by Glenna Mason
Francine was, as always, perfectly beautiful, her silvery blonde hair cut to perfection and her liquid blue eyes sparkling with the enhancement of the shimmering turquoise and silver of a long-sleeved, low-cut cocktail dress of flowing chiffon. A silver necklace and earrings resplendent with teardrops of aqua shaded turquoise completed Francine's ambiance of serenity coupled with flamboyance.
Elizabeth, equally beautiful in a pale blue light-wool jersey that clung alluringly to her slim, but curvaceous figure and highlighted her crystal blue eyes, often felt a little awkward in her mother's elegant presence, rather like a gawky preteen who never quite obtained sophistication no matter how many times she practiced walking about the room with a book on her head.
The situation was entirely in Elizabeth's head. Her mother never suspected and would have been horrified if she had. And in every other instance, when her mother was not around for Elizabeth to compare herself to, Elizabeth Francine Bennet was a model of composed charm and proud inherited beauty. Elizabeth simply had her mother on a pedestal, which she would never allow herself to attain.
“Mother, are we ready?” Elizabeth inquired. Then immediately answered her own question, “Oh, I forgot the music.” She dashed through the open French doors and soon again emerged from the combination parlor/music room to the melody of Vivaldi’s Spring.
“Now we are ready,” Elizabeth announced, as she bounced to the allegro movement. “And just in time. Look!” she said, pointing down the drive where an unfamiliar SUV was entering the driveway. “Our first guests are here.”
When the van pulled to a halt, Minerva jumped out of the vehicle, before Mickey could round the car to open her door for her.
“Looks like you got your new car,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, and it's already packed with stuff,” Minerva said, gesturing to the stacks of football equipment in the back.
“Elizabeth, my husband Mickey, Mickey, Elizabeth Bennet,” Minerva introduced.
“Nice to meet you,” he greeted.
Francine Bennet stepped forward as Elizabeth and the couple started up the porch steps. “Francine Bennet and my husband, Dr. Thomas, to most, and Tommy to me,” Elizabeth's mom said with a warm smile.
The two couples shook hands. Dr. Thomas led the Castles to the julep table. Almost immediately Jane and Charles drove up, followed closely by Gage and Maria. Sir William arrived soon, escorting Tish. Kitty pulled in behind the pair. The party was complete.
Juleps and hors d'oeuvres disappeared and reappeared. As the sun dropped behind the towering oaks and the maples flanking the porch, glorious streaks of orange and rose painted the porch and its occupants as the music switched to Puccini’s La Boheme.
Elizabeth noticed Tish and Sir William move closer together as the beautiful arias and duets of the beloved opera filled the air, touching hands quietly when no one was paying attention. Elizabeth's own heart almost burst with the pleasure of the knowledge of their abiding love.
Precisely at seven-thirty, Peter stepped to the door, stating formally, “Dinner is served, Dr. Elizabeth.” The party quite lively by now, cheerfully followed Elizabeth to the dining room, chatting gaily and locking arms.
Peter and Amelie served the soup and salad courses, keeping the wine glasses filled. But once the main course was served, the couple retired to the kitchen.
“Sir William,” Elizabeth said, “we may have an inkling who kidnapped Alexis and Junie.”
Simultaneously the guests all glanced her way with stunned surprise. Tish and Minerva sat quietly and primly.
“Now remember this is educated supposition, but . . .”
Uncharacteristically Sir William, placing a neatly folded napkin by the left side of his plate, interrupted with a rather curt, “Yes, of course, but who is ‘we’ and whom do you suspect?”
“We are Tish, Minerva and I. The ‘suspect’ takes a little more introduction than just a name. So please, everyone, continue your meal, and I will try to explain with the able assistance of my co-investigators.
“Tish, as everyone knows, not only saw the driver of the van through her binoculars, but also sketched him, but what you do not know is that she also recognized him as a harness jockey.”
Several gasped at this new news.
“She may have mentioned it is in passing,” Sir William said, “but how does that help us? There are thousands and they look pretty much alike in their goggles, way out on the track.”
“Not this jockey!” inserted Minerva. Then shocked at her own forwardness retreated back into silence, blushing quite red.
“Minerva is correct, Sir William. This particular jockey has a very special appearance,” Elizabeth said, enjoying the dramatic suspense being created around the table. “I should have been a director,” she mused to herself.
“Yes?” Sir William said, impatiently.
“William,” Tish interceded, seeing the need to soften his reaction, “he looks something like a famous movie star. I have been admiring him through my binoculars for many seasons now.”
“Oh,” Sir William said.
“To continue, Saturday night the three of us went to the Red Mile simulcasts.”
“I . . .”
“You were busy with the French, William, or we would certainly have asked you to accompany us,” Tish said.
“I didn't mean that,” he apologized.
“To make a long story short; we found the Colin Firth/Hugh Grant look alike. His name is Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Sir William almost jumped from his chair, he was so aghast, “Fitzwilliam Darcy! Surely not!” he protested.
“Why not, William?” Tish inquired.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy is a much respected horse owner and, I might add, a gentleman. He is also from a most respectable central Kentucky family and is quite well off. He would gain little by stealing horses and lose much, if apprehended.”
“True, William, but you once described him as a Robin Hood, I believe,” Tish said.
“Yes, well, in jest, I believe I did.”
“William, we think he is in reality a Robin Hood-type figure.”
“In what way?”
“We believe that Mr. Darcy and his associates-in-crime kidnapped the horses, not for personal profit, but rather to establish and finance a deep-pocketed charity, which is dedicated to assisting jockeys and horse farm laborers, after they are no longer viable employees, and to save horses that no one wants anymore from certain death,” Tish explained.
“Phenomenal!” Mary exclaimed, a new movie in her psyche.
“I'm sure everyone remembers Jimmy Joyce reporting at my house on the Tuesday before his death that there are serious mumblings about the ill-treatment jockeys and hot walkers receive from their industry: no health insurance, no retirement benefits, poor compensation, etc.,” Elizabeth added.
“Yes, I've read some of those same articles,” Dr. Thomas said.
“Also, Daddy, you and Mother are certainly well aware of the all too oft mistreatment of horses, as they get too old to race.”
“Certainly,” Francine said. “It is one of our ongoing fights.”
“Well, we think Mr. Darcy is a humanitarian, who stole the horses to accrue funds quickly, from sources he believes negligent, in order to spearhead a new direction for the men and the horses.”
“How extraordinary!” stated Sir William.
“It makes me wish I had thought of it,” attested Jane.
“Tish, your turn.” Elizabeth nodded in her direction, signaling their prior arrangement to now turn the expose' over to Tish. “Tell them about your little trip to Lancaster.”
“On Monday Minerva and I took a fishing expedition to Lancaster. Mr. Darcy's primary residence is in Garrard County, although he also owns a beautiful farm near London in Laurel County.”
“Down near Corbin too,” Sir William said, remembering his recent expedition down that way on I-75.
“And you are right, William; just the mention of Mr. Darcy's name anywhere in
Garrard County causes the church bells to ring. He is not only renowned for his handsome good looks, although those admirers are many, and his great wealth, but he is held in highest esteem for his munificence and his philanthropy.
“Mr. Darcy is a successful harness racer, who races his own standardbreds and those of friends. He is often out of state racing, as he was last Saturday when we found him on the race card at the Meadowlands.”
“Yes,” inserted Sir William, “I believe Fitzwilliam Darcy is a gentleman racer, in that he does not make a living at it. He is a man living his dream—a man who has turned his avocation into his vocation—one of the lucky ones.”
“He is indeed a spectacular racer. He demonstrated his skills for Minerva and me at his own ring.”
“Extraordinary!”
“We thought so,” Minerva said.
“Apparently according to the local scuttlebutt, Mr. Darcy supports his racing fever with his earnings—that is, his expenses and possibly the maintenance and transport of his horses, but he actually has a very substantial trust fund which finances his farm and his lifestyle.”
“Yes,” remembered Sir William, “I have always heard that the Darcys of Lancaster were independently wealthy. His mother was a supremely beautiful woman and very wealthy in her own right, the Fitzwilliams as I remember.”
“The Fitzwilliams are from Laurel County,” Tish said.
“Unless, of course, he has had a serious reversal,” Sir William inserted.
“We doubt it, William. We think that the kidnappings were a simple charity drive, like Francine and her speeches in Timbuktu,” Tish said.
“Minerva,” Elizabeth said, signaling Minerva to take over.
“Sir Lucas—”
“Sir William, please.”
“Sir William, we checked carefully, and, although Mr. Darcy was riding in New Jersey this past Saturday, he was not riding the week-ends of the thefts or the returns. He comes and goes between Kentucky and New Jersey/ New York/ Toronto, especially in January and February and early March, but he was not riding the two key week-ends.”
“That is, we realize, Sir William, not definitive proof of his complicity, but, on the other hand, does not allow for his exoneration either,” Elizabeth said.
“And we believe that we have proof of Mr. Darcy's sincere humanitarian leanings because of Twin Spirals,” continued Elizabeth.
“Twin Spirals?”
“Twin Spirals Farms in Laurel County belongs to Mr. Darcy and his sister, an inheritance apparently from their mother's side. It is a spectacularly beautiful farm nestled down near London and Corbin, and, Sir William, it is approximately one thousand acres of prime Kentucky bluegrass, which Mr. Darcy and his sister are in the process of deeding to their philanthropic endeavor for jockeys and horses.”
“Impressive to be sure. And you know it to be beautiful?”
“Yes, yesterday we went there,” Elizabeth said.
“You what!” exclaimed the alarmed Kitty.
“Minerva and Tish found out in Lancaster about Mr. Darcy's sponsorship of the charity at the farm. I located it on the internet. So naturally we needed to see it first-hand, so we could do a fuller report tonight,” Elizabeth said.
“Lizzy, are you sure that was wise?” Kitty asked. “Those men could be dangerous.”
“Now, Kitty, I hardly think that is likely,” said her mother. “In view of the explanation that this mission is one with such good intentions, I'd say the opposite is more likely.”
“Yes, and remember, according to Akins' statement, the ‘guv’ when he sent Akins back to detain Clancey specifically ordered him not to hurt Clancey.”
“It does rather start to fall into place, doesn't it?” reasoned Sir William. “Darcy comes to Claysmount, not Harrisfield, the more familiar Lancaster establishment, where he might be recognized.”
“There appear to be a large number of humanitarians out there,” snorted Gage, skeptically.
“I would venture to guess that the retired jockeys and the stable lads did the other nine. They would be selected by their internal knowledge of specific farms. Really quite brilliant. Many would have an inexpensive and nondescript horse van. All it took was the lifting of license plates from the back of lots for their temporary use,” Sir William guessed.
“There's your inside job! And only the unlucky Darcy is spotted, thanks to Clancey and, according to Tish, his own incredible good looks.”
“And, William,” Tish said, “Mr. Darcy has no idea he has been spotted by an old bird-watching lady with binoculars. He doesn’t know that he didn't get away free and clear.”
“Do you know JUUUMP, Sir William?” Elizabeth asked.
“I've heard of it,” he said.
“It is an organization which solicits funds for jockeys. It may or may not be connected with the thefts, but it is supported by men like Mr. Darcy. It might bear looking into.”
“I want to add, William,” Tish said, “that the enterprise at Twin Spirals is very inspirational. I am seriously considering either modeling my Laurel Acres project after it or even becoming a subsidiary.”
“Then I certainly need to become more educated on the charity, so that I may give you the benefit of my advice,” he said with a warm smile.
“I'd appreciate it, William.”
“So, Sir William, what do we do next?” Elizabeth requested.
“I have been sitting here thinking, as you’ve talked. Of course I want Francine's and Doc's input, as well as Maria's, but my personal inclination is to start by getting more information on the Twin Spirals operation. I'd like to be sure it is legitimate and not some nefarious cover. Then, if the project is authentic, I'd like to consult the other owners to see if some compromise cannot be reached between us and Mr. Darcy, before the insurance companies become financially involved.
“So for a starting point, Tish, I’d appreciate it if you would obtain not only specific financial details about the Twins Spirals project, but also material information on the day to day administration of the enterprise—costs, overrides, personnel, care of the horses, all the etcetera’s. Call Mr. Smithson. Have him e-mail you all the details of the operation. Then we can assess together, if you wish, whether or not the venture is conducted in a both a professional and humane manner. You need this particular data for your own sake, as well as Fitzwilliam Darcy’s, since you anticipate possibly linking up with him. In short, find out if this is a good fit for the initiative you have already planned. If you are satisfied, I shall be also.
“Kitty, I want you to be sure the funds haven’t landed in an illegitimate account somewhere, on or off shore. Maria, you, Mary and Jane need to seriously look into the humanitarian goals of the Darcy enterprise and JUUUMP. Call Mr. Darcy and ask him for information.
“My job will be to convince the owners that we need to make an exceedingly generous donation to Mr. Darcy's charity. If we get our money back, I feel certain of success. However, we must be expeditious. Insurance companies fortunately drag their feet, but they do eventually pay up. So we must act prior to their remuneration. If the insurance companies are not involved, we can refuse to press charges. That takes the police out of it. We might just have an offer that Mr. Darcy cannot afford to refuse.”
“Then we need to analyze the gathered information immediately,” Dr. Thomas said.
“Yes, time is of the essence.”
“Tish, as soon as the data is all in, you and I will be paying Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy a visit,” Sir William said.
“William, I am glad you have taken this approach,” Tish responded with evident regard in her voice.
“Did you doubt I would?”
“No, not for a moment,” she said in a tone only the deaf could mistake.
Elizabeth was amazed. Sir William had planned and organized the whole response in ten minutes.
But Elizabeth was more astounded at herself. For all of her thirty years, Tish and Sir William had been her dear friends. They had been in love with each othe
r for about ten of those years. “I never suspected they were lovers. I am not only no detective, I must also be as dense as a board fence,” she decided.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Claire had agreed to teach a couple of Jimmy Joyce's classes for the rest of the semester, and other faculty members had volunteered to handle the rest. Elizabeth was one of the volunteers.
It was an easy assignment. All Elizabeth had to do was show up and read Jimmy Joyce's beautifully prepared lectures, assign homework and leave. Elizabeth would never presume to change one word of Dr. Carstairs' lectures on James Joyce.
The search was on for a full replacement for the fall semester, but the task was Herculean. Jimmy Joyce had been a giant in his field.
After her own Saturday class, Elizabeth made a monumental decision. She would visit Claire Evans Carstairs on her way home. It had now been four weeks since the kidnappings and over three since Jimmy Joyce's death. She had not seen Claire since last Saturday, when she had been so summarily, and even rudely, dismissed. Elizabeth had actually left that day never expecting to return. However, she understood that she would be working at EKU with Claire, and besides Elizabeth’s very nature forbade such an un-neighborly attitude.
Claire still lived across the street. She had brutally lost her husband. Claire's manner since had not been friendly or appealing it was true. However, did Elizabeth know how she would herself respond under similar circumstances? Wouldn't she too feel like striking out? Might not she too zone off into an arena of craziness, like Claire, but one from which she, Elizabeth Francine Bennet, might never return?
“Let's face it, gal. You are as high strung as they come.”
She encouraged herself also with “You and Claire are as different as two individuals can be, so you will not ever be great friends. That is alright. But you will do what is right. You were brought up better than to pout about an indignity like some character out of Poe's ‘Cask of Amontillado.’ You will visit.”
Hence with great determination to behave well, Elizabeth veered into Claire's drive. Claire was in the yard and waved with great energy, as Elizabeth glided her car to a stop.