Page 11 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

Longbourn

Three Days Later

Morning

Darcy took in a deep breath of fresh air as Phoenix’s hooves clopped along the hard-packed dirt of the road. He and Bingley had set out early a-horseback to inspect the estate after the last few days of cold stiff winds, sharp gusts, and spates of icy rain spattering down. There was no obvious damage from the storms, and within an hour, the two friends had, with silent accord, turned their horses towards the road to Longbourn.

Phoenix shook his head, his black mane tossing, and blew out a long snort that steamed from his nostrils like smoke from a dragon’s mouth. Beside him, Bingley’s well-mannered bay gelding, Argos, walked briskly along, unbothered by the stallion’s higher spirits. Darcy patted his horse’s neck to settle him, but he could sympathize with Phoenix’s urge to prance; he had spent the majority of the last days closeted in his own bedchamber because any time he was out and about the house – even in the library, for he avoided the drawing room – Miss Bingley would find him and pour cloying flattery upon him like thick oil, interspersed with spiteful jabs at Miss Stowe and anyone else who was unfortunate enough to come to her mind.

He found the lady’s jealousy grating, his usual general annoyance sharpening into something deeper. Miss Bingley was clever enough to see that he preferred Miss Stowe’s company to her own, but not nearly clever enough to see that it was her own shrewish temper that drove him to avoid her. On the other hand, intelligent, witty, kind Miss Stowe continued to be a magnet that drew his attention like true north. It was a startling state of affairs for him, how often he found himself thinking of her fiery hair, her sparkling brown eyes and laughing mouth, her arch wit and warm demeanor. His father and mother had loved one another deeply – a rarity in high society – and George Darcy had, on his deathbed, mentioned his hope that his son would be equally fortunate in finding a compatible wife. Darcy, faced with wedding Anne de Bourgh, had not had much hope for such a union. Now his mind and heart were thrust into a delightful confusion. Could it be that Miss Stowe was meant for him and he was meant for her, the same way Lady Anne and George Darcy had been meant for one another?

He wondered, of course, about her family of origin. Her father must have been, he thought, a gentleman; if there was indeed an estate meant for Miss Stowe, then certainly her father must have been a member of the gentry. Her mother yet remained shrouded in the unknown, save that she hailed from Scotland and had passed on her own red hair to her daughter.

He was broken from his musings by Bingley’s voice, bright with excitement. “I believe I see Miss Bennet!”

As if Phoenix sensed Darcy’s thoughts, the great stallion immediately broke into a trot, and Darcy found his eyes seeking, and finding, the blonde head and fine figure of Miss Bennet. To his unmitigated delight, he promptly spied Miss Stowe’s red locks and pleasing form a few feet away from her elder cousin.

Within seconds, the two horsemen had arrived within ten feet of the ladies, and both gentlemen swung down to the ground eagerly.

“Miss Bennet!” Bingley exclaimed, always quick to speak. “Miss Stowe! Good morning to you both!”

“Good morning,” Miss Bennet replied, curtseying along with her cousin. “It is a lovely morning, is it not? And that after such cold winds and rain these last days!”

“Yes, it was quite unpleasant weather,” Bingley agreed, “and we are both grateful for the opportunity this morning to ride out and enjoy clear skies and sun! ”

At this moment, two servant boys ran up, and Miss Stowe said, “Would you care to enter within, gentlemen, or would you prefer to take a turn around our little wilderness?”

Darcy watched to be certain that Phoenix was behaving himself and was pleased to observe that both stable boys seemed competent and careful with the great beasts.

“I would prefer to stay outside,” he offered. “Like my friend, I am eager for some fresh air.”

He held out his arm toward Miss Stowe and she took it, even as Bingley and Miss Bennet also paired up. Miss Stowe was wearing kid gloves, and Mr. Darcy a heavy woolen coat, but even so, the gentle pressure of those delicate fingers and the closeness of the lovely lady made his heart beat faster.

“You have a very pleasant wilderness here, Miss Stowe,” he remarked, gently angling her away from Bingley and Miss Bennet. Given that they were outside, and within distant sight of the house, he was not fearful of being accused of compromising the lady.

Nor did he much care. He was, if not in love, incredibly close to being in love. At the very least, he was fascinated and full of admiration for the lady on his arm, and he could think of nothing better than marrying her .

“Yes, thank you,” Elizabeth responded. Her hand on his arm was light, very different from the clutching grip that Miss Bingley used whenever she had the opportunity, and Miss Stowe’s expression was cheerful but not fulsome. It was the first time in his life that he had been interested in a lady without receiving any signs of interest in return. He found it both peculiar and, yes, rather unsettling.

“Mr. Darcy?”

“Yes?”

Miss Stowe guided him around a corner, where a stone bench was hidden behind some shrubbery, and took a seat. “Will you not sit down?”

“Of course!” Darcy said.

He suited his actions to his words and waited, first with enthusiasm and then with growing concern as Miss Stowe’s expression seemed oddly serious.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She turned to him now, with those breathtaking eyes fixed on his own, and released a sigh. “I am not certain, and truly this does not seem my business in the least, but I feel it would be best to acquaint you with the arrival of a young man who apparently is known to you.”

“Whom are your referring to? ”

“A Mr. George Wickham, who has recently taken a position as lieutenant … and I see that he was, at least, honest in saying that you and he are on poor terms.”

He was, he realized, grimacing, and he blew out a breath and attempted to relax.

“Yes, quite,” he said. “Very poor terms. May I inquire what he said in particular? I have my reasons for wishing to know.”

“Of course. Mr. Wickham claimed to be the son of a former steward of Pemberley, and the godson of your father. He claimed that due to disparate dispositions, and jealousy over your father’s favor, you are on poor terms.”

“Nothing else?” Darcy asked anxiously.

Miss Stowe frowned as if thinking and then shook her head, “Nothing else, no. He has a glib tongue, Mr. Wickham, and considerable charm, but as do many men of my acquaintance, he spoke a great deal with little substance.”

Darcy, struggling between outrage at Wickham’s presence nearby and relief that the man had not said anything about Georgiana, bent a surprised look on his companion. “I am impressed, Miss Stowe. Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may insure hismakingfriends; whether he may be equally capable ofretainingthem is far less certain. ”

“I deserve no such praise,” the lady confessed. “I was ready enough to think him the very best of men. He has handsome features, a mellifluous voice, and great charm; however, he displayed genuine dismay when I mentioned your presence in the neighborhood. Moreover, I am the local heiress – not that ten thousand pounds is a great sum, but it is more than any of the other ladies who live nearby – and thus I have learned to be careful in my dealings with unknown gentlemen.”

“You are wise to be cautious about Mr. Wickham,” Darcy said. “I cannot tell you all the details of his past pursuits, but he is a spendthrift and a gambler, and is indeed quite eager to secure funds by finding an heiress to wed.”

He waited nervously; when had a woman ever trusted him regarding Wickham? He was greatly relieved when she nodded decisively. “I suppose it is no great surprise that poor gentlemen seek to find wealthy brides, but I know you to be a good man, Mr. Darcy, and if you tell me that he has a poor character, I believe it.”

“Thank you,” Darcy replied simply.

“Lizzy! Lizzy!”

Darcy turned abruptly as the second youngest Miss Bennet – Miss Kitty, if he remembered correctly – rounded the corner and smiled at them both. “Mamma wishes for our guests to join her for tea, Lizzy. ”

“Shall we?” Elizabeth asked of Darcy, rising to her feet.

He stood up and extended his arm, and was pleased again when she took it, once more relishing her closeness. The pair followed Miss Kitty around the hedges and into a larger area, skirted on one side by forest and the other side by the wilderness. The younger girl raced to the door and entered the house, while the two couples meandered their way in the same direction.

Darcy, though engaged in his own romantic thoughts, was sufficiently cognizant of his friend’s demeanor to see that Bingley, too, was greatly attracted to a lady, namely Miss Bennet. Darcy, while not at all interested in the eldest daughter of Longbourn, nonetheless approved of Miss Bennet; she was blonde and blue eyed, which doubtless had drawn Bingley’s initial attention, but based on her conversation, she was a quiet, refined, and kindly lady, unlike many of the women of the ton, who gossiped and chattered and cared more about a man’s wealth and connections than his character.

There was a sudden shout from their right, in the direction of the stables, and both couples stopped and watched, first in surprise, and then in amusement, as three long-legged setter puppies bounded into view, followed by two stable boys in pursuit. Darcy found himself chuckling at the sight, as the puppies, whom he estimated as being some four months of age, raced and gamboled and jumped, clearly having escaped their pen, and were now entirely uninterested in returning to captivity. Darcy and Bingley, united in sympathy over the difficulty of the stable boys, moved to head off the puppies, and Darcy had just succeeded in capturing the largest of them when Miss Stowe laughingly bent over to call to the puppy closest to her.

He saw her fall before he heard the sound, which echoed in the air, followed hard by the explosive noise of glass shattering.

Miss Bennet screamed, and Darcy, observing the fallen form of the lady he so greatly admired, leaped forward, his heart in his throat.

“Miss Stowe!” he cried out, and then felt sick at the sight of the dark stain forming on her navy clad left shoulder.

“Dear God, what is happening?” Bingley cried out in horror, releasing the dog in his own grip. The dog barked excitedly and raced off into the woods, while Jane Bennet screamed again. “Help, help! Lizzy, oh Lizzy!”

“I am … I am all right,” Miss Stowe croaked, rolling cautiously onto her right side. Darcy, bending over her, was confident of his initial horrified assessment as to what ailed the lady .

“What has happened?” Bingley exclaimed, hurrying up to where Miss Stowe was attempting to sit up. Her gloved right hand was now holding her injured shoulder and was turning dark with blood.

“Bingley, help me get her inside,” Darcy ordered, just as the door opened and Miss Kitty and Miss Lydia rushed out with Mrs. Bennet in close pursuit.

“What is happening … Lizzy?!” Lydia shouted. “Lizzy, what is wrong?”

“She is hurt, Miss Lydia,” Darcy said hastily and, setting aside convention, lifted the lady carefully into his arms and strode swiftly toward the open door. Elizabeth cried out softly just once as he jostled her but then maintained a stoic silence. Darcy, glancing worriedly at her face, saw that she was dangerously pale.

“We will need a doctor, or an apothecary straight away, Mrs. Bennet,” he directed as he carried his fair burden down the corridor and into a conveniently warm sitting room.

“Of course! Of course!” the lady babbled. “Mr. Stanley! Mr. Stanley! Send for Mr. Jones at once. Dear God in Heaven! What has happened to my Lizzy?!”

Darcy did not know exactly what had just taken place, of course, but he knew one thing; Miss Elizabeth Stowe had just been shot.