by Laura Hile
“What else is there for me to do?” Mary came in to the drawing room and cast herself on one of the sofas. “I wonder where Anne has got to.”
“Presumably she is resting.”
“I must say, it is much more amusing to visit Bath with the Musgroves.”
Lady Russell did not answer. She began wandering through Anne’s drawing room, pausing to examine this or that. Mary sighed some more. It was wretchedly unfair that Anne should have such a spacious drawing room. Mary’s home in Uppercross, which at one time had been a farmhouse, had only one formal parlor. Thanks to the antics of her young sons, the once-fine furniture was now hopelessly worn.
Lady Russell paused before the pianoforte, a gift to Anne from her husband. “What a pity you have not kept up with your playing.”
Always her godmother must be critical! “As you may recall, we do not have an instrument,” Mary pointed out. “The Musgroves did offer us their old spinet—so outdated! No one plays the harpsichord any more. I made Charles take it away.”
“Mary!”
“What else was I to do? The boys would not leave it alone. I dearly love music as much as anyone, but you have no idea. My poor nerves!”
“What a pity.” Lady Russell resumed her examination of the pianoforte. “This is a lovely instrument. Anne must be so pleased.”
“I do not see why everyone must go into raptures over it. I declare, all the way to Bath I was having to hear about the pianoforte or the officers’ dinner. You cannot imagine how dreary. And now that we are here, it is Father this, or Estella that. No one listens to any of my suggestions.”
Lady Russell came to sit near Mary. “Such as?” she said encouragingly.
“Such as the guest list for the officers’ dinner. I make one suggestion—and it was a very good one! —and I am told to mind my own business. Or words to that effect.”
Yee came in with the tea tray; Lady Russell took charge and filled a cup for Mary. “What did you suggest, dear?”
“Only that our cousin be added to the guest list.”
“William Elliot?” The silver teapot shook in Lady Russell’s hand. “That is out of the question.”
“What is wrong with Mr. Elliot? Why has everyone suddenly turned against him? He practically lived in the house on Camden Place, and Father was always pleased to welcome him.”
“We will leave your father out of this discussion, if you please.” Lady Russell passed the plate of biscuits. “If you must know, Mr. Elliot has behaved in an infamous manner.”
Mary shrugged. “If he prefers the company of Mrs. Clay, what is that to us?”
Lady Russell put down the plate with a snap. “Their supposed cohabitation is merely gossip,” she said sharply, “which you would do well to ignore. I suggest we change the subject. How are you finding Bath?”
“You asked me that before.” Mary dug a spoon into the jam pot. “If you must know, I am having a horrid time. There is nothing worse than to be in a place like this, at the height of the fashionable season, and be strapped for cash.”
“I imagine not, but must you use such language?”
It was all Mary could do not to grind her teeth. Conversing with Lady Russell was such a trial! “Anne and I did some shopping in Crewkherne the other day,” she said. “I saw an adorable lilac parasol—the most precious thing imaginable. But could I buy it? No. But Anne did. She has money aplenty now that she is married, while I live the life of a pauper.”
Mary took a bite of jam-covered biscuit and added, around a mouthful, “Charles is a beast.”
Lady Russell lowered her teacup. “Lilac does not become you, dear,” she said.
Mary made an impatient gesture. “Anne is no longer forced to wear provincial fashions as I am. It is most unfair. Indeed, I wonder why I ever accepted Charles Musgrove.”
“Mary!”
“I was deceived, thoroughly deceived. And you and Father thought it was such a good match.”
“I did, and it is.” said Lady Russell. “In that district, the Musgroves are second only to your own family, Mary. Someday, when Charles is squire and the Great House is your own—”
“You mean when I am old and worn down,” Mary cried. “What use will the Great House be to me then? In the meantime, I must be married to a farmer.”
Lady Russell just looked at her.
“A farmer,” Mary repeated. “Do you know what Charles is doing this very moment? Riding every rutted road in the district, dressed as a bumpkin, chatting with his father’s tenants. He has hatched a scheme to breed horses, and he must hear every yokel’s opinion on the subject. He says there is much to be learned from tenant farmers. I ask you!”
“I call that being an attentive landlord. His father does the same.”
“Mine never did. It would be too humiliating!”
“We will leave your father out of this discussion, if you please.” Lady Russell reached for the plate. “Have another biscuit, dear.”
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth was so stunned by the bench that she did not realize that Miss Owen was waving. “Hello,” she heard her call. “Isn’t this a lovely afternoon?”
She lifted a reluctant hand and saw Miss Owen make room for her to sit. “Please join us,” she called.
Stepping cautiously, for her knees had suddenly become wobbly, Elizabeth made her way down the grassy slope. The bench was here—it was real. Patrick Gill had spoken the truth. Did this mean there was a note? Elizabeth did not like to sit beside Miss Owen and converse, for what did one say to a plain woman with no taste or social connections? But if she did not, how would she check for a note?
The bench was made of carved stone, substantial and real. Elizabeth ran her fingers along the armrest. How could she have missed something so obvious? In her heart a curious feeling was welling up—a singing sort of happiness that had nothing to do with anything. She closed her eyes, savouring the deliciousness of it.
“I want more bread.”
Elizabeth blinked her eyes open. Johnny Bragg stood there with the sun full on his face. What an unattractive, scowling child he was!
Miss Owen produced a marketing basket. “Here you are, Master Bragg,” she said cheerfully. She filled his outstretched hands with bread crusts. “Have a care now. The geese are not shy.”
Johnny eyed her with distaste. “I want more,” he said. “Give me the basket.”
Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. She knew exactly what she would give this stubby little weevil—a kick! And then she had to smile, for weevil was one of Patrick Gill’s expressions. It described Johnny Bragg perfectly.
Miss Owen was patient. “We must share the crusts, Master Bragg.”
As if on cue, Bella presented herself. “I need more,” she said.
Miss Owen likewise filled her hands. Her brother made a face. Bella looked from her supply to his. “No fair,” she cried. “You gave Johnny more!”
“As I told your brother, we must share.”
Johnny stuck out his tongue, and Bella stomped off. With an Indian yell, he ran at the geese, causing a great flapping. Bella began to shriek.
Miss Owen was undaunted by this display. “The real trouble,” she said, “is that geese can be quite aggressive. In country places, geese are sometimes used as watchdogs. As you see, these are accustomed to being fed.”
A duck waddled up and cocked its head, enquiring. Miss Owen smilingly shooed him off. “There is no teaching manners to ducks and geese,” she said. “They will not learn.”
“There is no teaching manners to these children either,” said Elizabeth. “Not so much as a please or thank you. I like that! What is their mother think—”
The words died on Elizabeth’s lips. What was she thinking? She was actually conversing with this woman!
“I expect that she isn’t thinking,” said Miss Owen. She hesitated and then said, “Your cousin’s children are an inconvenience, but she bears them no ill will. With my father it was different. To him we were a source of income. When we
could not pull our weight …”
Elizabeth did not know how to reply. At last she said, “Now that my sister and her husband have come, the Braggs will probably return home.”
“And I will miss them.”
Elizabeth shook her head at this. There was such a thing as too much politeness.
“I see you do not believe me,” Miss Owen said, smiling, “but it is quite true. The Braggs are healthy and, for the most part, they are happy.” She hesitated. “You see, I sometimes assist my cousin in his work. By the time I am called into the sickroom, the children are usually in desperate straits, poor lambs. I can do so little, save to comfort them and pray.”
“You nurse children in the sickroom? How … brave!”
Miss Owen studied her clasped hands. “You are kind to say so, Miss Elliot, but you do not see how I tremble as I work! My sole qualification is that I am available. And I am uncommonly healthy.”
“And compassionate.” This slipped out before Elizabeth could stop it. She had done it again; she’d spoken without thinking.
“At those times Michael—Mr. Minthorne, I should say—needs me so desperately. The mother is in no condition to help, being unskilled and overcome with grief.”
“But a hired nurse?” said Elizabeth. “Surely the family can bring in a hired nurse and spare you the risk.”
“There is little risk, as I have had most childhood illnesses. And also—” Again Miss Owen hesitated. “Sickness is expensive, Miss Elliot.”
“Don’t I know it? Why, my own father has—” Elizabeth broke off speaking. What was there about this woman that she must confide in her?
Bella Bragg’s shrieks were piercing. “You miserable little beast!” she cried. “How dare you!” She came running up. “Johnny is throwing mud!”
Miss Owen sighed and rose to her feet. “We are finished here.” She dumped the remaining crusts on the grass and turned to Elizabeth. “Thank you for bearing me company. I see that you enjoy this new bench as much as I.”
“New?” echoed Elizabeth. “But this bench has been here for years.”
“Ah, but it has not—and therein lies the mystery. Look here.” Miss Owen pointed with the toe of her shoe. “The turf at the base is a different colour. This bench has been moved from somewhere else.”
Elizabeth’s heart gave a thump. “Recently?” she faltered.
“Quite recently. I know this because I come nearly every day. On Friday last it appeared, just as you see. I suppose the gardener must have brought it.”
“The … gardener?”
“Mr. Burns.” Miss Owen adjusted her hat against the sun. “Come, children,” she called. “Good day, Miss Elliot.”
Elizabeth waited until they were out of sight before dropping to her knees. Sure enough, wedged into a seam and affixed with court plaster was a flat packet of oiled parchment. She pulled it loose and, after an anxious glance to the hilltop, sat to examine it. There was no name, and it was closed with many daubs of sealing wax. The design on the seal was one she did not recognize—some kind of harp with an anchor. Inside was a stiff white card.
Elizabeth, My Dear,
Circumstances do not permit me to meet you for at least the next week …
Elizabeth stopped reading to hunt for the date. A week ago Thursday! With a hammering heart, she read on.
… as I must remain in London for an unspecified time. Dare I presume upon your forgiveness?
“My forgiveness?” she whispered. What was there to forgive?
I regret using such unorthodox means of delivery. In such situations, one does what one can. I will notify you here when I return to Bath.
Yours, as ever,
Patrick
Elizabeth gazed at the signature for a very long time. Patrick. He had used his Christian name.
Sleep would not come easily that night.
3 Strong Reasons Make Strong Actions
Mary’s complaint—that it was more amusing to visit Bath with the Musgroves—was repeated, and after several days in the company of her sisters, Elizabeth had to agree. Whenever Mary’s in-laws came, they indulged in shopping and concerts and theatre parties. Anne and her husband did none of these things. Instead, they spent much time in the company of Captain Wentworth’s sister and her husband. It was left to Elizabeth to amuse and entertain the others.
Their days often began with a promenade through the Pump Room—easier now that Mr. Rushworth was gone—and then with the making of calls. Although Elizabeth could claim a wide acquaintance in Bath, she was not eager to display her cousin and youngest sister. The three women often remained at home.
On Sunday there was a mishap concerning church, which Elizabeth used to her advantage. Lady Russell’s carriage could not accommodate everyone, and so Elizabeth found herself left to make the trip in a job carriage with Mary, Estella, and the two Bragg children. Elizabeth told the driver to take them to Argyle Chapel. How Mary would object!
And she did. After the service, Mary and Estella sat in stony silence. “I do not know what more I can say,” Elizabeth told Mary. “This has become our usual habit for Sunday service. How was I to know you wished to go to the parish church with Anne? Next week you may do as you please.”
Estella spoke up. “I fully intend to!”
Elizabeth adopted a thoughtful attitude. “Unless,” she said, smiling a little.
“Unless what?”
“Unless I decide that I prefer Mr. Jay’s sermons to those at the parish church. I believe you were invited to Bath as my companion. Where I go, you must likewise go.”
After this remark, there was no bearing with Estella. Once the hack arrived at Anne’s house, she gathered her children and went flouncing into the house.
Mary remained in order to visit Sir Walter with Elizabeth. “I suppose Father will be peevish again,” Mary said, as soon as the carriage began to move. “I cannot see how Lady Russell puts up with him.”
“She is certainly to be pitied,” Elizabeth agreed. “You must admit, she has been a faithful friend to Father.”
“She has nothing else to do with her time, that is all. And listen to you—you’re beginning to sound as prosy as that Winnie Owen.”
Elizabeth met her sister’s look evenly. “I would not rail against Miss Owen if I were you,” she said, “considering how much time she spends with Little Charles and Walter. You really should exert yourself to find a new nursery maid.” Shortly after arriving in Bath, Mary’s Jemima had abruptly given notice.
“But I am!” cried Mary, bouncing up in her seat. “Yesterday I found a perfectly suitable woman, which is no easy task, let me tell you. But when she learned that we are to live entirely in Uppercross, quite shut away from the world, she lost all interest!”
Mary gave an unhappy sniff. “As for that service today, why, it was beyond anything!”
“Were you attending to any of it? I thought you talked with our cousin the entire time.”
“Bless me, no. It was Estella who talked to me, which is a very different thing. Honestly, how could that dreadful Mr. Jay say so much about that dreary text? Who wants to hear a sermon about the owner of an hostelry?”
It was all Elizabeth could do not to roll her eyes. Did her sister have rocks for brains? “It was the story of the Pharisee and the publican,” she said wearily. “A publican is a Roman tax collector, not the owner of a public house. I thought the sermon was rather good.”
Mary gave a snort of derision. “You might think ‘God be merciful to me, a sinner’ is interesting, but I do not!”
“Actually,” said Elizabeth, “it was the bit about the other man—the self-righteous one who boasted of his good deeds and prayed to himself. I have never thought about it that way.”
Mary examined one of her gloves. “Tell me, Sister-dear, how do you like being called a sinner? Do you beat your breast when you pray, like that horrid publican did?”
“Perhaps I should.”
“I have no intention of doing so, ever,” said
Mary. “And I do not like being called a sinner, for I am no such thing.”
Elizabeth nearly laughed. “What a liar you are, Mary,” she said, smiling.
Mary straightened her bonnet. “I do not steal, nor have I murdered,” she said primly. “Neither do I take the Lord’s name in vain, or—”
“Or lie or gossip or covet,” Elizabeth finished. “You are a pattern-card of virtue, in fact. Please.”
By this time they were pulling up at The Citadel. Mary drew her wrap more closely around her shoulders and announced, “I do not feel at all well.”
“Is that so? Elise will be pleased. She’ll make up one of her mustard plasters straightway.”
“Laugh if you will, but I have caught a chill, I just know it. It would be most unwise for me to visit Father. You go ahead; I’ll wait here.”
“In this draughty carriage? Don’t be ridiculous.”
But Mary remained where she was.
Perhaps it was for the best, because Elizabeth’s visit did not go at all well. Sir Walter kept a running list of petty complaints. Presently she noticed something on the mantelpiece. “I see Lady Russell has brought your post,” she remarked, as soon as he paused to take a breath. “And look, here is another of those letters.”
Sir Walter waved it aside.
Elizabeth got up to retrieve it. “This looks important. You ought to open it.”
“I have neither the time nor the energy to deal with trivial matters. This ought to be sent to Shepherd. All of the tradesmen’s bills go to Shepherd. Confound it, Elizabeth, how many times must I remind you?”
“This is not a tradesman’s bill. I thought Mr. Shepherd told you to see to this particular payment yoursel—” Elizabeth broke off speaking. She had learned this information by snooping through her father’s desk!
Fortunately he did not notice the slip. “This is the worst of the lot,” he complained. “Am I never to escape demands for payment? Every week it is the same.”
“Very well, I’ll send it to Mr. Shepherd.”