Page 34 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

Private Parlor

The Frog and Toad

Kelso

“Elizabeth is sleeping,” Darcy said to Bennet and Wickham, and he knew that his face had softened at the mere sound of his wife’s name. Oh, how he loved her.

“Good,” Bennet said, clapping Darcy on the shoulder. “She needs rest. Now, it is three in the afternoon; ought I to venture out to call on Mr. Adair?”

“I think it is rather late in the day,” Wickham volunteered. “He might well keep to country hours and already be dressed for dinner.”

“True enough,” Darcy agreed. It was odd agreeing with Wickham about anything, but George had never been stupid, merely devious.

“Then we can spend an afternoon and evening resting?” Bennet asked.

“Yes,” Darcy said, “though we should organize the papers. I will also send out a servant to learn the exact direction to Mr. Adair’s home. ”

“Wonderful!” Bennet declared. “It seems quite a nice little town, and perhaps I will go for a short walk. Sir Walter Scott lived here for a brief time, you know.”

“I do!” Darcy agreed, and within minutes he and Mr. Bennet were engaged in an exhaustive discussion of Scott’s works, along with Scott’s effect on Scottish culture and heritage, while Wickham was content to sit by the fire and drink Madeira and listen.

/

Mr. Adair’s House

Kelso

The Next Morning

With help from her husband, Elizabeth stepped carefully down onto the cobblestoned road in front of Mr. Adair’s house. Darcy tucked her arm into his as Wickham and Bennet descended from the carriage as well. She was dressed warmly, as the morning was a cool and misty one. She guessed that this was typical weather for the Borders in May, though it was chilly compared to Longbourn and even Pemberley .

“It is a pleasant-looking house,” Bennet declared, eying the neat brick building with approval.

“According to Mr. Gardiner’s young man, Mr. Jenkins, Adair has an excellent reputation for both sense and thrift,” Darcy said, guiding his wife toward the four steps which led up to a green painted door. Elizabeth found the contrast of the green paint and red brick to be charming. The couple climbed the stairs with Wickham and Mr. Bennet behind them, while two more brawny servants took up the rear.

The door was opened by a housemaid, who looked startled at the appearance of such a large party. Darcy and Bennet gave the girl their cards, and they waited in the modest foyer for three minutes before the young woman returned and guided them into the drawing room.

Elizabeth, entering within, felt a surge of incredulity at the sight of Mr. Adair, who appeared to be some five and forty years of age and sported the same hue of red locks as she did, though his was threaded with silver. In Meryton, her hair was considered entirely unique, and it made her stomach twist oddly for this man to shared her coloring and, now that she looked at him carefully, the shape of her own chin.

Adair, in turn, was regarding the party with obvious confusion, though he barely spared a glance at her .

“Mr. Bennet and Mr. Darcy?” he asked in a doubtful tone. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Adair,” Darcy said, taking a step forward. “Please let us introduce ourselves. I am Mr. Darcy, and this is my wife. To my left is Mr. Bennet, and to my right, Mr. Wickham. My wife was, until six months ago, Miss Elizabeth Stowe, daughter of Mr. Bradley Stowe. As she attained her majority a few days ago, she is now the legal owner of the estate of Ravenswood.”

During this recitation, Adair’s expression had shifted from uncertain to uneasy to frowning antagonism.

“Mr. Darcy, Mr. Bennet,” he said, “do either of you have anything to do with that young man who appeared some months ago claiming to represent Elizabeth Stowe?”

“Yes,” Bennet said. “I arranged to have Mr. Ezekiel Jenkin’s journey north to learn more about my ward’s estate. Elizabeth lived with me for most of the first twenty years of her life, you see.”

Adair shook his head and said, “Gentlemen, if you are indeed gentlemen, which seems unlikely, I must request you to leave. This is an absurd attempt to cheat my cousin, Mr. Harold Stowe, of his inheritance. Elizabeth Stowe died as a young child.”

Bennet’s expression darkened at these words, but Darcy merely said, “Mr. Adair, I understand your position very well, but I recommend that you set aside your suspicions long enough to study the documents we have in our possession, documents which prove that my wife is the former Elizabeth Stowe and legal mistress of Ravenswood. If not, we will be forced to employ a solicitor in Edinburgh on my wife’s behalf, and that would doubtless spread the family scandal farther than you wish.”

Adair narrowed his eyes. “What scandal?”

“Let us start with the basics,” Darcy suggested. “Do you have any documents at hand that were written by the deceased Mr. Bradley Stowe?”

“Why?”

“Because we have a letter that Mr. Stowe penned to Mr. Bennet, some nineteen years ago, in which Mr. Stowe asked his old friend to care for his daughter, Elizabeth.”

Adair’s gaze shifted from Darcy to Elizabeth and, apparently focusing on her for the first time, looked startled. “I had not realized how much your wife looks like our family, like me. I am a second cousin to both Isobel and Moira Stowe, and…”

He trailed off and grimaced. “Please, do sit down, all of you. ”

Darcy led Elizabeth to the warmest chair by the fire and sat down near her, while Wickham and Bennet took their places on a settee. Mr. Adair, frowning, walked over to a desk tucked into the corner of the room, opened a drawer, searched it, and then returned with a letter in his hand.

“May I see the letter, please?” he asked.

Bennet obligingly handed over the letter from his old friend, written when Elizabeth was but a small child, and the company waited patiently as Adair carried the document over to the window. Silence fell for five full minutes, and then Adair walked back and sat down on the chair across from Elizabeth, his face pale.

“Is this letter … if it is true, it is quite the most shocking, but how do I know it is true?” he stammered.

“Are you familiar with Mrs. Moira Stowe’s handwriting?” Darcy asked.

Adair turned wide eyes on him. “I am.”

“Then I suggest you read these letters as well,” Darcy suggested, producing another pile of letters wrapped in a red ribbon. “Mr. Wickham engaged in a series of correspondence with Mrs. Stowe on our behalf, and you will see from the letters that Mrs. Stowe not only knew that Elizabeth was alive, but was willing to pay well to have Wickham murder her. ”

“That is quite impossible!” Adair cried out.

“Read the letters, sir,” Bennet ordered.

Adair sighed, took the letters, and retreated to his desk this time, where he lit a candle for better light and carefully paged through the documents in question. For the next ten minutes, all was silent save for the crinkling of pages, and Elizabeth, to her surprise, found herself growing drowsy. She had not slept particularly well the previous night, probably thanks to uncertainty about today’s meeting, and the fire was lovely and warm.

The sound of Adair rising to his feet helped her wake up, and when he resumed his seat across from her, his face was so ashen that she worried that he would topple over.

“I … I, you must see how this is … it is hard to believe, though that is Mrs. Stowe’s handwriting, unless it was a forgery, and it seems, but surely Mrs. Stowe … how could she wish for her own stepdaughter to be murdered?”

Elizabeth realized, to her chagrin, that she had not really thought about how this might affect Mr. Adair. She had hoped that he could be convinced of the truth of her existence, but it was doubtless incredibly painful to learn that his own cousin was an attempted murderess.

“Do you know Mrs. Stowe well?” she asked, speaking for the first time .

He stared at her and then shook his head. “I have only met her three times in the last twenty years, though I knew her well when she was a child. Greymere is some distance away, and we are both busy with our lives. But she has written me quite often to ask about Ravenswood, as her son is heir, though I suppose, if this is all true, he is not…”

He trailed off miserably, and Elizabeth said soothingly, “I know this must be an incredible shock to you. My guardian and husband have gathered numerous documents to prove that I was Elizabeth Stowe until my recent marriage to Mr. Darcy, but none of us expect you to accept our claims without a careful investigation of our proofs.”

Their host sighed deeply, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for a minute, as the others waited with varying levels of patience, and then opened his eyes again.

“I will order tea,” he said. “Then, after we eat and drink, I would be grateful if I could look over all the documents you brought with you.”

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Mr. Bennet remarked.

/

Elizabeth’s Bedchamber

The Frog and the Toad

Eleven O’clock at Night

Elizabeth relaxed back against the saffron velvet upholstery of the chair nearest the fire, staring drowsily into the flames and idly running one hand over a strand of her hair. Molly had brushed the flaming red locks down smooth before Elizabeth had dismissed her for the night. Now it sat on her shoulders, at striking variance with the white nightgown and pale yellow dressing gown she wore.

Elizabeth’s body ached for bed, but she steadfastly refused to retire until her husband joined her. The chair was comfortable, and her mind was busy enough to keep her well awake until Darcy returned. The events of the day repeated in her head, unsettling and perturbing.

She was broken from these uneasy thoughts by the opening of the door connecting her chamber to the one reserved for her husband. Darcy stepped through, swathed in his quilted dressing gown and ready for bed. He had yet to spend the night in his own room on this journey – it would be much more difficult for any intrepid assassin to do away with Elizabeth with her husband in the same bed, but also it was a comfort and a pleasure to be so close to one another.

“Fitzwilliam,” she said.

“Are you all right?” Darcy demanded, striding over to sit down next to his bride.

“I am,” she said, leaning against his warm and comforting bulk. “It was an unusual day, but I think Mr. Adair believes us.”

“I think he does,” Darcy agreed, though cautiously. “We have considerable proof, after all. Moreover, you obviously look quite a bit like Mr. Adair, and presumably, many of his relations.”

“It was his hair that startled me the most. It is so much like mine.”

“Yes, and you share his chin to some degree, though you are, of course, a radiant beauty, and he is merely a middle-aged man.”

She chuckled and nestled closer to him. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam. I had not realized that he was so close a relative, but perhaps it is no great surprise given that my mother and the current Mrs. Stowe both hail from this area. ”

“Precisely. In any case, a substantial amount has been accomplished today, and I am thankful for that.”

Elizabeth nodded and yawned, which provoked Darcy to rise and, in one quick moment, lift her into his strong arms and carry her over to the bed, whose top sheet and quilt had been expertly turned back by a maid.

Elizabeth giggled as her husband carefully lowered her into bed and pulled the cover over her.

“Is that warm enough?” he asked, leaning over to kiss her.

“It would be warmer if you were in bed with me,” she replied mischievously.

Darcy wasted no time in blowing out the candles on the mantle and joining his darling wife.