Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  She left the door open and started back up the stairs. “As you wish.”

  She perched on the settee, back ramrod straight, eyes like cold, winter rain.

  I sat beside her, laying the letters beside me. I reached over and cupped her chin, bringing her to face me. She looked away.

  “Jane, my dearest. You look so ill.”

  “I am well,” she lied. “I beg you, do not refer to me so intimately. It is not proper. Nor is it proper for you to be here.”

  “It is well and proper for me to call you by any term of endearment I wish—and to be alone with you—for you will soon be my wife. I have obtained my uncle’s blessing. We may marry as soon as you like, after the bans are read.”

  Her eyes snapped up to mine, glassy with tears, and her lips parted in shock.

  “Truly?” she whispered.

  “Truly.” I leaned into her, my very being responding as I remembered the rose and lavender scent of her, the feel of her skin like flower petals, the sound of her breathing as it caught in her throat and was released. I kissed her lips. “Relieve my suffering, Jane.” I ran my fingers into her hair and pulled a tendril of it out of its comb. “Be my wife.” I kissed her ear and whispered into it. “My mistress.” I embraced her. “The mother of my children.” Now I knelt in front of her, laying my head in her lap. “Forgive me. You are too good not to forgive me. You must end my torment and consent to be my wife.”

  “I…I…”

  I encircled my arms around her hips. “Remember what we have between us.” I traced the shape of her through her gown. “It cannot be denied. You are my destiny.”

  “I…I will have to write to Mrs. Smallridge.”

  I grinned into the folds of her skirt resting on her thigh. “Of course, my love.”

  I must admit, it was awkward to write to my father and stepmother, confessing all. My father was disappointed in me, particularly in the way I had paid attention to Miss Woodhouse while engaged to Miss Fairfax. He admonished me, saying that my mother would not have liked to see this side of me. I admitted—to him—that when seen in that light, it did look a might shabby and begged the forgiveness of him and my late mother, but I did not worry too much about it. I had never declared any feelings for Miss Woodhouse, and the lady did not harbor any for me, I was absolutely sure of that. I was not to blame if people assumed something that was not true. The lady of Hartfield seemed wholly nonplussed when she and I discussed my engagement. To her credit, Miss Woodhouse congratulated me, was very complimentary of my choice of wife, and very shrewd when she astutely commented, “You are the child of good fortune, Mr. Frank Churchill, and no doubt about it.”

  Her own fortune was increased considerably, I noticed, when she married Knightley that next autumn. I always had the inclination to believe her heart was unlikely to be touched and marrying a man sixteen years her senior confirmed that suspicion.

  * * *

  So, that is the tale of my journey from gentleman rogue to honest man, with the ending of the story just as my mother always hoped. Jane and I have been married seven years now and have two sons: ages six and four, and our two-year-old daughter. As I predicted, Jane has become the mistress of Enscombe, following the sudden death of my uncle two years ago. The new Mrs. Churchill is beloved by all at the estate, and she finally has the home she always wanted. In fact, she never wants to leave it—not for a Season in Town, nor a holiday trip to the seaside, nor for any damn thing at all.

  And that, my friends, explains why I am just this morning arrived in Bath, to take the waters and see my friends Hayward and Dixon. We are spending the evening in the home of Hayward’s brother, relaxing in the gentlemen’s room after dinner, enjoying brandy and cigars as we contemplate the various places Fate has led us.

  When it is time to join the ladies, I hear the murmur of female voices, a sirens’ song to me still, after all these years. As we enter the room, a young woman plays the beginning strains of “Robin Adair”, and I am swept away. Her voice is impeccable, her playing enjoyable, her figure beautiful. There is a joy in her expression that speaks of a romantic, sensual nature, and I lean over to Hayward and ask, “Who is that lady at the pianoforte?”

  “She is Lady Windmere, widow of Lord Windmere.”

  “Charming.” As I listen to her sing, I imagine what it must be like to be the man who puts that look of ecstasy on her face. When she finishes the song, I turn to Hayward: “Lady Windmere. I think perhaps I knew her husband. Might I request an introduction to the lady?”

  KAREN M COX is an award-wining author of four novels accented with romance and history: 1932, Find Wonder in All Things, Undeceived, and I Could Write a Book, as well as an e-book novella companion to 1932, The Journey Home. She also contributed short stories for the anthologies Sun-Kissed: Effusions of Summer and The Darcy Monologues. Originally from Everett, Washington, Karen now lives in Central Kentucky with her husband, works as a pediatric speech pathologist, encourages her children, and spoils her granddaughter. Like Austen’s Emma, Karen has many hobbies and projects she doesn’t quite finish, but like Elizabeth Bennet, she aspires to be a great reader and an excellent walker. Click to connect with: Karen M Cox

  Novella VII

  One Fair Claim (none) Christina Morland

  SIR WALTER ELLIOT

  Never was there a more vain-glorious character. Affected by money and rank, Sir Walter was forever pandering to fashion and his selfish pleasures. After the death of his wife, his profligacy, left unchecked, positioned his family and estate for pecuniary danger. Rousing contempt towards the lesser classes, the baronet disdained the Navy as well as the courtship of an ambitious officer to his middle daughter—much like he later abhorred letting his estate to an admiral: “I have two strong points of objection to it. First, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undo distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man’s youth and vigor most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man.” —Persuasion, Chapter III.

  Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter’s character; vanity of person and of situation. He had been remarkably handsome in his youth… —Persuasion, Chapter I.

  ONE FAIR CLAIM

  Christina Morland

  BATH, MARCH 1784

  It was one of those large, informal affairs in which no servant announced him, yet he had only to stand in the doorway to hear his name ripple through the assembly room. His ears, well-formed as all the rest of him, caught with delight that new syllable, that sibilant Sir, which now preceded the harder consonants of his name:

  Sir Walter Elliot.

  Yes, it had a noble ring to it and not just because of the title. His father, God rest his soul, had not carried his own name half so well, but then one could not expect a Sir Valentine Elliot to come off as anything except ridiculous. Sir Valentine had been the only Elliot of Kellynch Hall not to be given the name Walter, and this, Sir Walter felt certain, had been just one of the reasons why father and son had never quite seen eye to eye. (The many warts that had bloomed on Sir Valentine’s wrinkled, puffy eyelids had been another.)

  Though he had mourned his father’s recent death in all ways befitting a gentleman, Sir Walter had found it difficult to feel anything except relief knowing the family name (and image) had been restored to its rightful place of honor. Indeed, given his standing, he wondered whether he ought to be attending public assemblies at all; at least the black arm band he wore did not ruin the line of his coat!

  These gatherings were such loud, crowded affairs, quite unfashionable. But then, he was rather gratified by the many bows and curtseys he received (as was his due) as he made his way through the crush. Besides, he was a man with a purpose, one so significant he could overlook even the indignity of brushing elbows with the sons of nobodies.

  * * *

  Sir Walter Elliot was in love.

  * * *

  That is, he had found a woman he wish
ed to marry. Elizabeth Stevenson of South Park in Gloucester was not the most beautiful woman of his acquaintance, nor was her family name to be found in his copy of the Baronetage. But the Stevensons were an old family, quite respectable (not to mention wealthy), and Miss Stevenson’s complexion was so lovely that Sir Walter found himself utterly enchanted. No freckles, no lines, just a hint of pink that bloomed like a flower when she blushed. Let other men yearn for certain features just above and below the waist; Sir Walter wanted only pristine, smooth skin beneath his fingers.

  Fortunately, Miss Stevenson’s form was also passable, and her eyes were really quite striking, in a certain light. Her hair was dull and straight, hardly amenable to that halo of curls so many women wore these days—but then, not everyone could be perfect. As his valet had pointed out, there might be some value in having a wife with unremarkable hair, for it would set off the contrast with his own curls quite nicely.

  * * *

  Yes, Sir Walter Elliot was in love.

  * * *

  That is, he liked Miss Stevenson and her complexion well enough to bear the exclamations of surprise among his friends when they learned of his intentions.

  “Stevenson?” drawled the Viscount Dalrymple, a distant cousin who resided in Ireland but sometimes visited Bath to take the waters. “A mere Miss Stevenson, an everyday Miss Stevenson, of all the people and all the names in the world, to be the chosen friend of Sir Walter Elliot, and among the nobility of England and Ireland! Miss Stevenson!”

  No one seemed as surprised by his granting her the favor of his interest than Miss Stevenson herself; she regularly blushed and stammered in his presence, and even went so far as to confess that she had thought him too handsome to notice the likes of her. This admission had so charmed him that he had resolved then and there—or soon after. He had first inquired as to the respectability of her family and size of her dowry—to marry her.

  That he had not yet asked her was of little concern; he would propose soon enough, and she would accept with alacrity. Of this, he had no doubt. Viscount Dalrymple might worry over her family name (and there were times, usually in the viscount’s presence, when Sir Walter also felt anxious on this account). But, Sir Walter’s superiority of situation had at least the advantage of making it impossible for her to refuse him.

  “Sir Walter!” called James Stevenson from across the assembly room. Miss Stevenson’s father spoke loudly enough to turn heads (as surely he had intended; he no doubt wanted to show off his connection to a baronet), and the crowd nearby quieted so they might hear the exchange.

  Sir Walter returned Stevenson’s greeting with a slight inclination of his chin.

  “You look well this evening!” Stevenson said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Sir Walter did not know whether to be more offended by his future father-in-law’s familiarity or the implication of his words: Did Sir Walter not look well every evening? But this was the price to pay for Miss Stevenson; her father spent so little time in Bath (and none at all in London) that he could hardly help being a bit of a country bumpkin. At least the old widower had possessed the good sense to send his daughter to seminary, where she had learned everything that was correct and good.

  So, it was with much good will, and no little condescension, that he refrained from upbraiding the man. “Thank you, Stevenson, I am quite well.”

  Though, truth be told, he was not quite well. At that very moment, he felt a bead of sweat form in his right armpit. Perspiration was an unavoidable fact of life (even for Sir Walter), but so long as it remained hidden beneath his jacket, he had no reason to worry. Yet he felt certain that if he remained too long in this inferno of an assembly room, more visible portions of him (namely, his forehead) would be subjected to sweat. At least wigs had recently gone out of fashion; he would have had no hope of keeping his face dry then! Stevenson, who had apparently not bothered to look in a magazine or a mirror these past several years, was sweating profusely under his wig. Indeed, he looked something like a lobster with his bright red nose—good god, the size of that nose! Sir Walter turned about frantically, hoping to find a mirror or some other reflective surface to ensure that his own nose, at least, had retained its proper color.

  “Ah,” Stevenson said, laughing. “I see how you search for her! Look, she is standing there, near the door to the card room.”

  Sir Walter immediately followed Stevenson’s direction, though it took several seconds for him to follow his meaning. Only when Miss Stevenson turned and met his gaze did he remember why he had subjected himself to such conditions. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and her face—well, it was rather flushed, but then she at least resembled a rose and not a crustacean.

  “And who is the gentleman so fortunate to be in conversation with your daughter?”

  Stevenson smiled. “Aha! You are feeling territorial, Sir Walter!”

  Hardly. The man speaking with Miss Stevenson was—there was no other word for it—ugly. Large in both height and girth, he possessed a broad, meaty form better suited to a laborer than a gentleman and the kind of face that suggested forty as easily as twenty-five.

  “I am surprised you have not met him,” continued Stevenson. “Is Monkford not near Kellynch?”

  “Monkford?” Sir Walter would have wrinkled his brow in confusion had he not recently trained himself out of that habit to avoid the lines that so many men, even those as young as his own four and twenty years, seemed to acquire. Of course, he knew of Monkford; it was but four miles from Kellynch! Yet he was aware of no one who looked like that associated with the estate.

  To Stevenson he said, “Governor Strafford, of the East India Company, resides at Monkford—or did before the death of his wife. I believed him to have returned to India. You do not mean to say this gentleman is a relative of the Governor?”

  He waited with some trepidation for Stevenson’s answer, for if this strange, homely man was in fact heir to Monkford, he might present more of a threat than Sir Walter had initially assumed. Monkford brought no title with it, but its living was, in fact, larger than Kellynch’s, much to Sir Walter’s dismay. These men who earned their titles and wealth through adventuring abroad—how they grated on his nerves! Did no one realize they would be the downfall of Merry England?

  “Oh, no, not a relative,” said Stevenson. “He was recently given the Monkford parish.”

  “The parish?” Sir Walter was so surprised that he threw back his head and laughed, caring little in that moment of relief for the redness of his face or the state of his curls. “You mean to say he is but a parson? It is no wonder I do not know him.”

  Stevenson gave him a sideways glance. “My brother is but a parson, you know.”

  “And no doubt a very fine one,” Sir Walter said with a smile he saved for just these sorts of occasions. All teeth, perfectly even and beautifully white, thanks to his particular use of Gormer’s dental powder. “Kellynch has its own parish, and so I would have had no reason to meet the vicar of Monkford.”

  This seemed to satisfy Stevenson, who in any case found himself being addressed by an acquaintance, and so Sir Walter was able to make his escape. He moved across the room to greet some of his own set, the few that condescended to attend public assemblies—a fellow baronet, the second son of an earl, and, most especially, the Viscount Dalrymple, who provided biting commentary on the crowd around them.

  Sir Walter was surprised when Miss Stevenson’s gaze did not follow him. He had wanted her to see the kind of company she could expect to keep in due time. But Miss Stevenson seemed quite intent on whatever it was this ugly vicar was saying to her.

  “You seem distracted tonight,” observed the viscount.

  “It must be that chit he’s after,” noted the other baronet.

  The second son shook his head. “I fail to see the attraction.”

  “You would,” returned Sir Walter, who could barely bring himself to look at the man’s pockmarked face for more than a few seconds at a time. “I will n
ot have the lot of you discussing Miss Stevenson with such disrespect.”

  “Such chivalry, Elliot!” said the other baronet, smiling. “Her dowry must be better than we had all heard.”

  Indeed, it was, but Sir Walter also knew that it was not her dowry that drew him to her—for the most part, at least. It was not even that perfect complexion, which the other men seemed too blind to notice. No, there was something more to Elizabeth Stevenson, something he could not see or count, something intangible. And to a man who prized visible signs of good breeding above all else, such a something was quite extraordinary indeed.

  In those few solitary moments of his life, when there was no one about—no servants, no viscounts, no one in between—to remind him who he was or what was expected of him, Walter Elliot found himself thinking that he quite liked Elizabeth Stevenson, even apart from her complexion. She smiled at his witticisms (but did not laugh in that high-pitched whinny so many ladies adopted) and she listened, really listened, when he spoke. It was as if she truly did care what he said (and since he so rarely cared what he said, so long as it sounded good and elicited a proper reaction from those around him, he felt her interest in him to be both curious and charming). Such reactions were no less than he deserved, being Sir Walter Elliot—and yet he had always supposed, by the way she smiled at him, that she had found him the most intriguing man of her acquaintance. Now, to observe her behaving with such sincerity toward another man, a lower man, and one who was so very ugly, too—well, was it any wonder he was distracted?