“I cannot tolerate his cries any longer.” He turned to Darcy. “If you insist upon consulting Sir Walter before allowing me custody of my own son, then let us proceed.”
The gentlemen headed for the door, and opened it to find another man just approaching the house. He was a medium fellow—medium height, medium build, middle-aged, his grey hair neither long nor short, his countenance not striking yet not altogether plain. He was modestly but neatly dressed in a dark brown suit, its sole embellishment a black band round one arm.
Were he not immediately in their path, he might have blended into the busy street and gone entirely unnoticed by Darcy. Mr. Elliot, however, stiffened and pulled the door shut behind them as the stranger reached the house.
“Mr. Elliot.” He spoke in a clipped tone. “I did not expect to meet you here.”
“Mr. Shepherd.” Mr. Elliot acknowledged him with equal rigidity.
“I had to hear this news from Sir Walter? You had not the decency to inform me?”
“I myself only just learned of Penelope’s death. When last I saw her, she was quite alive.”
The man swallowed and looked away, toward the Cobb that had taken Mrs. Clay’s life. After a moment, with greater composure, he turned back to Mr. Elliot and nodded toward the house. “Is she yet inside?”
“The undertaker has collected her.”
“Where has he taken her?”
“You shall have to ask the family within. I did not make the arrangements.”
“No, I doubt you would trouble yourself, given your passing acquaintance with the expectations of propriety. But that is just as well; I will handle the matter from here. The child—where is he?”
“Do you enquire for yourself or Sir Walter?”
“Both.”
“You may tell Sir Walter that I have made provisions for my son’s care.”
The man released a low, mirthless chuckle. “Your son? Not two days ago, you refused to make any such acknowledgment.”
Mr. Elliot shrugged. “I make it now.”
“It is irrelevant now. Yesterday, Sir Walter married Penelope and legally claimed paternity of the child as part of their marriage agreement.”
“Doubtless, you drew up the document yourself. Did Sir Walter even read it before he signed it? When was the last time he decided anything independent of your influence?”
“Where is the child?”
“I suppose you were also one of the witnesses to the marriage. Who was the other?”
“Miss Elliot.”
“Oh, that is just capital! The bride’s father and the groom’s daughter—two people who have even more interest in cutting me out of the entail than Sir Walter himself. Well done, Mr. Shepherd! Your years of managing and scheming have won extraordinary recompense. Your grandson may inherit Kellynch Hall before he is out of short pants.”
“I ask you again—where is he?”
“Find him yourself.” Without another word, Mr. Elliot walked away.
Darcy watched him go. He was certainly an unpredictable gentleman—solicitous one moment, cold the next, his interest in the child shifting with the sea breeze. Apparently, that interest was more financial than sentimental.
“Sir, might you be Mr. Darcy?” Mr. Shepherd asked. “You answer the description Sir Walter gave me of the gentleman who delivered the news of my daughter’s death.”
“I am he.” Darcy added his condolences, which Mr. Shepherd accepted with a nod.
“Sir Walter told me that you and your wife found Penelope. I thank you for the assistance you rendered her, and regret that Mr. Elliot has forced me to beg still more of you. Do you know where can I find the child? I enquire as both his grandfather and Sir Walter’s attorney.”
“He is within. Mrs. Darcy is preparing to take him to a wet nurse.”
Mr. Shepherd frowned. “Was the nurse engaged by Mr. Elliot?”
“No, by Mrs. Harville.”
That fact appeared to relieve Mr. Shepherd. “My commission this afternoon was dual: to collect the child and retain a nurse. I should like to accompany Mrs. Darcy and meet the woman. If she and her references prove satisfactory, the position is hers.”
“Mrs. Harville seems a woman of sense and discrimination. I trust you will find Mrs. Logan suitable.”
“I am also eager to speak with your wife. I understand she was with Penelope during her last hours.”
“She was.” Darcy paused. “I assure you, whatever comfort could be provided, Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Harville offered.”
“I am grateful. As you surely surmised from my conversation with Mr. Elliot just now, Penelope’s … situation … these several months past was not what a father hopes. She bore mistreatment from individuals who should have demonstrated higher principles, and censure by those who did hold to high standards—or were better able to maintain the appearance of them. She did not have many friends at the end.”
* * *
Mrs. Logan met Mr. Shepherd’s requirements. Just as important, she met Elizabeth’s. Having seen the motherless infant through the turmoil of his first hours of life, Elizabeth could not have easily relinquished him to the care of just anybody. Fortunately, the young widow seemed a kind, well-mannered girl. Still grieving the loss of her husband, and now her child, she was struggling to maintain herself. The offer of respectable work was a godsend, and she was as grateful to enter Sir Walter’s employ and household as his vanity could desire.
Elizabeth—and Darcy, who had accompanied them—left the Elliot baby with his new nurse and Mr. Shepherd as the two settled the particulars of Mrs. Logan’s removal to Sir Walter’s lodgings. While Elizabeth and Darcy walked back to the Harvilles’ home to collect Lily-Anne and report the successful meeting to Mrs. Harville, Darcy related the quarrel he had witnessed between Mr. Elliot and Mr. Shepherd.
“The timing of Sir Walter’s marriage certainly proved fortuitous,” Elizabeth remarked when Darcy had done. “Otherwise, it might have required the wisdom of Solomon to determine which gentleman possessed a superior claim to the infant.”
“This all would have been much simpler if Lady Elliot had been capable of telling us to whom he belongs, or at least more about herself.”
“Even were she able, she might have been reluctant to disclose much. Both Sir Walter and Mr. Elliot seem far more interested in the child than in her.”
Darcy agreed. “Only Mr. Shepherd seems to be mourning her death, and his grief is tempered by consciousness of the impropriety surrounding his daughter’s marriage.”
“Minds more drawn to scandal than ours might wonder how she came to get married so close to her lying-in that the child was nearly a witness to the wedding, and to have two men claiming paternity.” Elizabeth recalled the image of Lady Elliot standing on the upper Cobb, the hard expression that had overcome her countenance. “When we saw her before the accident, she did not appear a happy woman, let alone a joyful new bride.”
“Did she speak at all once in Mrs. Harville’s home?”
“A few words. The only significant one was ‘Elliot’—though whether she referred to Sir Walter, Mr. Elliot, or herself is anybody’s guess. Later, once her laboring began, she recovered her senses briefly and said ‘pushed’ after having strained toward birthing.”
Lady Elliot had said that word twice; it was the last word she ever uttered. She had never regained consciousness again to see the result of those pushes: the fragile little creature who, having been delivered from the womb with his mother’s final breath, was now being delivered to his proud father in a hack carriage.
Elizabeth and Darcy reached the Harvilles’ home and entered to the noise of childish squeals. This time, however, they were sounds of delight. Lily-Anne and Ben were playing, the shoving incident utterly forgotten.
Forgotten by the toddlers, that is. Despite Mrs. Harville’s assurances, Elizabeth still could not quite comprehend it. Nor the earlier flight of Bald Betsy off the dressing table at Mangled Maggie’s stuffed hands. Lily-Anne was not by n
ature an aggressive child, nor given to violent outbursts. What an aberrant day her daughter was having! But then, there had been nothing normal about this day for any of them.
Lily-Anne, in fact, was probably the least affected by recent events. She had not even witnessed the lightning bolt that destroyed the ship and which, in Elizabeth’s mind, had signaled the start of the chaos that claimed them all day. Lily had been looking in the other direction entirely, toward the harbor side of the Cobb. Sea, Mamma, sea!
Toward the section of the Cobb where they had seen Mrs. Clay—Lady Elliot—before her fall. An unsettling sensation passed through Elizabeth. Had she misunderstood Lily?
See, Mamma! See!
A lump rising in her throat, Elizabeth tried to recall how far along the seawall they had walked after passing Lady Elliot.
Not far enough.
Not far enough for Lady Elliot to have been out of Lily’s view. Not far enough to silence the question now overtaking Elizabeth. Had Lily-Anne witnessed Lady Elliot’s fall? Worse, had the accident been somehow preventable, if only Elizabeth had realized what her daughter had been trying to communicate? If only they had been standing closer when Lady Elliot lost her balance?
See, Mamma! See!
Lily-Anne’s small voice echoed in Elizabeth’s mind. Then, unbidden, so did another.
Elliot. Pushed.
Nine
They set forward, treading back, with feelings unutterable, the ground which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along.
—Persuasion
Elizabeth could not later have repeated the words she stammered while quitting the Harvilles’ home, for the disturbing notion forming in her mind occupied it so entirely that it forced out nearly all else. She only hoped that she uttered something intelligible, and relied upon Darcy to convey the proper sentiments one expresses when taking leave of brand-new acquaintances with whom one has nursed a fatally injured woman, delivered a baby, and navigated a custody melee between a baronet and the late mother’s former paramour.
At last she and Darcy were alone and headed back to their lodgings. The seafront Walk had dried enough to permit Lily-Anne to toddle between them as they each held one of her hands. Elizabeth’s thoughts were jumbled: Lady Elliot’s voice mixed with images of Lily-Anne pushing Ben, and Betsy tumbling off the dressing table.
“I have been contemplating Lady Elliot’s fall,” Elizabeth said.
“Her accident and all that resulted from it is an event neither of us will soon forget.”
They were nearly to the end of the Walk. Ahead stood the Assembly Rooms, where well-dressed ladies and gentlemen were begun to arrive for some gay event. Their merriment was jarringly discordant with her own sober thoughts.
She stopped. Lily-Anne strained to continue, tugging on their hands and leaning forward with all her weight. This conversation was probably best postponed until it could be carried on undistracted, but Elizabeth needed Darcy to help her throw off the disquiet that had taken hold of her. “I fear it might have been no accident.”
“What has led you to such a notion?”
She related the incident with the dolls, and how it, when taken in context of other events of the day and Lady Elliot’s own few words, had caused her to reconsider their meaning.
His expression settled into a pensive frown. “Have you asked Lily-Anne what she saw?”
“Not yet.” Even could their daughter recall what she had seen, could she articulate it well enough for them to understand? Moreover, did they want her to recall so disturbing an event?
Darcy lifted their daughter. She twisted in his arms, trying to return to the ground. “Lily, your mother has an important question for you.” The child stilled.
Elizabeth struggled to formulate her query. “Lily—” How did one ask a young child such a thing? “Lily, do you remember when we took a walk this morning with Aunt Georgiana, before the rain?”
Lily-Anne pointed toward the Cobb. “Walk.”
“Do you remember how we found a lady who was hurt, and then Aunt Georgiana and her friend took you back to our cottage?”
She smiled and spoke a string of syllables that Elizabeth interpreted as “Sir Laurence”—indeed a mouthful for someone just learning to speak.
“When we were walking, did you see the lady standing on the big wall? Before she got hurt?”
“Walk!” She threw her weight against Darcy’s arm, nearly landing on the ground faster than intended. Darcy, practiced with their daughter’s unexpected lunges, reacted quickly enough to prevent her tumbling out of his grasp.
“Lily—”
“Walk!”
Lily’s attention could admit no other focus, and the evening witching hour known to all mothers and nurserymaids drew nigh. “This has been a long day for Lily, as well,” she said. “Let us simply go home and try again another time, if at all.”
They continued homeward. “Are you hoping she saw what happened,” Darcy asked, “or hoping she did not?”
“I honestly do not know,” she admitted. “And you?”
“However Lady Elliot’s fall came about, I hope our daughter did not witness it. If she did, I hope it is forgotten. There are other ways—more reliable ways than the word of a child—to confirm or dispel your doubts about Lady Elliot’s demise.”
“Do you believe my suspicion reasonable?”
“Your instincts have proved valid in the past, but I also believe an intellect fatigued by events such as we have experienced today is more susceptible to anxiety and misinterpretation than usual. Let us revisit this subject on the morrow, when our minds are rested.”
“If you are promising that all will look better in the morning, I may retire as soon as we reach the cottage.”
“Have you forgotten our engagement with Lieutenant St. Clair? Or do you wish me to convey your regrets?”
Indeed, she had entirely forgotten their expected visitor. “Oh! No—no regrets. Our appointment this evening did escape my memory, but I would not forgo the pleasure of meeting Lieutenant St. Clair. It is half our reason for coming to Lyme.”
“Not half, but much anticipated.”
Lieutenant Andrew St. Clair had served in the Royal Navy with Darcy’s late cousin Gerard, younger brother of Colonel Fitzwilliam. St. Clair, in fact, had been first lieutenant aboard the Magna Carta at the time of Gerard’s death. Now recently returned to England after numerous foreign deployments, St. Clair had written to Gerard’s family stating that he had in his possession Gerard’s sea chest, which he had promised to deliver in person. As Darcy and Elizabeth had already planned a journey to Lyme upon quitting Colonel Fitzwilliam’s house, they had arranged to meet St. Clair here.
Though Elizabeth had never met Gerard, he had been a beloved cousin, and remained a subject of conversation among Darcy, Georgiana, and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Elizabeth hoped that tonight’s meeting would provide an opportunity to learn more about the promising young man they remembered. Darcy, she knew, had been looking forward to the appointment far more than the seabathing and other diversions that had first inspired their interest in a seaside holiday.
When they reached their cottage, it was not an early Lieutenant St. Clair, but another visitor whom they found just emerging from the house. Sir Laurence greeted them warmly.
“I called to enquire after Miss Darcy … and, of course, you, as well. All was at such sixes and sevens when we parted earlier, that I could not rest easy tonight without assuring myself of everybody’s well-being. I was saddened to learn from Miss Darcy just now that Mrs. Clay succumbed to her injuries.”
“We, too, regret that turn of events,” Darcy said. “I thank you, however, for your assistance in ensuring my sister’s and daughter’s safety.”
“I was pleased to be of use. Both the misses Darcy are charming ladies.” He tipped his hat to Lily-Anne, who, at last weary of walking, was once more in Darcy’s arms.
Lily burrowed her face into the crook of Darcy’s neck, then peek
ed at Sir Laurence with a smile. Elizabeth could hardly believe it—eighteen months old, and her daughter was flirting with a baronet.
As he turned to Elizabeth, Sir Laurence’s expression became serious once more. “Miss Darcy told me you were out just now attempting to notify Mrs. Clay’s next of kin. Were you able to locate them? If not, allow me to offer whatever help I can.”
“That is most kind of you,” Darcy replied, “but we have spoken with both her husband and father.”
“Her husband? I understood her to be a widow.”
Darcy paused. “Were you acquainted with the lady?”
“I? No—Miss Darcy had said as much. The fact that Mrs. Clay left behind a child compounded the tragedy, but if she was married, at least the baby is not orphaned. Her death is still pitiable, nonetheless. After we left you on the Cobb, did anyone come forward who had witnessed the accident?”
“Unfortunately, no. Two dockworkers recognized Mrs. Clay and provided information that helped us find her family, but no one saw the event itself.”
No one, Elizabeth thought, except possibly their impressionable young daughter. As her anxiety began to return, however, a new thought struck her. “What about the gentleman who helped you carry her to the Harvilles’ cottage?” she asked Darcy. “Perhaps he witnessed her fall?”
“If he did, he said nothing of it, and I should think he would have.”
“We were all so concerned by the immediate need to remove her to a safe place and treat her injuries that perhaps he simply never thought to tell us.”
“Surely he would have mentioned it,” Sir Laurence said. “I am glad, however, that someone happened along to assist you. I did not feel quite right about leaving you to deal with the crisis alone, despite the commission entrusted to me and which I was honored to fulfill. What was the gentleman’s name?”
Ten
There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the party; and he was very much questioned.
The Deception At Lyme m&mdm-6 Page 7