by Laura Hile
“Wallis,” he said suddenly, “is there any significance in a woman being ill?”
Colonel Wallis finished refilling the glasses. “Infectious illness? Or something else?”
“It must be something else, though I cannot imagine what.”
“How long has she been under the weather?”
Elliot shrugged. “I have no idea. A month. Maybe more.”
A look of smiling comprehension crossed Colonel Wallis’s face. “Is this a particularly close friend of yours?”
Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “What does that have to do with it?”
“My dear boy,” said Colonel Wallis, smiling broadly, “it has everything to do with it. But it’s early days yet. Time will tell. Yes, time will tell.”
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth lowered herself into the chair, grasping the edge of the dining table for support. There was not one part of her that did not ache. She was paying dearly for yesterday’s riding lesson.
As she unfolded her napkin, Yee placed a steaming cup of tea. Elizabeth touched the sides of the cup with her fingers, delighting in the warmth. What she longed to do was immerse her body in a steaming bath—again. But now that Anne was home, she did not dare to ask for another. Yee had been watching her since yesterday. Did he guess where she had been?
In silence he brought her breakfast. This was the best thing about Yee. Of anyone in the house, he alone had the good sense to leave her undisturbed at the breakfast table. The newspaper was placed at her elbow, along with several letters. The first was from James Rushworth—nothing surprising there. The second letter was more perplexing.
My Dear E,
I am delivering this by Mrs. S-B’s hand, as I do not wish to impose upon your sister’s hospitality by calling myself. However, it has become imperative that I speak with you privately. By this time your father knows the particulars of the situation, and he, I am certain, would approve of this somewhat unconventional request.
Would you do me the honour of calling? At your earliest convenience, of course.
Wm. E
There followed the address of the Wallis residence.
Well! Elizabeth recognized a command when she saw one; she had no intention of dancing to her cousin’s tune. It did not suit her to call today, for today she had an engagement at Bailey’s tearoom. Elizabeth put the letter aside, humming a little as she spread jam on a piece of toast.
There was also a note from Anne, informing her that Mary was asking to see her. According to Yee, Mary had spent a troubled night and this morning was feverish.
“Feverish, my foot,” Elizabeth murmured. Mary would lie in bed, drinking tea by the pot-full, and then complain that she was ill and over-heated! However, Elizabeth could not very well ignore Anne’s request. Later that morning she presented herself at the door to Mary’s bedchamber. Anne came in answer to her knock and brought her into the room.
“Good morning, Mary,” Elizabeth said, coming up to the bed. “How do you do? Yee tells me you are feverish, although how he would know such a thing is beyond me.” She paused to study her sister. “You don’t look ill at all. That is quite a pretty cap.”
Mary’s expression changed. “It is nice, is it not?” she said. “I thought so when I saw it in that shop window. I think one should always look one’s best, even when one is ill. And I so often am.”
“There is no invalid in all of Bath as pretty as you,” Elizabeth agreed. She watched Mary pluck at the ruffle on her nightdress. “I hear you wished to see me.”
Mary blinked. “Oh yes,” she said. “You must visit Father today. I would gladly go myself, but as you can see, I am indisposed.”
Elizabeth eyed her sister with growing irritation. “How convenient,” she said.
“I am sorry if it spoils your precious plans,” Mary cried. “Do you think I wish to be confined to my bed in this odious way? I daresay you give no thought for your poor, ill sister who is forced to remain at home!”
Elizabeth was about to reply in kind when she encountered a burning look from Anne. She agreed to call on her father and then swiftly left the room.
“I shall call on him all right,” she muttered as she descended the stairs, “but he’d better be quick about it, for I won’t be late for tea!” Then she remembered something else. If there was time, she would ask him about the business with William Elliot. As for Mary, perhaps Mr. Minthorne would give her a whopping jug of that syrup she liked so much—if only to keep her quiet!
~ ~ ~
Patrick McGillvary was having an equally frustrating morning. He was now seated at Mr. Lonk’s desk at Madderly Kinclaven going over accounts. On the whole, he was pleased by the way the quarter had finished out. Now Lonk was blustering his way through more awkward business: the list of delinquent accounts. McGillvary frowned; the list was longer than expected.
Mr. Lonk puffed out his cheeks. “These gents,” he said defensively, “all of them, have been contacted personally about the payment policy, sir. Save for those at the bottom of the list, who could not be reached.”
McGillvary took the paper from Lonk and directed a speaking look. “And what do you propose to do about them?”
Mr. Lonk was looking harassed; he passed his tongue over his lips. “We’ll hire some fellows to keep watch. Sooner or later they’ll go out—every gentleman goes out, you know—and then we’ll have ’em before the magistrate straightway.”
“Simple, but effective,” muttered McGillvary. He tossed the page onto the desk. “Very well. And Lonk. Do make certain that your watchers are sober.”
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth came out of the house just as Charles Musgrove pulled up, and he very kindly offered to take her to The Citadel in his gig. Since he was saving her money, she felt obliged to converse. But she needn’t have worried, for Charles Musgrove needed little encouragement to talk. Indeed, within a very short time she learned more than Anne had ever shared—about the trip to Shropshire, the details of the coming officers’ dinner, and even Captain Wentworth’s plans to purchase a carriage. She also learned about an invitation Wentworth and Anne had received from Lady Angela Thorne. This stunner was a bit hard to swallow, as Lady Angela had never shown any interest in Elizabeth or her father.
“Mary is mad as fire,” Charles said. “That’s nothing new, is it?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Did Anne never tell you how it was? When Mary was a girl she used to throw herself on the floor, bang her forehead against it, and then hold her breath.”
“You don’t say! Did it work?”
“Certainly it worked. But when Mary came out of the nursery, she learned the difference between a wooden floor and a marble one.”
Charles threw back his head and laughed.
Elizabeth laughed with him, until she remembered who she was with. It was all Patrick Gill’s fault. She had learned these free and easy manners from him.
Charles talked on. Tonight’s assembly was his topic now, and he was spouting cheerful complaints about having to attend. He was hosting a dinner beforehand at the White Hart. “You don’t suppose Mary will be too ill to come?” he said, as he guided the gig through a maze of wagons on Queen’s Way. “After all, she’s sent for Minthorne.” Charles sounded hopeful.
“There’s nothing Mary loves more than dancing. She must always be—” Elizabeth broke off speaking. Almost she had added, “making a spectacle of herself” but somehow it did not seem right—or kind—to say so.
They arrived at The Citadel soon enough, and Elizabeth was handed out of the gig. She was surprised to see Charles resume his seat and bring out a newspaper. “You are planning to wait?”
“Aw, sure. You won’t be more than half an hour.”
“I won’t be even that long.” And she wouldn’t, or else she would be late for tea. However, this presented another problem. She could hardly have Charles Musgrove drop her at Bailey’s! Elizabeth became so intent on sorting out this dilemma that she paid no attention to her surroundings—and walked smash in
to Mr. Savoy. The physician received her apology coldly.
“Miss Elliot,” said he, “if you would be so kind as to stop by our office, I have an important document for your father’s solicitor.”
Elizabeth drew herself up. “Do you mean Mr. Shepherd? What have I to do with Mr. Shepherd?”
“You may give him my letter,” said Mr. Savoy.
“But his office is in Crewkherne.”
Mr. Savoy looked annoyed. “Then you will be pleased to inform your father that it is in his best interest to summon him.”
He stalked off, leaving Elizabeth staring. She found her father in his rooms. He was restless and fidgety, and he muttered to himself things that Elizabeth could not understand. When she told him of Mr. Savoy’s message, he raised himself from his chair and began to pace about.
“Time, time,” he fretted. “What is it about time? These lowborn persons always fret about the time. Shepherd will come—I have summoned him by express—and Mr. Savoy will be satisfied, along with the others.”
He stopped to glare at Elizabeth. “I must tell you, daughter, that I have been sadly deceived in Mr. Savoy. Money! Money is his god—and his reason for living.” Sir Walter heaved a great sigh. “Never did I think that such a fine-looking man with such noble ideals could have such a greedy heart.”
But Sir Walter’s irritation was short-lived. Soon his thoughts began to take a different direction. “So,” he said. “Have you any news to tell me, daughter? Have you seen him? Have you laid out your plans?”
Elizabeth was in no mood for riddles. “If you mean Frederick Wentworth, no, I have not seen him. If you mean Charles Musgrove, yes. I came with him in his, er … vehicle.”
“Wentworth? Musgrove? No, no! Rushworth, Elizabeth. James Rushworth is the man I mean.” His expression became coy. “As if you did not know.”
“No, I do not know,” she sputtered. “Mr. Rushworth said something about coming to see you, but that was days ago.”
Sir Walter smiled broadly. “Ah, then he has spoken after all. I knew he would. Now you know why Mr. Shepherd has been sent for.” He gestured eagerly. “Have you brought him with you? Do not leave poor Mr. Rushworth standing in the hall! Invite him in, Elizabeth, invite him in.”
“I told you. I came with Charles Musgrove,” Elizabeth said. “In his gig.”
“Upon my word. Rushworth won’t like that.”
“He won’t know anything about it,” she retorted. “Mr. Rushworth is in London.”
Sir Walter gave a shriek, and dropped into a nearby chair. “But he cannot go to London! Not now! He must be on hand to sign the settlement papers. Time is of the essence—every day we delay is crucial.”
Sir Walter cradled his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. “How can this have happened?” he lamented. “You don’t understand! No one can understand! My sanctuary, my place of refuge! My hard-won peace of mind—violated! Yes, violated. By money-grubbing tradesmen with outrageous demands. Even here there is no escape. Oh!”
Elizabeth stood by as her father carried on. At last she said: “Speaking of Mr. Shepherd, Mr. Savoy has a document he wishes him to have. Shall I fetch it?”
Sir Walter raised his head. “Do not mention that man’s name in my presence! Oh, that Rushworth were yet in Bath!”
Elizabeth stole a look at the clock. “Mr. Rushworth did mention seeing to various matters of business. Something to do with Parliament.”
An eager light came into Sir Walter’s eyes “Parliament. Yes, that would be the divorce.” Claw-like, his fingers grasped the arms of his chair. “And then, Elizabeth, you must be married. As soon as may be, do you understand? By special license.”
Elizabeth felt hot and cold at the same time. “To say truth,” she confessed, “I am no longer certain that I wish to marry Mr. Rushworth, Father. Divorce carries such stigma, you know.”
She attempted an arch smile. “After all, I am an Elliot.”
Sir Walter brushed her objections aside. “Yes-yes-yes,” he said. “Rushworth is well aware of that, and he is prepared to pay—I mean, settle. Handsomely.”
He turned aside to cough. “Generosity in a husband is an admirable trait, my dear. Especially generosity to one’s father-in-law.”
“Do I have this right?” Elizabeth said, finding her voice. “Mr. Rushworth is to give over money in order to marry me? Like a barbarian, he is going to purchase me? And you see nothing wrong with this?”
Sir Walter fidgeted in his chair. “Such arrangements are made every day,” he bleated. “In fact, dear Mr. Rushworth’s generous gift will come at a most opportune time.” Sir Walter lowered his voice to a whisper. “You might not have noticed, but I am a bit behind in my payments to Mr. Savoy. But no matter. Soon all shall be resolved, for you shall be married.”
“But I do not wish to marry Mr. Rushworth!” cried Elizabeth. “I have changed my mind!”
Sir Walter’s eyes narrowed. “You mean to break your engagement?”
“What engagement? We have no engagement!” Elizabeth nearly screamed. “Only an idiotic understanding! Which we kept secret for fear of his mother! No one knows of it!”
“Indeed.” Sir Walter’s voice was cold.
“Father—Papa—I need more time! Please.”
Sir Walter raised an eyebrow. “My dear, time is the one thing you cannot have. You should have voiced your doubts sooner. I’m afraid the announcement is about to be sent to the papers. You cannot turn back now.”
“Sent to the— ! Father, how could you!” Elizabeth’s breath came in angry gasps. “If you think for one minute that I am going to marry that—that booberkin, you are mistaken!”
She whirled about, intending to run from the room, and stopped dead in her tracks. Sir Walter’s door was ajar—and her cousin’s smiling face showed through the opening.
William Elliot rapped gently on the door. “Knock, knock!” he called. “It is I, the truant one, come to pay a visit to my family.” He smiled charmingly at Sir Walter and then at Elizabeth.
“How do you do, sir? It took ingenuity to discover your new abode, but I persevered.” He made his bow. “I trust I do not interrupt anything?”
“Of course not,” cried Elizabeth. “I was just taking my leave. Good day to you.”
William Elliot gallantly stepped aside. “As always, you are the most beautiful when you are angry,” he said as she passed. “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth.”
“You have arrived at a most opportune time, my dear William!” she heard her father say. “It so happens that I need you to execute an errand—”
The door swung shut; Elizabeth heard no more. Her heels beat a sharp staccato on the floor of the passageway.
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth? James Rushworth had used those words once—and now William Elliot! If any man dared to say that to her again, she would strike him!
~ ~ ~
There was simply no understanding Elizabeth. Not twenty minutes ago she was fine, talkative even, but now! She came out of the gate like a shot, mad as fire. Scorning assistance she climbed into the gig.
And wouldn’t it figure; now it was beginning to rain. Charles felt on the floor for one of the umbrellas and opened it for her, but not before noticing how dirty it was. Fortunately, she took it without saying anything cutting.
As soon as they were underway, Charles stole another look. Elizabeth was staring straight ahead. The sound of Belle’s hooves, the creak and rattle of the wheels on the cobbles, and the patter of rain on the umbrella were the only sounds to be heard. Charles turned up the collar of his driving coat. Rain never bothered him, but this silence did.
At last he could stand no more. “So,” he said, very off-hand, “I take it Sir Walter was in his usual good spirits?” He figured this had to be the problem. If the man were ill, Elizabeth would have looked stricken instead of angry—and she was looking extremely angry. Very well did Charles understand this. Sir Walter often made him feel that way.
It began to rain harder. “I s
ay,” he said at last. “I’m sorry about the weather.” He wiped water from the leather seat with his gloved hand, but to no avail. “Here,” he said, reaching beneath the seat, “perhaps you can dry it with this.” He held out a folded newspaper.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth began stiffly, “but the umbrella is all I—” She broke off speaking and snatched at the newspaper. “How old is this?” she demanded.
“What difference does it make? It’s dry, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth did not answer. She was turning the pages, which was an awkward business because of the umbrella. “Confound it,” she muttered, “where is the society section?”
“Estella removed it.” The boulevard was crowded and he must negotiate the turn. Then he thought of something. “You’re headed home, right?” A gust of wind caught at the newspaper.
“No,” she said. “I have an appoi—” She stopped. “I have an errand.”
“In all this wet? Can’t it wait?”
“No! It … is a matter of some urgency.”
“Well, all right. No need to bite my head off. Where shall I set you down?”
She thought for a minute. “At the Abbey.”
“How’s that again?”
“Please set me down at the Abbey.” She coughed a little. “I wish to pray. There’s nothing wrong with praying, is there?”
“Well no, but …” Charles caught the expression in her eyes. Wisely, he decided to keep silent for the remainder of the trip.
~ ~ ~
“I tell you, I am perfectly recovered!” Sir Walter’s face was beaming.
Lady Russell looked at him for a long moment. “But Sir Walter,” she said, removing her gloves one by one, “is this not a matter for the physician to decide? You are, after all, under his care.”
“What does he know?” he said. “My health is completely restored, I tell you, and I intend to quit this place just as soon as Elizabeth is married. In fact, sooner!”
He rubbed his hands together. “Mr. Rushworth is a man of his word. I need not delay another day. It is quite safe for me to leave.”