by Laura Hile
“No it isn’t,” cried Elizabeth. “What if my cousin has studied boxing? Some gentlemen do!”
He laughed shortly. “Trust me, he hasn’t.” He began to unknot his cravat.
“But Patrick, you might get hurt!”
‘How I love to hear you say my name! Here,” he added, passing his cravat. “Hold this.”
She thought quickly. “You’ll get another scar, I know it! Perhaps this time on your face! And then—how can I agree to marry you?”
Even this threat did not sober him. Laughing, he said, “I’ll take my chances.”
Elizabeth looked from him to her cousin, who was standing some distance away. He had not removed his coat, but instead was nursing his wrist. Seeing her gaze, he called out, “I demand that you come, Elizabeth. Immediately, do you hear?”
“Oh!” she flashed. “Am I a dog, that you order me about?” To Patrick she said, “I do not see how this will settle anything.”
“No fretting over consequences, love. ‘First gain the victory; then make the best use of it you can.’”
Elizabeth nearly stamped her foot. “Admiral Nelson,” she said wrathfully, “was surely the stupidest of men!”
Behind her came the sound of an opening door and voices; light spilled onto the cobbled pavement. “What in heaven’s name?” she heard Captain Wentworth say.
Hating herself, Elizabeth turned to look. Sure enough, Anne’s dinner guests were spilling out of the house and into the square. As well, she heard windows of neighbouring houses being opened.
“Elizabeth!” Mr. Elliot’s voice came bleating through the night air. “A promise is a promise! Come. My carriage awaits.”
Elizabeth caught hold of Patrick’s arm and hung on. There was strength there—she could feel it. “You will not,” she said hotly, “brawl in the street!”
“Yes, dearest,” he said. “As soon as I finish this.” But although his tone was meek, there was a dangerous sparkle in his eyes.
A shiver of fear shot through her. Would Patrick murder Mr. Elliot? “I’ve waited all my life for you. I’ll not have you die on the gallows because of my cousin!”
“I won’t kill the man,” he said pleadingly. “Just,”—his sudden grin appeared—“you know, rearrange his face a bit.”
“Patrick! Isn’t he ugly enough?”
He laughed and began removing her fingers from his arm.
Elizabeth clung to him more tightly. One way or another, she must stop this—but how? She had only a women’s weapons at her disposal—and, of all things, a foolish line from Shakespeare. Yes, from Much Ado, about Hero, stopping someone’s talking mouth with a kiss!
A kiss?
Did she dare to do the same? Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer. She let go of Patrick’s arm and, summoning her courage, reached up to put a hand on each side of his face. The roughness of his cheeks and the audacity of her plan made her knees go weak.
First gain the victory. And then make the best use of it you can.
Under her touch he grew still; he did not pull away as she feared he might. Here, then, was the victory. And how to make use of it?
Elizabeth’s fingers moved along the line of his jaw. Boldly she lifted her chin, and then, screwing up her courage, she drew his face down to hers. He had called her a hellion once. Perhaps he was right!
“Elizabeth,” Mr. Elliot called again. “I am waiting!”
Standing on tiptoe, Elizabeth boldly pressed her lips to Patrick’s. Instantly she found herself pulled roughly against his chest in a crushing embrace. As she’d hoped, his kiss was surprisingly tender—and this time he was in no hurry to end it.
A coach came clattering into the square and pulled up. Lost in the pleasure of the kiss, Elizabeth paid it no mind.
“Look there!” someone yelled, above the stamping and blowing of the horses. “Shepherd called it! It’s Elliot! Don’t let him escape.”
“Mind the bonus,” someone else shouted. Then came the sound of boots running on cobbles. William Elliot gave a womanish scream.
This Elizabeth could not ignore. She broke away from the kiss in time to see her cousin sprint, pell-mell, for his carriage. “Away! Away!” he shouted to his driver. “For the love of all that’s holy, away!”
The men from the coach yelled and gave chase. Both vehicles went clattering from the square, and McGillvary shook his head. “The things your cousin will say!” he marvelled.
Elizabeth leaned into his chest, smiling. William Elliot was gone—and Patrick McGillvary was not. Again she put a hand to each of Patrick’s cheeks. “But my darling,” she said. “What else can one expect from a lawyer?”
She raised her face invitingly for another kiss … and was not disappointed.
20 Between the Devil
and the Deep Blue Sea
The departure for Uppercross, set for early on the following morning, did not come off as planned. McGillvary’s travelling coach arrived and was duly loaded, but Mary would not come down. Charles Musgrove paced to and fro in the entrance hall; McGillvary sat reading an older copy of the Gazette.
Presently Wentworth returned from his errands. “Caught it just in time,” he said to McGillvary. “It should make the afternoon edition.”
McGillvary thanked him and resumed reading.
“That’s more than I can say for us,” Charles put in gloomily. “Mary says she’s too ill to travel. Claims to have the headache or some such thing.”
Wentworth removed his hat and gloves. “Should Minthorne be called?”
“How should I know? Anne is with her now.”
Wentworth’s frown of concern deepened into a scowl. “After all Anne went through last night? I won’t have her ranted at.” He made for the staircase.
McGillvary looked up from the paper. “I wouldn’t do that, Frederick. It will only raise her hackles.”
Wentworth halted, a foot on the stair tread. “Just what,” he said sharply, “do you mean by that?”
“Merely that you’ll never drag a woman from a sick room. Particularly not a soft-hearted woman.” McGillvary turned a page. “It’s a lovely day. Offer her a change of scene. Take her away.”
Wentworth compressed his lips. “My sister-in-law,” he said, “is leaving.”
“I meant your wife. You say she dislikes Bath. Well and good; take her elsewhere.”
Wentworth folded his arms across his chest. “I thought you said I couldn’t drag her away.”
“Ah, but you must cause her to leave willingly. Mrs. Musgrove is not truly ill; your wife knows that. You must entice her, as a newly-married husband should. Have her trunk packed up, man, and go! We’ll lock up when we leave.”
Charles found his cap. “If Minthorne sees Mary, it will ease Anne’s mind,” he said, “I’ll find out when he’s able to come.”
~ ~ ~
The Mail lumbered into Bath later that afternoon, far behind schedule. It came to a halt in the crowded coaching yard amid shouts to hurry.
“Shiftless, shiftless,” muttered Sir Walter, as he emerged. Was there someone on hand to assist him with his descent? No! Did the owner of the hostelry come forward with refreshments? By no means! During the long journey from London Sir Walter had, in fact, been treated as if he were so much baggage! His fellow passengers, ruffians all, were equally inconsiderate.
Sir Walter shook the dust from his person in very much the grand manner. “Farewell,” he cried, “and good riddance!” What did he care if anyone heard? No one of importance was within earshot! Never again would he consent to travel on the Mail.
What miseries he’d endured. He’d been wearing the same suit of clothes for two days, something he’d not done in the whole of his life. But what choice did he have? His luggage, sadly, was on a ship bound for the Mediterranean.
Fortunately, hiring a sedan chair for the last leg of the journey was not difficult, and soon he was being carried through crowded streets of Bath. Sir Walter smiled to himself. How pleased Anne would be to see him!
/> With each block his spirits rose. After the clattering noise of the Mail, the quiet swaying of the chair was a thing of wonder—apart from the panting of the chairmen, that was. Sir Walter considered asking them to breathe more quietly, but in the end he decided to be magnanimous.
Presently he arrived in St. Peter Square. Sir Walter came out of the chair, paid the chairmen, and straightened his coat. More than ever did he regret his appearance. His hat had gone flying into the water when he fell, and he gladly gave it away. Once his clothing had dried, there was no time to shop; he had to board the Mail or wait for another day. The best he could do was present himself as he was, snatched from the jaws of death.
Sir Walter halted on the pavement, turning over this phrase in his mind. It had, he thought, a poetic ring to it, yes.
A black-painted country gig waited before Anne’s house, and an elegant travelling coach, loaded with trunks, was circling the square. Sir Walter sighed enviously over the latter, for he had once owned such a vehicle. Perhaps when he returned to Kellynch at summer’s end, he could purchase another?
The door to Anne’s house was ajar; Sir Walter’s brows rose in surprise. Such carelessness! Why, anyone at all could simply walk in. Recollecting that he was not just anyone, Sir Walter gave the door a gentle push.
The entrance hall was not deserted. “Your wife’s symptoms are not imaginary,” a man’s voice was saying. “I had no idea she was taking the laudanum in such quantity. It would not be wise to travel today, given the discomfort she is experiencing. You have located every one of the bottles?”
“I believe so.” There was a silence. “We’ll remove to the White Hart straightway—I daresay she will be able to travel that far. If you would be kind enough to come by later in the evening?”
Sir Walter gave a start of recognition. Why, this was Charles Musgrove’s voice! Were he and Mary still in Bath?
Charles went on speaking. “And it will be my pleasure to escort your cousin to the coaching station. My gig, as you see, is at the ready.”
“If the call were not so urgent or the patient so ill, I would go myself. Poor Winnie swears she will take a hack rather than importune you—”
“—but if the stage is delayed?” interrupted Charles. “She cannot wait alone.”
“But it is delayed!” Sir Walter came fully through the door. “It’s the shabbiest thing, that service! Run by the most incompetent knaves in the kingdom! If your cousin intends to catch the Mail from London, sir, why, it has come and gone!”
Both men turned to stare.
“Sir Walter,” said Charles, in an altered voice. “What are you doing here?”
The tall man clapped a hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You understand my concern exactly, Mr. Musgrove. How can I thank you?” And then he was gone, leaving Sir Walter and his son-in-law to stare at one another.
Charles Musgrove’s surprise gave way to a frown. “But—you are supposed to be in Venice, sir! Good lord,” he added, “you look like something the cat dragged in.”
Sir Walter inclined his head. “I have been rescued,” he said, “from the jaws of death. What do you expect me to look like?” He glanced around the entrance hall. “Where is Anne? Better yet, where is that foreign butler of hers? I want a bath.”
“Half a moment.” Charles turned and sprinted up the stairs. He knocked on the door to the drawing room. “Shake a leg, McGillvary,” Sir Walter heard him say. “We have company.”
Charles came back down at a more leisurely pace. “I trust Lady Russell—I mean, Lady Elliot, is well?”
Sir Walter’s chin went higher. “I’ll have none of your insolence, if you please.”
“But—” Charles stood blinking. “Am I to understand that Lady Elliot is not well?”
“Lady Russell,” said Sir Walter crisply, “and Lady Elliot are not one and the same!”
“But—didn’t you elope together? Where is she?”
“How should I know? We parted in London. Would you be so good as to summon the butler, Mr. Charles? It will take hours, no doubt, to have my room made ready.”
“Your room?” Charles looked even more uncomfortable. “Eh,” he said, “how about I drive over to the White Hart and arrange for one? We’ll be staying there ourselves, in fact.”
“That will not be necessary. Book a room indeed,” scoffed Sir Walter. “Did I ask Anne to ‘book a room’ when she came to Bath last winter? Of course not! Anne will be pleased to have me here, as would any of my daughters. They know what is due their father.”
“I’m afraid the Wentworths have left Bath for a spell,” said another, deeper, voice. “Captain Wentworth had a hankering to visit an old friend.”
Sir Walter looked up to see a tall, athletic man descending. His dark frock coat was very well cut, he noted. If a fault could be found, it would be with his unruly hair.
“Hello, sir, and welcome,” the man said. He came forward with his hand extended.
Sir Walter flinched a little. What pertness, to presume an acquaintance! And yet this bright-eyed fellow did look familiar.
“Admiral Patrick McGillvary,” Charles supplied. “Friend of Wentworth’s.”
McGillvary? Immediately Sir Walter was taken back to Anne’s engagement dinner. “Ah yes,” he said, shaking McGillvary’s hand. “Forgive me. I’ve only seen you in uniform. It gives a certain dignity.”
McGillvary seemed puzzled about something. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, “but have you been anywhere near a harbour?”
“So that’s what the smell is,” said Charles. “I was wondering. Dead fish, ain’t it?”
“And tar,” said McGillvary. “Bilgewater has an unmistakable odour.”
Sir Walter stared from one to the other.
“He’s been snatched from the jaws of death,” explained Charles. “And just come off the Mail from London, too. Phew-ee, I pity his fellow passengers!”
Sir Walter turned his back on Charles Musgrove. “What I would like,” he said to Admiral McGillvary, “is a bath. I would be most appreciative if you would summon the butler and arrange for it.”
“Are your trunks at the station?” said Charles. “I’ll fetch ’em for you.”
“My trunk, most unfortunately, remains on a ship bound for Gibraltar. I have endeavoured to send a message to that port, requesting its return. But, alas.”
Sir Walter found it hard to continue, for a lump was forming in his throat. “By the time my trunk is returned to Bath—months from now, no doubt—the contents will be sadly out of date. My beautiful clothing, chosen with such care.”
“And your travelling bag, sir?” said McGillvary.
Sir Walter sighed some more. “I have none. A mishap on the part of the deckhands caused me to fall into the sea. Sailors are shiftless, shiftless!”
McGillvary folded his arms across his chest. “Are they indeed, sir? Forgive me, but how did you escape from the sea?”
“The deckhands pulled me out.”
“Shiftless deckhands,” added Charles.
“But not without injury to my person! You should see the bruises! And in the process I was made to swallow a great deal of disgusting harbour water.” Sir Walter shuddered at the memory. “You have no idea.”
“They saved your life, in fact,” McGillvary pointed out.
“Rescuing a drowning man is no small feat,” Charles added. “I trust you rewarded the sailors for their pains?”
“Paid them, do you mean? For heroic service? Of course not!” Sir Walter was affronted. “One of them wished to have my hat, so I gave it gladly. Of what use was a waterlogged hat to me?”
He returned his attention to Admiral McGillvary. “What I would like, as I have said before, is a bath. Immediately.”
“I’ll arrange for it right away,” McGillvary assured him.
“But McGillvary,” Charles said, behind his hand, “we’re removing to the White Hart. Minthorne’s orders. Mary won’t be well enough to travel until later in the week.”
; “Handsomely, Musgrove. The man can go nowhere without a bath.”
McGillvary turned to Sir Walter. “Why don’t you come upstairs? Elizabeth is waiting in the drawing room.”
“But she must do so no longer,” cried Sir Walter. “Elizabeth must go to Lady Russell’s to fetch my clothes.”
“I’ll do that,” offered Charles. “Gig’s right outside.”
“No, it must be Elizabeth!” Still talking, Sir Walter followed Admiral McGillvary up the stairs. “Elizabeth has some measure of taste, you see,” he explained. “She can select what is most becoming.”
“Did I hear my name?” Elizabeth came out of the drawing room, swinging her bonnet by its ribbons. When she saw Sir Walter she came to a halt. “Father?” she said, staring down at him. “I-I thought you were in Venice!”
“How can I be in Venice if I am here?” he grumbled. “Really, Elizabeth. I thought you had more sense. And why in heaven’s name are you wearing such a dreary gown? Even a lady’s maid dresses better than that!”
“But—” she said.
“He has been rescued from the jaws of death,” said Charles helpfully. “Can’t you tell?”
Sir Walter cast a scathing look behind him.
“We each have our little duties,” Charles told her. “You, for instance, have been ordered to Lady Russell’s to fetch his clothes.” His brow wrinkled. “Although what Lady Russell would be doing with his clothes I do not know. Better not to ask, I guess.”
“But we leave today for Uppercross, Father,” protested Elizabeth. “As soon as Mary is able to come down.”
Sir Walter was thunderstruck. “Am I,” he said, “a man who has been rescued from death and has travelled on the London Mail for countless hours, to suffer abuse at the hands of my family? My own kith and kin?”
“Actually—” said Charles.
“Pipe down, Musgrove, for heaven’s sake,” muttered McGillvary. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“But I’m not his kin,” said Charles in a lowered voice. “And neither are you.”
“It is only Anne who has my interests at heart,” wailed Sir Walter. “Only Anne understands. Did I not say so from the beginning?”