Darcy Meets Elizabeth In Kentucky

by Glenna Mason

  Seeking to change the subject, Elizabeth, still sitting in front of the mirror inquired, “What are you wearing, my love?”

  “Why, black tie,” he said with assurance.

  “Of course, then it is the lavender chiffon for me, but no lavender silk tie or handkerchief for you.”

  “Lizzy?”

  Elizabeth opened the dressing table drawer and laid her small lavender and gold purchases out on the glass top table. “I'll just put these away for another day,” she said.

  Darcy admired the gifts, which had kept Elizabeth a little longer in Lexington and out of Claire's clutches. For the truth be known, and he had no intention of mentioning it to his wife, Claire had not been gone five minutes when Elizabeth returned.

  Touching the soft silk and glancing up to see Elizabeth's sparkling eyes in the mirror, as she now applied lavender eye shadow and liner, which was turning her exquisite eyes a soft purple, Darcy, pleased, said, “Thank you, Lizzy; they are beautiful. Would you wear your lavender again as soon as next Friday or Saturday? We could dine in style at the country club with both of us in lavender.”

  Powdering a small shiny spot on her nose, Elizabeth gazed at Darcy through her image in the mirror. “Certainly,” she replied. “We will dress in lavender next Friday or Saturday, but it will be at your beautiful home in Lancaster. We spend the week-ends there you know.”

  Elizabeth thought silently, finally saying, “As to the night, why don't you consult Richard and Gilbert to see if they are free either of those dates? Maybe we can institute that couple's dinner night we spoke of at Sir William's party.”

  “You are the most wonderful woman.”

  He softly eased the robe from her shoulders, sliding her arms out so that it fell in her lap. “And luscious,” he said. Darcy leaned over and kissed Elizabeth on her now bare neck, sending a noticeable shiver sensuously down her spine.

  Darcy bent over and whispered something breathily into Elizabeth's ear, as he smoothly ran his finger down the center of her back to the base of her spine, titillating the shiver into a near swoon, all the time studying her reflection in the mirror, in front of which she still sat, her small breasts moving up and down with the increased passion of her now audible breaths.

  “Oh, Fitzwilliam, I adore you,” was all Elizabeth could say. All the emotion of the near encounter with the malicious Claire now refocused into a passionate response to the enticements Darcy was presenting to her mind and body. She suddenly stood, swinging around, unlatched the robe's belt so that it fell noiselessly to the floor behind her. Elizabeth then moved a step closer to Darcy, her eyes mesmerizing him. She untied his robe, removed it from his shoulders and arms, leaning her bare body into his, as she dropped the robe behind him.

  Breathing in tandem, alternately deep and shallow, Elizabeth and Darcy wrapped their arms around each other for a long, ardent kiss. Then Darcy, breaking the spell, he had so expertly wove, clasped Elizabeth by the shoulders, saying, “And I adore you! Now let us get dressed so that we can have dinner with our friends and return later to our bed.”

  *****

  At Tish's on Saturday, the bride, in a tea length wine red classic lace, knocked it out of the park. Rubies sparkled in her ears, around her neck and especially on her left ring finger. Red roses were tied together with a bright red ribbon for her bouquet, gathered no doubt from her own beautiful rose garden.

  Trey again for the second time in a little over a month carried the rings on a silken pillow. This time he held a circle of rubies, created in record time, for Tish's finger and a solitary gold band with a single ruby for his grandfather, Sir William.

  Elizabeth followed Trey down the circular staircase in her daffodil yellow sheath, carrying a bouquet of yellow roses tinged with orange, gathered from one of her own rose gardens and tied prettily with orange ribbon.

  Maria was radiant in apple green chiffon, as she escorted Tish down the spiral staircase, handing the bride to her father at the foot of the stairs, with tears of happiness in her sweet eyes. Her father was standing at the foot with Darcy, both in summer tuxedos with white jackets and black trousers.

  The couple turned and walked the few steps to the kneeler in front of their Episcopal minister.

  Libby Bell and Millie Kay had baskets of multi-colored rose petals to toss at the couple. They had had a grand time this morning decapitating scores of their mother's roses.

  The reception was in Tish's sumptuous garden. Only a few neighbors were invited, but all of the Jackson Boulevard neighbors were, including the Taylor boys and their parents, the Andersons, Jackson Jones, Monsieur Chevalier and whoever was currently visiting the Frenchman.

  Tish and Sir William were going off on a brief Greek cruise, culminating in a one week stay on Naxos, returning just after Labor Day. They were ecstatically happy, holding hands, while greeting guests at the tea table, which featured everything but tea.

  Strings had been playing since a half hour before the ceremony began; they also accompanied Darcy when he sang “The Lord's Prayer” during the wedding Eucharist. The quintet of violins, viola and cello now continued at a small dance floor, added for the occasion. After all the guests were welcomed, Sir William invited Tish to the dance, and they performed with all the elegance of Astaire and Rogers, each looking lovingly into the other's eyes the whole dance, a couple at last. When the dance ended, everyone applauded and the newlyweds bowed.

  The party was a lovely success, as friends and family happily celebrated the wedding of the special couple.

  Sir William had rewritten his will to ensure that Tish had everything she could ever desire during her lifetime, and that she had full control of half of the Stantonfield estate, the other half going to his three children. Tish was free to do with her half as she wished on her death, but everyone understood that, without heirs of her own, the majority of it, less charitable donations, would undoubtedly revert back to Maria, John, Charlotte and any grandchildren, present or future.

  In fact Tish had rewritten her will also, leaving everything to Sir William and his heirs, after the house and property were deeded to the Laurel Acres Legacy Foundation. She had set aside a sizable amount to begin the purchase of endangered horses by the foundation and to get her portion of the endeavor off the ground. However, even after the donation, Tish, exceedingly wealthy in her own right aside from the house and land, brought a substantial fortune to the marriage.

  As she danced with Darcy, Tish explained, “I am going to devote all my energies to William. I have waited most of a lifetime for this moment, and I intend to savor and relish it. William and I, of course, will assist you in managing the Foundation. As Board Members and interested investors and friends, we want to, but, Darcy, it is your baby now. Take Laurel Acres; fill it with threatened horses and their tenders. The Popes will be elated, bless their long dead souls.” With that she planted a giant kiss on her husband's best man's mouth. “I always wanted to kiss Colin Firth or Hugh Grant,” she said with a grin.

  “Yes, ma'am,” Darcy agreed and returned the kiss with éclat. “I know Kitty is working with my cousin and attorney—you met him, Richard Fitzwilliam—on the details. By the time y'all return it should be ready for your signature.”

  “I've already signed the will, so if I die of too much loving on one of those sunny Greek Isles, it's still a done deal, Darcy.” The dance ended and she patted his cheek. Darcy escorted her back to Sir William.

  Having gotten home too late last night, tonight Elizabeth sat down in front of the dressing table in her terry cloth robe and waited for Darcy. When he entered in his, she spoke quietly, “Shall we try again?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  As planned Elizabeth and Darcy drove to Lancaster for Sunday and Sunday night. Elizabeth stood aside, soaking in Darcy's pleasure as he rambled from stall to stall, chatting with his horses, giving them apples from the basket Elizabeth had loaded into the back seat of his car. She listened as he joked and slapped high fives with his stable crew. Elizabeth mo
ved quietly beside him, as she watched her husband wander about his elegant home, touching this or that book, or one of the many framed pictures of his mother. She encouraged him to go alone to his upstairs den/office to sit for a couple of hours alone, doing whatever it was men do in their private space.

  The couple sat in Darcy's beautiful flower garden that evening, when the August heat finally abated some, reminiscing in the same setting of their wedding a few weeks ago, sipping his homemade lemonade.

  “I believe that Tish told me that you made lemonade for her and Minerva that first afternoon any of us knew you.”

  “Why, I'd forgotten, but, yes, I did.”

  “They came home and talked of little else but the enchanting Fitzwilliam Darcy. I couldn't fathom such a paragon of magnificence. So I had to—well, show up at your doorstep too.”

  “Thank God,” they joyfully agreed in unison.

  *****

  Elizabeth had designated Tuesday after morning rounds at the barn as her READ CLAIRE'S CHAPTERS THREE and FOUR time. She then intended to return them immediately after. This time Elizabeth had decided not to mail them. Enough was enough. Elizabeth was going to inform Claire that after Five and Six she wanted no more input or association with the novel.

  Since Claire was to now be an artist-in-residence at EKU and would be in the same department as she, Elizabeth preferred to avoid open hostility, but she also did not want Claire to think that she was available for consultation or even friendship either. Elizabeth decided to introduce Claire to two faculty members, who were much more skilled in creative writing than she. That would be her offer Tuesday. No more delay. She did not want Chapters Seven and Eight appearing at her door.

  So after barn duty and shower, Elizabeth took the chapters out of her desk. She wanted this over with.

  Chapter Three commenced with a description of an old hay truck, stored in a no longer used tobacco barn, which was located at the end of a gravel drive in the back forty of the farm. The truck, battered and mostly useless, was kept in operational condition by the husband of the narrator, who was also the deranged wife, so that the few times a year hay was baled in the back fields, the truck could be used to bring it forward to the horse barn, which was in a front field.

  The husband apparently tinkered with the truck periodically, as men were apt to do, and also drove it up and down the gravel lane a few times a month, so that its engine would not lock up and the tires would not rot. He maintained a sufficient supply of gas in a tank in the barn to last several baling seasons. This scenario allowed the couple the leisure from having to invest in another vehicle. No one except the couple and farm hands hired randomly at baling time knew of the truck's existence. Why should anyone?

  The plot started into rising action as there was an ugly exchange between the husband and wife, regarding an enterprise of his that she considered foolish. He had been spending hours on his computer—amateurishly trying to solve a local crime—the theft of a thoroughbred mare and foal.

  Elizabeth halted her reading and stared for a few seconds, mind numb, out the veranda doors, seeing nothing, her mind not in gear. Then she recommenced the chapter. The wife often monitored the husband's e-mails, suspecting him of illicit pursuits. The wife was not sure what she was looking for, but believed it was a sexual liaison, an affair with the unmarried neighbor, who just happened to live across the street and who also incidentally worked with the husband in the university English Department.

  Elizabeth shrieked out loud, when she got to that part. Then she automatically clasped her hand over her mouth. “Thank goodness, Fitzwilliam is out,” she said.

  “No wonder Claire is insistent that I read this. She's literally accusing me of adultery with her husband and wants me to know it.”

  Now solidly hooked, Elizabeth read on.

  The fight raged on for days until one night, after the husband had gone to bed and the wife was accessing his e-mails, she found irrefutable evidence of a clandestine assignation with another woman, and for the next afternoon, a blogger named Mickey's Mine, a Minnie somebody she was sure.

  Elizabeth gasped. “Claire was more astute than either Jimmy Joyce or I,” Elizabeth realized. “Claire picked up right away that M’sM was a woman. The intuition of a jealous wife, I guess.”

  The wife now comprehended that the seductress was not someone of her acquaintance, at least not this time anyway. This realization caused her to explode into an uncontrollable rage. The machinery of her unhinged mind ground out a diabolical plan. She had actually been stoking this scheme for weeks, even months, as her jealousy had intensified against her neighbor. Its implementation had, however, been almost impossible to achieve, but now that it was the husband who had become the recipient of the pent up animosity, the revenge became a focused, more viable option.

  The wife slipped from the house and walked across the fields, the moonlight supplemented by a large flashlight, to get the truck. The keys were as always in the ignition. None of their employees lived on the premises, so there was no one to observe her. She opened the old barn doors with great difficulty and then drove the truck down to the end of the gravel drive. There it was hidden from view by a stand of evergreen trees, but was in close proximity to the entrance of the main drive of the house and on a level parallel with the mail and paper boxes, which were located at the end of that driveway.

  “Oh, my God!”

  The wife sat in the truck for several hours, seething with madness and uncontrolled anger. Suddenly and inexplicably, a calm expression crossed her face; she walked satisfied up the main drive to her house.

  In the morning she was unusually congenial to her husband, fixing his coffee and kissing his cheek. He was happy when he took off down the drive for his morning run. The wife sneaked down the side lane and entered the truck, which she had conveniently left stowed the previous night on the small access road. When she perceived the husband nearing the end of his second jog, she revved the engine and pulled out on the main byway, timed perfectly to coincide with the moment he turned his back to get the paper from its box. Racing the rusty engine carelessly and picking up as much speed as the lumbering truck would allow, the wife ground purposely forward, striking her husband down, just as he swiveled to see what the commotion was, naturally aghast with a look of shocked consternation on his frightened face. He was flung across the driveway by the impact of the large vehicle. She backed over him when she was turning around to ensure that he was in fact dead, a smile of ecstatic eroticism consummated on her face. The wife calmly engineered the dilapidated truck back onto the gravel lane, latched the gate and returned the truck to its barn home.

  Closing the creaking doors of the ramshackle barn, she scurried home, showered, dressed as if for a casual day and waited. It was by now about seven forty-five and light. Most of the action had taken place in the dim light of a rising dawn.

  After a short interval, the wife called the police and a neighbor. By the time they arrived, the wife was feigning a state of mini-hysteria. Although actually narrowly on edge, the wife was nonetheless secretly pleased that she had once again successfully murdered a philandering husband.

  Elizabeth, her mouth now permanently agape, read on. Chapter Four was mild in comparison, describing in minute detail the arrival and the reaction of the police and the neighbors. The scenes were dramatic, as they were viewed through the eyes of the first person narrator, a series of crazed and unstable posturing. The neighbors were presented as fools and the police as even bigger fools, who hadn't the wit to recognize a murderer, when they were staring her in the face. The impact on the reader was powerful.

  The chapter ended evocatively, as the wife drove off the property to institute a search for the unsuspecting other woman. The wife had every intention of taking the husband's place at the rendezvous. It was a suspenseful place to stop, one which left the reader yearning to hurry on to the next chapter, important in a novel of intrigue and murder.

  Elizabeth was herself drawn to know what w
as next. She was sure Minerva was the other woman. Was the car crash that night an accident or an attempted homicide? Unfortunately Jane had Chapters Five and Six, and Jane was at work.

  Elizabeth scooted back in her chair, her head swimming with questions. “Did Claire kill Jimmy Joyce? Or is she fictionalizing his death?” Elizabeth still wasn't sure, but unlike her assessment after Chapters One and Two, she was now leaning toward the answer, “Yes, Claire, you killed Jimmy Joyce.”

  Elizabeth knew one thing for sure; she must find the barn and see if there was a truck in it, and if so, she must ascertain if there was any evidence of its having struck someone. If the truck had been used to kill Jimmy Joyce, there should be blood spatter on the fender, the chrome or perhaps the tires.

  But how could she find out? If Claire did kill Jimmy Joyce, she was dangerous. “I need to be very careful,” she said to herself. “I was apparently the first choice as victim, according to the innuendos in Chapter Three. Unbelievable!” Elizabeth ended her analysis with a slight shiver of fear.

  Then Elizabeth recalled the ravings of the madwoman about the murder of a second husband. Elizabeth realized she should start her inquiry with a little investigation into Claire's past, especially the death of her first husband. She could do that from the safety of her own home. Elizabeth remembered vaguely that Jimmy Joyce met Claire at a literary symposium in California. After a quick long distance romance, he married her about eight years ago. Claire, thirty-five years old, was a wealthy widow at the time. Elizabeth had never heard the circumstances of the first husband's death. She didn't even know if Claire Evans was a pen name, a maiden name or the name from her first marriage.

  Elizabeth decided to do a little spade work, Sam Spade style, right here and now. First she checked the computer for a biography; it told her nothing she didn't already know, so she called the publisher listed and requested that the company e-mail her a Claire Evans updated bio. She pretended to be a school librarian planning a retrospective on Dr. Carstairs and Miss Evans.