Page 12 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

Drawing Room

Thirty Minutes Later

Darcy’s footsteps tapped around and around and around the drawing room like a fretful horse confined to a too small pasture. He scarcely noticed his abbreviated circuit as his mind raced. It was incredible – surreal – that Elizabeth Stowe lay shot and bleeding in the sitting room, attended by her uncle, elder cousin, and the local apothecary. The rest of her family clustered on the couches and chairs of the drawing room awaiting news. All of their faces were anxious and drawn, reddened by their ongoing whimpering and sobbing. The faint sound of scrubbing came from the hall, where one of the maids was industriously removing the blood before it could stain the wooden floor too badly.

Darcy paused momentarily by the window to look sightlessly out before flinging himself back into his pacing. How could such a thing have happened? Who would want to shoot Miss Stowe? That the bullet was meant for her, he had no doubt; it would be nearly impossible for this to be an accident. But how badly had she been hit? Would she recover, or would this – and he shuddered to think it – end her life ?

A whimper from the couch was the only warning before Lydia burst into noisy tears again, and Darcy bent a sympathetic look upon the girl. He usually had no patience for such displays of waterworks, but she was scarcely more than a child, and plainly she was badly scared for her cousin. Mrs. Bennet, who had been wringing her hands, hurried over to embrace her youngest child, and Miss Kitty followed her mother to share in Mrs. Bennet’s comforting words. Miss Mary, seated on a chair near the window, was so pale she looked rather green. He shot a concerned look at Bingley, who stood silent and grave, and his friend returned a helpless, horrified expression.

The door opened, and Mrs. Bennet uttered a little cry. Miss Jane Bennet stepped into the room, also pale, but not unduly distressed.

“It is all right,” she said immediately to her anxious family. “Elizabeth is not badly injured.”

Darcy felt as if every muscle in his body relaxed simultaneously, and he was hard pressed not to sway in relief. Mrs. Bennet’s tears gave way to a shaky smile. “Oh, praise God, praise God! But are you certain, Jane? All that blood…!”

“It looked far worse than it is,” Miss Bennet replied, stepping forward and embracing her mother. “I promise that she will be well. ”

“That is indeed wonderful news,” Bingley said passionately, “but I do not understand in the least how this could happen! Who could have shot her?”

This provoked a scream from Mrs. Bennet. “Shot her? What … whatever do you mean, Mr. Bingley?”

“Lizzy was shot, Mamma,” Jane Bennet said, her own face ghostly pale in the autumn sunlight shining through the windows. “The bullet grazed her shoulder and then hit the window in the music room.”

“Dear God! Dear God!” Mrs. Bennet moaned, and Mary hurried over to embrace her mother, even as the two youngest girls burst into tears and Jane Bennet wrapped her arms around them.

Bingley stared helplessly at the knots of sobbing women and turned to Darcy.

“What do you think?” he asked anxiously. “Was it possibly a poacher?”

Darcy clenched his jaw and shook his head. “It is hard to imagine that a poacher would take a shot so close to the house.”

Bingley reached out a hand to steady himself on the back of a chair.

“What are you saying?” he demanded in a low tone. “That it was deliberate? ”

Darcy bit his lip and his hands clenched. “I fear it is likely, though why, I cannot tell you.”

/

Longbourn

Fifteen Minutes Later

Miss Stowe had been carried upstairs to her bedchamber to be nursed and watched by her various female relations, and Mr. Jones, after giving orders for his patient’s care, had departed in his gig. Mr. Bennet, pale with anguish, stepped into the drawing room where Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy were waiting, and said, “Gentlemen, I apologize for not greeting you earlier. Would you be willing to join me in my library where we will have more privacy? I understand you were actually present when my niece was shot and wish to know of your observations.”

Bingley opened his mouth to answer, and then closed it again as he glanced around at the various doors, all of which might have a servant listening at the keyhole. The three gentlemen made their silent way down a corridor to the library, and then Bennet guided his guests within and said, “Please do sit down, gentlemen. Would you care for some brandy?”

“Yes, thank you,” Darcy said. Now that he knew that Miss Stowe was not badly injured, his entire body was shaky at this reprieve from his worst fears.

“I would like some as well,” Bingley said. “I feel quite distressed, and I am not Miss Stowe’s beloved family!”

Bennet nodded and poured brandy for himself and his guests. The three gentlemen drank the alcohol down, and Bennet poured another finger for each before gesturing to the chairs in front of the currently cold fire. The wood had been laid, and the two guests sat down as directed and watched as Mr. Bennet lit the fire and poked the logs and shifted the wood until it was a welcome, warm blaze. The movements were oddly soothing, a distraction from the current reality that the lady that Darcy admired had been so cruelly attacked.

“Well, gentlemen, what did you see?” the master of Longbourn finally asked, dropping heavily into his own chair. Darcy, after taking a moment to collect his thoughts, concisely related his observations. After he finished, Bingley described his own perceptions, and when he was done, there was silence for half a minute.

“So you saw nothing of the gunman,” Bennet finally said. “Neither did my servants, regrettably, though it is no great surprise. All attention was on Elizabeth, as well it should have been. Mr. Darcy, I am grateful for your prompt action in carrying my niece to safety.”

“It was my honor,” Darcy replied, just managing to keep his tone even. In truth, he felt sick at the thought of carrying that slender form into the house, of seeing the growing stain of blood on her shoulder.

“Might it have been some kind of accident?” Bingley asked nervously.

“No,” his host answered, taking another sip of brandy. “We generally do not have poaching in this area, and in any case, no poacher would be fool enough to shoot so near the house. Moreover, there was plenty of noise from the dogs and the servants to warn the assailant that he was close to people. No, it was a deliberate attempt on Elizabeth’s life.”

“But why?” Bingley demanded. “Why, how , could anyone wish for her death? It seems impossible!”

Bennet frowned and leaned back in his chair, his eyes distant, his brow furrowed.

“I cannot be certain, of course,” he finally said, “but as I believe you know, there is some possibility that Elizabeth will inherit a Scottish estate next year, when she attains her majority. ”

“Yes?” Bingley asked in a bewildered tone, but Darcy’s own thoughts sharpened.

“You believe that perhaps the individual next in line for inheritance has arranged for your niece’s death,” he suggested.

“As incredible as that seems, yes,” Bennet said, obviously pleased by Darcy’s ready understanding. “The situation is a peculiar one in that we did not know, until very recently, that she was the heiress of the estate.”

Bingley’s brow was furrowed in thought now, and he said, “But surely ... if Miss Stowe is heiress, would not the estate go to you or your wife or ... she is your niece, is she not?”

Bennet blew out a slow breath, wrinkled his nose, and said, “She is not, in fact, my niece. Indeed, she is not actually a relation of the family, though I must ask you to keep that fact to yourselves. We refer to her as niece and cousin, but the truth is that she is the daughter of my closest friend from my time at Oxford, who asked us to raise her from early childhood when he fell ill from smallpox and knew he would soon die. Elizabeth’s mother died shortly after her birth, so she was an orphan. Moreover, Elizabeth’s father remarried following his first wife’s death, and his second wife bore him a son. The second Mrs. Stowe was, according to my friend, a malevolent and resentful creature, and Stowe’s last act in life was to ensure that Elizabeth was safely here with us, far away from her stepmother. It is quite likely that the son, Elizabeth’s half-brother, would inherit after Elizabeth, or perhaps even her stepmother, who is cousin to Elizabeth’s mother.”

Darcy bent his powerful intellect to this rather rambling and confusing explanation, and after a minute’s cogitation, he said, “You are thinking that Miss Stowe’s half-brother, or stepmother, hired an assassin to murder her so that she cannot inherit the estate in Scotland.”

Bingley cried out in dismay at these blunt words, but Bennet nodded grimly. “Perhaps. It sounds absurd, like something out of a Gothic novel, but what other possibility is there? I can think of no other possible reason for someone to seek to end Elizabeth’s life.”

“It seems as if the disposition of the estate beyond Miss Stowe is the key,” Darcy mused aloud. “If her stepmother, or half-brother, does indeed stand to inherit, that would add significant weight to the idea that this attempt on her life has to do with the estate.”

Bennet nodded and said, “That is very sensible. Thank you. I am not thinking clearly.”

“I am certain no one can blame you,” Darcy said quietly.

“I find the entire affair bewildering,” Bingley said suddenly. “Obviously it happened, but how? This is not London! Surely you know the men who live in the area! How could an assassin ... do you think this individual rode here from London and somehow knew where Longbourn was, or asked directions? And if so, perhaps someone will be able to tell ... it all seems most unlikely!”

“It is true,” Bennet agreed with a frown. “Strangers are rare here...”

“But you have a great many strangers here now, do you not?” Darcy interrupted, his voice adopting a hard edge.

This provoked looks of incredulity from the other men, and then Bingley demanded, “The militia officers and men? Surely not! They seem a courteous and honorable set!”

“Outer appearances can be deceiving,” Darcy said grimly. “Only minutes before Miss Stowe’s injury, she told me of the recent arrival of an old enemy of mine here in Meryton, and he is a lieutenant in the militia.”

This, not surprisingly, provoked soft cries of astonishment from his companions, and Bennet said, “Mr. Darcy, are you willing to speak more plainly? It seems possible, and perhaps even likely, that this man may be responsible for the foul attack on my dear Lizzy.”

Darcy sighed and looked out the window, noting absently that the sun was still shining brightly, and the clouds still floated merrily, and the world appeared entirely at peace that a lovely woman had come close to losing her life only a short time ago. It seemed wrong, somehow.

“His name is George Wickham,” Darcy said, “and while I dislike and even despise him, it seems improbable to me that he would be so far gone as to attempt murder. More than that, he has always been a coward, and murder is a hanging offense.”

“You have mentioned Wickham before,” Bingley remarked, “but never why you dislike him so.”

“He was the son of my father’s steward, and my father’s godson. Mr. Darcy loved him dearly, and supported him through Cambridge as George Wickham’s mother was a spendthrift, and thus his father, while an estimable man, was always poor. In Cambridge, Wickham spent much of his time drinking, carousing, and engaging in illicit relationships with women of the lower class. My father’s will directed me to offer Wickham a fine church living in a parish near Pemberley, but I was grateful when Wickham informed me that he had no wish to be a clergyman. At his request, I paid him three thousand pounds to give up all rights to the living forever. There was also an additional thousand pounds due to him from my father’s will, and the man spent the entire sum in the space of four years. He is poor now, though that does not keep him from eating and drinking well, as he has all the benefits of charm, address, good figure, handsome features, and the air of a gentleman. He wishes to marry an heiress, and I imagine is interested in Miss Stowe on that account. It is shocking to think that he might accept money to kill her.”

“But you think it is barely possible?” Bennet demanded, watching him closely.

Darcy rubbed his chin with one unquiet hand. “I do not wish to think such a thing, truly. It seems a bridge too far, even for Wickham, who has a most disreputable character. But I cannot be certain. I would be pleased to interview him if you like; I know him well enough to tell when he is lying.”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr. Darcy,” Bennet remarked, and his grizzled eyebrows lowered as he tilted his head. “Indeed, sir, I am grateful to both of you, and perhaps a little surprised as well. We are simple country folk, after all, and I am quite aware that in both connections and wealth, you are far above us.”

“I may be above you in wealth, but not in societal position,” Bingley said promptly. “My fortune was derived from trade, after all. As for my reasons for caring about Miss Stowe, beyond that of the normal concern of any gentleman worth his salt, is that I am greatly attracted to your eldest daughter, Miss Bennet. She is an angel, and while we do not know one another well yet, I am definitely pursuing a possible courtship and marriage. ”

“And I,” Darcy chimed in, straightening his back, “am equally interested in Miss Stowe. She is an intelligent, vibrant, sensible, handsome, and charming young woman, and I find her tantalizing.”

Bennet regarded his guests with astonishment and then nodded slowly. “Mr. Bingley, I know that my Jane likes you very well, and I certainly sanction an unofficial courtship between the pair of you. As for you, Mr. Darcy, I was not aware of your interest in my nie… my adopted niece, but for what it is worth, I thoroughly approve. You are obviously an intelligent and sensible man, and I know you are not after Elizabeth’s wealth.”

“I am not,” Darcy agreed. “I am greatly concerned for her continued well-being and thus hope you will allow me to keep her safe.”

“I will,” Bennet replied, holding out his hand to first Darcy and then Bingley. “Gentlemen, thank you again.”

The door opened suddenly at this juncture, and the three gentlemen turned, only to be surprised at the sight of the Bennet’s coachman, Jack, who entered the room with a strip of dark blue cloth in his hands.

“Oh, Mr. Bennet, sir,” the man said apologetically. “I did not realize you had company. I will return later.”

“No, no, Jack. Go ahead and tell us what you have discovered. ”

“One of the pups appeared a few minutes ago with this in his mouth, sir. I am thinkin’ perhaps it is from the man who harmed Miss Stowe.”

Darcy exclaimed in surprise and reached out a hand, only to pull it back. “My apologies, Mr. Bennet.”

His host nodded and took the strip in his own bare hands and then carried it over to the window to let the light fall on it.

“What do you think, gentlemen?” he asked.

This was invitation enough for both Darcy and Bingley to inspect the scrap, and Darcy said, “I am quite in agreement with your man; this may well be from the assailant.”

“Is that homespun?” Bingley asked curiously.

“I think it is,” Bennet remarked and then said to the coachman. “Thank you, Jack. If your boys find anything else, please let me know.”

The man retreated and shut the door behind him, and Bingley said, “If this is the person who … who shot Miss Stowe, it must not be a militia officer? Homespun is hardly the uniform of a member of the militia.”

Darcy shook his head. “If the would-be assassin is a member of the militia, he would be a fool to wear his red coat, as it would be seen too easily. He could have planned ahead by obtaining homespun garments.”

“Oh,” Bingley said softly.