’d made months ago. I did not regret them. I could never have stood Mr. Collins as a husband. His performance now proved it to me.

  How was Charlotte so able to maintain her composure in the midst of his going on and on? She did stand it. She stood it well, with calm and grace. And that is why Charlotte was Mr. Collins’ wife, and not I.

  I noted that Clarice had made herself scarce, the only one of us with a choice of whether to listen to this prattle. I wondered if she was watching, or doing something else. I still wasn’t quite sure how far Clarice could roam from me, now that her spirit was anchored to my person and not to her home back at Longbourn. Maybe she would have something interesting to share later. I could entertain hope. I was in significant need of the entertainment.

  * * *

  With her family also at Hunsford house, Charlotte had little time just for me in that first day. The next day began much the same. I was upstairs changing so we might go for a walk across the vast gardens of Rosings Park when I heard a thunderous uproar of footsteps pounding on the first floor.

  “Lizzy!” came a hiss at the stairs. “You must come and see!”

  I went below and found that the clamor was only because a small cart pulled by two sweet-looking gray horses had stopped in the rain in front of Hunsford House.

  Maria was wringing her hands. “Charlotte went out.”

  “Is it Lady Catherine de Bourgh?” I asked.

  “No, no.” Maria shook her head as if the question was ridiculous. “The elder woman is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them, and the younger must be Miss de Bourgh, Lady Catherine’s daughter.”

  I stood at the window and strained my eyes trying to make out the figures.

  “But how can that be Miss de Bourgh? She is so small, and I thought she was grown.” Maria was eyeing the huddled figure in the cart.

  “She is grown. I have heard she is sickly.” That wasn’t all I had heard of Miss de Bourgh. I had also heard that Lady Catherine proposed a marriage between her daughter and Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Under her wraps I could barely make out the girl’s pale face, but it seemed to me that the air about her was steeped in a brownish gray. It must be a trick of the light filtering through all of these hedges. Her big, dark eyes turned toward the house. They seemed…sad. Absolutely sad.

  I found myself feeling for this young, sickly girl whose mother had such plans for her. And then I thought of staid, stubborn Mr. Darcy. Who was I to say? “She may make him a fine wife indeed,” I whispered to myself.

  A glimmer at the edge of my vision drew my eye, and I saw Clarice eagerly leaning toward the window. The ghost tilted her transparent head as she took in the sight of the cart and its occupants. “That won’t do at all.” And then she faded from view again, leaving me mystified and without any way to ask what in the world she’d meant by that.

  Again I was left trying not to appear crazy. At some point I may not be able to keep the charade up. I asked a question about our visitor instead of dwelling too long on that thought. “Why doesn’t she come inside?”

  “Charlotte says she rarely does.”

  I found that odd. Rude, even. But of course Charlotte was much more patient than I.

  The pair in the cart had scarcely spoken with Charlotte for five minutes before they pulled off again, driving up the road toward Rosings Park.

  Charlotte returned to the house with a flush to her cheeks. “We’ve been invited to dinner tomorrow.”

  Her husband came out of his study just then. “See, did I not tell you? They are so gracious, Lady and Miss de Bourgh. I knew that they would include you in their invitations during your stay. You will not be disappointed with your greeting at Rosings Park. It is a beautiful house, and a beautiful family.”

  And that started another day of Mr. Collins talking over us and prodding us with insulting suggestions over what we might wear, how we might speak, what we might eat when we visited Rosings Park.

  When the time came to proceed to Rosings the next night, I was thankful the thing was nearly at an end.

  So far, our visit to Hunsford had been little besides Mr. Collins speaking at us. I prayed things would settle in a day or so and he would go back to his beloved books.

  Chapter 2

  Our greeting at Rosings Park was gracious, as Mr. Collins had said.

  It was a lovely afternoon, so we stretched our legs with a walk across the park to answer Lady Catherine’s summons to dinner. Poor Maria Lucas was more nervous than could be accounted for. My own nerves were solid as stone. I could find nothing disagreeable about the gardens, not that I was looking for it. I was quite enjoying the walk and the sights. The cornflower blue sky propped up my mood like no conversation ever could.

  I did my best to tune out Mr. Collins verbal exploration of the place as though he were seeing it for the first time. Again, I was struck by Charlotte’s grace in handling such a man.

  Maria fretted to herself under her breath. I wonder what she was so put on about. Sure it was her first year out in society, and Lady Catherine had become a person of great esteem in her elder sister’s life. Of course she wanted to make a good impression.

  For my own part, I was only Charlotte’s childhood neighbor, of too little consequence to worry over how Lady Catherine would perceive me. I was happy in the knowledge of my own low status compared with the estate’s elite family.

  “Don’t be too happy yet,” Clarice said, her voice coming from right next to me. I startled and gave her a quick glance. I had been waiting for her reappearance. I wanted to know what she had been doing. “There is something very odd going on here, my dear.”

  I could not voice the question that now filled my mind, but she read it in my posture.

  “I don’t like it. There is a…malevolence… And it centers on that Mrs. Jenkinson.”

  Miss de Bourgh’s companion?

  I knew too little of any of this to make out what Clarice was trying to tell me. We would have to talk later.

  We approached the grand entryway of Rosings Park.

  Maria smoothed her skirts for the thirtieth time in our half-mile walk. Charlotte patted her arm to offer some comfort. Even Sir William was looking nervous now.

  I felt like whistling. Clarice had just handed me a mystery to tease my mind.

  We were ushered into a large sitting room, made even larger by the fact that its occupants numbered just three women. Lady Catherine de Bourgh was unmistakable. Her gray hair towered on her head and her many jewels twinkled as she appraised them, her bearing regal. “Welcome.”


  Miss de Bourgh looked up and nodded briefly. She did not meet anyone’s eyes. Mine rested on her face, pinched like an angry juvenile bird. She returned to her quiet talk with Mrs. Jenkinson, who did not bother to greet us at all. The elder woman looked very serious, and then rose quickly and went to turn the blinds minutely. A slight nod from Miss de Bourgh and I realized it was on her order that Mrs. Jenkinson should do so. What was the difference?

  Miss de Bourgh and her companion said very little to us. Lady Catherine seemed willing enough to offer conversation and calmly received Mr. Collins’ long and drawn out answers. A few minutes after our arrival we were guided to the tall windows and made to look at the view. I could see a lake that must stand on the other side of Rosings Park. Later I would have to take a walk and explore, if I could get out from under the thumb of my apprehensive cousin.

  Mr. Collins pointed out this and that landmark of the grounds from where we stood, chattering on. I glanced at Lady Catherine, expecting her temper to be as short as mine when it came to Mr. Collins, but she maintained an amiable air. Maybe his digressions into utter nonsense did not offend her as they did me after all.

  Maria remained in a pitiable state. She scarcely spoke two words, and these in answer to a direct question – the most expedient answer she could make.

  Clarice had not entered the picture again. In between conversation I observed Miss de Bourgh and her companion. Mrs. Jenkinson was quite attentive. Miss de Bourgh consumed all of her attention. I could not make out anything about her to raise suspicion. I reached out with all of my senses, the ones I’d been honing and training since I realized I could use them to aid the departed in actually departing and the living in getting some peace from them.

  That’s when I saw it again. The grey-brown pall around Miss de Bourgh. She had not turned those sad eyes on me since we entered the room, but she did so now, as though she could feel my probing attempt to understand what I saw. She gave me a firm stare. It held a rebuke, though outwardly I had done nothing wrong.

  Her appearance shifted, and I narrowed my eyes. The smoky, sludgy essence I’d made out coated her form for a split second, swirling and eddying as it traced over her features. She frowned at me, and it was gone.

  I shook my head and looked away. There was something there. She carried something? And whatever it was, she knew about it. She had felt it when I began to see, and she knew that I had acknowledged her difference.

  Dinnertime.

  Every dish was exquisite, and the dining room left no luxury untapped. Once again, the Lucases fumbled and stuttered, while I somehow maintained a graceful, composed air.

  “Tell me, Miss Elizabeth,” Lady Catherine said, “do you play?”

  “Yes, a little.”

  “On some occasion you shall have to let us hear you. Our instrument is very fine, finer than you should have seen in Hertfordshire. You should play it while you are here.”

  I nodded and resisted taking another bite of the delicious food since she seemed bent on examining me at the moment.

  “Do your sisters play as well?”

  “Yes, one of them.”

  “Only one? You all should have learned. The young Miss Webbs all play, and it is a delight to see them.” She clapped her hands together slightly and smiled as if the picture was too charming to resist.

  I agreed that it must be an enjoyable sight and pleasing to the ears as well.

  “Do you draw?” she asked next.

  “No, not at all.”

  “None of you?” She fanned herself and looked quite the opposite as she had when talking of the charming Miss Webbs.

  Her shock amused me, but I did not crack a smile. I stiffened my spine with pride. “Not one of us,” I answered simply. I moved on to the next delicacy in hopes of leaving this track of conversation behind us. But it was not to be.

  “Why, your parents should have taken you to town each spring to learn from one of the masters. There’s many a family with income less than your father’s that can afford such an education for their daughters.”

  “Mother would’ve been happy enough to go to town. But Father hates London.”

  A look of horror crossed her features at this. “Has your governess left you, then?”

  “We never had a governess,” I admitted, knowing full well what she would think of that. Of course she went on about it for a couple of minutes, while I took my time enjoying the lovely roast pheasant that had joined the table.

  “I do believe I’ve heard your family estate is entailed away from you – to Mr. Collins, in fact.”

  Of course Lady Catherine knew it. She would take it upon herself to consider the means of the man to whom she turned over the keeping of her parish.

  Now Clarice sparkled into view, and my eyes darted over to take in her figure stooping behind Miss de Bourgh. She reached out a spectral hand toward the back of Miss de Bourgh’s neck.

  I pulled my attention back to what Lady Catherine was saying. “… Regardless, I do not agree with the tradition of entailing estates away from the female line. There was never a need for such in this family.” She looked lovingly at her daughter. I wondered what she really saw when she looked at her. How could she not see that her daughter was under the influence of…something. Something dark and twisted.

  Clarice’s spectral fingers made contact with Miss de Bourgh’s flesh, and the spirit jumped back, looking down at her fingers. Was that a brownish substance on her ghostly hand? Miss de Bourgh reached to the back of her neck and rub the spot that Clarice had just touched.

  “Miss,” Mrs. Jenkinson whispered to Miss de Bourgh, “you must eat something more, Miss.” These urgings made up better than half of the conversation I’d been able to overhear between the two of them. When not uttering such advice, Mrs. Jenkinson twisted her napkin and fretted out loud over the condition of Miss de Bourgh’s health. Miss de Bourgh ignored these statements, nibbling the things she must to quiet her companion, and sullenly stirring around the rest.

  My stomach felt odd. Was I getting sick myself? It suddenly seemed the night would never draw to an end. I felt dreary, down.

  I glanced back at Miss de Bourgh to find her staring at me, her eyes fierce, unyielding.

  I focused on how I felt a few minutes ago, light and as if I was on top of the world, curiosity unbidden, yet welcome as always. The darkness I blocked out, as if I was shoving a wall straight at Miss de Bourgh and her fierce eyes.

  And the gloomy feeling receded, just like that. I sat stiffly, wondering at it.

  If pressed, I would put the blame squarely on Miss Anne de Bourgh. I couldn’t see how Mrs. Jenkinson was responsible.

  Whatever the case, I would soon get to the bottom of it.

  As the others took up a game, I slipped out on the pretense of freshening up. I found no servants lurking in the hall, and I was grateful for that.

  Once out of earshot of the party, I slipped my pendulum from the small reticule that I carried with me. Out here I could feel none of that deep sadness, the malevolence that had centered on Miss de Bourgh. I had never seen anything like it. Not that I was a true expert, as much as I loved to indulge my curiosity by exploring every sign of the paranormal that I found. Lady Leticia might know what we were dealing with. But I could not take one of my late night walks to her house on this occasion; Longbourn and its neighbors were far off and unavailable to me.

  Lamps burned every so often, driving out shadows. I stepped lightly, the rustle of my skirt seeming loud in this part of the upstairs hallway. This house was huge for so few occupants – it felt hollowed out, empty.

  I held the pendulum over my palm. Are there any spirits here?

  The hairs rose on the back of my neck, and I held my breath. I had to resist the urge to look over my shoulder. Are there any spirits here?

  But the pendulum was still.

  I turned and glanced behind me, a bit ashamed of my hammering heart. There was nothing there. Nothing I could see. The feeling that I was being watched pe
rsisted. Maybe this spirit didn’t want to reveal itself. For the first time in my short ghost hunting experience, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find what I was looking for.

  I pressed on, testing the pendulum at the top of the stairs, and in the juncture with another short hallway, to no avail. It did not seem there was a spirit here, at least not one willing to be contacted.

  A door slammed in the distance, and I jumped near out of my skin. I hunched there, crouched and ready to run at the drop of a pin. I tried to still my fear. Tried to impose some rationality over the animal panic that beat in my blood.

  That had been a human sound, hadn’t it?

  The moment stretched on, my muscles taut with expectation. The sound did not repeat and after a moment I realized how ridiculous I must look, my pendulum thrust a bit in front of me as if it would impede whatever spirit I had managed to awaken.

  And then I heard voices, familiar ones, and jolted out of my reverie. I gave a sorrowful glance around, shivering. The lack of resolution bothered me almost as much as my relief at the interruption.

  This was a mystery that would have to be pursued at another time. I slipped the pendulum back into my reticule and rejoined my party. A good choice, because Lady Catherine had already called the carriage.

  * * *

  Sir William stayed but a week, long enough to see that his daughter was well and truly settled and happy in her new life in Kent. Upon his departure, life at Hunsford House resumed what I thought to be its normal daily flow.

  Finally, Mr. Collins returned to what work he had to occupy him. For long stretches of the day he disappeared into his study, which I now noted was neatly arranged on the opposite side of the abode from Charlotte’s sewing room, where she often spent much of the day. It was a clever arrangement, and I began to understand how Charlotte truly lived. The look of peace, even during her husband’s long speeches, was sincere. Charlotte had all she wanted in her marriage.

  Young Maria flourished with the two of us for company, although her nerves still gave her fits when we were asked to dine at Rosings twice a week.