by Laura Hile
Anne did not reply in kind. Instead she said, “I rather doubt you have forgotten Mrs. Barrymore. You helped her with her wheeled chair this morning.”
Charles’s frown relaxed into a smile. “Oh, that,” he said. “Of course.”
Anne did not share his relief. “Did you help with Mr. Minthorne’s carpets yesterday?”
“I did,” he said. “What of it?”
“Apparently Mr. Minthorne was impressed.” Anne paused. “And so was Mrs. Barrymore.”
There was significance in her tone. “And your point is?” Charles said.
Again Anne gave him a look. She sat down on the sofa and said, “Mrs. Barrymore was struck by how well you get on with Miss Owen.”
Charles eased onto the edge of a nearby chair. “What’s wrong in that?”
“And when she came to call this morning,” continued Anne, “she mentioned it to Mary.”
By now he was thoroughly lost. “She mentioned that I get on well with Miss Owen. What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with it!” Anne flared. “How can you be so unfeeling?”
“Anne,” Charles said evenly, “if being helpful to Miss Owen was enough to send Mary into a fit, she’s in worse shape than I knew. She’s prostrated, I take it?”
“Perhaps she has reason to be!” cried Anne. “Honestly, Charles, how can you be so obtuse?”
“Obtuse? About what?”
Anne’s dark eyes were bright. “Mrs. Barrymore did not know that you were Mary’s husband! Mrs. Barrymore told us, in Mary’s presence, that she thought it wouldn’t be long until Miss Owen followed her to the altar! The man she paired Miss Owen with was you. ‘That nice man, Charles’ is what she said.”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh lord, is that all? And naturally Mary believed her.”
“Of course she did.”
“What a pack of nonsense! Did she have hysterics and cause a scene?” Charles did not bother to hide his disgust.
Anne’s lips stitched together. “Mary thinks you’re in love with Miss Owen.”
“I am kind to a female, and straightway Mary thinks I’m in love with her? That’s rich!”
“I do not share your amusement.” Anne’s voice was cold. “And for your information, Mary did not have hysterics. She behaved with perfect propriety while Mrs. Barrymore was here. It was not until after Mrs. Barrymore left that she—”
Charles interrupted. “I see. And did she send you to watch for me? To confront me with this accusation? Very pretty.”
“No, she did not. I thought it best to warn you.”
“Do you know,” he said, “I am sick to death of warnings. I tiptoe round so as not to offend or upset her—and a fat lot of good it does me!”
Anne’s face paled. “Charles, please.”
“A fat lot of good it does,” he went on. “Because in the end, we still have it out! She tells me I am the worst beast in nature and kicks up a dust! As a matter of fact,” he said angrily, rising from the chair, “we might as well have it out now!”
Anne jumped to her feet. “No!” she cried. She made a lunge for his arm, but he was too quick for her. He strode to the drawing room door and flung it open.
Anne followed. “Charles, no,” she cried. “Mary is in no state to be ranted at.”
He took the stairs two at a time; Anne struggled to keep up. “If my wife thinks I’m in love with another woman,” he flung over his shoulder, “she can jolly well tell me to my face!”
At the landing Anne caught up with him. She grasped the sleeve of his coat with both hands and held on. “Charles!” she demanded. “Are you?”
He looked down at her.
There was desperation in Anne’s eyes. “Are you in love with Miss Owen?”
Charles opened his mouth to reply, but no words came.
Anne’s hold on his arm tightened. “Charles!” she cried. “Answer the question!”
~ ~ ~
Somewhere a door opened, and a shaft of light shone into Elizabeth’s hiding place. She was in a small room, and the thing she was crouching beside turned out to be a traveling trunk. On the other side of the door she could hear Sweetie in the library, pawing and whining.
And then she heard a voice. “Bloody ’ell,” it said.
Elizabeth’s heart nearly stopped. Was she discovered?
“The young miss hurt,” said the voice, “and him as grim as a hanging judge.” There came the rasp of a drawer roughly opened.
“Pym! I say, Pym!” someone called.
“Aye, I’m coming,” muttered the voice. “Keep your shirt on.” The drawer was pushed shut.
The footsteps went out and a door closed smartly. Elizabeth waited, frozen in her crouched position, dreading this Pym’s return. He must be an old man, she decided, for he obviously walked with a cane. Was he a servant? Or another relative of Admiral McGillvary’s?
She drew a long breath. In the dimness she could make out a chair, a bureau with a looking glass, a tall chest of drawers—was this a dressing room? Wardrobes lined the far wall, along with shelves for shoes. Elizabeth’s heart gave another jump. These were not women’s shoes!
Shaking, she got to her feet and took several careful steps. This small room adjoined another, much larger room. Elizabeth tiptoed to the open door. There, flanked by windows, stood an imposing bed. She was in the old man’s bedchamber!
The richness of the furnishings indicated that this was the state bedchamber, but how could that be? One thing was certain, this room was in use by the family. What should she do? Find a better hiding place? Or try to find her way back into the library?
The bedchamber offered few options for concealment. Draperies covered the windows; she could not hide behind them undetected. Elizabeth hesitated, caught in indecision. Escape was the best option, and yet—
The clacking of the old man’s cane made the choice for her. As a girl she had played Hide-and-Seek at Kellynch, and now she did not hesitate. Under the bed she went! Once there she held her breath, praying that the dust would not cause her to sneeze. She pulled the bed skirt to cover her face.
“Sir,” she heard Pym’s voice say, “you’ve blood on your frock coat.”
“There’s nothing new in that,” said another voice. “Blast it, must you keep this room looking like a tomb?”
Elizabeth heard the sound of the draperies being vigorously drawn back; sunlight streamed into the room.
“Your late father, sir, said the rugs would fade,” objected Pym.
“The devil take the rugs! Has Ronan been found?”
“Nay, sir. Ross says he rode off somewhere, hasty-like. Nobody knows where that dog of his has got to either.”
“I want him found. Have them tie him up outside.”
“The dog, sir? Or Mr. Ronan?”
There came a crack of laughter. “Both.”
Elizabeth’s skirts were bunched up, and her thigh began to cramp. Carefully she eased herself into a less awkward position.
“Ack, and you’ve blood on your trousers, sir. Better let me have them.” There was a pause as Pym hobbled across the room. Then he said, “I’ll put the fresh pair here on the bed for you, sir.”
Elizabeth discovered that by putting her cheek on the bare floor she could see into the room. She saw one old-fashioned black shoe with a silver buckle. Beside it was the end of Pym’s wooden cane. He had a funny way of walking. The man was obviously a servant, but who was his companion?
Something was tossed lightly onto the bed; Elizabeth rolled her eyes toward the slats above her head.
“Will you be wanting a nap, sir?” Pym said. “I’ll fetch a blanket.”
“A what?”
Pym coughed and then bleated, “It was just a question, sir! I didn’t mean no harm. Now that you’ve got Miss Cleora settled and that surgeon sent off, perhaps you might—”
“I’ve a guest waiting in the library,” came the reply. “Which reminds me. Ring for Jamison.”
Elizabe
th could only hope that Pym’s limping step would be loud enough to conceal the pounding of her heart. She now knew exactly where she was—she was in his bedchamber!
Summoning her courage, she parted the folds of the bed skirt and looked out. Directly in her line of vision were the heels of two stocking-clad feet—Admiral McGillvary’s! She scooted closer for a better look. Above the tops of the stockings were his bare legs! Elizabeth stifled a gasp and squeezed her eyes shut. Immediately she opened them again for another look. The long tails of his shirt covered his backside.
What if he removed the shirt?
To her horror, he turned and walked toward the bed. Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hands. She must not make a sound!
Admiral McGillvary sat down, and the bed slats gave a wheezing creak. He was now directly overhead! Was he putting on the clean trousers? Elizabeth tried not to think about it.
And then she heard the door open and more footsteps. “Here, sir,” called Pym’s voice. “Let me give you a hand with that.”
“I can manage to tuck in my own shirt,” Admiral McGillvary grumbled. “Jamison, how is Miss Elliot faring?”
“Very well, sir,” came the butler’s reply. “At present she is enjoying tea and sandwiches.”
“You gave her my message? Was there a reply?”
“No, sir.”
There was a pause. “Nothing?”
“Not a word, sir.”
Elizabeth could sense Patrick McGillvary’s frown. “Odd,” he said. “She had plenty to say earlier. Inform her that I shall be with her directly.”
Elizabeth squirmed. The only good thing about being hidden was that he could not see her blush! What would he say when he discovered that she was not in the library? She heard Jamison go out of the room.
“Well, Pym, what else is wrong?”
Pym came up to the bed. Elizabeth could see his shoe and the wooden end of his cane. “It’s your shirt, sir. You’ve a bit of blood on the cuff. I’ll fetch a fresh one.” He coughed. “Will you be wanting help with the buttons?”
“No. Bring the shirt and take yourself elsewhere.”
Was he now removing his shirt? Elizabeth was so flustered that she did not know where to look. She would never live this down, not ever! The bed creaked as he put on a new pair of stockings.
Elizabeth kept her eyes shut. What could she do? What could she say? How in the world did one emerge from beneath a man’s bed and explain … anything?
The creaking abruptly stopped, and Elizabeth’s heart nearly did the same. Had she made a sound? Did he suspect?
With a wrench he came off the bed; Elizabeth could see his stocking feet pad across the floor. A door opened and she heard, “Pym, is that you?”
Elizabeth held her breath. Apparently he had heard something. If he were to discover her here—! And what an ironic twist of events. She, who had been so worried about being seduced, would be found hiding under the man’s bed!
Patrick McGillvary walked past, now wearing a pair of black shoes. She heard the scrape of a bureau drawer, and then nothing. At last she could stand no more. Biting her lips, she parted the folds of the bed skirt.
He was on the other side of the room, fully dressed, having put on a cream-coloured waistcoat. At the moment he was occupied with knotting his cravat, not very successfully by the grumbling sounds he made. Elizabeth allowed herself to watch the play of the muscles in his shoulders.
This is Patrick McGillvary, she reminded herself sternly. He lived here, in this sumptuous bedchamber with servants to wait on him. This was not how she pictured Patrick Gill’s quarters at all. In her mind, he lived alone in a cold and dismal garret, eating his meals at a bare table, working long hours hunched over ledgers. What cheer and companionship she would have brought to that room! But Patrick Gill was Patrick McGillvary, and Patrick McGillvary was not lonely.
What then was she to him? A pleasant diversion? An amusement for the spring months? Yes, that was it. Sooner or later he would lose interest, just as all the other gentlemen had. She had grown so accustomed to this that she thought it could not hurt any more. She was wrong.
Admiral McGillvary’s voice broke the silence. “Confound it!” He flung the cravat aside and dug in the drawer for another. “Can I do nothing right today?”
At this Elizabeth’s courage swelled. Perhaps now, as he was alone and feeling vulnerable, she could come out? She eased her feet from under the bed and then her arm. Just as she was about to move her head and shoulders, the door came open again.
Pym lurched into the room, and Elizabeth nearly cried out. He was not an old man with a cane—he was a sailor with a peg leg!
“Begging your pardon, Admiral,” said Pym, “but she’s gone.”
McGillvary turned. “Who is?”
“The lady, sir,” Pym fairly shouted. “The lady as was in the library. She ain’t in there now.”
McGillvary threw down the cravat. “Don’t just stand there!” He crossed the room and shrugged into his frock coat.
“Aye, sir,” Pym said, rushing to assist him. “And your brother’s come back, sir. Fair frothing at the mouth he is. He’s the one that found the lady gone. Says he wants a word with her.”
“Oh he does, does he?”
The menace in Admiral McGillvary’s voice made Elizabeth shiver.
“Says she gave him some trumpery stone.”
“Did she now? Serves him right!”
Both men headed for the door. “She cannot have gone far,” Elizabeth heard McGillvary say. “Start a search.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” said another voice. “I have already done so.”
“Jamison?” There was a pause. Elizabeth strained to hear what the butler was saying, but his voice was too low.
“I have a caller? Confound it, Jamison, I am not at home to callers!”
There was reluctance in the butler’s reply. “Captain Frederick Wentworth, sir. He is waiting in the green draw—”
“Wentworth?
” McGillvary interrupted.
“On a matter of some urgency, sir. Personal business, he claims.”
She heard the admiral give a ragged laugh. “Gad, what next? Send him packing, with my apologies.”
“He prefers to wait.”
“I’ll return the call later. Word of honour.”
“But sir,” said Jamison, “Captain Wentworth—”
“Have Aoife saddled and brought round. Curse it, not under Wentworth’s nose—I’ll come to the stables. Now, Jamison, if you please! And Pym, fetch my riding crop and boots.”
“Aye, sir,” cried Pym.
Elizabeth heard Pym hobble back for the boots. Then the door swung shut and she was alone.
When all was silent, she slid from her hiding place. Grasping the carved bedpost for support, she got to her feet. What a predicament! Before her on the floor was his fallen cravat. In spite of herself, Elizabeth bent to retrieve it. It was a beautiful thing: deep blue silk shot through with silver threads. Without thinking she brought it to her cheek. She sighed, and then let it fall to the floor. Some things were never meant to be.
She pulled her hat from beneath the bed and applied herself to brushing streaks of dust from her dark gown. She would never achieve a respectable appearance, but she did what she could.
At last she tiptoed to the door and opened it. There were the usual noises of a large house—muffled echoes, snatches of voices, a distant door closing—but no one was in sight.
Elizabeth spent precious minutes debating, smoothing the fabric of her gown as she thought. And then she had an idea. She darted into Admiral McGillvary’s bedchamber and found his discarded shirt. She shook it out and folded the arms into neat bands; these she tied around her waist. No one observing her closely would be fooled, of course, but from a distance the shirt would pass as a maid’s white apron.
Within moments Elizabeth was boldly treading the length of the passageway. She held her hat at her side, concealed in part by the folds of her
gown. At length she located an outer door and pulled it open.
Bright sunlight greeted her. Swiftly she crossed the wide portico and descended to the gardens. So many windows overlooked this area! She could only hope her descent was unseen.
Never mind that servants were not allowed here—she must escape! Her quickened gait caused her stiff skirts to flap against her legs. She ignored this and walked on. Beyond the parterre and the rose garden, down the hill past the line of trees, would be the small lake. Once she found that, she could find her way to St. Peter Square.
Unless Admiral McGillvary found her first! Fear made her strain to hear the sounds of a pursuit, but there was nothing. The lawn soon gave way to a rough slope. The trees grew more closely together here; the descent became more pronounced.
Finally Elizabeth could stand it no longer; she turned and looked over her shoulder. Why, she had come quite a distance! Ahead was a rough line of shrubbery—and freedom! It was here that she removed the borrowed ‘apron.’ As she was about to drop it, she hesitated. It was, after all, a very fine cambric shirt; it seemed a shame to ruin it. Then too, it belonged to a man who had paid her father’s debt.
She could not keep it, but neither could she throw it away—and it was senseless to waste time debating! Her hat was in her hand; she stuffed the shirt into it. Yee could return it to Belsom Park later, she supposed.
~ ~ ~
Anne slowly came down the stairs, bowed beneath a weariness she could not name. Why hadn’t Charles answered her question? She knew she’d made him angry; that in itself was surprising enough. Charles Musgrove was never angry! But the look in his eyes! Never would Anne forget that look.
At length she reached the library door. Frederick was out, but she needed the sanctuary that only this place could offer. Once inside, Anne slipped into one of his large overstuffed chairs. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the memory of Charles’s face, pale with anger, would not go. He cared for Miss Owen—he did! He refused to deny it!
Anne surrendered to the embrace of the chair and curled her legs on its wide seat. The heavy quiet of this room was soothing. Bit by bit she brought order to her troubled thoughts. Surely she was mistaken about Charles. He had been kind to a neighbour and resented being questioned about it. That was all.