Chapter 13
In the final week of 1796, a year after the tragic death of Andrew Gardiner, the Bennet family welcomed its fifth daughter. She joined Jane Lily, Elizabeth Rose, Mary Holly, and Catherine Dahlia, born in the spring of 1795.
Surprised that the new babe, Lydia, was given no middle name, Bennet enquired about the absence of a floral attachment. He received an unexpected sharp retort from his wife.
“My obsession with horticulture has ended. Our focus must be towards producing your heir and, with the assistance of the Almighty, putting an end to the entail.”
Bewildered, Bennet chose caution over callousness; he nodded his acknowledgement and kept his reservations to himself. Yet, his qualms did not lessen. Franny had changed. She had always taken pride in preparing her appearance, as well as their girls’—Jane’s particularly. No mother-daughter pairing could boast of half the looks Franny and Jane garnered on an outing. Bennet had always gone along with her talking of their eldest’s beauty. But her amusing announcements had ceased. Her attractive self-confidence had receded, and a reserve appeared in its place. A hesitancy. She hardly laughed and joked with the same ease. She no longer displayed the spark and enthusiasm she once possessed, and her self-esteem appeared shaken.
He repeatedly apprised her of his happiness and satisfaction. He lauded the perfection of their family. Franny ignored his claims or changed the subject.
His wife became reclusive; she spent more and more time in her rooms, rarely venturing out. When she did, she withdrew earlier than what propriety deemed acceptable. Then, one day, she took all of her meals in her bedchamber.
Bennet entered his wife’s sitting room to find her dishevelled. Her appearance contrasted with the beautiful woman he had married; she had shed her outer shell and become something else entirely. He sat beside her, taking her hand without saying a word. A moment later, she smiled faintly at him.
“My love, what ails you?” asked Bennet gently.
“I am sorry for not being the woman you deserve. I am not worthy of you.” Her taut face and the shadows beneath her eyes reflected her anguish.
“That is not my opinion. Is that yours?”
She nodded. Tear tracks caught the candlelight. “You are being punished for marrying beneath your sphere.”
“No, my love. I am blessed. I am the wealthiest man in the county. I am rich with five glorious gemstones. All given to me by you.” He smiled, looking for a matching gesture in return. Instead, her eyes were blank.
“Any other woman would have given you an heir by now. The Gouldings have Theodore. The Longs have David.” Her breath hitched. “I have failed you.”
Bennet’s heart broke. “I do not need an heir to understand how much you love me. And I, you.”
His wife caressed his cheek and allowed him a sad smile. She then turned away and pulled the coverlet over her head.
“Follow me, Janie!” shouted Miss Elizabeth from atop a fence rail. For a six-year-old, thought Reeves, watching from across the yard, she was quite nimble. And brave.
Her more sensible elder sister shook her head. “Come down, Lizzy. I fear you will fall and hurt yourself. Come down now.” Her pleading, expressed in a light tone, failed to convey enough urgency to draw the daredevil’s notice.
“Watch me!” Miss Elizabeth jumped up, clapped her feet together, and expertly regained her footing.
Miss Bennet gasped. “Stop this at once! I insist you come down.” Her hand-wringing displayed her agitation.
“I will come down only if you join me this once, Jane. I promise.”
“I shall step up once to see you safely down.” Miss Bennet took Miss Elizabeth’s offered hand and hesitantly stepped up the lower, then upper cross-tie. She stood, swayed a bit, then gained her balance. Miss Jane Bennet was a very pretty, proper young girl.
Although the young lady is now atop a fence, mused Reeves.
“You promised you would get down if I tried it and now, I have,” Miss Bennet said. “A lady always keeps her word.”
Miss Elizabeth leapt off the fence and landed nimbly on her feet. A rustle of clothing caught Reeve’s attention.
“Step out!” he demanded. A blond-haired boy stepped out from behind the large oak. “Ah, good day, Master John.”
“Mr Reeves. Miss Elizabeth.” He turned to Miss Bennet. “May I assist you?”
“You may,” she replied with a wide smile. He handed Miss Bennet to the ground, mindful of her frock.
Quite the young gentleman is Master John Smyth. A credit to his Lambrook name.
“Ladies, I believe we ought to return,” announced Reeves.
Miss Bennet waved at Master John, who gave her an ear-to-ear smile. I wonder what Bennet will make of this?
The families about Longbourn village knew Viscount Haydon only as Master John Smyth. Like all boys his age, he pursued all the acceptable sports—riding, hunting, shooting, and fencing, in which he showed early skill. Unlike many of his peers, he excelled in painting. His mother hung his watercolours in many a parlour. His daily masters came to ‘the cottage’, the name his father used for their Hertfordshire country estate, and filled his head with history, philosophy, foreign languages, science, and his favourite, mathematics.
He was learning to dance, as all gentlemen of his sphere would one day marry. “Dancing is the first step into a lady’s heart,” advised his mother with a smile, herself living daily in a romance for the ages. John pretended his stomach pained him upon every retelling of her first ball with his father, but secretly, he hoped for a match like theirs.
After breakfast, John begged his father to ride out with him. A knowing smile rewarded him doubly—a day in the saddle with his beloved Seshat and his father’s attention. The June weather caressed man and horse as they rode out to the fence lines.
“Father, are those Longbourn lands?”
“They are, my son. The Bennets have worked the lands for a century.”
“Is he not your good friend?”
“That he is.”
They lapsed into silence and might have ridden for miles had not the sound of children’s laughter captured their attention. John halted Seshat.
“Father, it must be the Miss Bennets.”
“I believe you are correct.”
“It has been too long since I have wished them a good day.”
“Were you not at Longbourn last week?”
John dropped his eyes, his face warm.
“As you wish.” He grinned at his father’s smile.
They slowly approached. Miss Elizabeth ran in large circles, her arms outstretched like a windmill. Her muslin frock billowed about her as she soared in a near-perfect ellipse repeatedly, the centre of her pattern inhabited by Miss Bennet. Straight cornflower blonde hair tied together by a delightful light-blue ribbon that bounced up and down, swung back and forth, as she tirelessly turned to follow the whirlwind’s trajectory.
John dismounted, waving at the girls. “Good morning, Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth. I wanted to present my good wishes in person.”
They curtseyed, but before another word was exchanged between the children, a deep voice called out.
“Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth it is time for us to return home.” The rough-faced gentleman who was always near the girls walked towards them.
“Reeves, would you be so kind as to give Bennet my regards?” asked his father.
“The Colonel would favour a visit, sir.” He touched his nose.
John wrinkled his brow in confusion. Does Mr Reeves know my father? He led his horse to a stile, climbed up and remounted, then looked up at his father, who had an odd look on his face. “Is everything well?”
“Of course.” His father gave him a quick nod. “Come, let us escort the Miss Bennets. I have business with Mr Bennet.”
Upon arriving at Longbourn, John followed the girls up to the nursery.
“Enter,” Bennet called out.
Lambrook stepped inside, followed by Reeves. The serious look upon the latter’s face concerned him. “Lambrook. Sergeant?”
“We may have some trouble lurking,” offered Reeves. “More on his lordship than us.”
Lambrook nodded and paced over to the window. Bennet looked at Reeves. “Explain.”
The sergeant rubbed his nose. “Tis the second time I’se smells tobacco in the fields.”
“Close to the woods’ edge?”
“Ayuh.”
Bennet tapped his lips with a forefinger before pointing at Lambrook. “You or me?”
“I yield to your expertise,” he replied. “Thank you, Sergeant Reeves.”
“Don’t know much yet, but I will soon.” Bennet recognised that look from previous war campaigns. Some unfortunate has begged for trouble. Now he has found it.
A se’nnight later, Bennet rode along Longbourn’s outer boundary, watching as Lambrook neared him from his own estate. They turned their horses and rode the shared fence line for a moment before Bennet broke the news Reeves had delivered hours before.
“It is as you feared. Somerset knows of your son and his whereabouts.”
Lambrook exhaled. “This is confirmed?”
“Yes.” Bennet handed him a note. Lambrook read it and crushed it in his fist. “What else did you find?”
“He had a crude map of the county. Poorly drawn but effective.”
“What of a journal? Other notes? Did he have communications from Somerset?”
“He admitted to nothing else.”
“Weapons?”
“No.” Bennet shook his head. “He was a scout, not an assassin.”
Lambrook blanched. “Surely not!”
“An advance team precludes an attack. You may count on this fact as surely as the sun rises and falls each day.”
Lambrook snorted, his anger evident. “That reprobate’s men will not come near John or my wife!”
”What have you not shared?” asked Bennet.
My friend will hopefully forgive me my harsh words.“Love or money? Which is it?” Bennet’s harsh tone caused Lambrook to glare at him.
“Devil take it! Both,” replied Lambrook moments later. “It is mostly about money, but his offences towards my wife will never be forgotten, nor forgiven.”
“We will remain vigilant. How may I be of service to you?”
They rode on, Lambrook’s face now neutral. “Might I question the ne’er-do-well?”
Bennet shook his head. “Only if the dead can speak.”
“Damnation. You allow Reeves far too much latitude.”
“That I may, but now is not the time to curtail his inclinations.”
“No, I daresay it is not.”