Alias Thomas Bennet

by Suzan Lauder

  “But you never asked!” exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, displaying some confusion. “Had I known you were curious, I would have had your father tell you about her. I would not be offended at your need to know.”

  “But we did not want you to worry that we felt her more important than you,” said Elizabeth.

  “You will always be our dearest Mama,” said Jane lovingly, “and we wanted you to know that.”

  The three shared a tearful hug. At length, Mrs. Bennet suggested that each daughter take some time alone to work out her feelings.

  “Thank you, Mama,” said Elizabeth. “I think a walk would suit me quite well under the circumstances. It will allow me to think about all I have learned today.” Mrs. Bennet and Jane expressed their agreement, and Elizabeth excused herself.

  As she ambled around the grounds of her home, Elizabeth wished she could get a glimpse into the future, to see what it would hold for her. She was already happily engaged to her beloved Fitzwilliam and anticipated their union with delight. She had known she would have to adjust to a life of greater wealth as his wife, but she had no expectation of bringing more than a paltry sum to her husband. Until now, she had felt a small amount of unworthiness to have so little to offer when Fitzwilliam could have married a woman with better connections and fortune, but she had brushed that away with his repeated declarations of love.

  She supposed that she ought to worry, as Jane did, about such changes, and for a moment, she felt agitated but then thought with amusement about how the Miss Bingleys and Lady Catherines of the world would receive her and Jane now that they were women of some consequence—in fact, of significantly higher standing than Miss Bingley and equal to Lady Catherine. She expected much more amiable acceptance from these ladies as well as from all others of her acquaintance, but hoped that she would not show excessive pride as she still considered herself Lizzy of Longbourn.

  She heard a gentle voice behind her and found herself being pulled into the arms of her betrothed. Laughing, she turned, snatched up his hand, and hastily led him to a bench hidden from view of most of the windows of the house. Elizabeth was soon curled comfortably beside him; she relished the contact. She would have been happy to stay that way, but he lifted her chin with one finger, and Elizabeth closed her eyes to the touch. He lovingly held her face in his hands as he kissed her eyes, her temples, and finally pulled her closer to him and lightly touched his lips against hers.

  They had not been able to find even a brief opportunity to be alone since Darcy proposed, but concealed in the garden, they were able to renew their passion. Elizabeth had not forgotten the deep kiss they shared that night; she relived that kiss every night in the privacy of her chambers and longed for the sensations within her body that his embrace had stimulated. Instinctively, she showed her intentions by running her tongue along the seam of his lips. Darcy deepened the kiss immediately. Her heart was racing as his hands moved along the curves of her body.

  Even if Elizabeth had not been swept away with a profound sense of anticipation that was unfamiliar to her, she would never be able to sufficiently articulate what was happening to her body as it reacted to his attentions. As Darcy ran his lips along her jawline to her ear, she struggled to catch her breath and collect her wits, but it was in vain. The feel of his hot breath and soft lips on her sensitive skin resulted in a shudder running through her body, and a little choked moan came from her throat. Embarrassed by her reaction, she pulled back and covered her mouth with her hand, but it only made Darcy more amorous. He gently drew her hand away and returned his hungry lips to hers.

  Some minutes later, he pulled away and just held her close to him. He tucked her head to his chest and, after a few moments, began to speak.

  “Darling, I hope the news of this morning did not upset you,” he said hesitantly. She sensed his concern and wondered about it. She tried to reassure him that, although she had been surprised, she was not unhappy about the news.

  “I admit I was not unaffected, but for the most part, it was pleasant to hear, was it not?”

  “It was good news,” said Darcy.

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Are you discontent that I was aware of the particulars before you were?”

  “Of course not, Fitzwilliam, how could I be?” she cried, and looked up at him. “You inherited this as one of your many responsibilities, and you could not have possibly known that Jane and I were the Shelton ladies. You said you did not even know who our guardian was or that our names had been changed.”

  “You do not understand. Your father said that he was assured by me that I had intended to propose prior to knowing your situation. This was not the first time I heard it, my love. I knew all of it on the day of our betrothal. The solicitors and your father disclosed your identity before I proposed.”

  “When you proposed, you already knew I was Lady Elizabeth and had a substantial fortune?” She pulled back, attempting to make eye contact, but he had bowed his head and looked embarrassed.

  “I did.”

  “Was that the reason for that nonsense about my family’s low connections and marrying below your station?” she asked. “Did you not say that you had to overcome your pride before you offered for me?”

  She was slightly disappointed with him for that part of the proposal, and it had been niggling at her. She knew enough of his character to understand his frankness and that he had not meant to be unkind, but it bothered her nonetheless.

  “I am ashamed to admit that I did hesitate to offer for you because I thought it was my duty to meet my family’s expectations in my choice of marriage partner,” he said in a voice full of contrition.

  She eyed him suspiciously as she reflected that she previously had not been, but was now, the perfect choice for his family and society’s prejudiced views on a match based on fortune and rank. She was still uncertain how she felt about this revelation but hopeful that he might provide an acceptable explanation. He raised his face and looked at her with pleading eyes.

  “I have been in love with you for a long time; you must have seen it,” he continued earnestly. “I struggled for some time with this. While I was away from Hertfordshire last winter, not a day went by that I did not miss your intelligence, your wit, your vivacity. Our constant interactions in Kent made me realize my mistake, and I was dreadfully sorry not to have paid you proper court. Being with you convinced me that I wanted a marriage of affection, a marriage to you. You must have suspected my intentions the previous day when I very nearly declared myself before Mrs. Collins and Miss Lucas interrupted us. I had planned to propose to you properly at the next available opportunity, but I could not find a private time until after I received the letters.”

  She had to admit that she had hoped, even expected, that he was intending to propose soon after that occasion. She let him continue.

  “As I told you in my proposal,” he said, “you are the most challenging and enchanting woman of my acquaintance, and my love has been eclipsed by the deepest passion I now feel for you. I offered for you—not Lady Elizabeth, not your fortune—just as I hope you accepted me with your love alone for the man that I am.”

  The words were lovely and just the reassurance she needed. She saw he was truly remorseful and realized that, since he loved her so very much, she could accept the effort he made to overcome his pride. She thought it would make him easy if her forgiveness was presented with the type of repartee they had so enjoyed in the past.

  “You are beginning to sound more like the latter part of your proposal,” she said archly, “especially where you said you found me challenging and enchanting. Now, if only you would admit that you are awed by my superior intelligence. That would be a perfect apology that I could easily accept.”

  “I can continue in that regard,” he said with a wry smile. “My love has been deep and constant almost from the first time you won an argument with me.”

  She laughed and snuggled back into his arms.

  “Please forgive me, my love,” he s
aid seriously.

  “Fitzwilliam, I know your intentions were always honourable. You are the sort of man who would never allow yourself anything less, so I must forgive you for both of us.”

  “You are not angry with me?”

  “No, my love, all is well,” she said and tilted her head up for a kiss.

  Chapter 18:

  Bennet discovers some eavesdropping and remembers young love.

  April 1812

  Longbourn

  Bennet was returning to Longbourn with his steward after resolving a tenant dispute when Mr. Akuete decided to speak on a matter that had been agitating him for several days.

  “Mr. Bennet, the other day, Mrs. Akuete and I were walking past the house, and we noticed Miss Lucas outside your library. At first I thought nothing of it, but Mrs. Akuete admitted to me yesterday that she thought it odd that Miss Lucas was there without one of your daughters accompanying her.”

  “What day was this, Akuete?”

  “I think it was the day after you spoke with me about commencing our experiments on explosive chemistry. Was it Monday?”

  Bennet was concerned because that was the day he had exposed Jane’s and Elizabeth’s fortunes. He had known the Akuetes were near, but they had passed by before he disclosed his own secret identity. How much could Maria Lucas have heard?

  “Did you confront her?”

  “No, sir, we were preoccupied by our own concerns. Mrs. Akuete had just informed me that we are to expect a grandchild in the next few months. You can imagine that the joy caused me not to pay as much attention as I normally would.”

  “Congratulations, Akuete!” Bennet cried out, grinning and shaking Akuete’s hand and slapping his steward on the back.

  “Thank you, sir!”

  Bennet became serious. “We were having a rather important discussion regarding Lady Jane and Lady Elizabeth’s inheritance. Do you think she was spying on us?”

  “I cannot know for sure, sir. It appeared as though she was coming out of the shrubbery as we passed by, but it may have been an innocent coincidence. If I see her listening by a window at Longbourn again, I will speak with her rather than just passing her by.”

  “I appreciate that, Akuete. Thank you for informing me.”

  “I wish I had thought of it sooner. You have Mrs. Akuete to thank, as she encouraged me to tell you. She was disconcerted that Miss Lucas was so close to that window. What reason can she have?”

  “As you say, it may just be a coincidence, though I hope she will not talk about our private affairs. Her mother is a gossip.”

  ***

  Bennet was concerned. The world would know soon enough of his daughters’ circumstances, whether by gossip from the Lucases or from the impending announcement of the engagements in the London papers.

  But what of his own identity? Had Maria Lucas heard that disclosure? Even though the Akuetes had passed by before he had told his daughters about his true identity, he knew not how long Maria had lingered. And he could not ask without raising suspicions. His brow furrowed with anxiety.

  And he had other worries on his mind. He would have to deal with the headache of every father regarding suitors: ensuring a strict chaperone for the two betrothed couples. He chuckled when he thought of Bingley’s courtship of Jane. Bingley was so eager to please that he would not disappoint Bennet with improper behaviour prior to the wedding. Jane had a similar disposition and was averse to being displeased with others while equally desirous to gratify their wishes. They would happily comply with his expectations; he would not even have to feign a stern attitude.

  He grimaced as he thought of the other couple. Darcy and Elizabeth were the ones he had to watch. Bennet knew that his friend was loyal and respectful, but he had witnessed their fiery exchanges and knew that the two shared a magnetic attraction that would be hard to contain should they find any time to themselves. Elizabeth was much like her birth mother, and Bennet recalled the lusty ardour that accompanied his betrothal to Lady Olivia, of her enthusiastic response to his amorous advances, of the kissing and touching and rubbing and liberties that fell only slightly short of total deflowering.

  It had been so different with Fanny. Bennet smiled wistfully as he recalled his history with her.

  ***

  1793

  Hamilton, Bermuda

  When I first met Fanny Bennet, she was as quiet as a church mouse and clung to her husband as if he were a lifeline. She rarely raised her eyes to me, but when she did, I was fascinated with her. I knew she was subdued because of the loss of her parents and also thought that she was naturally very shy. But I later learned that her spirit had been broken by the brutal assault of Lord Malcolm. It explained why she was always guarded with me and why her reactions to strangers on the ship demonstrated her fear of men.

  My friendship with the real Bennet, and hers with my daughters, warmed her a little toward me. But when we first married, she treated me with wariness until she was convinced that I was sincere about the marriage being one of convenience and I would not impose upon her. I was determined to show her that I could be her friend and not a man who would take advantage of her youth and naïvety.

  It had taken me some time to draw her out of her shell, but once she gained confidence, her lively character blossomed before my eyes. She was a good companion even though her intelligence was no match for my own. She was energetic when excited, sometimes breaking into fits of nerves when overwhelmed, but fortunately I learned how to sooth her back into a sense of contentment.

  She had a love for fashion, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of a new gown. She was still shy with strangers, and I knew she would never completely be without caution with other men, but she was able to become an exceptionally good lady of the house for one who seemed so meek. Her sweet disposition brought her the love of not only my daughters, but also of the servants.

  While I had been drawn to Fanny, I was also mourning my daughters’ mother, whom I loved achingly, infinitely and undoubtedly. It was a long time before I stopped losing tears over the loss of my Olivia, especially when the girls reminded me of her.

  Both marriages were supposed to be of convenience.

  My marriage to Lady Olivia was arranged by our parents, but I had loved her from early in our youth and proposed to her upon my return from Oxford. She was a good mother, but as with other women of her station, she left most of the day-to-day interaction with the children to the nurse. As the long-anticipated second child, Olivia had been spoiled not only by her parents, but also by her sister, who was nine years her senior. It left her vain, proud, and demanding of attention. Sometimes she could be like a petulant child, but she was a strong and vibrant woman, and I loved pampering her.

  My marriage to Fanny was to protect her from sceptical whisperings in her widowhood after a questionably quick wedding followed by a child born too early, and to give me a new life and leave the sadness and anger of my past behind me.

  Fanny had a special relationship with Jane and Elizabeth from the first day she met them on our fateful voyage. She sang to them and doted on them. She spent as much time, no, more time than the nurse did with my children. I found it wondrous how little Jenny had taken to Fanny so easily. She reached out to be picked up and comforted whenever she saw Fanny, and Fanny obliged her every time, but just long enough to satisfy the child’s need for a mother, then putting her down and encouraging her independence by asking her to retrieve objects. She would ask Jenny simple questions, encouraging the shy child to open up and learn to speak with others. Fanny delighted the child by playing silly games and indulging Jane’s need for repetitive actions that would have frustrated most gently-born women, leading them to abandon the activity and retreat to the drawing room away from childish folly.

  She was a natural mother and held wee Elizabeth and cooed to her, played finger games with her, and urged her to learn to crawl. When her baby was born, I watched Fanny nurse both Mary and Baby Beth, a task shared with Mrs. Jones, so that she c
ould have that special bond with both girls. As the girls grew older, she nurtured them but also helped them to embrace their independence.

  We never spoke of Mary’s natural father or the horror that preceded her conception. Mary Rose, loved as well as her sisters, had been named after her Gardiner and Bennet grandmothers, just as Jane Elinor and Elizabeth Anne had each been named after one of theirs, with their middle names coming from their godmothers. Mary started to walk and talk at a young age, just like her sisters. As they grew, all three girls showed signs of remarkable intelligence.

  Fanny and I became friends that year. We had the children and our newness in this odd country and culture in common. We built a home, with servants added to those I had brought from England. I hated the heat, and ice was almost non-existent and very dear, but the housekeeper, a local woman named Mrs. Akuete, taught Fanny to lay wet cloths on my forehead and chest in my chambers when it was most unbearable. I saw to the business interests that sustained our finances, and Fanny saw to the household.

  She had very little education beyond that to recommend her as a wife and felt herself to have a weak mind. But I was convinced that even a simple, sweet creature like Fanny Bennet should be educated beyond drawing room manners. Although Fanny was reluctant to question information, she had proven capable of learning and became more than just a woman who could keep a good table and well-run house. I read books to her every evening, improving her mind, and tried to teach her a little French and Italian.

  I had no doubt at all that I had fallen in love with her. Of her feelings I was less certain. I knew she felt indebted to me, respected me as her husband, admired my mind, and had come to trust in my judgment and my dedication to her protection.

  Then one night she came to me, all innocent and wide-eyed in her best nightgown and robe, her unbound golden hair haloed by the firelight. I had been reading and was clad only in breeches and shirt, having not yet changed for bed. She walked up to me and touched the skin on my neck, looking at it as if it were something new and wondrous. I closed my eyes at her gentle touch. She ran her fingers up my cheek, and I turned my head and kissed her palm.