Mercy's Embrace_Elizabeth Elliot's Story [Book 3]

by Laura Hile

  “An earring?” Wentworth observed. “Looks a bit delicate for one of yours.”

  McGillvary hesitated, but the opportunity to return fire was too much to resist. He smiled slightly. “We found it beneath one of the beds, actually.”

  Wentworth’s icy reserve shattered. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I bid you a good evening, gentlemen.” McGillvary made his bow and went out.

  “McGillvary!” Wentworth shouted after him. “To whom does the blasted thing belong?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Upstairs in her bedchamber, Elizabeth was working on a letter. Frowning, she dipped her quill in the inkpot and began to write.

  Dear Lady Russell,

  I trust that you are well and that Father is in good spirits. You might like to know that I have obeyed your—

  Here Elizabeth stopped. She couldn’t very well write the word command, although that is exactly what it had been. Why had Lady Russell forbidden them to visit their father? Oh yes, the announcement in the Gazette. Elizabeth gave a sigh. The fracas over her supposed engagement to James Rushworth now seemed like ancient history.

  And she would rather not write to Lady Russell at all—but how else was she to verify the transportation for tomorrow’s ball? Not that she cared for dancing at a time like this, but she must see Mr. Elliot, and she suspected that he would be present.

  Instead of command, Elizabeth wrote kind suggestion, for did not Lady Russell consider her interference as kindness? The remainder of the letter gave no trouble.

  I have not visited Father—I believe none of us have—and I look forward to hearing the latest about his condition when you convey me to Lady Buxted-Heighton’s ball tomorrow night. Will you call for me at nine o’clock? I shall be ready.

  As soon as the letter was rewritten and sealed, she rang for Elise. One of the servants could deliver it to Rivers Street tonight, and tomorrow she would have Lady Russell’s reply. Doubtless Lady Russell would have much to say about how Elizabeth has spoken to Mrs. Rushworth—and about the wave of gossip now circulating throughout Bath. Elizabeth knew her world—Lady Buxted-Heighton would certainly regret giving the invitation. If she had any sense, she would not attend!

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and went to the wardrobe. After some deliberation she removed her golden ball gown for Elise to press. At one time she had worn this dress with her mother’s diamonds. These she would never see again, for they were in the bag on Admiral McGillvary’s desk. How she would explain their disappearance to her father she did not know. Perhaps when he learned that the debt had been paid, he would not quibble.

  Elizabeth pressed her lips together. She must not think about him! The unfortunate episode—she refused to use the word affair—with Patrick McGillvary was over.

  Soon she heard the sound of Elise’s approach. Elizabeth returned to her seat at the dressing table. But when the bedchamber door came open, it was not Elise but Yee who entered.

  Elizabeth concealed her chagrin. What was it about Yee that made her feel like an awkward girl? And why must he study her with that all-knowing expression? She held out the sealed note. “I rang for Elise, but you will do,” she said, feigning a confidence she did not feel. “I would like this delivered at once, if you please.”

  Yee’s brows went up. He took the letter from her hand—and had the audacity to turn it over and read the direction.

  Elizabeth could not allow such presumption to pass. “I trust,” she said bitingly, “that my correspondence meets with your approval?”

  Yee did not reply; he merely looked at her in that way of his. “You have, perhaps, a letter to be delivered to a gentleman? Which you intended to give to Elise and not to me?”

  “I-I most certainly do not!” she cried. “What a notion.”

  There was a pause. “The earring you are missing …” Yee stopped and studied her face. “You might like to know that it has been returned.”

  “Has it indeed? Thank you for informing me.” She held out her hand. “May I have it, please?”

  To Elizabeth’s surprise, Yee boldly drew forward a chair, placed it opposite hers, and sat down. “You admit that an earring of yours has gone missing?”

  “Certainly. Why not?” But something in his expression told Elizabeth that she might have made a misstep. “On the other hand,” she amended, “perhaps not. May I see what you have found, please?”

  His fingers retrieved something from a pocket. “This was discovered,” he said, “by him.”

  Him? Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer.

  “He returned it,” Yee continued, “to Captain Wentworth.”

  Elizabeth was now blushing hotly. She dared not ask whom Yee meant!

  “Elise,” he continued, “will be able to tell me whether this is yours, but I do not ask Elise. I ask you. Is this your property?”

  There was no use in denying it. She nodded.

  “Where, exactly, was it lost?”

  Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I do not know,” she said truthfully.

  “He told Captain Wentworth that it was discovered under a bed,” said Yee. “In his house.”

  “But how—”

  “Is this true?”

  “It—isn’t what you think.” Elizabeth pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks. “I needed a place to hide, you see, and—”

  She broke off, horrified at what she’d been about to say. Why was she explaining all this to a butler? She gave him a quelling look.

  He ignored it. “Miss Elliot, were you in Admiral McGillvary’s bedchamber?”

  “Yes—I mean, no!” she cried. “That is to say, I did not know that it was his!” She stopped, for this clearly made no sense. “I knew it was his house,” she amended. “But I did not know he was Admiral McGillvary!” She paused to take a breath. “I daresay it sounds rather foolish.”

  Yee reached into a pocket of his frock coat. “Admiral McGillvary called this evening. He instructed me to return this. Privately.” He brought out the grey velvet bag.

  Elizabeth took it with trembling hands. She resisted the impulse to open it—what would Yee think? A glance at his face told her the truth. “You know what is inside,” she said.

  “Miss Elliot, what was Admiral McGillvary doing with your jewels?”

  “I-I gave them to him,” she admitted. “But it is not what you think! My father owes him money, and I offered to—pay the debt. But he would not allow it!”

  “Admiral McGillvary would not allow it?”

  “Nothing untoward happened, Mr. Yee! He insisted on paying the debt himself! Indeed, I watched him write the draft.”

  Yee’s brows went up. “I see.”

  “Is—that so unusual for him?”

  “It is unusual for any man, Miss Elliot.”

  “Are you—acquainted with Admiral McGillvary, Mr. Yee?” she said, a little fearfully.

  It seemed to her that his severity lessened. “It is better said that I know who he is. It was Admiral McGillvary, I believe, who arranged for Captain Wentworth to lease this house from my master.”

  “Then you know about his reputation.”

  Yee did not answer right away. “Admiral McGillvary,” he said at last, “is said to be a dutiful, competent officer. Clever in battle tactics, according to my master. One who takes risks and is successful.”

  “I … meant where woman are concerned.”

  Yee placed his fingertips together. “It is better said that Admiral McGillvary suffers from levity and high spirits.”

  “With no regard for a woman’s reputation,” she added.

  It seemed to Elizabeth that Yee’s expression became even more solemn. “There is, Miss Elliot, a type of woman who is careless where reputation is concerned.”

  Elizabeth was stunned to silence. Did Yee see her in this way? Did he know about her secret meetings with Mr. Gill?

  “Admiral McGillvary is, after all, well-looking and very well-connected,” Yee continued. “Such a man is not often found within the s
ociety of the navy. He offers temptation to foolish women who ought to know better. But he is not, so far as I am aware, what you call a Don Juan.”

  “My godmother says otherwise.”

  His brows went up. “Do you believe all gossip, Miss Elliot?”

  His meaning was all too clear. “We are speaking of Admiral McGillvary,” she cried. “Who would make a wretched husband!”

  “It is not marriage, Miss Elliot, that either contemplates. To be fair,” Yee added, “since my master left Bath, I have not observed Admiral McGillvary in company. His father’s death—and that of his wife—has likely sobered him.”

  “And if he did offer marriage to a lady?” But Elizabeth’s tone was not as off-hand as she hoped.

  Yee’s gaze became even more intent. “Has Admiral McGillvary made such an offer, Miss Elliot? Is this why he has paid your father’s debt?”

  Elizabeth attempted a shrug. “I daresay he meant nothing by it.”

  “How a man spends money, Miss Elliot, says a great deal.” Yee paused. “Is Admiral McGillvary aware of your campaign?”

  “My …”

  “Your ambition to marry a man of fortune.”

  Had she been so obvious—even to Mr. Yee? Elizabeth swallowed. “He is,” she admitted reluctantly. “I told him of it myself.”

  “Then it seems that he is not the only one with a reputation.”

  Stung, Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Nothing improper has happened, Mr. Yee! Nothing at all.”

  “Save for the transfer of a substantial sum of money.”

  Elizabeth sank back onto the chair. “It is as you said. Men use money to achieve their ambitions.”

  “As do women.”

  Had the man no mercy? Elizabeth realized that tears were rolling down her cheeks. She turned aside to hide them.

  “Miss Elliot,” Yee said, more softly, “do you love this man? Do you love him enough to forgive?”

  Forgive? Elizabeth did not answer—she could not! If only Yee would stop talking!

  He was not finished. “Do you intend to ignore your heart?”

  “And what if I do?” she burst out. “I daresay it was not for love that you married! Your wife is a skilled cook. It was a good alliance, nothing more!”

  There was a small silence. “You do not, as you suppose, know everything,” he said at last. “Would you marry without love, Miss Elliot?”

  “To guard against being hurt, yes!”

  “You delude yourself. For there is no safeguard,” he said gently, “against pain.”

  7 Is It Not Romantic?

  On the following morning, Lady Russell emerged from the hotel and entered a hired chaise. She was conveyed to Doctor’s Commons, no small distance from Piccadilly, where she retrieved the special license, and then to Drummonds Bank on Charing Cross. There she met privately with one of the bank managers. To her surprise, the man presented a packet from her solicitor. Among other things it contained a revised Will for signature, naming Sir Walter Elliot as primary beneficiary. Lady Russell studied this and returned it to the envelope without signing it.

  Apparently her solicitor had sent a list of instructions to Drummonds, for the manager had ready the money she required. He brought out a canvas bag and counted out a stack of gold sovereigns. These were what she and Sir Walter would live on for the next year. Lady Russell studied the coins a little fearfully. Would they be enough?

  Fortunately the manager was a talkative fellow, and he answered her questions about foreign mails, letters of credit, and how to set up with a bank in Venice. In turn, he enquired about her journey. Would she travel aboard a packet ship via Lisbon and Gibraltar? He thought the countryside near Gibraltar very fine; had not Byron said so? And since Venice had been restored to Austria last year, it was now quite safe.

  Safe? Lady Russell was rather taken aback. She knew nothing about Napoleon’s Kingdom of Italy or Lombardy-Venetia or indeed about anything political. To her Venice meant romance and music, canals and gondolas—and most importantly, a place where an Englishman (and his wife) could live graciously at very little expense!

  When she came out of the bank the job chaise was waiting, and the driver came bounding forward. Lady Russell kept a firm grip on her reticule, which was heavy with the gold. From now on she must wear a money belt, the manager had warned. Lady Russell was not at all happy to hear this. She could hardly wear a money belt now, for she did not yet own one. And she certainly did not wish to carry such a sum about London. But neither did she wish to leave it in her room—or in the care of Sir Walter!

  As he held open the door, the driver tipped his hat. “Where to, love?” he chirped.

  Lady Russell was rather shocked. And yet as she settled herself on the seat, she had time to reflect. Vulgarity aside, the man meant well. It was almost pleasant to hear such a word in reference to herself. Sir Walter’s gift of Gowland’s lotion, unopened on her dressing table, still rankled.

  She took a moment to think over what her destination should be. St. Paul’s was not far off, but for her purpose it was out of the question. St. George Hanover Square was also to be avoided—what if she were recognized by one of her London friends? However, the doorman at the hotel had given her a name that sounded suitable.

  Lady Russell addressed the driver crisply. “St. Frederick Church, Piccadilly, if you please.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Captain Wentworth was in the dining room when Charles came in. Yee approached with the coffee pot. “Any sign of Miss Elliot this morning?” Charles heard Captain Wentworth say.

  “None yet, Captain,” Yee replied. “Would you like us to check?”

  “I think not. My father had a saying: ‘Let sleeping dogs lie.’” Wentworth took up a slice of toast and buttered it. “Morning, Musgrove,” he said. “I didn’t expect you’d be down before midday.”

  Charles muttered something about needing to have the gig out for errands.

  “Again? I thought you did that yesterday.”

  “Well …” Charles studied the contents of the sideboard. “I like to make it available. She’ll be leaving soon and has much to do.”

  “She?”

  Wentworth’s tone made Charles wince. Why hadn’t he kept his mouth shut? He took a plate and removed the cover from a bowl of eggs with a clatter. “It’s Miss Owen, you know,” he said, very off-hand. “A rotten shame, if you ask me.”

  Wentworth said nothing.

  Charles decided to explain. “Not a good situation for her in Wales,” he said. “Family’s gone to pieces and all. I say, these kidneys look appetizing, what? Not to mention the cold grouse.”

  Wentworth cleared his throat. “About Miss Owen.”

  Charles plunked his plate onto the table. “I say, that McGillvary chap is something.” He pulled out a chair and sat. “What do you make of him, Frederick? Pretending to offer for Elizabeth like that.”

  Wentworth gave Charles a look. “If you recall,” he said, “you were the one who brought up the subject of offering for Elizabeth.”

  Charles became busy with his knife and fork.

  “Actually,” Wentworth continued, “I’m surprised that you recall any of the conversation.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Charles, around a bite. “I wasn’t that bosky.” He took a sip of coffee. “At any rate, nobody could miss you shouting at him. What was that about?”

  “I wish I knew.” Captain Wentworth took up his cup. “McGillvary has a peculiar sense of humour,” he said at last. “When things become tense, he likes to stir the pot.”

  “I’ll say. He came the ugly over that earring.”

  Wentworth sighed heavily. “You’ll notice that he did not say that the earring belonged to Elizabeth. Or that she was at his house.”

  “But what if he is serious, Frederick? About Elizabeth, I mean.”

  Wentworth set down his cup. “In that case,” he said, “I stand to lose a good—” He broke off and looked hard at Charles. “Let us hope,” he said, more lightly, “that we are
mistaken.”

  But Charles shook his head. “His eyes were not joking—not when he spoke of her. What if he means business?”

  Wentworth folded the newspaper. “I am of the opinion,” he said, “that McGillvary would not make a suitable husband.”

  “Hang it, Frederick, this is Elizabeth we’re talking about! Any man would make a suitable husband! He’s rich! What more do you want?”

  Wentworth gave another long sigh. “Faithfulness, Charles. A wife deserves that. Even Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Wentworth pushed at a bit of egg with his fork. “McGillvary’s a fine fellow—a dutiful officer, a man of his word—in every area but one.”

  “Do you mean with the ladies? What does that signify? The man’s a widower!”

  “He is now, but he wasn’t when we served together. The women he was involved with—the ones I knew about—were married.”

  “Oh.” Charles inspected his plate. The silence in the dining room grew. He took up a spoon and began to stir his coffee.

  “Adultery is adultery, I’m afraid,” Wentworth said at last. “Once a man develops a taste for it, he continues to chase women until he is an old man.”

  Charles swallowed. “Oh,” he said.

  ~ ~ ~

  St. Frederick Church was built of red brick with Portland stone dressings, a well looking edifice, Lady Russell thought. As she descended from the job chaise, a single bell began to ring. She glanced at the clock on the spire; this was likely a call to midday prayer. Lady Russell came to a decision. She would attend the service and at its conclusion, she would speak to the rector. She took a firm hold of her reticule and the packet of papers, all too aware of the special license within.

  Matrimony. It was a holy sacrament and a binding one. As Lady Russell pulled open the wrought iron gate and stepped into the yard, the word resonated in her mind. This very day, within the next few hours in fact, she would be united to Sir Walter Elliot in holy matrimony. She had never intended to marry again, although friends had once linked her name with Sir Walter’s.

  Would she have married him all those years ago? Certainly, if he had proposed—but he never did. Even now, this marriage was taking place at her instigation, not his. It was a lowering thought.