Page 40 of Elizabeth is not a Bennet
Elizabeth’s Bedchamber
The Frog and the Toad Inn
Midnight
Elizabeth gazed across the dark room at the fire, which was dying down to hot, glowing embers. She had been in bed a full hour and was still, most regrettably, wide awake. At least the bed beneath her was a welcome comfort. Her toes stretched down to the warming pan, and the sheets and comforter lay heavy on her shoulders. Her entire body ached, her unborn child wriggling in her womb, her mind as busy as the baby. It had been a wearying day, and an anxious one, as she had spent the morning anticipating the confrontation with Mrs. Stowe. The meeting itself had been taxing and somewhat surreal; the woman was so utterly selfish as to disclaim any wrong-doing.
At least her young half-brother was shocked and appalled by his mother’s actions. Poor Harold, to find out that his mother was an aspiring murderer! She was surprised, and relieved, that Harold had accepted Elizabeth’s identity so quickly, though the family resemblance had helped. Harold’s features echoed his mother’s and Elizabeth’s own. She knew, from the housekeeper at Ravenswood, that she looked a great deal like the deceased Isobel Stowe, who in turn must have looked quite like her cousin Moira.
Now, at least, Mrs. Stowe was safely confined, and Harold was free from her poisonous words, for the time being anyway. Wickham had reported with disdainful pity that young Mr. Stowe let his mother dictate his life, and it was quite possible that he had not the slightest idea of what to do without his mother’s constant direction and control, especially with Greymere in debt, and Harold not yet of age.
In all fairness, Elizabeth did not know exactly what to do either. She would be content to leave legal matters in the more experienced hands of her husband and her sharp-minded uncle. Indeed, both men, along with Mr. Wickham, had closeted themselves with Harold Stowe two hours previously and were doubtless discussing further plans.
She was relieved that Darcy’s two strongest footmen were now stationed outside the door of Moira Stowe’s bedchamber at Mr. Adair’s house, guarding against any further irrationality and violence.
The door leading to her husband’s chamber opened, and she rolled over as her husband, a shadow in the light of the banked fire, made his quiet way over to the bed .
“I am still awake, darling,” she said softly.
“Are you having trouble sleeping?” he asked, climbing into bed and stroking her cheek with one loving hand.
“I am,” she murmured. “So much happened today; I met my evil stepmother along with my poor, hapless brother...”
“He is rather hapless,” Darcy agreed.
“It is obvious that Mrs. Stowe has dominated the young man his entire life.”
“Yes, unfortunate lad. Your stepmother is clever, manipulative, and extremely determined, and young Harold has a far more compliant nature.”
Elizabeth sighed, rolled over, and snuggled up against her husband. “Did you speak to my brother about Mrs. Stowe? Or was he too upset to talk about the situation?”
“We were able to confer at some length, yes. He is afraid of losing his mother, which is no surprise. For all that he is nineteen years old, he has no idea how to manage an estate, especially one like Greymere, which is encumbered with mortgages and falling to rack and ruin. ”
“And of course he loves his mother, too. Even though she has murderous inclinations, she is his only living parent.”
“Quite,” Darcy agreed. “He argued, rather feebly, that she is no longer a danger and should return to Greymere, but your uncle and I explained that she will either go to prison or be exiled. He has not a strong personality and seems resigned to that.”
Elizabeth blew out a breath and murmured, “If she will agree to exile, where will she go?”
“That is not your concern, my darling,” he replied, kissing her on her head. “Please trust me to deal with Mrs. Stowe.”
Elizabeth felt her body relax entirely at these reassuring words. “I will.”
He pulled her a little closer still, and within a few minutes, both man and wife were sound asleep.
/
Harold’s Bedchamber
The Frog and the Toad Inn
The Next Mornin g
Harold Stowe opened his eyes as the brightness of the morning light assailed him, and he squinted uncomprehendingly at an unfamiliar canopy hung on unfamiliar bedposts. Even the blankets, when he tilted his head to examine them in bemusement, were warm but foreign. Where was he?
He reached out to push the curtains aside, which allowed him to look out at the strange room. Memory returned in a rush of the trip to Kelso, for his mother had come at once to an urgent summons from their cousin, Mr. Adair. And they had found his half-sister alive, despite two attempts made by Moira Stowe to have Elizabeth Stowe, the heiress of Ravenswood, killed. Harold shuddered miserably. For as long as he could remember, he had been told his half-sister was dead. He had always wondered what she would have been like had she not died of smallpox.
When Adair had written that a woman was claiming to be his long-lost sister, Harold had felt a stab of genuine grief amidst the affront of this blatant attempt to steal his inheritance. Instead, he had found not a thief, but a long-lost sibling, accompanied by copious paperwork supporting her identity and her claim. Not that she really needed the papers to prove to him who she was – their own shared looks did that quite well. She was a good deal handsomer than he was, but their hair and eyes and chins reflected the close relation. For that matter, she greatly resembled his mother as well ... his mother, who had tried to have her own stepdaughter murdered.
Though Harold was deeply and miserably shocked, he realized that after the initial shock, he was not incredibly surprised. His mother had always been ruthlessly domineering, running Greymere as she pleased with no gainsaying from him. His own temperament was far gentler, offering little resistance to his mother’s decisive nature. He had, more than a few times, desired to be master over his own life, but when faced with his mother’s implacable will, had always capitulated.
He wished now that he had not been so compliant. She had run Greymere into the ground with none to stay her, plunging recklessly ever deeper into debt, and he had not even known. He had never bothered to wonder where the money came from for his mother’s fine clothes and sparkling jewels and their trips to London for the operas and theaters. Even as the house dilapidated around them, he had chafed under his low allowance, resentful that his mother curtailed his activities in the small local town with his friends. Harold had thought that his mother looked down on his friends as unworthy companions to the heir to Greymere, but now he realized that she had merely been close-fisted, wanting their income to go to her own pleasures instead of his .
Harold knew that it was his responsibility to set things to rights at Greymere, but he had not the faintest idea how to go about it. Mrs. Stowe had never seen fit to send him off to school among his peers, preferring instead to have him tutored at home. His reading was adequate, his sums were well enough, but he had not been taught how to run an estate, with both mother and son tacitly assuming that she would always continue to serve more as master than mistress. Now he found himself entirely lost. He did not know how to take care for his own inheritance, especially since Greymere was deeply encumbered.
He now accepted that his mother could never again return to Greymere. She had shown herself to be an autocratic and thoroughly unscrupulous woman. He was, he thought, more intelligent than she claimed, and though he had tolerated her contemptuous strictures, a deep seed of resentment had germinated in his heart long ago. Upon hearing that she had attempted to have his sister murdered – twice! – that seed had abruptly borne fruit.
It was a blessing that Mrs. Darcy – no, she had insisted that he call her Elizabeth – had survived. It was strange and marvelous to have a sister, so strange that he still found himself startled anew at least once an hour when he thought of her. He knew that he did not deserve tenderness or care from his sister; while he had not at all been responsible for the men sent to murder Elizabeth, he had also been blind to his mother’s improprieties. But Elizabeth was obviously a kindly and honorable woman, and seemed prepared to set aside any anger toward her half-brother.
The door opened in the midst of these dark thoughts, and Harold squinted at the man holding a candle in his right hand as he entered into the room unannounced.
“Who are you?” he demanded suspiciously.
“My apologies, sir,” the man replied, gracefully making his way over to light the candles on the mantle with his own candle. “I am Percy, Mr. Darcy’s valet. I understand you are without your man, and I wish to be of service if you need assistance in dressing.”
Harold had a valet of sorts, but the man also served in other capacities at Greymere. His mother, of course, had her own expensive personal dresser, who had accompanied the Stowes to Kelso and was presumably serving Mrs. Stowe in her ‘prison’ in Adair’s house.
“Yes,” Harold said quietly. “I would appreciate your help very much.”
Percy moved with unhurried grace, and within half an hour, Harold was clad in morning attire, with his face shaved, his hair and hat brushed, and his boots well-polished .
“Mr. and Mrs. Darcy are in the parlor at the end of the corridor, sir, and wish to see you when it is convenient,” Percy said.
Harold nodded, set his shoulders, left the room, and walked to the door to the parlor, which was open, and he could hear the sound of his sister’s voice emanating from within.