Free A Peculiar Connection by Jan Hahn

was about the size of Netherfield, but due to lack of maintenance, it appeared sad and bleak.
    “A door is open here on the side,” Mr. Darcy announced, having walked on ahead of us. “Do you wish to see inside?”
    Georgiana and I readily followed him into the entrance that opened upon a great hall. It smelled musty and dank, but it did provide relief from the cold.
    “Evidently, neither the workmen nor servants have arrived as of yet,” Mr. Darcy said. “I should think Denison would have ordered preparations to commence long before now.”
    “Look where the portraits were removed.” Georgiana pointed up to the wall lining the staircase. “The house is in sore need of fresh paint.”
    “And soap and water,” I added as we followed Mr. Darcy above stairs.
    The draperies in the drawing room were still hanging, and what furniture remained was covered in dust cloths. Georgiana spied the shape of a pianoforte beneath the coverings and pushed them back so that she might run her fingers over the keys.
    “How sad. It is out of tune.” She sat down on the stool and began to amuse herself with chords and scales. Mr. Darcy indicated that I follow him into the dining room, where a grand table and chairs were still in place.
    “When did anyone last dwell in the house?” I asked.
    “The family moved away from these parts when I was but a child. I could not have been more than seven or eight years. That is, all but the grandmother, Lady Margaret Willoughby.”
    “Do you mean she stayed here alone?”
    “The grandson moved his mother and sisters to London, but his grandmother refused to accompany them. I still remember the night my father returned from a visit and told us, ‘Lady Margaret said she came to Bridesgate as a bride, and she would not leave until she died.’ Her family could not persuade her otherwise.”
    “And did she live out her declaration?”
    “She did. If I am not mistaken, I believe she died that same year or soon thereafter. I recall my father attended her funeral although there had been some kind of break between her and my family. I do not know the particulars. I just recall my father ordered me to stay away from the place. ’Twas a command I found hard to obey. For some reason, the old house has always drawn me in as though some spirit called to me—a silly notion for a lad.”
    “How sad,” I murmured, “to die all alone in this great old house.”
    “It was her choice.”
    “Perhaps…but then, she might have felt this was the only place she belonged.”
    “When her family sought her company in Town? My father said they did all they could to persuade Lady Margaret to move to London when they did.”
    I walked down the length of the table and gazed up at the massive stone fireplace on the far wall. “It was her home. She lived here almost all of her life. It is important to feel one belongs…to know where you belong.”
    Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Darcy had crossed the room and stood close behind me. “Do we still speak of Lady Margaret, Elizabeth?”
    The nearness of his presence startled me. I blinked and shook my head slightly. “What? I…of course.” I turned my face toward his, and the tenderness reflected in his eyes touched my heart. I could feel my defences slipping away, and I knew tears would prove my undoing.
    Just then, Georgiana skipped into the room and exclaimed that the candelabra still held the remains of burnt candles. She claimed Mr. Darcy’s attention, which allowed me the opportunity once again to swallow my emotion. We soon quit the house and climbed back into the phaeton, bent on driving around the next turn in the road.
    I was surprised to see another great house built not far from Bridesgate, a structure much more modern. Mr. Darcy explained that none of the Willoughbys ever returned to live at the estate, and Lady Margaret’s grandson had consistently sold off the land surrounding the old family home until the domain was now reduced to a fraction of its