by Laura Hile
“To be married to McGillvary of all men!” Lady Russell shook her head. “Off on adventures at sea, he was, living the life of a sailor. Which defied reason for he had plenty of money! There was no need to pursue a career. And Clare McGillvary was the most delicate creature—like an angel.”
Lady Russell clicked her tongue. “But she took up with that young artist. He came to her funeral, sobbing as if his heart were broken. What a scandal! And to think that Elizabeth is to be McGillvary’s second.”
“Miss Elizabeth,” said Longwell, “is not a delicate creature. If he steps out of line, she’ll give him what-for.”
“She’ll send him into the poor house. And is there any indication as to when the wedding will be held? Of course not.”
Lady Russell returned to Anne’s letter. “Father,” she read aloud, “has returned to Bath after an unfortunate incident involving the boarding of his ship.” She looked up. “I wonder what happened.”
Longwell’s lips twitched. “Fell off, belike.”
“Longwell, really! It is more likely that he missed the departure. Walter Elliot has no notion of dates and times.”
“Unless it’s for a soiree he’s wishful to attend,” Longwell put in. He quickly added a hasty, “Milady.”
“At any rate, that explains the notice in the paper. For of course he was in Bath to make the announcement.” Lady Russell resumed reading. “Anne says Captain Wentworth has promised a surprise. I wonder what that will be.”
“Perchance he has purchased a carriage for her, as you wished he would.”
“That,” she said, “would be wonderful. But highly unlikely knowing Captain Wentworth. He does not take hints.”
Lady Russell pushed away her cup and saucer. “Well!” she said. “This gives one food for thought and no mistake. My sweet Anne pulled from pillar to post while her husband gads about, visiting. Mary disheartened and tied to that inn—with those dear boys driving everyone to distraction. Sir Walter living who knows where, and Elizabeth lost to reason.”
Longwell quietly refolded the newspaper.
“I suppose,” said Lady Russell slowly, “that there is only one thing to be done. I have told you, dear Longwell, about my promise to the girls’ mother?”
“Made at her deathbed, ma’am, yes.”
Lady Russell gave a sharp sigh. “I fear we must return to Bath. It is my sworn duty.”
He regarded her for a long moment. “Have you not had enough of duty for the time being, milady?”
She hesitated. “But—”
With his good hand, Longwell took up a plate. “Here,” he said. “Have another sandwich.”
~ ~ ~
Lady Russell could not know it, but the Musgrove party was not far from Uppercross. Even a week of riding practice under Patrick’s watchful eye was not enough to fully prepare Elizabeth. He rode alongside her today, and she soldiered on in the saddle, determined to keep up. To travel behind the others on horseback was his idea, keeping her free from Mary’s nattering complaints.
And it was a wonderful thing to escape the confinement of the travelling coach. The weather was particularly fine, and Elizabeth took delight in the countryside, for indeed she was truly seeing it for the first time.
Presently the road descended into an ancient wood underplanted with hazel and sweet chestnuts. The silver birches and tall oaks were beginning to leaf out, and green seemed to hang in the air. Beneath the trees bloomed bluebells, uncountable thousands of them, and their scent was delightful. Patrick reined in to a walk, and Elizabeth followed suit.
It had an almost secret air, this place. The coach and gig were well ahead and could be neither seen nor heard. The horses drew close; Patrick’s knee touched Elizabeth’s. He reached out his free hand to cover hers.
What perfect happiness! For a time they rode thus, hand-in-hand, surrounded by the songs of birds and the sweet scents of spring. And then came the sound of approaching hoof beats. Someone was riding a hard canter along the road.
“That had better not be a marine,” Patrick quipped, “because that is not a farmer’s horse.”
It took Elizabeth a minute to understand his meaning. “But,” she said uncertainly, “you’re retired from the navy, are you not?”
He shook his head. “Not until the end of July, my love.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to hammer. “So Admiral Croft was right,” she breathed. “And so was Anne.” She slewed round in the saddle, but the bend of the road blocked her view. “It’s coming closer,” she said of the horse.
“Ten to one it’s a courier, honey,” he told her. “I was only funning.”
“But what if it is not? What if you are called back to sea?”
“To Whitehall, more like. Matter of a few weeks in town.”
“I do not care where! I am coming with you!”
“Oh, no you won’t,” he said, grinning. “I won’t have a boatload of men lusting after your—person! There is precious little privacy at sea!”
The hoof beats grew louder. Elizabeth put up her chin. “I do not care,” she told him. “I’ll share your cabin, that’s what. Like—” She caught her breath. “Like the heroine in The Captain’s Cabinmate.”
“Oho! Would you, now?”
“Laugh if you will, but that is what I shall do,” she said primly. “Except you are rather better than a captain. And I am rather better than a governess, or whatever the heroine was.” Elizabeth warmed to her subject. “We’ll be married at sea like they were.”
Patrick leaned forward and caught the mare’s bridle above the bit. Both horses came to a halt. “It does not quite work that way, my love,” he said. “You’ve been reading too many novels.”
She gave an impatient huff. “In real life, it’s all so complicated! You’d outrank everyone else, for one thing. And I don’t suppose that even an admiral can perform his own wedding ceremony!”
He gave a shout of laughter. “That caps it,” he said, swinging out of the saddle. “I must kiss you, or perish in the attempt.”
As he reached to lift her down, Elizabeth looked into his eyes. They were alight with laughter—and something more. “But the marine?” she said, suddenly shy.
“He’s the squire, out for a ride,” he corrected, and put his arms around her. “We won’t mind him.”
“But it cannot be the squire! Mr. Musgrove is far too fat to ride like that!”
He laughed and pulled her closer. Smiling, Elizabeth laid a finger to his lips. “I will not be parted from you, Patrick. Not now or ever! You must promise.”
“Elizabeth,” he complained, but softly.
“Wherever you go, I shall go,” she quoted. “That’s from the Bible. Ruth said it.”
“Yes, my heart, but to her mother-in-law.”
Elizabeth gave a gurgle of laughter. “No, did she? Patrick,” she said more seriously, “you are not to make a similar promise to Father.”
“You can rest assured that I shan’t.”
“And you must promise to take me with you, always.”
“You drive a hard bargain, love,” he admitted, smiling. “Very well.”
“And you must also promise—”
But the remainder of Elizabeth’s promise was lost to his kiss. Patrick McGillvary, it appeared, also remembered his Shakespeare.
The horseman went thundering past, but neither of them noticed.
22 Epilogue: A Fair Wind and a Following Sea
Sir Walter continued to grumble as he climbed into the hired chase. “Disgraceful, I call it. A ramshackle affair from start to finish. Today most especially.”
A smile tugged at Elizabeth’s lips. Her father was perfectly was right; this was a ramshackle day—a glorious, wonderful, joy-filled, ramshackle day. Never mind that fog shrouded the streets, or that gulls screamed overhead, or that the air was foul with the scent of brine and tar. Everything about this day was thrilling—save for her father’s displeasure. It was best to pay him no mind. He was always sour this early in the m
orning.
The door was closed with military precision, and the chaise moved forward. Sir Walter’s mood did not improve. “Crowley’s Royal Crown Hotel,” he scoffed. “What a misnomer.”
Another smile threatened. If only Mr. Crowley had held his tongue! For her father now knew that the preferential treatment he’d received was due not to his title or to the Elliot name. It was because Admiral McGillvary would soon become his son-in-law.
“The Royal Crown is the best Plymouth Dock has to offer,” said Elizabeth mildly. “Under the circumstances, I think we have done very well.”
Her gaze lingered on her bridal bouquet, sent over this morning by Patrick. How did he know that she adored pink roses? Unlike so many hothouse flowers, these were deliciously fragrant. She fingered the soft petals tenderly.
“But why bother with a hotel for the wedding breakfast?” her father complained. “Why not hold it in the mess-room of the barracks? Or on the deck of one of those boats, as was done for that party last night?”
That enchanting party! Held aboard an enormous ship—was it a man-of-war?—with lanterns suspended gaily against the star-filled summer sky. And the music! Again and again Elizabeth waltzed with her admiral, so handsome in his glorious dress uniform. It was like something out of a fairy story, a happily-ever-after dream come true.
“—seasick,” her father was now saying. “Not that I suffer from the malady, but it shows thoughtless unconcern for guests who do. But then, what can one expect from ill-bred people? This hasty wedding of yours is in the same style.”
Elizabeth turned to face him. “We have been over this before. Because of Patrick’s orders, there was not time to—”
He cut short her explanation. “Am I a military brute, to be ordered about? I am a gentleman, Elizabeth, a man of leisure. Three days I was given—three! There was scarcely time to travel, let alone see to a wedding.”
Actually, it had been ten days. As soon as the orders arrived at Uppercross, Patrick sent letters by express to all the family. It was not his fault that Sir Walter refused to set aside his social engagements in Bath.
“And yet,” said Elizabeth, more gently, “here we are, Father, on our way to the parish church.”
“Yes, here we are,” he lamented, “in a garrison town, with soldiers on every hand. It is very much worse than Bath.”
Elizabeth’s smile reappeared. She found the military atmosphere invigorating.
“All this fog,” he went on, “cannot be a good omen.”
Since when did her father care about omens? “Fog is to be expected, with the sea so near. Even if we had chosen to marry in Mayfair, London has its share of—”
“As well you should!” he cried. “You ought to wait until after Michaelmas and be properly married from Kellynch. In fact,” he added eagerly, “it is not too late to change your mind.”
“I have no desire to wait. I am permitted to travel with my husband, as befits his rank, and so I shall.”
“Rank, what rank?” he grumbled. “Why leave England at all? Your beauty and charm will be wasted in Gibraltar. Whom shall you see? No one of importance. Only officers and their upstart wives.”
“The assignment is only until the new year.”
“Six months could turn into six years. What, may I ask, has become of McGillvary’s so-called retirement?”
Her father had a point. This sudden change in his plans was precisely why she was going. Patrick’s quip about being awarded a baronetcy for heroic service she kept to herself. Such a thing was highly unlikely. Then again, with Patrick one never knew.
“And Gibraltar!” Sir Walter went on. “Of all the godforsaken, uncivilized places! It is past bearing.”
Patrick had spoken of Gibraltar in similar terms, but Elizabeth was not deterred. “The Mediterranean climate,” she said firmly, “will be delightful.”
“With all that wind and humidity? I think not.”
Elizabeth had to smile. “What do you know of Gibraltar, Father?”
“I know that your complexion will be quite ruined. Do not come crying to me when you are a wrinkled fright like Mrs. Croft.”
Presently the chaise came to a halt; Elizabeth’s heart nearly did the same. They were here. This was happening—the day she’d dreamed of, a day that she feared might never come. She heard the clatter of the steps being let down. The door came open to reveal St. Thomas of Canterbury, the parish church of Plymouth Dock.
As Elizabeth emerged from the chaise, a light breeze ruffled her curls. She looked up to see patches of blue sky overhead. Just as Patrick had predicted, the fog was thinning. “A glorious day to put to sea,” he’d promised.
It would be all that and more. This afternoon the tide would turn, and they would leave England behind—together.
Sir Walter came out and gave surreptitious tugs to his frock coat. “Is my hat straight?” he muttered.
Elizabeth adjusted the brim. “There,” she said gently. “You will take the shine out of them all.”
“Of course I shall—a lone sentinel of taste, adrift in a sea of blue and red regimentals.”
How could she answer without risking laughter? Elizabeth meekly laid her hand on her father’s arm.
The doors to the church stood open. Just before they went in, Sir Walter stopped. “Why can you not delay?” he whispered urgently. “You, the most beautiful of my daughters, have waited years to find a husband; what is another six months? Then you would at least have a proper gown.”
Elizabeth was stung to silence.
Could he not wish her joy? Even if it were only mere politeness?
“Always you have been a credit to me,” he went on. “You were attired so tastefully last night. But today you wear this, a white muslin dress.”
Yes I know, I chose it, Elizabeth longed to say. The fur-trimmed spencer she wore was beautifully tailored, but there was no point in saying so. Her father’s opinion was abundantly clear: he was ashamed of her.
Ashamed of a bride on her wedding day.
Tears filled Elizabeth’s eyes; she blinked them back.
As she had no reply, in silence Sir Walter brought her into the narthex.
~ ~ ~
Mary was on hand to meet them, eager to fulfill her role as Elizabeth’s sole attendant. Elizabeth noticed that she wore their mother’s pearls and cameo brooch.
“Now then, have you a handkerchief?” said Mary cheerfully. “For there are always tears during a wedding, so it is best to be prepared.” She tucked one into Elizabeth’s sleeve, and then stepped back to study her appearance. “Your gown—”
“—looks very well,” Elizabeth finished for her. “And my hat?”
“Quite nice. Although”—Mary paused to make a slight adjustment to the position of the bow—“why you should wear that green spencer is beyond me. It will look poorly against the blue of his uniform.”
“Patrick likes green.”
Mary hesitated, then gave a quick nod and went on with her inventory. “You have something old?”
“The dress,” muttered Sir Walter.
“Just so. And something new?”
“She ought to be wearing new gloves.”
“Father, a bride does not wear gloves,” said Mary. “How else will her bridegroom put on the ring?”
“My bouquet is new,” offered Elizabeth.
“So it is. Not as impressive as mine was, but no matter. Have you something borrowed? Something blue?” Mary held out a coin. “Here is a penny for your shoe.”
Elizabeth’s gaze traveled to the front of the church. “Cleora and the Huntingtons are here?”
“They are, in spite of a very late evening. It was a bit irregular—celebrations are usually held after a wedding, not before, are they not? All the same, it was a splendid party.” Mary dimpled. “No one hosts a ball quite like the navy, so they say. Miss Cleora and her cousins had a marvelous time. And so did I,” she added, “And Charles too, of course.”
Mary dearly loved to dance. It was hear
tening to see her in better spirits.
“Your new daughter does not travel with you?”
“She prefers to remain with the Huntingtons until after Christmas.”
Mary gave a sigh. “Never shall I understand the choices people make,” she said. “I would so enjoy a visit to Gibraltar. No one takes me anywhere.”
The vicar came in from a side door, with someone in uniform following behind. “Good morning, Sir Walter, good morning,” Elizabeth heard him say, as he came to shake her father’s hand. “We are almost ready to begin. Before we do, shall I run through the order of service?”
“Indeed, yes,” said Mary, stepping forward. “I am first down the aisle, am I not?”
Elizabeth turned away and knelt to slip Mary’s penny into her shoe.
“Another tassel gone missing?” said a familiar voice.
Her breath caught in her throat. She looked up to see a pair of twinkling blue eyes, and her heart began to hammer. What was it about this man that made her feel weak in the knees?
“This is our good luck penny,” she managed to say.
Patrick McGillvary’s hand, gentle and calming, closed over hers, and he helped her to rise. “I’ve been hoping for a little luck this morning,” he said, smiling. “Now that you have come, all is well.”
“Did you think I would not?”
“I never doubted you, my love, and yet—” His smile became adorably bashful. “I used to wait, as if on tenterhooks, at our table in that tea room,” he confessed. “I was like a schoolboy waiting for his sweetheart. And every time, I wondered whether you would come—for there was a risk. Always, I was surprised.”
She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I could not stay away—not then, and not now, and not ever.”
Her voice took on a teasing note. “May I say, Mr. Gill, that you are very smart today in your—regimentals?”
“That’s army, my dear,” he murmured, leaning down so that only she could hear. “And you, my heart, are as beautiful as always, especially in my beloved green.”
“This is one of my favourite dresses. Do you know why?”
She saw him hesitate, a question sparkling in his intelligent, teasing eyes. “Do I know this dress, ma’am?”