Benwick took hold of his elbow.  “Let me handle this, Musgrove,” said Benwick.  There was quiet authority in his voice.  

“Huh?”

“It is better that you stay out of sight,” Benwick continued. “If this is Darby, you should choose the time and place to meet him—that is, one suited to your advantage, not his.”

This was a side of Benwick Charles seldom saw.  Goaded, he squared his shoulders.  “I have nothing to fear from an imposter, James. I’ll not be cowed by a couple of shysters.”

“Very well.” Benwick tweaked the brim of Charles’ hat. “Keep your head down,” he said, “and allow me to do the talking.  And for heaven’s sake, don’t come the squire until we know where we stand.”

“A lot you know about this business,” muttered Charles.

The brim of Charles’ hat lifted. “Confound it, Musgrove,” said Benwick, looking him in the eyes, “of course I do. Safeguarding the captain from time-wasters and worse—it’s all in a day’s work for the first officer. I’ve years of experience.”

“Sounds like a plaguey nuisance to me.”

“You have no idea,” muttered Benwick. He pushed Charles’ hat back down. “Come.  It looks like that coachman is getting an earful. Perhaps we can listen in.”

The coachman, clad in full livery and perspiring, was clearly uncomfortable. “But the instructions was plain as pikestaff,” he protested, speaking through the open window.  “This here is High Road, according to the sign.  And, if you please, ma’am, there’s the name on the house.”

“Ma’am?” whispered Charles. “Has Darby brought his wife?”

The coachman pulled a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow.  If he noticed Benwick or Charles, he gave no sign.

“But I know my sister-in-law,” said a clear, musical voice.  “She would never consent to live in such a place, Beckett.  Surely there is a mistake.”

Benwick stepped forward and offered his services.  He was able to confirm that this indeed was Uppercross Cottage.

A gloved hand appeared on the sill. “I do not understand this at all, Beckett,” said the woman. “We were out of the country for three months.  How can so much have changed?”

“Allow me to inquire, ma’am, whether Lady Judith lives here,” said Beckett.

There came a sigh.  “Very well,” she said.

Before Beckett could open the front gate, the sound of footfalls met Charles’ ears.  He glanced over his shoulder.  A woman, dressed in black, was coming up the lane.  At first he thought she was Mary, but that couldn’t be right.  This woman was veiled and carried a small book in her gloved hands.  She drew near to the coach. “Good gracious,” she cried.  “Jillian?” 

A second gloved hand appeared on the sill—and then a woman’s bonneted head came through the opening.  “Judith? Dear Judith, is that you?”  The woman struggled with the door latch. Beckett came bounding back and got it open.  He hurried to let down the steps.

A woman in stiff gray silk descended and tumbled into an embrace with the woman in black.

“Must be Lady Judith,” murmured Charles to Benwick.  “Spry old thing, ain’t she? I thought the one in gray was going to bowl her over.”

“This is a much younger sister, I presume,” Benwick whispered back.  “Ought we to go away and come back later?”

“Judith, Judith,” cried Jillian, rocking her to and fro.  “My dear, how came you to live in a place such as this?  I can hardly believe my eyes. Why, it is little better than a weaver’s hovel!”

Lady Judith was laughing.  “How can you say so?  It suits me perfectly. Jillian, dear, only consider.  It is my very own!  I hang the pictures on the walls as I like, and I invite whom I like.  Now then, tell your coachmen to bring in your trunks.”

“Gracious, we cannot stay with you! You haven’t room!”

“Oh yes we have.  But I fear your Murphy will have an uncomfortable time of it.”

Jillian gave a gurgle. “Judith, you are wicked. Oh,” she added, after looking over her shoulder at the coach, “such a time we have had.  It would almost be worth it!  Truly, it would.” She pulled back, her hands on Lady Judith’s shoulders.  “And look at you.  Wearing a veil like a duenna. How horrid.”  Against Lady Judith’s laughing protests, she pulled veil away.

Charles heard Benwick’s swift intake of breath and his whispered,  “Good heavens.”  Charles couldn’t resist elbowing him.  “Some old lady, eh?” he whispered.

“Musgrove, we need to leave,” hissed Benwick. “At once. This isn’t seemly.”

But he was too late, for they had been noticed.  “Oh,” cried Lady Judith.  “Hello.”  She turned to Jillian.  “These must be my neighbors.” She gave Charles a warm smile.  “How do you do?”

“How do?” said Charles, tipping his hat. “Charles Musgrove, at your service, milady.”

Lady Judith came forward, still smiling.  “Ah yes. You are the squire. And you must be—” She looked a question.

“Commander James Benwick, milady.”

Benwick spoke in a strangled voice. His face was so red that Charles struggled not to grin.  Had he never seen a beauty before?  “As a matter of fact,” said Charles, “we were coming to call on you, ma’am.”

“But you’re occupied,” Benwick hastened to say. “We’ll call again when it is more convenient.”  He made a quick bow, took hold of Charles’ elbow, and pulled him away.

“But—” said Lady Judith.

“But—” said Charles.

“Come on,” muttered Benwick.

Charles fell into step beside him, still grinning.  “So much for the beauty of one Autumnal face, eh?” he quipped.

“Have the goodness to shut up, Musgrove.”

“She is certainly a beauty.”

“A beauty?” Benwick repeated.  “I believe the correct expression is a diamond of the first water.”

Charles continued with his chuckling. “And that,” he said, “explains a lot. The face of an angel and heavenly blue eyes. And a flawless complexion to boot. No wonder Sir Walter never invited the Ferrols to his parties.  That woman would take the wind out of Elizabeth’s sails.”  He glanced at Benwick.  “You’ve never met Elizabeth Elliot, have you? Count yourself fortunate. Still, she is a looker.”

“If you must know,” grumbled Benwick, “Lady Judith very much resembles Fanny.”

“Who?”

Benwick’s voice sank to a whisper.  “Fanny…Harville.”  He said nothing more.

It took Charles a few minutes to remember that Fanny Harville was James Benwick’s deceased fiancée.  “Oh,” he said.

The two men made the rest of the tramp to the Great House in silence.

Copyright 2009 by Laura L Hile

Artwork is by George S Elgood. The original may be purchased at BaronFineArt.com