Darcy in Want of a Wife

Chapter 3

Dining Room

Netherfield Hall

That Evening

The tablecloth was crisp with newness, and the dishes shone with all the luster of tableware set out for its maiden meal. Every white candle with its tall flame was of uniform height, with scarcely a marring drip to be seen among them. The Bingley household may have only taken up residence the day before, but Caroline Bingley was determined to prove to Mr. Darcy that she was an exemplary hostess.

To this end, she had ordered a truly impressive dinner. A ragout and a beef fricassee and puddings and soups and fish from the local streams and vegetables and a bowl of oranges, their deep golden hue like coins reflecting their extravagance for a mere family dinner party. Unfortunately for Miss Bingley, Darcy, while eating heartily, was not impressed by the cook’s magnificent efforts nor in such fantastic extravagance as oranges at dinner. Instead, he ate his way steadily through large portions of the simplest dishes, leaving the more complicated recipes to Mr. Hurst, whose connoisseur’s soul enjoyed them far more.

“I would like to call on the Bennets sometime this week, if the weather holds, anyway,” Bingley declared. “Caroline, Louisa, I hope you will join me?”

Caroline Bingley took a sip of her wine, waited a moment, and then nodded.

“I suppose they are the best of a bad lot,” she said ungraciously. “Miss Bennet, at least, appears to be a refined and pleasant lady.”

“Yes, but what of the rest of the family?” Mrs. Hurst demanded. “The youngest girl cannot be more than fifteen years of age; why is she out already? Moreover, as Caroline said, the situation with Miss Stowe seems rather peculiar.”

“Peculiar in what way, Louisa?” Charles retorted irritably. “It is not in any way unusual for a family to host a relative for a season.”

“Yes, but as Caroline said, she looks absolutely nothing like the Bennets, and that fiery hair is almost Irish or Scottish in its appearance, is it not? I am in agreement with Caroline that there is something peculiar about the whole affair, and that Miss Stowe might well be someone’s bastard.”

Darcy, who had been listening with growing irritation, happened to catch the expression of a young maid who had entered the room with another basket of bread rolls. The girl, who looked very young, appeared shocked at Mrs. Hurst’s words and even opened her mouth before shutting it with a snap.

“Excuse me,” Darcy said to the maid and the girl, realizing that he was looking at her, gasped, “Me, sir?”

“Yes. What is your name?”

“Penelope, sir.”

“Have you lived in the area long?”

“Yes, sir,” the girl replied, her brown eyes now fixed on the floor. “My whole life, sir.”

“Do you know anything about Miss Stowe?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. She, erm, she is an orphan, sir, and has lived with the Bennets since she was a small child.”

Caroline Bingley’s mouth was compressed with annoyance at this discussion with a mere servant, but she said, “Yes, but does anyone actually know who her parents were?”

“No, Miss, not exactly,” Penelope said and then, at the satisfied smile on Caroline’s face, continued, “but she is the local heiress, I know that. She has a dowry of ten thousand pounds.”

This had the desirable effect of wiping the smirk off Caroline’s face, though Louisa Hurst, after she had recovered a little, remarked, “Ten thousand is not a great deal, of course.”

“It is more than the Misses Bennet have,” Penelope said meekly. “Everyone knows there is not much money there, and the estate is entailed away from the female line.”

“Thank you,” Darcy said. “You may go.”

The girl scurried off in relief, and the rest of the meal was completed in silence.

/

The Library

The Next Morning

Longbourn

Rain spattered at the window, flung by a gust of wind like a handful of ice chips striking the glass. The trees outside bent over, flashing the silver underside of their leaves, before standing upright again, shivering in the cold lashing rain. Milky rivulets ran down the chalky white gravel drive to pool in muddy puddles in the road, the rutted dirt hidden beneath a layer of nearly opaque water.

The road stood empty now, no one braving the elements to go visiting on such a raw day. Mr. Bennet, who preferred not leaving his house at the best of times, was entirely content to stay in his library, the fire built up high and roaring warm in the grate, a neat brandy in his hand and copious books piled on the shelves around him. At the present moment, an anthology of Shakespeare’s comedies sat invitingly open to A Midsummer Night’s Dream upon the worn oak table beside the brown leather wingback chair by the fire.

Unfortunately, such leisurely amusements must wait. Though at heart a lazy man, Bennet was deeply concerned for his wife and four daughters, as well as his ward, Miss Stowe. Their futures worried him enough to occasionally shake him out of his usual indolence. Thus, he must brace himself and address with Elizabeth the issues that had arisen.

He twitched the window curtain shut as a tap at the door broke into his thoughts, and he turned to watch Elizabeth let herself inside. Her distinctive hair was pulled up into a serviceable bun high on her head, thin wisps framing her face attractively. A simple russet gown made her complexion glow, and Bennet gazed at her fondly as she closed the door behind herself.

“Uncle?” she asked. “You called for me?”

“Yes, Lizzy, come in and sit down by the fire. It is a chilly day.”

He crossed to pick up a poker and prod at the sinking logs in the fireplace, making the fire spring up again in a blaze of heat and light. Elizabeth seated herself gracefully in one of the wingbacks, and Bennet seated himself across from her with another affectionate smile. It astonished him, and tickled his sense of humor, that Miss Stowe – no relation of his by blood – should, of all the young ladies in his household, be most like him. He had quite a high opinion of both Jane’s and Mary’s intelligence, but as charming as both were, neither one was either bookish or witty the way Elizabeth was. As for Kitty and Lydia – well, they were both young and had time to grow out of it, but Mrs. Bennet spoiled and petted and cosseted them too much. Kitty occasionally showed flashes of nascent wisdom, perhaps, but fifteen-year-old Lydia was as twitterpated as she was pretty.

“Is something wrong, Uncle?” Elizabeth asked.

Bennet wrinkled his nose, reached into his coat, and pulled out a letter. “Not wrong, precisely, but surprising. I received this yesterday and spent the night pondering what to do, and I decided that you are near enough your majority to read it yourself.”

Elizabeth looked puzzled, as well she might, and stretched out her hand to take the letter. Thanks to the darkness outside, it was difficult for her to read the words. Mr. Bennet quickly rose and moved two candles to a table behind her in order that the light would reflect on the paper.

“Thank you,” she said absently and began to read.

Offices of Appleton, Rubric, and Tyson

London

13 th October, 1811

Miss Elizabeth Stowe,

I apologize for the delay in sending this letter. My esteemed father, Mr. Robert Appleton, passed on some three months ago and regrettably his affairs were discovered to be in some disarray thanks to his failing health over the previous year. He was, as you may or may not know, the senior partner of Appleton, Rubric, and Tyson, and was responsible for holding the last will and testament of your distinguished father, Mr. Bradley Stowe.

I am aware that you will attain your majority on 8 th May, 1812, whereupon you will inherit the estate of Ravenswood which, as you doubtless know, is situated some twenty miles south of Edinburgh.

If you wish to write or call regarding this situation, feel free to do so; we are located on Knowles Street.

With respect,

Aaron Appleton, Solicitor

Elizabeth read the letter once, then twice, then thrice, before lifting a confused face to her uncle.

“I do not understand,” she said blankly.

Bennet ran a hand across his face and leaned back in his chair. “Neither do I, Lizzy, I assure you.”

“You know nothing about Ravenswood, then?”

“I do not,” Bennet said and sighed.

“Perhaps it is some kind of mistake?” Elizabeth asked doubtfully. “Perhaps there is another Elizabeth Stowe?”

“No, it cannot be that,” Bennet said. “I am familiar with Appleton, Rubric, and Tyson, and the firm manages your dowry. I knew nothing about this estate, though, which is confusing.”

Elizabeth shook her head as if to clear it and wrinkled her brow. “Edinburgh is in Scotland, is it not? Is this estate in Scotland, then?”

Bennet nodded and said, “It must be, yes, as the border is some thirty miles south of Edinburgh. I assume that the estate is connected to your mother’s family in some way.”

“My mother!” Elizabeth exclaimed and then nodded. “Of course, she was Scottish. I am afraid I am not thinking clearly. But how … why did you never hear of this before? I assumed that the ten thousand pounds was my full legacy from my father.”

“As did I, my dear. But…”

He trailed off and inserted his hand into his coat pocket and then pulled out a paper, which he looked at gravely before handing to his ward.

“My dear girl, this is the letter I received from your father nearly eighteen years ago, when he sent you to live with us. I have never showed this to you before because I … well, it is not a particularly easy letter to read, but given the changed circumstances…”

He trailed off and Elizabeth hesitantly reached out her hand and took it, then opened the creased pages and turned to let the candlelight fall on the page once again. It was considerably harder to read this letter, as the paper was yellowed and the ink somewhat faded, but Elizabeth had excellent eyes and was able to make out most of the words, with her ready intelligence filling in the gaps.

12 th June, 1793

Greymere

Dear Bennet,

I know I have not written in more than a year, my old friend, and now I write only because I am in terrible trouble and must ask for a great favor. I am ill, you see, very ill, and will not live much longer.

I am at peace with God and ready to meet my Maker, but I am greatly concerned about my daughter, Elizabeth. As you know, her mother died a few weeks after her birth from puerperal fever. She was my angel, my dear Isobel, and it broke my heart when I lost her. Elizabeth, only just two years of age now, takes after her mother, with her red hair and dark eyes and her burgeoning intelligence.

I readily confess to being a fool when only six months after Isobel’s death, I journeyed north to Scotland and married Isobel’s cousin Moira. I was lonely and thought Elizabeth needed a mother, but while Moira looks a great deal like Isobel – they share the same hair color and high cheekbones – Moira is nothing like her cousin in temperament.

Moira is a manipulative, irrational, mercurial, and at times cruel woman, along with being a spendthrift. Greymere brings in a full two thousand five hundred pounds per annum in income, and she has spent all of the rents since our marriage on new furniture and gowns and jewelry and the like. She claims Greymere is out of date, and if she is forced to live in the country, she must…

Enough complaining. I have not the strength to write of it all.

She presented me with a son only two months ago, my darling Harold, whom I will soon leave fatherless, along with Elizabeth.

Bennet, I fear for Elizabeth’s well-being. Moira despises her already and is inordinately proud of having birthed an heir to Greymere. I am requesting a great favor; would you take Elizabeth in and raise her as your ward? I have ten thousand pounds in a bank in London and will arrange to have it set aside for her support and, when she reaches her majority, her dowry.

I know this is such a tremendous request, but I also know my wife; she is, yes, a dangerous woman when crossed, and I fear that she might attempt to regain control of Elizabeth if I send my daughter to Scotland to stay with her maternal relatives. Moira would neglect Lizzy at best and mistreat her at worst. I do not worry for Harold, particularly, not about his health, at any rate. He will likely be as selfish and unpleasant as his mother, but he will be well cared for. Indeed, he will be treated like a prince.

It seems so long ago that we were in Oxford, talking all night about philosophy and religion and physics. I am aware that there are no ties of blood between us, but there are the ties of friendship, and I plead with you to care for my girl.

I will arrange to have ten thousand pounds settled in my bank at London, and I beg you to use the interest to care for my daughter, not just regarding her physical needs, but her intellectual ones as well. You are a clever man, my friend, and will do an excellent job of arranging for her education.

I will send this by express and beg that you will write at once.

God bless,

Bradley Stowe

Elizabeth read the letter three times and then lifted a dazed look to her … uncle?

“We are not truly related?” she blurted. A moment later, it occurred to her that of all the shocking revelations of the letter, it was odd that this was her first question.

But then again, perhaps it was not? She had thought, all these years, that while she was not a Bennet, she was at least a distant blood relation, but now she knew that she was entirely alone in the world except for…

“And I have a half-brother,” she continued, and then, to her astonishment, tears filled her eyes, and she began sobbing aloud.

Bennet cringed inwardly – his ward was a sensible girl and cried rarely – but he managed to stay calm.

“Use my handkerchief, Lizzy,” he directed. She took the handkerchief and wiped the tears which were now trickling down her face, while her guardian patted her shoulder kindly.

Three minutes later, Elizabeth blew her nose determinedly, crumpled the kerchief in her hand, and lifted her chin. “I am sorry, Uncle … but you are not my uncle.”

“I am your honorary uncle, my dear,” Bennet replied, “and you are my honorary niece. I am sorry that I did not explain the situation before now. Well, let me not mince words; I lied to you in saying that your father was a distant cousin whom I did not know well. It seemed best because I … oh, my dear, we love you so much, and I did not wish for you to ask to go north to Scotland to see your family, or at least not when you were a child. I should have spoken up when you became a young lady, but I kept putting it off, thinking I would speak of it when you reached your majority because I knew you would probably be upset, and I dislike upsetting you. But it was lazy of me and poorly done.”

“Will you please tell me now about my father?”

He nodded, drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Bradley Stowe and I met in Oxford, as we came up the same year. He was a second son, and intended to become a barrister, which would have been a good profession for him. He was one of the most intelligent men I have ever known. Sadly, his elder brother died in Stowe’s third year, which meant he became heir to the family estate in Northumberland. He finished his degree and then moved home; his father died about the same time as your ‘grandfather’ Bennet, and thus Stowe and I became masters of our respective estates within a year or two of one another.

“We wrote often in those first few years, and then less often, but I knew of his marriage to your mother, and then he wrote of your birth and her death. I was, of course, married to Mrs. Bennet by that time, and we had already had Jane when you were born. I was rather busy with my own affairs and did not really notice that he had not written in more than a year when the express came.”

He lapsed into silence, and Elizabeth, gazing intently into his face, asked timidly, “Do you know why he died?”

“It was a bad bout with smallpox that took his life, my dear. It was before the advent of the cowpox vaccination, you know, and he had not been variolated. He had never been particularly strong, so I am not surprised that the scourge killed him.”

“Did I have smallpox as well?”

“You did not. A trusted servant carried you from Greymere to Longbourn as soon as my express, assuring him that we would gladly take you into our home, reached your father. He told me of the local epidemic and assured me that you and your little brother, along with your stepmother, had been carefully shielded from any of the sick people in the house.”

Elizabeth ran her hands over her face and then lifted her eyes to her guardian’s. “I have always been grateful that you took me in, but now that I know that I am no relation at all ... it was very kind of you, Mr. Bennet.”

“My dear!” Bennet exclaimed, reaching out his hands to take her own. “Please continue to call me Uncle, I beg you. Your father was my closest friend in Oxford, and that means a great deal. I was a peculiar fellow, you know, with no interest in drinking and gambling. In Mr. Stowe, I enjoyed a true intimacy of the mind. We spent many happy hours reading in the Bodleian and talking of all we had discovered. I love you as much as my daughters. Do not ever doubt that.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” she said.

Silence fell for a minute, and then Elizabeth said, “I think, if you do not mind, that I will retreat to my bedchamber to consider all of this. I will probably have more questions soon.”

“I understand that completely, dear one.”