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

by Laura Hile

  Presently the carriage pulled to the side of the street and stopped. Henry looked over his shoulder at McGillvary. “Someone’s pulled the check string, sir,” he called.

  “About time,” said McGillvary. He swung down, but before his feet touched the ground the door opened. “Out!” he heard Elizabeth Elliot say.

  “Elizabeth, be reasonable!” There was a whine in William Elliot’s voice. McGillvary bit his lip to keep from laughing.

  “We are away from the house,” Elizabeth said. “Now you must walk.”

  “But it’s raining. Hey!” he cried. “Don’t push!”

  McGillvary strolled to the door. “Do you require assistance, madam?” he enquired, peering in.

  Mr. Elliot gave him a scathing look. When he caught sight of the whip in McGillvary’s hand, he scrambled out and onto the street.

  Elizabeth put her head out. “If you had equipped this vehicle properly,” she said to McGillvary, “there would be pistols here as a safeguard against highwaymen. As it is, I am forced to use undignified measures.”

  “Ye gods,” said McGillvary, grinning. “What did you say to her, Elliot?”

  William Elliot finished straightening his frock coat. “My hat, please,” he said frostily.

  “For your information, this necklace belonged to my mother.”

  William Elliot’s calm deserted him; his hands clenched into fists. “If you choose to lose your trumpery baubles at cards, it’s nothing to me,” he shouted back. “But I resent you using him as your errand boy! As your cousin, I ought to be the one to redeem your losses!”

  “Redeem my—Oh!” she cried. The hat came sailing out and hit Mr. Elliot on the forehead. “Redeem that!”

  Another carriage clattered past. Mr. Elliot took up his hat and, baring clenched teeth, put it on. “Now who’s causing a scene?” he shouted.

  “Fighting like cats in the rain,” remarked McGillvary to no one in particular. He put aside the whip and began to shrug off his coat.

  “Very well, Elliot,” he said cheerfully, “since weapons are not at hand—and Henry does keep a pistol, by the by—you and I are reduced to fisticuffs.”

  Mr. Elliot took a step back. “We shall speak of this later, Elizabeth,” he called. “Tomorrow night. Do not forget!”

  “I beg your pardo—” she began, and stopped. She cast a furious look at McGillvary. “Very well, Mr. Elliot,” she said haughtily. “Until tomorrow night.”

  Mr. Elliot bowed and hastened on his way. McGillvary retrieved the whip and his coat. From inside the coach Elizabeth’s pale face looked up at him. “Wrap yourself in the lap robe,” he instructed. “I’ll have you home straightway.”

  “But—”

  McGillvary closed the door on her words. He tossed the whip to Henry. “St. Peter Square,” he ordered. “And Henry, when you reach the corner, pull up. We’ll walk the rest of the way.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Put me down this instant, Charles Musgrove,” cried Mary. “I have no intention of going out-of-doors in my nightdress!”

  Charles tightened his grip, stepping side to allow Yee to sprint past with buckets of water. Water sloshed onto the floor and into Charles’s shoes. “You wished to be out of the smoke,” he said. “It’s past midnight; no one will notice.” The main door was standing open. He carried Mary out of the house.

  “But it’s raining,” she cried and buried her face in his shirt.

  “Thank God for that!”

  “It’s horrible, horrible,” lamented Mary. “Charles, you brute, we’ll be soaked.”

  “When I consider that this is all your fault,” said Charles, “and that Anne and Frederick nearly lost this house because of you—” He set his wife down on the front steps, none too gently. “You deserve a beating, Mary.”

  She looked up at her husband through the veil of rain. “What?”

  “And by God, if I don’t give it to you, it will be a mirac—” Charles broke off speaking and seized Mary’s wrist. “What is this?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” said Mary, pulling away. “It’s only my medicine.”

  “Medicine? You mean the laudanum.”

  “Why, yes.”

  “You ran back into a burning room for this? A bottle of laudanum?”

  Mary’s face puckered. “You and Captain Wentworth were tearing at the bedding like fiends, shouting and throwing everything onto the floor.” She cradled the bottle in her arms. “It’s a wonder this wasn’t broken.” She raised her face defiantly. “I rescued it.”

  “You set the house on fire, and all you can think of is a curst bottle of laudanum?”

  “Medicine,” corrected Mary. “And I did not set the house on fire, Charles, only the bedding. Bless me, one would think I did it on purpose, the way you’re carrying on.”

  Charles wrested the bottle from her grasp. “Ouch, you’re hurting me!” cried Mary.

  “Here’s what I think of your curst medicine!” Charles threw the bottle onto the pavement; it exploded with a crash. “The next time you’re longing for a bottle,” he said, “you’d better be reaching for a bottle of gin.”

  Mary stared open-mouthed at the broken glass and began to cry.

  “Charles,” called Anne from the open doorway, “was that necessary? Mind where you step, Mary. There will be broken glass everywhere.”

  Anne tottered forward. “Dear Mary, you’re soaking wet. Let me cover you.” Anne began working at the knot of her dressing gown.

  Charles grasped Anne’s arm. “Not on your life,” he said, stopping her. “You stay here. I’ll fetch a blanket for Mary.”

  Mary collapsed into a huddle on the wet pavement. “It’s gone,” she said, looking up at Anne. “All gone. Think of the expense.” She wiped her rain-spattered face with her sleeve. “Charles is always twitting me about money,” she said, “and see how wasteful he is? It isn’t fair.”

  “The fire is out and the boys are safe,” soothed Anne. “Frederick and I thought it best not to wake them.” She dug in her pocket. “Here,” she said. “Would you like my smelling salts?”

  Mary plucked at the sleeve of her nightdress. “It was only a small fire, Anne. Everything turned out all right, didn’t it?”

  ~ ~ ~

  “A fire.” McGillvary spoke directly into Elizabeth’s ear. “You’re in luck, my dear.”

  Elizabeth compressed her lips. Only he would see a fire as lucky!

  “It’s perfect. A fire gives us room to manoeuvre. Better take off your gloves. You wouldn’t be wearing them in the house.”

  She started to object but thought better of it. The wet gloves were difficult to remove. He helped her. “Give them to me,” he said. “And your fan and your reticule. And your wrap.”

  “I left it in the coach,” she said in a small voice.

  McGillvary held up a silencing hand and studied the group by the door “If we play our cards right, they won’t know you were gone.”

  “But my ball dress?” she whispered back, indicating her sodden gown.

  He smiled. “It doesn’t look like one now, does it?” He lowered his voice even more. “Now listen. You were in your bedchamber. You smelt smoke and heard cries of ‘Fire!’”

  “How do I know someone cried ‘Fire’?”

  “Someone always does, even on a fighting ship. You ran from your bedchamber and out into the rain.”

  “Thinking of no one’s safety but my own. Lovely.”

  “That’s right,” he whispered. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” He paused to listen. “Now comes the hard part,” he said into her ear. “We wait for the perfect moment. When it comes you must join the conversation. Make them think you have been here all along.”

  Captain Wentworth came out of the house. He was in his shirtsleeves; his face and hands were streaked with grime. He shook out a blanket for Anne’s shoulders and drew her under the shelter of the doorway.

  “I see no reason for everyone to be so cross.” In the night air, Mary’s shrill voice c
arried. “What could be keeping Charles? He promised to fetch me a blanket.”

  As if on cue, Charles edged past Wentworth and Anne. “Here,” he said, reaching for Mary’s hand. “Get up. Let’s get out of the rain.”

  “Bless me, Charles, you are covered with soot. Your nice shirt is quite ruined.”

  “So is Anne’s best bedchamber,” he replied, giving her the blanket. “No thanks to you.”

  Mary drew the blanket around her shoulders and took hold of her husband’s arm. “Anne spilt wax on our parlour carpet last year,” she announced. “Our nicest, prettiest carpet. Try as she might, Dodson could not remove the spot. I’m not saying Dodson did try. But it was Anne’s fault just the same.”

  ~ ~ ~

  McGillvary touched Elizabeth’s arm. “They’re going in now,” he said softly. “Go!”

  “Go?” Elizabeth echoed. In the dark she could see Patrick’s eyes dancing. He was enjoying this!

  “I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he promised. “Now, make me proud.” He bent and swiftly kissed her cheek. “For luck,” he whispered, and then he gave her a tiny push.

  Join the conversation.

  That was what he said, and that was what she needed to do.

  Elizabeth’s heart was thumping as she stepped from the shadows. “No, Mary,” she said crisply, surprised at the steadiness of her voice. “No one ever does anything to your satisfaction. Thank God you were unable to burn all of Anne’s house. What will the landlord say?”

  “Elizabeth,” cried Mary, turning. “Where have you been?”

  “I have been trying to stay out of the rain.” Elizabeth brushed the wet hair from her forehead. “I was over there, if you must know.” She indicated her hiding place.

  “Gracious, you’re a sorry sight.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  “You were hiding in your bedchamber all evening, weren’t you?”

  “Where else would I be? At a ball?”

  “How you can lie,” said Mary airily. Charles lifted her and carried her across the threshold. Mary threw Elizabeth a saucy look. “You see?” she said. “I enter before you. Mine is the precedence, even now.”

  Elizabeth did not respond. She kept her head down and hurried inside. Brushing aside Anne’s offer of a blanket, she fled up the stairs.

  Make me proud.

  That was what he had said to her. But in her heart of hearts, Elizabeth knew that she had been nothing but a fool.

  16 Though the Darkness Round Me Close

  The following morning dawned clear and bright, and Sir Walter was out and about. In his hand was a letter to William Elliot, written on stationery provided by the hotel. Sir Walter was pleased with himself, not only for remembering to write the letter, but also for rising at such an early hour to post it. The captain of the Sarabande had promised an evening departure. His time in England was short.

  He could have left the letter in the care of the hotel clerk, but this was so much better. A little stroll up Berkeley Street, a saunter around Berkeley Square and after he posted the letter, the tranquility of Grosvenor Square.

  Sir Walter inhaled deeply, savouring the very air. Such a charming, exclusive area, Grosvenor Square. Right in the heart of fashionable Mayfair, the residence of dukes and earls. What could be more congenial?

  Only one thing marred the beauty of the morning—his pocketbook. If only he had been born to a larger income! Why, he might have had a house right here. Sir Walter looked about with envious eyes. This charming locale was the antithesis of Kellynch village or Crewkherne.

  Soon the brick building that housed the post office came into sight. Sir Walter slowed his pace, the better to look about him. He pulled open the door and as he did, he heard a gasp. “Why, Sir Walter!”

  He swung round to find a woman standing on the pavement. She was neatly dressed in pale blue with a bonnet to match. Across her cheeks marched an army of freckles; her lips formed a perfect O. Sir Walter felt in a pocket for his quizzing glass.

  “Oh, Sir Walter,” she cried; the relief in her voice was palpable. Her gloved fingers grasped his sleeve and held on. “Imagine finding you here, of all places!” Her bright eyes searched his. “Surely you remember me?” she said, smiling. “I am Penelope Clay.”

  The smile brought everything back, for Penelope Clay had the most hideous teeth. Sir Walter smiled slightly, wishing she did not hold his arm so tightly. Surely his sleeve would be creased!

  “Why, Mrs. Clay,” he said, attempting to pull away. “How delightful, I am sure. I had no idea you were in London.” He looked at her more closely. She had gained weight, but he could hardly say so.

  “Er, you look to be in fine, blooming health,” he added.

  “But did not Father tell you?” A frown creased her brow. “Father said he called on you. He said he sought your help to find William Elliot.”

  “Why, I …”

  Her fingers dug into his arm. “Why did you not answer my letters, sir? I have written to you and to Miss Elizabeth and even to Miss Anne. Not one of you has replied.”

  “Perhaps that is because we have changed our residence, dear girl. Anne has married—”

  “Married?” she cried. “Good gracious.”

  Sir Walter winced. Why did Mrs. Clay have to shriek? He continued, “And I too have changed my residence. In fact, I have left Bath altogether.”

  “Have you returned to Kellynch? But that’s impossible.”

  He puffed out his chest. “Of course it is not impossible. As a matter of fact, I—”

  Sir Walter broke off speaking, for someone else was calling his name. He turned to see Lady Sarah, Lord Aldeburgh, and Miss Neville making their way along Grosvenor Street. The ladies waved. Sir Walter cringed. He made another attempt to free himself from Mrs. Clay’s grasp.

  “Good morning,” called Miss Neville. “Imagine meeting here, of all places.” She held up several letters. “We sail today, by all accounts. This is our last chance to write for who knows how long?” Her gaze travelled to Mrs. Clay. “Good morning,” she said with decided friendliness. “Is this a friend of yours, Sir Walter?”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “Just a chance acquaintance. Good day to you, Mrs. Clay,” he said, tipping his hat.

  “A chance acquaintance? Ma’am, I was a member of Sir Walter’s own household! A companion to his daughter!”

  “Well, well,” Sir Walter interposed. “And very sorry Elizabeth was when you left us, Mrs. Clay.”

  The expression in Mrs. Clay’s eyes changed, or so it seemed to Sir Walter. “This is what I receive for my pains?” she said slowly. “You refuse to acknowledge that you know me?”

  Sir Walter became alarmed, conscious of his companions’ interest. “My dear girl,” he said, “you were in my employ. That hardly constitutes friendship.”

  “How can you say so, sir?” Mrs. Clay let go his arm and pulled out a handkerchief. “Has my devotion meant so little to you?” She dabbed at her eyes.

  Sir Walter ground his teeth. “Now see here,” he began. Then he noticed Lady Sarah’s raised brows. Sir Walter began to panic. “Now see here,” he repeated.

  “Am I to understand that you left Sir Walter’s employ of your own accord?” Lady Sarah enquired.

  Mrs. Clay blushed. “I could hardly stay, ma’am, given my condition!” She cast a look at Sir Walter from beneath wet lashes.

  “Condition?” said Sir Walter. “What condition?”

  “Oh sir,” cried Mrs. Clay. “You are cruel indeed to say you do not recall!”

  “Recall what?”

  Mrs. Clay’s cheeks, neck and forehead were now crimson. “The moonlit garden, sir,” she cried, giving a significant look. “The kiss. And what came after.”

  “What?” exclaimed Sir Walter, looking wildly from Mrs. Clay to Lady Sarah. “What came after?”

  “Why, my condition!” cried Penelope Clay.

  “What condit—?” Sir Walter broke off, aghast at her accusation. So that was wh
y she looked plumper. But there had been nothing between them, only a kiss! And that at her instigation!

  “My dear girl,” he said between clenched teeth. “You’ve the wrong man. I suggest you apply to William Elli—”

  Again Sir Walter stopped. He couldn’t very well implicate his heir!

  “The wrong man? How is that possible, sir?” This was from Lady Sarah.

  Sir Walter felt a flush rise to his cheeks. What a business!

  ~ ~ ~

  The door swung open and hit the wall with a bang. Amanda Russell, who had all she could do with the tray, gave a cry of consternation. Longwell’s eyes came open. He turned over in the bed. “Milady,” he rasped.

  “Stay where you are,” commanded Lady Russell, plunking the tray on a table. “I am fully capable of bringing in a breakfast tray. Which is more than I can say for the staff of this establishment!”

  Longwell sat up and pulled the bedclothes to his chin. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “It is not fitting,” he grumbled, “that you should wait on me, ma’am.”

  “It is not fitting that you should get out of that bed,” replied Lady Russell. “For I fear that most of your clothes are on the floor.”

  Longwell stared hard at her and then at the pile. Both his bushy brows went up.

  “Be still and I will fix your toast,” she said. She pulled the chair to the table and sat. “Would you care for butter or jam?” she enquired, taking up the knife.

  He gave no answer. “Very well,” she replied, “you shall have both. How do you take your tea?”

  He made a growling noise. “I am capable of amending my own tea, milady.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She filled a cup, added milk, and looked at him expectantly. “How many sugar lumps?”

  Longwell coughed. “Four, ma’am.”

  “How sweet.” Lady Russell smiled as she counted them out and passed the cup and saucer. “Do you know, Longwell, in all these years you and I have never taken tea together?”

  “Nor should we,” he grumbled. “Improper is what it is.”

  “I suppose.” She poured out a cup for herself. “Although, I must say, the only truly improper thing—and you daren’t argue with me about this, Longwell—is that we shared the bedchamber last night.” She looked at him over the rim of her teacup. “Scandalous, is it not?”