Page 36 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet

Private Parlor

The Frog and the Toad

Kelso

Later

Mr. Bennet curled deeper into the plush chair drawn near the fire in the private parlor assigned to their party, and he pulled his blanket closer about his shoulders. The table beside him held his handkerchief, and a spare one as well, for his runny nose. A gently steaming mug of tea, generously laced with honey, sat nearby. He held a book, which was thoughtfully provided by the innkeeper to his more literary guests, the dark blue leather etched with gold lettering spelling out The Lady of the Lake , with Sir Walter Scott beneath in somewhat smaller print. It was a very fine edition, and Mr. Bennet was quietly gleeful about getting to read it now, especially here in Scotland where the story was set.

He felt slightly guilty at having sent Elizabeth off to Ravenswood without him. But Darcy was utterly devoted to her well-being and would see to her safety – in all honesty, with more assured success than Bennet himself. Nor, with his illness, did he think his presence would be at all helpful. Far better that he remain here, to recover from his cold and the weariness from days of travel, which always took their toll on him no matter how easy the pace.

Mr. Bennet immersed himself in his book and his tea until familiar voices from the corridor outside penetrated his consciousness. He glanced up, listening; Elizabeth’s voice he recognized without effort, and Darcy’s a few seconds later. He stared at his empty cup as he considered what to do, but he did not stand or call out; surely, the returning party would wish to refresh themselves after what was no doubt a trying visit. They would join him when they were ready, so he looked at the clock and then went back to his book.

When the door clicked and opened, Bennet marked his place and laid aside his book, glancing at the clock on the mantel again. It had been a mere half-hour since the Darcys had returned; it seemed they were eager to discuss what they had learned. Elizabeth moved to the chair opposite her uncle, pulled up close to the fire already, and eased into it with a grateful sigh. Darcy shot her a concerned look and moved a chair near to his wife, sat down, and took her hand protectively in his.

“Lizzy, Darcy,” Bennet said. “I hope you are well?”

“We are,” Elizabeth replied. “How are you, Uncle? ”

“I have a trifling cold, my dear, but it is of no particular concern. What did you think of Ravenswood?”

The couple looked at one another, and Elizabeth said, “Fitzwilliam can tell you the details of the estate itself, but the most amazing part of the day for me was that Mrs. Cummons, who is housekeeper at Ravenswood, knew my mother as a child.”

“Did she indeed?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, looking into the fire, her eyes fixed on the gyrating flames. “I have wondered about her, of course, but did not think that after so many years, I would meet someone who knew her.”

“I am glad for such a boon,” Bennet replied. “What was your mother like?”

“She was a great deal like me,” Elizabeth replied and could not help the tears that filled her eyes. “She liked to climb trees as a child, and she loved to read, and she was very active, and Mrs. Cummons said I look so much like her. I wish I could remember her.”

Darcy reached out to take her hand in his own and said, “I am certain she would be very proud of the woman you have become.”

“Thank you,” Elizabeth replied, using her right hand to grab her handkerchief and wipe her eyes. “But enough of that. Fitzwilliam, please tell my uncle your conclusions about the state of Ravenswood.”

Darcy did so at some length and finished by saying, “There is a great deal of work to be done, and Mr. Adair is in agreement that the money which has been set aside can and should be released to pay for new roofs for three tenant cottages, along with a few new windows for the manor house to replace those which are leaking.”

Bennet nodded and said, “And what of Mrs. Stowe and her son? Are you assuming there is no further danger now that Elizabeth has attained her majority?”

“I should be safe,” Elizabeth remarked, though doubtfully. “I signed my will before leaving Pemberley, and Fitzwilliam will inherit all my possessions if I die.”

Darcy could not help but cringe at the very thought of losing his darling, and he said, “I still wish to deal with Mrs. Stowe directly. She is obviously a dangerous woman.”

“I have an idea about that,” a new voice declared, and the group near the fire turned to observe Wickham, who had changed into fresh clothing upon returning from Ravenswood with the others.

“Sit down and tell us,” Bennet suggested.

/

Greymere

Three Days Later

Moira leaned back in her favorite green, plush velvet chair, which had been drawn near a window with its curtains pushed aside. Her parlor was filled with light, the sun slanting in the southern windows. On this warm day, they had been thrown wide to let in the fresh air, birdsong drifting in on soft breezes, the flowers in the rather overgrown garden just beyond nodding and bobbing, bright spots of color nestled against a lush green backdrop.

The glories of the day did not touch Moira’s black mood. The single sheet of paper in her hands, so innocuous in appearance, had arrived by express and entirely soured her morning. She read it for the third time, paying close attention to the details.

Kelso

Mrs. Stowe ,

Two days ago, I received a most peculiar letter from a Mr. Bennet, master of an estate in Hertfordshire. He claimed that he is the guardian of Elizabeth Stowe, the daughter of Mrs. Isobel Stowe, first wife of Mr. Bradley Stowe, your deceased husband.

Bennet included some documents to bolster his claim, and while they must be forgeries, I am concerned that if he appears here in Kelso, with his so-called ward in tow, he may cause trouble for you and your son.

You informed me long ago that Elizabeth Stowe tragically perished as a small child in the same illness which claimed your husband. I understand the girl was buried next to her father. Do you have access to the burial record of her death?

I confess to being rather disturbed by this entire affair, and if you are willing to come north for a personal consultation, I would be most grateful. Indeed, it might be useful for both you and your son to come, as he will be the legal heir of Ravenswood when he reaches his majority.

If such a journey is too inconvenient, we can discuss the matter by letter.

Sincerely,

Duncan Adai r

Moira glanced up and around instinctively to check that she was alone and then snarled aloud. Why must Elizabeth continue to haunt her?! Last autumn, Captain Denny had written to inform her that he had found Miss Stowe and was preparing to have her permanently dealt with. It should have been a neat matter, quickly executed and forgotten. Instead, Denny had bungled it, prompting an investigation, and gotten himself arrested. The only useful information that he had passed back to her was that he had found Elizabeth living with a local gentleman named Thomas Bennet in Hertfordshire.

Wickham, at least, had succeeded where Denny had failed. This she knew from his own letter to her, and she had thought that was – at last – the end of her stepdaughter. A rather neat end, too; once again, her charm and cleverness and beauty had served to ensnare another young fool to her will. Wickham would doubtless appear on her doorstep within a short while, and she would happily welcome him into her bed; he was, truly, a handsome, charming man, and would be an acceptable lover.

Still, with Elizabeth Stowe dead, that should have finished the whole distasteful affair. Yet now Bennet was causing further trouble. Did he think to profit from his ward’s death? Was that why he looked after Elizabeth all these years, intending to take over her estate? That was no doubt the answer, especially as Denny’s letter had informed her that Bennet’s estate was entailed away from his daughters to a distant relation.

Now Bennet’s manipulations should be at an end because Elizabeth Stowe was dead – but no, he must have convinced some other woman to impersonate the dead girl – with a bribe, perhaps. Or perhaps he had recruited one of his own daughters in his scheme.

It could not, and would not, stand. Elizabeth Stowe was dead, and entirely unable to inherit the Scottish estate. Ravenswood would belong to Harold, and by extension herself, as was right. His claim was of both blood and familiarity, but Elizabeth had never even been in Scotland, as she had been born here at Greymere. Moira’s stepdaughter had no connection with the land, and would have been no more than an alien sweeping in to take what should never have been hers, and it was now more imperative than ever that Harold’s claim to Ravenswood be solid, for Greymere was more heavily encumbered by the day.

This was not an affair Moira could trust to the writing of letters. She would see Adair face to face and sort this nonsense out. He had been kind to her as a child, though he was considerably older than she. Now she was all grown up and knew well how to use her own appreciable physical advantages to manipulate susceptible men. Perhaps she could even convince him to release some of the Ravenswood funds to her – to be used for Harold’s needs, of course. Her son would have to come with her to aid in this endeavor. He was not quick of wit, but his presence would lend weight to her clever words.

Moira tossed the letter carelessly aside onto the table, rolled to her feet, and stalked out into the main vestibule of Greymere. Her butler, a footman, and a maid were all there. She did not take notice of whatever tasks occupied them but immediately began rapping out orders. She and her son would set out for Kelso in Scotland as soon as possible.