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

by Laura Hile

  Lady Russell’s eyes came open again. “Was it heading for Bath?” she said. There was a catch in her voice.

  This question was passed on. “Aye,” crowed the boy. “That’d be the one. Yesterday’s Mail.”

  At once Lady Russell was out of her seat, pushing her way to the window. “But the passengers?” she demanded. “What of the passengers?”

  The boy shrugged. “Nobody knows. Driver and horses have gone missing.” He looked hopefully from one face to another and, deciding to chance another reward, darted away for fresh news.

  “Missing?” whispered Lady Russell. “Oh, Longwell.”

  Soon the boy’s head reappeared at the window. “Ol’ Mr. Sopworthy, he says there be bloodstains,” he announced, “ ’cos I heard him. I dunno if that’s all, though. They’re checking the coppice now. For bodies.”

  13 A Silent Prayer

  The dance floor was crowded; Elizabeth could see no opening in any of the sets. “Perhaps we should wai—” she began, but McGillvary cut her off.

  “Not on your life,” he said, leaning to speak into her ear. “Once one decides to engage the enemy, one cannot hesitate. I thought you knew that.”

  “Knew—what?” she said blankly.

  He caught hold of her hand. “Keep your courage up, my dear. This might be a desperate enterprise, but we’ll see it through.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks were burning. He was holding her hand, heedless of the interested eyes all around. He was smiling, too—a particularly attractive smile. His eyes shone with a light that quite took her breath away. She tore her gaze from him, unsure of what to think. This was a desperate enterprise, truly—did he think she could forget? Elizabeth lifted her head.

  “That’s the spirit,” he said. “Let’s give the gossips something to talk about.”

  The music began just then, and Elizabeth’s panic increased. All around them dancers began to move, and yet the two of them were standing on the dance floor with nowhere to go.

  “Come,” he said and pulled her by the hand. And then she saw it—a set near the centre of the room had an empty spot. Patrick was grinning. “You see?” he said, leading her into place and pivoting in time to make the required bow. “Tactics.”

  “Tactics,” she echoed. If only she were as much at ease as he!

  “I wish I had your confidence,” she confessed shyly when they were joined in the dance.

  The smile disappeared from his lips but not from his eyes. “What can possibly go wrong? We are together. And together we are unassailable.”

  ~ ~ ~

  In the moonlight the coaching inn shone white. There were lights in the windows, and a post-chaise was drawn up in front. The horn sounded for the change, and the yard came to life. “It’s the Mail,” someone shouted. Hostlers bearing torches came running. The innkeeper came onto the porch, wiping his hands on a towel.

  Lady Russell was among the first to exit. Gathering her skirts, she mounted the steps, ignoring the bow of the innkeeper. “Where are the passengers from the wreck?” she demanded. “Where have you put the wounded?”

  The men in the yard were staring, but Lady Russell did not care. She stamped her foot at the innkeeper. “We saw the wreck, I tell you!”

  Dissatisfied with his evasive explanation, she pushed her way into the inn. The door to the taproom was open. It too was crowded. A serving woman came down the stairs, a pail in each hand. Strands of hair escaped the mobcap she wore; her eyes were weary. Lady Russell scrutinized her clothing. Were there bloodstains on the woman’s apron?

  Lady Russell addressed her directly. “I am looking for a person who was travelling on the Mail—the one that met with the accident,” she said. “He is tall with greying hair. He was wearing a black coat.”

  The woman set down her load. “A formal, stiff bloke? Dignified?”

  Lady Russell’s heart gave a thump. “That’s right,” she said encouragingly. “He is quite stiff, especially in his speech. That is, if he is able to speak.”

  The woman lifted a shoulder. “He can speak, all right. Second floor, last door on the left.”

  The staircase was precariously steep, and the treads were shallow. As Lady Russell went up, her trepidation increased. What would she find behind that door?

  ~ ~ ~

  All about them were dancers. Elizabeth was aware of fleeting images: whirling colours, a blur of faces, and Patrick’s smile. From the corner of her eye she noticed Mrs. Leighton’s staring face. Quickly Elizabeth looked the other way. So her reputation was in shreds and tongues were wagging. Patrick Gill had come back into her life. What else mattered?

  Then she caught sight of Ronan. He stood along one of the walls, glowering, with arms crossed over his chest. Elizabeth choked on a giggle.

  McGillvary’s brows went up. “What?” he said. The figure of the dance parted them, but he continued to smile. “I know that look,” he said as soon as she was near him. “Out with it.”

  She smiled up at him. “I’ve been thinking about Ronan,” she said. “It is a pity that Caroline is not here.”

  “Who?”

  Elizabeth smiled as she whirled away. When the dance brought her to him, she said, “Miss Bingley. She’s an heiress. Ronan should meet her.”

  “You’d introduce an unmarried heiress to Ronan? Poor girl.”

  “Miss Bingley is hardly a girl. She is longing for romance. Ronan would be just the thing.”

  McGillvary gave a shout of laughter. “Romance? Not he. He’s too much in love with himself.”

  “I know the type,” said Elizabeth.

  ~ ~ ~

  The day was at last ending—peacefully, or so Captain Wentworth hoped. It was close on midnight and he was alone, with only the ticking clock for company. Anne had retired already, which was a mercy as the events of the day had taken their toll most heavily on her. Mary also had retired quietly. Of Elizabeth there was no sign, and Wentworth could only be grateful that she had remained in her room. One way or another, Anne must be drawn into every conflict in this house. And hadn’t Lady Russell done an admirable job with her marriage announcement?

  Wentworth leaned back in his chair. So many tangles he could not explain! So much he did not understand. And yet to speak openly would mean more heartache for Anne. The velvet bag McGillvary had given to Yee, for instance. It was filled with the Elliot family jewellery, although how Elizabeth came by it Wentworth could only guess. Weren’t Sir Walter’s possessions being stored at Lady Russell’s? As for how McGillvary came to possess the bag—

  Wentworth sighed again. This was another question he intended to ask Elizabeth.

  Then there was the matter of McGillvary’s visit last night. Not one thing had Wentworth understood, and tomorrow the man would return as his guest for dinner! The invitation had been given; he could hardly take it back.

  The only thing to be done was to invite as many officers as could fit round their dinner table. Anne had done her best to ask as many women as she knew—including Miss Owen from next door.

  Miss Owen. Wentworth lifted weary eyes to the clock. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Charles for several hours. There was trouble there as well, but what to do?

  ~ ~ ~

  There was something magical in the air, or else it was simply that Patrick himself was magical. Elizabeth did not know how it was; his smiling confidence seemed to sweep every worry away. He might be an officer, yet tonight he was once more her very own Patrick Gill. Again and again she danced with him. Not twice, according to polite custom, but four times, five times. Bit by bit the stares subsided, although Ronan glared pointedly at the pendant she wore. At last she laughingly begged Patrick to fetch a glass of lemonade.

  He responded by taking her from the floor before the dance had finished. “No, no,” she protested. “I meant after this set.”

  “I am yours to command at any time,” he replied gaily, and he led her to a chair. “I shall return.”

  Elizabeth sank gracefully onto the chair, thankful
to rest her feet. How long had it been since she had danced the night away? She knew the answer: never. Oh, there had been nights filled with dancing, but there had never been a night like this.

  She was well-placed to hear the whispers, but long years of training served her well. She did not react.

  “Who is she?” someone said.

  “Why, Miss Elliot,” came the reply. “Sir Walter’s daughter.”

  Elizabeth bit back a smile.

  “Who?”

  “Miss Elizabeth Elliot. She’s McGillvary’s latest flirt.”

  A dimple formed in Elizabeth’s cheek; she would not look in the direction of the voices. Presently there came a scraping sound, as a chair was pulled forward. From the corner of her eye Elizabeth noticed a gentleman sit down beside her. She allowed herself the luxury of a smile and turned, ready to receive the glass of lemonade Patrick offered.

  But the man who sat beside her was not Patrick.

  “Do you know, Miss Elliot,” Sir Henry said softly, “I have been waiting for a little note from you. Or, failing that, some other means of acknowledgement.”

  Elizabeth froze, too stunned to speak.

  Sir Henry lowered his voice. “For my offer was a beautiful one. And you have not bothered to respond.”

  Elizabeth stared at him. Would he dare discuss his wretched proposition here?

  “However,” he continued easily, “I see you’ve received a better offer.” He looked across the room in the direction of the refreshment table. “McGillvary is known to be generous, my sweet. While his interest lasts.”

  Sir Henry smiled slightly. “Which, unfortunately, is never very long. I suggest you make the most of it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  For several long moments Lady Russell stood before the closed door. She had a lively fear of what she would discover within. Fear lent her the courage she lacked. It was pointless to have come this far only to be thwarted by missish, over-sensitive manners! Lady Russell’s gloved hand found the latch, and she lifted it.

  “Hello?” she called, and she pushed the door open. “Might I come in, please?”

  The bedchamber was small; its ceiling was low and sloped. Light from a candle revealed a narrow bed with a single occupant. Lady Russell could almost hear her heart thumping against her ribs. She could also hear breathing.

  She took hold of the candlestick and, trembling, held it high. The corners of the room remained in shadow. There was discarded blood-stained clothing on the floor. Lady Russell shivered.

  The figure on the bed gave a moan. Lady Russell sucked in her breath. The candle shook even more, causing wax to spill onto her gloved hand. “Longwell?” she whispered.

  Her hand continued to shake, so she set the candle on the table beside the bed. A man lay there, turned away from her. She could see a bald spot. Longwell had a bald spot!

  “Please God,” she whispered, “let this be him.” Her fingers closed on the edge of the blanket.

  The man turned in his sleep, moaning a little. Carefully Lady Russell drew that blanket away to better see his face. Even in the rosy candlelight his skin looked ashen. A bandage was tied beneath his chin; it covered a portion of his cheek.

  “Longwell,” Lady Russell breathed. “Oh, Longwell.”

  The man gave a start. His eyes came open.

  “Dearest Longwell,” she cried. “You’re alive!”

  His head and shoulders twisted in her direction; he scowled at her. After a heart-stopping moment, she realized he was trying to decide who she was.

  Just as she was about to identify herself, he coughed. “Of course I am alive,” he rasped.

  She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It is I. Amanda Russell.”

  His eyes showed surprise; his mouth worked to speak. “Milady? But you, you are—”

  “I am come to take you home,” she said. “We shall leave whenever you are able.”

  His frown deepened. “But—you were going to be married, ma’am.”

  “Not any longer,” she said. “You were right, Longwell. The married state does not agree with me.”

  His lips moved. Was he attempting to smile? “What about … him?”

  Amanda Russell’s smile widened. “He is no longer my concern.”

  A laugh bubbled up; she quickly suppressed it. She shut her lips tightly, but the smile would not be denied. “I am afraid I left Sir Walter at the altar,” she said. “Disgraceful of me, was it not?”

  Longwell’s eyes grew wider still. “Did you now, ma’am?” he said.

  “To be honest, I could think of no other way to free myself. I gave him the tickets, the letter of credit, and most of the money I had with me. Along with his wretched bottle of Gowland’s lotion.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, ma’am.” Longwell’s gaze moved from her face to the door. He raised himself on one elbow, a painful undertaking. “Is he giving chase, ma’am? Is he here, seeking to force your hand?”

  Lady Russell’s dimple quivered. “Certainly not. By now Sir Walter is in the middle of the English Channel, which is where he belongs.”

  Longwell sank back and closed his eyes. “God be praised,” he said. “I must be dreaming.”

  “Indeed you are not,” Lady Russell said crisply. “All that remains is for me to hire a carriage—one of those yellow traveling chaises will have to do.”

  He raised a bushy eyebrow. “A Yellow Bounder, ma’am?”

  “Yes, a Yellow Bounder. I daresay we shall be shaken to bits. Are you able to travel?”

  He sighed. “I’ve broken my forearm, milady. My face isn’t much to look at. It was cut by the glass from the window.”

  Lady Russell clicked her tongue. “You’ll have a scar,” she said, looking him over, “which will serve to make you all the more intimidating.” She smiled widely. “How do you manage to do it, Longwell? Even your wounds assist you to become the more perfect butler.”

  Longwell’s mouth worked again, and he plucked at the blanket with his good hand. “I wish to please, milady,” he said at last.

  She took his hand and held it between both of her own. “Indeed you do,” she said happily. “Indeed you do.”

  14 Heart of the Matter

  Wind whispered through the trees and pushed the clouds across the moon. The dark lake was quiet now, save for the sound of the rushes and the rippling water. Charles Musgrove glanced at the sky and then at his clasped hands. It was late; he knew he should go in. Was Mary asleep? If he came in too soon, there would be questions. He had been sitting on the bench for hours, listening to the lapping of water and the cry of birds. Sitting and thinking.

  A raindrop hit his cheek. Charles straightened. The scent of rain was in the air; he could delay no longer. He must go home.

  Home. Charles’s eyes sought the top of the hill. Beyond the trees were two houses whose occupants he knew well: Wentworth’s and Minthorne’s. By now there would be few lights in either. Charles rose to his feet and began to skirt the lake, as drops of rain fell hissing to the lawn.

  What was she doing now? Probably sleeping. Or helping her cousin with a patient.

  A rueful smile tugged at his lips, for he knew she had not been as attentive a nurse since they became friends. But what did it matter where she was or what she did? Such things should not be his concern.

  But they are.

  Whatever the future held for him, Winnie Owen would not be far from his thoughts.

  Tonight was a foretaste of what he could expect. Here he was, stumbling about in the dark and rain, alone. He had made his choice—the right choice—but no angel choir sang his praises. Duty determined his course of action—duty and honour. The way of honour was hard, he now realized. And it was also lonely.

  He turned to take another look at the lake. God only knew when he would see this spot again. How many precious hours had they spent together here? Talking and laughing, first as friends and later as … what?

  Lovers? No, never that. What had grown up between them was more.

&
nbsp; Charles dug his hands into his pockets. He had been content enough with Mary, if content could describe the numb state in which he existed before he met Winnie. Doors in his heart had opened then, doors Charles hadn’t known were there.

  He sighed heavily. That cottage by the sea—had he actually offered such a thing? Had he spoken his plan aloud to her? And what did she think of him then? It was a wonder she did not strike him!

  And what did she think of him now? In spite of the falling rain, Charles’s face grew hot. How could he have suggested something so selfish to a woman he loved? He’d as much as offered to make her his mistress!

  Charles went stomping to the top of the hill; this did nothing to lessen his sense of shame. His brother Richard had been a scoundrel, his character so irretrievable that it could be hidden from no one save the youngest children. News of his death brought sadness, but also relief. But even Richard did nothing so evil as to ruin a respectable woman!

  Charles now knew that he was worse than his wastrel brother—a good deal worse.

  To go home was the best course of action. He would return to Uppercross, Winnie would return to her father’s house in Wales, and he would never see her again. The future she would face there both of them could guess. But it was an honourable future. He could cling to that, at least.

  Charles’s hand found the latch of the gate. He pushed his way through and slammed the gate shut. Through the dark he stumbled, intent on reaching the Wentworth house.

  ~ ~ ~

  The insolent curl of Sir Henry Farley’s lip made Elizabeth long to strike him.

  “I am sorry to distress you,” Sir Henry said. “Being inexperienced in these matters, I fear you do not understand the rules of the game.”

  She became aware that he was gazing at her neck. Her hand stole to cover the pendant.

  Sir Henry laughed softly. “Poor Miss Elliot,” he said.

  Elizabeth felt hot and cold at the same time. The truth, sickening and real, was now taking hold. Had she been fooling herself? Admiral McGillvary was real. Mr. Gill, the clerk, was not. And the two were not the same man.