The Ghosts of Netherfield

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

The door in question was an out-of-the-way one, with seemingly no purpose, near the entrance to the servants stairs.

Miss Bingley had been highly displeased at the idea that there might be anywhere in Netherfield that she was not permitted, and made sure everyone knew it.

Mr Darcy, as a mere guest who would presumably be warned by his hosts, had not been told this rule, and it was to him that Miss Bingley appealed.

More desirous of her silence and absence than curious of why she could not open a door under her own power, Mr Darcy bowed to her wishes.

The Doorknob was oddly ridged inter his hand, digging into his hand as he turned it, to the point of drawing blood. It was the merest prick, no worse than being fitted for a new suit, but for the door’s purposes, it was enough.

By the time the inhabitants of Netherfield left for the Meryton Assembly, Mr Darcy was wearing his best suit and a rather hunted look.

Mr Bingley and Mr Hurst, unaware of Miss Bingley’s request with the door, put it down to Miss Bingley’s presence and Darcy’s usual reluctance to socialise.

Had they known the true state of affairs, they would have been more concerned.

”Must you frown so? It is an Assembly, not an execution!”

”I know it is a country town, but there will be other gentry worth spending a few hours with.”

”You’re of an age to marry, Fitzwilliam, you must not put it off too long. Just look at your Uncle James Darcy!”

Elizabeth had no particular interest in the Netherfield Party, other than general curiosity of her new neighbors… until they entered.

She had seen that haunted expression many times before.