Living History

By Christine

Jump to new as of August 2, 2004
Jump to new as of August 7, 2004

Chapter I

Posted on Thursday, 19 February 2004

Elizabeth Bennet could not breathe. She could see stars before her eyes and felt dizzy as she exhaled.

“My GOD. Do they have to be so tight?” She gasped, bracing a hand against her abdomen as the corset was laced.

“Adds authenticity. If you're going to work here, you might as well get the whole experience,” came the lilting voice behind her. A pair of hands settled a dress over her and fastened the back. “There we are. All togged up and ready to go.”

Lizzy looked at herself in the mirror. The green dress did suit her, with its long skirts, cinched waist and full sleeves. Her dark hair had been pulled back behind her and pinned at the temples with ivory combs. For a moment she felt lost.

“It's a queer feeling, seeing yourself in the costume for the first time, isn't it? A bit unnerving. Ah! It's nearly nine o'clock. Time to get down to the entrance hall and await the flocks of tourists.” The other girl rolled her eyes and adjusted her neckline. “Careful in those shoes. They pinch a bit.”

Lizzy followed the other girl with slight trepidation. Her friend Charlotte Lucas had met her when she had arrived to begin her work at the newly renovated 17th century Pemberley Manor in Derby. Charlotte was a shrewd girl with a pleasant personality. Some may have called her plain, but she played her part as a lady-docent very well. When she arrived in the front hall she was immediately in character.

“Now, remember, don't slouch, and avoid the tea room today, the carpet's being cleaned. Here are your first guests.”

Lizzy took a deep breath and opened the heavy oak doors with a smile.

It had started out a long time before. Lizzy Bennet, a promising young grad student, had gotten wind of the Pemberley Project a year before. She had immediately signed on, collecting and amassing data to be used in the house and its renovation. She knew the grounds and the house itself inside and out, as well as all its former occupants. And yet she had never set foot on the estate itself.

Her work was conducted from inside the great libraries of Oxford and Cambridge, as well as quite a bit of time working in the British Museum and in the National Library in London. She knew virtually everything about the people who once tread on the carpets and stairs that she now walked followed by a group of visitors. From the first Lord Fitzwilliam in 1580, through the last at the turn of the 19th century, she was well acquainted with their tastes, their passions and their political maneuvering. Yet she had never visited the family's home. Until the week before.

The feelings that surged through Elizabeth the first time she walked through the oak doors of Pemberley Hall could scarcely be described. An overwhelming sense of history filled her as she walked over the same floors the men and women she had so carefully studied had once been accustomed to. Touching their personal possessions had been surreal, as had seeing their actual portraits. Certainly, she had seen copies of them, but standing before the images was something altogether different.

When she had come to the portrait of William Darcy, 2nd Lord Fitzwilliam, she had been almost overcome. She admitted that even by today's standards the 17th century nobleman was handsome, but it was not his good looks that stunned her; it was the depth of expression in his eyes. Most paintings seem merely two dimensional, but William Darcy's expression was so real that it embarrassed her to stand before his likeness. A double portrait of his parents, a handsome couple resplendent in the highest fashion of the 1590's, and a delicate, pretty girl with a fair complexion and large, doe-like brown eyes flanked him on either side. Elizabeth felt, standing there, like she had intruded on a deeply personal scene and hastened back to the hall. She felt as though William Darcy's eyes were boring into her back as she left.

Elizabeth's first day as a costumed docent went smoothly, though she admitted her feet hated her by the end of it. Her back ached with the strain of perfect posture commanded by the corset, but when she retired to her room in the maids' quarters of the house she was well pleased with her new job.

As a summer employee, Elizabeth was boarded at the house itself, being the estate was quite a bit of a drive from any locale that sported decent lodgings. Her room was comfortable and fitted with modern conveniences, much to her delight.

After retiring at last for the night, Elizabeth fell into a deep sleep. Her sleep was broken abruptly in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. For half an hour Lizzy tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable and go back to sleep. At last, realizing the futility of the situation, Lizzy donned a pair of comfortable jeans and a university sweatshirt. She made her way silently down to the manor's large library, intending to borrow one of the more modern volumes that were kept at one end for the convenience of the of the staff.

She shined her flashlight of the spines of the books before settling for a collection of Oscar Wilde's short stories. The fire that still burned in the fireplace supplied sufficient light and she sank into one of the wing chairs before it. She had settled into her reading when a flash of something caught her eye. Elizabeth Bennet had always believed in ghosts, but nothing, nothing, had prepared her for what met her eyes.

Elizabeth let out a silent gasp as her eyes went wide. Her book fell, forgotten, on the rug at her feet, and one hand came to rest in shock at her throat. Staring boldly back at her were the same eyes that startled her in the portrait gallery upstairs. William Darcy, Lord Fitzwilliam, circa 1625, was sitting directly across from her, regarding her with the same shock with which she regarded him.

Chapter II

Posted on Friday, 20 February 2004

“Ghost,” they both whispered, faces white and lips hardly moving.

The effect was immediate. Elizabeth let out a shriek of fear, and in response, Lord Darcy let out a terrified yelp and catapulted himself backwards in his chair. And then, he simply vanished.

William Darcy, 2nd Lord Fitzwilliam, woke with a crick in his neck.

“God's breath,” he muttered rubbing the muscle that ran from his shoulder to his spine. When the tension was finally released he looked about him, noticing for the first time where he was.

William Darcy was not in his own room, tucked up in his bed, as he usually was on such a morning. He was sitting in a wing chair in his library. The realization brought the events of the day before pummeling back into his brain with astounding clarity.

“My God,” he said, staring at the chair opposite him. The day had started as any day may have for the young Lord of Pemberley. He had risen early, gone to prayer, and taken his breakfast. He spent the rest of the day conducting business, and entertaining a friend. He had been perturbed because he and his old school mate, Charles, had been unable to take tea in the “salon” as Charles tedious sister would say. Tearoom it was or he'd be blighted. The carpet had been being cleaned.

He had been astounded at his fatigue that evening, and even more surprised to be awoken in the middle of the night only to not be able to return to slumber. Restless, he had almost unconsciously gone down to his immense library. After choosing a particularly tiresome volume he had unceremoniously draped himself over his favorite wing chair and set to making himself tired again.

Halfway through a chapter, his eye caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. When he looked up, he was greeted by the sight of a pretty young woman dressed in the strangest of clothing reading in the chair opposite of him.

William Darcy had always been proud, and rather fearless. But his wits failed him entirely at this moment, and he found himself paralyzed by fright. Her eyes looked into his with the same expression of shock and terror and for a long moment neither could move.

In unison they had whispered the same word. “Ghost.” At the utterance the young woman had simply vanished. And a shocked Darcy must have fainted. Not that he would ever admit it. Mayhap he dreamed it. Yes, he dreamed it. “Damn and blast,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. What a night, he thought, glancing at the clock above the fireplace. He almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of his sister's voice calling him.

“I'm here, Georgiana,” he called out, rising from his chair and replacing the volume on the shelf.

“What, have you been here all night?” She asked, stepping lightly into the room.

“No, not all night. I couldn't sleep, and I thought a book might aid me in that respect,” he replied, clasping her hand fondly. “What business have you today?”

“Nothing very exciting. A music lesson, and then I thought Caroline and I might take a tour around the park. Again. Are they really to be here until the end of the month, William?”

“Do you not enjoy the lofty Mistress Bingley's company?” He asked, laughing. Georgiana merely looked at him and straightened the satin of her blue gown. “I must dress. I had no idea it was so late. Have a lovely day, Georgi, and remember, murder is punishable by hanging.” He winked as he left his sister staring at the dead fire.

Darcy shoved the previous night's happenings to the back of his mind. It was just a dream, he insisted to himself, brought on by nothing worse than the poached pears at dinner. And yet, as he dressed, and all through the day, something in the back of his mind begged him not to judge the incident so lightly.

Elizabeth Bennet, on the other hand, was fully convinced that she had seen a ghost. From the time she woke, somehow safe and sound buried under the covers of her bed, to the time she went to bed again, she glanced over her shoulder every ten seconds. Her tour groups must have thought her mad; she was on edge all day. She avoided the portrait gallery altogether.

“Lizzy Bennet, where are you?” Charlotte demanded, hands on hips. “I'm trying to tell you something.”

“Pardon, Char,” Lizzy replied, looking at her with anxious eyes.

“We're going to host a party here in a few days.”

“A party?” Elizabeth asked, eyes still nervously flitting about the room.

“Yes, some too-rich-for-his-own-good financier wants to use the Great Hall for a thematic party. Bloody lot of trouble if you ask me, but the point is, we're closed for preparations for the next few days. I need you to go upstairs and try on a few of the finer gowns. He's also that Hall staff be present. `Adds authenticity.'” She muttered, parroting her own words from the day before. “But you know, before you do that, would you mind terribly taking these back to the library? They were left out in one of the upstairs rooms yesterday, though I have no idea how they got there. In the Blue Room, actually.”

“The Lady's room?” Elizabeth asked, receiving the books in her hands. They were all 17th century volumes of poetry.

“Yes, odd isn't it? Sometimes I'd swear this place was haunted.” Charlotte said absently, walking away. Lizzy laughed nervously.

When she returned the books to their proper places, she carefully avoided the area around the fireplace, not even looking at the wing chair on the left hand side.

Chapter III

Posted on Monday, 23 February 2004

William Darcy was a reserved man. It was one of his faults, he knew. He felt far more at ease by himself than he did with groups of people. He confessed to have few real friends, just his sister and cousin Richard really. And Richard had somewhat suddenly disappeared some three years before. He had, in fact, vanished off the face of the earth somewhere on Pemberley's grounds, during a Christmas holiday.

Pheasant hunting was a traditional Christmas amusement amongst the Darcys and their close cousins, the Fitzwilliams. Not that they shot many of the birds, but it was the company, not the game, that made the hunt of any import. It had been a lovely day, clear and cold. Everything, the slightest movement, stood out against the stark grey of the sky and the shale colored fields. Yet Richard Fitzwilliam, a Colonel in Her Majesty's Army, had ridden off and vanished before he reached the tree line. At least that was where the horse's hoof prints had abruptly stopped. No remains were found, not even a scrap of the Col.'s scarlet tunic. He was simply gone.

Darcy had erected a monument to his favorite cousin and confidante in his estate's small chapel. It was a simple affair; a simple marble slab with Fitzwilliam's name engraved upon it, the date of his birth and that of his supposed death. It was at this spot that Darcy found himself sometimes, without remembering having walked there.

Darcy looked down at the memorial and sat on a ledge beside it. In his hand he held a red poppy.

“Well, Richard, you were never fond of flowers, but what else am I supposed to bring?” Darcy laid the flimsy flower down softly before his thoughts were interrupted by footsteps on the stone floor coming from the great double doors down the aisle.

“Why, my Lord, I didn't expect you this afternoon,” a clergyman greeted Darcy and bowed shortly.

“Yes, I hadn't expected to come to the chapel today. I was about to take my leave. If I may?” Darcy replied, rising. The clergyman smiled crookedly. Darcy recoiled inside.

“As you wish, my Lord.”

“Good day, Reverend Wickham,” Darcy grunted as he strode past the clergyman, his hand tightly fisted by his side.

Elizabeth was puzzled as she looked over the room. Nothing was obviously amiss. The room itself was orderly and neat, it's blue silk walls fresh and bright, the rugs straight and the dark wood floors swept. And something was wrong. Elizabeth's mind zeroed in on a pile of books on the bed table. Those were not supposed to be there. It was only the other day that I took these back to the library. The day after…well, the day after the incident. She thought as she lifted the books and looked at their covers. They were finely made, calf-skin bound volumes. The printing was chunky and characteristic of the early 17th century. Unruly to the modern eye. These volumes were worth fortunes individually, ancient as they were, and yet they looked as if they had been bought not all that long ago. The pages even smelled fresh, Elizabeth thought with a frown.

She placed the books on the bed and moved carefully about the room. It was time to lock up. The summer sun still shone outside, but Pemberley House had closed its doors a good hour before. It was Elizabeth's turn to close this part of the house. Not that she particularly minded. Others may have been afraid to be alone in such a house, especially after Elizabeth's rather startling misadventure, or even compelled to leave. Not Lizzy. She had already dismissed the “incident” as a dream brought on by a bad pie.

Other things in the room became strangely unfamiliar. Elizabeth knew this room in particular like the back of her hand. It was one of her favorites, second only to the forest green Master Suite. The blue is so vibrant, she thought, reaching out to stroke a wall panel. And the wood is so unmarred. I could have sworn there was a gash in this bedpost. Yes, Charlotte had been in a tiff when she found it. The movers scraped it when they were bringing in all the old furniture. Lizzy's eyes roved to the vanity. It was hung with a length of pale blue silk, on which was arranged a brush, comb and ivory backed hand mirror. Lizzy picked the brush up, surprised to find it thick with strands of blonde hair. Lizzy rarely touched artifacts such as these, and certainly never used them. Charlotte was a brunette, and whoever had used this did so for a lengthy period of time. No little girl would have had enough time when passing through the room.

Lizzy set the brush down, turning away with a prickle at her spine. She walked swiftly to the bed and picked the books up again, once again noting how new they looked. And how fresh they smelled to her nose, accustomed to the dusty, musky scent of old books. These were almost acidic, the ink was so fresh.

When she looked up from the books, Elizabeth found herself faced with yet another stranger. Only this one wasn't William Darcy.

But his lovely young sister, Georgiana.

The young women looked at each other a moment before the young blonde stepped forward. She raised a hand and touched Elizabeth's shoulder briefly.

“You're real,” she murmured. Elizabeth nodded, trying to catch her breath.

“And so are you,” she replied. The girl smiled faintly. Elizabeth had distinctly felt this young woman's gentle touch.

“Who are you? Where have you come from? Are you a…a spirit?” The young woman in blue asked.

“My name is Elizabeth Bennet. I don't know where I am…”Elizabeth began. But she was silenced when the girl before her vanished suddenly, wavering for a millisecond before fading entirely.

Looking down at the books in her trembling hands again, she noticed they were once again fragile with age. Elizabeth sat down on the bed shakily.

Georgiana was surprised to see the young woman in her room. Never afraid, but surprised. She was dressed so strangely, in the fashion of a man, but a man of no style. Her pants were of a coarse, indigo fabric, and the shirt she wore was thick and baggy. It had been slightly springy when she had touched it.

It surprised her even more when the darker young woman had replied to her. She had a pleasant voice, not musical but soothing. She had seemed just as astounded to see Georgiana as Georgi was to see her. Her mind had been filled with questions, but the other girl, Elizabeth Bennet, she said her name was, had faded away midsentence.

Georgiana perched on the edge of her bed. She had had an experience before similar to this. Several actually, but never so long, never so detailed. And she certainly hadn't touched the other to see if they were real. She had caught glimpses, sometimes in the hall, sometimes in a mirror, of another young woman dressed similarly to Elizabeth Bennet, and of large men in strange gray outfits. Always, always she had convinced herself it was her mind playing tricks on her.

Well, she thought to herself, it seems my ghosts are real, after all. Best not speak of this to William.

Chapter IV

Posted on Tuesday, 27 July 2004

Richard Fitzwilliam sat at his desk staring blankly out the window of the London skyrise in which his office was located. The City lay spread below him, the cabs and buses zipping to and fro over the river, pedestrians like ants as they went about their business. He tapped a pen rhythmically against the edge of his desk. How different it is since the first time I set eyes on it, he mused.

Indeed, the London of his first memory had been very different from the modern London he was currently surveying. Squatty lumber structures had once been in the place of the shining high-rise offices. The streets were mud then, swarming with filthy peasants and velveted noblemen alike. The spires of Westminster had seemed to stretch nigh to heaven, instead of being dwarfed by the enormous buildings that now stood against the horizon.

Richard sighed and ceased to tap his pen. The mid-morning light caught the gold of his signet ring and for a moment he paused. His gaze settled on the ornament, inspecting and pondering it. It was the last vestige of his past life.

He would never have thought on the day it was passed to him that he would one day lose everything he found familiar. He never would have thought that this object of pride would be placed on his finger in one century and remain there some three hundred years later. He would have laughed at the thought. Yet the thought was his reality.

Richard stirred himself for a moment to pick up a fax lying on his desk. It was a fresh communication from a Miss Charlotte Lucas, in Derbyshire. She was the curator at Pemberley House there, a place where he was to throw a party in just three days.

Pemberley House. He wondered if he would go into shock upon returning to the place. Would things still be as they were the last time he walked the manor's halls? He doubted very much that they would. How could he bear to enter that chapel, to see the tombs of his dear friends, his family? Could he stand to enter the portrait gallery and see their likenesses? Would the portrait taken of him when he received his promotion be there still?

From the moment he found himself in the year 2001 three years ago to this, he had never once brought himself to return to Derbyshire. Getting to London had been a trick, as had acclimating to this world. What was he, a colonel in the army of Elizabeth I and then James I, to do? He had found lodging, clothes, kept his name and was astounded to find the family fortune intact in a London bank. Coincidence? He didn't know, he didn't question.

Then he had entered into the realm of finance. He'd always had a clear head for business and monetary practices, which quickly made him desirable goods in the London business world. He'd been able to create his own firm not a whole year ago. The old family fortune had served him well, he supposed.

Richard glanced over the missive from Charlotte. She seemed a pleasant enough young woman, she had been perfectly agreeable from the beginning. She had acknowledged his request to be a strange one, but had eagerly agreed, saying it would be good for business. The healthy donation he had made probably had something to do with her decision. And now here was a fax from her asking if he'd prefer capers or caviar to accompany the smoked Irish salmon to be served as an appetizer to the period meal.

“Dear Miss Lucas,
Capers would be more than appropriate. May I come two days early to iron out any glitches in the preparations? You may expect me around four o'clock p.m. on Thursday. I will stay in the town if it would be inconvenient to remain at the house.
Sincerely,
Richard Fitzwilliam.”

He hit enter and waited as the file was sent away to Derbyshire.

The party nearing and preparations underway, Charlotte thought it best to take inventory. Of course she would, Lizzy though, she's a glutton for punishment. Lizzy was seated on the floor of the bookshop, located in the old minister's quarters of the chapel, a list in her lap. They had not the money to buy and electronic system, forcing them to take stock by hand. Charlotte was seated not very far away, a large stack of receipts before her, jotting away happily.

Rising from her place on the floor, Lizzy casually perused to bookshelf. There were volumes on 16th century life, cookbooks, several biographies of Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, and James I, along with a few scanty volumes on the Lords Fitzwilliam themselves. Lizzy had, of course, read all of them before. Except for one. Tucked into the corner was a small, leather-bound book. The cover was a dusky red, and there was no type of printing on the spine or face. The spine cracked as she opened it; the newness of it made it stiff. As she read the counterpane she let out a grunt of interest.

“What is it?” Charlotte asked, looking up through her hair.

“I've never read this one before,” Lizzy replied.

“Really? The great Lizzy Bennett, Bookworm, hasn't read something? What is the offending volume, pray tell?”

Charlotte inquired with good humor.

“The Disappearances of Pemberley Manor, Char, have you ever heard of this?” Lizzy turned the book in her hands, brow scrunched.

“And you claim to be a student of the Fitzwilliams! Have you never heard the stories then?” Charlotte asked.

“Stories? What sort of stories?”

“They can't be called ghost stories, I suppose, but they are quite the mystery,” Charlotte replied, and then laughed. “I still can't believe you haven't noticed.”

“Charlotte! Noticed what?” Lizzy exclaimed in frustration.

“Come,” Charlotte proffered her hand to her friend, “and we'll see if you can't figure it out.”

Charlotte led them into the chapel, and to Lizzy's surprise led them to the corner where the Fitzwilliam burial vaults were located. She stopped before the ornate tombs.

“Charlotte…” Lizzy began.

“I'll give you a hint: who is missing?” Charlotte queried, looking with satisfaction before her.

Lizzy read the names on the various tombs. There were none missing.

“No one is missing, they're all here, from Frederick in 1581 down to Charles in 1805, and most of their sisters and cousins are here too.”

“Try again.”

Lizzy looked again. Then something caught her eye. At the foot of Georgiana Darcy's resting place were two marble slabs. She'd mistaken them for markers at first.

They did not mark a burial place; they were simply memorials.

“William Darcy is not here, neither is Richard Fitzwilliam.”

“Exactly.”

“But there has to be logical explanation, Charlotte. Perhaps they died somewhere too far away to be brought back here. Richard was in the army…”

“He wasn't killed in action. There was no proof he ever died at all. He vanished. As did William Darcy. He vanished in this very house. Richard was hunting with a group of friends. I'm sure that book will do a better job explaining it than I will,” she replied, pointing at the volume still in Lizzy's hands. “Now, let's finished inventory and then we can get something to eat in town.”

Lizzy only nodded dumbly, her gaze still fixed on the two names etched in white marble.

Chapter V

Posted on Wednesday, 28 July 2004

William enjoyed spending quiet evenings with his sister. They had a rather nocturnal tend; he was most productive in the late hours, and his sister found the solitude afforded by the night to be just what she needed to pursue her music.

They sat together in the music room after their guests had already retired. Georgiana plucked at her harp almost absentmindedly as her brother scribbled a letter to his representatives in town. She sighed lightly and glanced up at the door.

There, back turned to them, stood Elizabeth Bennett. She appeared to be fixing something on the wall.

“Will,” Georgiana whispered, causing her brother's head to jerk up. He followed her gaze and nearly bolted. The two watched as Elizabeth seemed to finish what she was doing, and turned towards them. She didn't glance their way, and with a rather hurried air, proceeded down the length of the hall.

William and Georgiana both leapt from the seats and quickly followed the form to the hall. When they turned their heads around the corner they watched as she swiftly tripped up the stairs, her form wavering and then vanishing altogether on the landing.

William turned and closely studied the wall their visitor had been enraptured with. Nothing was amiss.

“I think I should tell you, Georgi, it is not the first time I have seen her…”

“Nor is it the first time I have seen her either, Will,” his sister replied gently. He looked at her in amazement.

“You saw her and didn't tell me?”

“Well, you saw her and didn't tell me, William.”

“I didn't want to upset you,” he protested.

“Nor I you,” she answered with steel in her voice.

“That night I spent in the library; that is where I first saw her. She was sitting across from me, reading. We gave each other a bit of a fright,” William said, running a hand through his hair.

“I saw her in my room not a week ago. I spoke to her.”

“You spoke to this apparition?”

“Yes, and what is more, I touched her. She felt as real as you or me. She told me her name is Elizabeth Bennett. I think she is just as confused as we are,” Georgi finished softly.

“Yes, confused is the right word,” William said lamely, sitting heavily.

Richard Fitzwilliam took a deep breath before he knocked on the door of the office. He was standing outside the Pemberley gate, waiting patiently for the guard to let him in.

Presently, the door was opened by a tall young woman in her late twenties. Richard wouldn't have called her pretty, but there was a self-sufficiency about her that wasn't unattractive.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam?” She asked, smiling. She had a charming smile.

“Yes,” he said briefly.

“I'm Charlotte Lucas. Welcome to Pemberley Manor. Won't you come in for a moment?”

After answering with an affirmative, Richard stepped into the gatehouse. It was a modern building, recently constructed to house administrative offices and security.

“I'd offer you tea here, but I think you'd like to proceed directly to the house, yes?”

“That would be…”

“The drive to the house from here takes a good twenty minutes. The estate itself is rather enormous, with a diameter of ten miles. We're just on the outskirts here.”

“Yes, what should I tell me driver?”

“Did you hire a car?”

“I don't like to drive.”

“Not a big fan myself, but I'll be glad to take you up to the house. I have my car here. You can send your driver back to town.”

“Thank you; I'll be just a moment.” He ducked out and returned moments later.

He followed Charlotte out behind the building to where her car was parked. It was a small sedan, rather a few years old.

Once underway, he found himself trying to avoid looking at his surroundings.

“Guests purchase tickets at the gatehouse, you see, and then drive from the entrance to a car park a good quarter mile from the house itself. It would be a pity to mar the vista, don't you think? We actually had a struggle trying to configure. We settled on this arrangement after one of the committee visited an American site,” she said, carefully keeping her attention on the road.

Richard made a sound of interest, and let his eye stray to the trees. The road followed the same course it always had. It appeared they had merely paved the carriageway over.

Silence fell over the occupants of the car. Charlotte glanced at her passenger. He appeared uncomfortable. She took his absorption with the scenery as an opportunity to better observe him. He was a rather handsome man in his early thirties. One of those yuppie get-rich-quick business men, no doubt. There was something about him that was strangely familiar. She had, of course, laughed when she received his letter. Richard Fitzwilliam. The missing cousin. No wonder he wanted to throw a lavish party at Pemberley. He was probably deluding himself into believing it was his ancestral home. Well, she certainly wouldn't be the one to tell him that the last Darcy/Fitzwilliam progeny had died in the early 19th century.

Still, something about him was worryingly familiar. She felt she had seen him somewhere before, but couldn't place him. She hated that feeling.

Lizzy was busy readying for the arrival of Mr. Fitzwilliam. The night before, she had hastily hung a menu on the wall beside the ballroom. She returned this morning to find it rather crooked. She remembered acutely that she had felt supremely uncomfortable for no reason while she was working in that part of the house. Actually, I know exactly what made me nervous, she admitted to herself, I felt like I was being watched.

There were rooms in the staff quarters prepared should Mr. Fitzwilliam decide it would be best to stay at the house itself. A fresh pot of tea and scones were in the Tea Room. A menu had been drawn up. Lizzy mentally ticked off the things she was in charge of. Satisfied that they were completed satisfactorily, she took a seat in the front hall, waiting.

Confident she had at least twenty minutes before Charlotte and Mr. Fitzwilliam would arrive, Lizzy pulled out the small, red book she had noticed the day before. The Disappearances of Pemberley Manor. She turned it over in her hands briefly, a small smile playing about her mouth, before turning to the first page and beginning to read.

Chapter VI

Posted on Friday, 6 August 2004

Richard was aware of his hostess' scrutiny. Clearing his throat, and his head, he began to pepper the young lady with questions.

“Are the buildings all original, or are some reproductions?”

“All of the buildings on the site are original to the property, except of course for the gate house. We are proud of the fact that no reconstruction was necessary. The chapel itself is fully intact, which is rare in this day and age. The house was altered in some ways, to better accommodate visitors and a staff. For instance, electricity has been installed in the upstairs and in the hallways. We have actually installed modern lodgings in the old servants' quarters, so that year-round staff and important guests may stay on the estate through the night. We fitted a room for you this morning, should you choose to stay the night.”

“I should like that,” Richard replied. The woman talked a mile a minute. “You say the chapel is intact?”

“Yes, fully. Well, I when I say fully, I really mean was fully intact. We have since converted the old clergyman's quarters into a bookshop.”

“Turned old Wickham's rooms into a bookshop? That is novel,” he murmured to himself, grinning privately at his pun.

“Pardon?” Charlotte asked, peering out the windshield.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Richard replied quickly, tapping his fingers lightly on the arm rest.

Lizzy was absorbed completely by what she was reading. She, in all her study, had never come across the mysterious tales surrounding two of Pemberley's inhabitants. Both were men she knew quite a bit about, and truth be told, it embarrassed her that she wasn't aware of the circumstances surrounding their ends.

Cousins Richard Fitzwilliam and William Darcy, Lord Fitzwilliam, had grown up close friends. Richard was an outgoing individual according to many, and being the younger son of an Earl, he elected to serve in the army when need arose, like many noblemen of his time, including his father who had served Elizabeth I. It was a good fit for Richard, and he advanced, though starting with a commission, to the rank of Colonel, as James I had established a standing army during his reign. He was still rather young, only twenty-nine, when he came on his yearly trip to Pemberley Manor at Christmastide, 1622.

It was the custom of the family to hunt, though obviously not for practical reasons as the game yield is rather low in winter, and while engaged on the traditional chase, Richard Fitzwilliam vanished. He was not lost in the woods, nor did he fall into a ravine, as many have suggested, but he disappeared in front of no less than ten witnesses.

A lengthy search for the Colonel was conducted, but no evidence of where he had gone or what had happened to him was ever found; not even a thread from his red uniform.

William Darcy and his sister, Georgiana, were inconsolable. They erected a small memorial in white marble to the Colonel in the Estate chapel, where it can be seen to this very day. It seemed to them a dreadful mystery, and they endeavored to put it behind them.

It seems they did not know that the little stone slab to a missing relative would not remain alone for long.

Barely three years after the disappearance of Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam, on July 19, 1625, the handsome young Lord Fitzwilliam, William Darcy, vanished; vanished, without a trace, before the very eyes of his younger sister and a party of friends. He, too, was never found, nor was there any clue to his disappearance.

The mysterious disappearances of the two young men remain to this moment unsolved. Over the years various theories as to the reasons behind their vanishings have been proposed, ranging from spontaneous combustion to a rip in the space-time continuum. None has been proven, nor likely ever will be.

Lizzy was disappointed to see that the rest of the book dealt merely with the various theories, and hardly a word was said again about the two men. The book did not incite the curiosity that it seemed to inspire in Charlotte; it only raised more questions in her mind. Why was it William Darcy she had seen here, if there was no proof that he had in fact died at all? What role did his sister play, if any? And most importantly in her mind: were they even ghosts?

Charlotte and Mr. Fitzwilliam opened the door to the foyer to find Lizzy waiting for them. The little book had been tucked away, and Lizzy, still puzzled by what she had read, eagerly met their client. Richard hastily set his small suitcase down in order to meet the other young woman.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam, this is Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth was a great contributor to the research here, and is with us this summer a docent and site leader,” Charlotte said as Elizabeth stepped forward, hand outstretched.

“It is a pleasure, Mr. Fitzwilliam.”

“It is nice to meet you, Miss Bennet.” Richard replied, shaking her hand warmly. Elizabeth decided she liked him instantly, but something about him puzzled her. She strongly felt that she had seen this man before, recently, and very often. As that made no sense at all, Lizzy tried her best to dismiss the thought.

“Now that we're all here, perhaps you'd like to see the ballroom, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” Charlotte said with a smile.

“Yes, of course.” He walked between the two women through the foyer. They turned left as he knew they would, and the led him down the hall into the ballroom. It was just as he had remembered.

Ballroom was a misnomer. It was an Elizabethan Great Hall. The ceilings were low by modern standards, heavily beamed, and painted brightly with geometric patterns and stylized flowering vines. The room was headed and footed by enormous fireplaces, and the entire northern wall was a bank of leaded glass windows. The glazing of the windows itself was just as he remembered it to be; either they had been carefully reproduced or many of them were original. He left the women as he wandered around the room, carefully inspecting the floorboards, surprised to find burn marks he knew he himself had made when he was a boy and had dropped a candle there. His throat tightened.

“It will do nicely,” he replied with a smile, clearing his throat of emotion.

“Perhaps you would like a tour of the rest of the house?” Elizabeth suggested. He nodded agreeably.

He followed and listened to Charlotte and Elizabeth take turns explaining different rooms. He found it strange to walk through Georgi's rooms, her hair brush on the vanity, just as it was strange to stand in William's quarters, well aware that his cousin was centuries dead. When he found himself in the suite of rooms that had been his, he felt almost faint.

“Mr. Fitzwilliam, it may amuse you to know that these rooms were occupied by a Darcy cousin named Richard Fitzwilliam, just up to his disappearance in 1622,” Charlotte said with a smile.

Richard found it hard not to react with shock. Certainly they did not know…no, they could not. He was being absurd. He forced himself to smile back and raise his eyebrows in curiosity. He was relieved when the moved on.

“This is the Portrait Gallery,” Lizzy said as she moved to open the door.

“No,” Richard protested, extending a hand. “Perhaps I can visit it later, I am rather tired.”

“Pardon us, Mr. Fitzwilliam. Of course you are; would you like us to show you to your room?”

“Yes, please,” he replied with a weak smile.

He followed the two women up to the very top of the house. They stopped at the end of the long, narrow servants' hall. The door they halted before opened into a comfortable, modern living space.

“Here you are, sir. Lizzy and I have a bit of business to attend to before the caterers are swooping down on us, but if you decide to wander around, feel free. The chapel is just outside and to the right a little way, if you wish to take a walk. The door is always unlocked.”

“Thank you, Miss Lucas, Miss Bennet,” He said. With a smile, they were gone.

Richard sat down heavily on the bed, his head throbbing. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he fell back onto the pillows, and into sleep.

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