Mercy's Embrace_Elizabeth Elliot's Story [Book 2]

by Laura Hile

  Mr. Shepherd’s chin came up. “As of this morning, I am no longer handling the baronet’s affairs.” Habit made him put out his hand. “John Shepherd, of Crewkherne,” he said. “And you must be Mr. Savoy.”

  Savoy shook his hand. “This is most peculiar,” he said, “most peculiar indeed. Has Sir Walter engaged the services of another?”

  “I am afraid I cannot say.” Spite made him add, “He may shift for himself, for all I care.”

  Mr. Savoy’s brows rose. “Is that so?” He spoke behind his hand. “Rumor has it that the man is bankrupt,” he said softly. “Can this be true?”

  “Again, I cannot say. Nor can I prevent you from drawing your own conclusions. The man owes money everywhere and has not the resources to pay.”

  Savoy spoke sharply. “If I am not to be paid, the least I can do is vacate the baronet’s rooms.”

  “You must do as seems best to you,” said Mr. Shepherd. “And now, if you will excuse—”

  Savoy gripped Shepherd’s arm. “You did notice the men,” he said meaningfully.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Savoy glanced this way and that. “Come with me,” he murmured, and led Shepherd down the hall to an office. He unlocked the door and pushed Shepherd inside. “Those men hanging about on the street,” he said, speaking low. “Surely you saw them—just outside the gate? They are watching Sir Walter on behalf of the bailiff. Their wagon is concealed around the corner.”

  Mr. Shepherd’s brows rose. “A most interesting coincidence.”

  “A most useful coincidence,” agreed Savoy. He indicated a chair before the desk. “Do sit down, Shepherd. I believe we can resolve this situation to our mutual benefit.” He reached for the bell. “Would you care for some refreshment?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Without hat or gloves, Charles Musgrove trod up the walk to Mr. Minthorne’s residence. How could Mary be so thoughtless? He reached for the knocker—and grimaced. Yesterday he’d burned his hand and had forgotten about it—until now. Lifting the brass knocker with his good hand, he gave it a series of raps. To his dismay, Miss Owen opened the door.

  “Why, Mr. Musgrove,” she said, smiling. “Hello.”

  Charles felt his lips curve into an answering smile, but no words came. He did not know why this was so; he only knew that his irritation was gone. He did not seem to be able to keep from smiling. Miss Owen was looking almost pretty in a gown of blue gingham. Curling tendrils of her hair had escaped and framed her face. Miss Owen had a pleasing face.

  Charles pulled himself together. He had come to transact business, not to smile at a pretty woman! “I have come to pay for my wife’s medication.” He held out the scrap of paper. “Is this the correct amount?”

  Miss Owen took it from him. Charles felt his face grow warm. He dug in a pocket for his wallet.

  “It is, Mr. Musgrove, but please don’t trouble yourself about repaym—”

  Charles interrupted. “We Musgroves pay our debts,” he said, more harshly than he intended. “I mean,” he amended, “I don’t like to have these trifling bills pile up.” He counted out the coins, but awkwardly because of his hand.

  “Why Mr. Musgrove! You have an injury.”

  Such ready sympathy made Charles uncomfortable. “This?” he said, shrugging. “It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound.”

  Miss Owen was frowning. “Is it a cut? A burn?”

  Charles raised his eyes to hers. “A burn,” he said, feeling like a schoolboy. “Came up against the chimney of the lamp last night. Didn’t realize it was so hot.”

  “You bandaged this yourself?” Her tone was severe, but her green eyes were twinkling. “Is it a clean bandage, Mr. Musgrove?”

  Charles grinned in spite of himself. “Oh you know,” he said. “More or less.”

  Miss Owen bit her lips. “Yes, I do know,” she said. “Which means you must come into the surgery at once. At the very least it ought to be cleaned and properly bandaged.”

  This was not what Charles wanted to hear. “Please,” he objected. “I don’t wish to disturb Mr. Minthorne. I’m sure he has more important things to do.”

  “He does, and you shan’t disturb him at all.” Miss Owen drew him into the entrance hall. “It happens that my cousin is not here. I can do it myself.”

  Charles’s brow cleared. This was different! “I’m not putting you out?”

  “Not in the least,” she said. “Come.”

  Rather sheepishly, Charles allowed her to lead him to Mr. Minthorne’s surgery. She had him sit at a square table by the window while she assembled supplies on a tray.

  Removing the handkerchief was an awkward business. She was gentle, but he could tell it pained her to hurt him. That she should be so compassionate was oddly touching.

  At last Charles could stand no more. “Here now, Miss Owen,” he said. “That’s not the way! Let me do it for you.” He jerked at the handkerchief, which tore the newly-formed scab. It broke out bleeding.

  “Oh, Mr. Musgrove!” Miss Owen rushed to blot it with a towel. “You are too rough.” She held his bleeding hand in both of hers.

  Charles bit his lip, but not for long. A merry laugh bubbled up inside; he could not contain it. “Ow!” he cried.

  ~ ~ ~

  With effort, Savoy curbed his rising impatience. This John Shepherd was such a fellow for caution! He had explained the situation more than once. And then what must the man do but take a turn about the garden. He said he had to think, as if there was more to think about! Shepherd had examined the gate and the street—did he doubt the watchers’ existence? Just as Savoy gave up hope of seeing him again, Shepherd came through the office door.

  “I apologize for my reticence,” he said. “I have been puzzling over what should be done. I believe I have come up with an acceptable plan.”

  “So long as your plan includes summoning the constable, I am content,” replied Savoy.

  “It is not quite so simple, I’m afraid. While Sir Walter is an inmate here he is, in a manner of speaking, safe. In other words, he cannot be seized.”

  “But this is my property, not his,” cried Savoy. “Is there nothing I can do to evict him?”

  “There are several options available. Of these we must consider which would be wisest to pursue. Unless you would like to figure as the man who delivers his patients over to the law …”

  This was an unexpected jolt. “I most certainly do not!” cried Savoy.

  Could it be that Mr. Shepherd’s eyes were twinkling? “The fact remains that you do wish to hand him over. We must come up with a way to accomplish this without appearing to do so.” Mr. Shepherd sat down.

  Mr. Savoy did likewise. “You have a plan.” It was all Savoy could do not to rub his hands together.

  “Sir Walter cannot be taken into custody unless he is on a public street. Obviously he is aware of this fact. I believe this is one of the reasons he chose to come to your establishment.”

  “He will not be the last,” observed Savoy dryly.

  “Somehow we must get him out of his rooms and off the grounds,” continued Mr. Shepherd. “Unfortunately, he no longer trusts me. Which means …” He raised an eyebrow.

  Savoy was not slow to take the hint. “My dear Shepherd,” he said, “it would give me great pleasure. I shall accompany him on a stroll across the lawn, taking pains to stray near to the gate …”

  “If I might make a suggestion? You could perhaps encounter an acquaintance of Sir Walter’s? Say, in a barouche on the street? He has spoken of a Mrs. Leighton.”

  “Better yet,” crowed Savoy, “Sir Henry Farley. The man sent in his card the other day; Sir Walter was beside himself with excitement.” He passed his tongue over his lips. “I will see Sir Henry waving, just beyond the baronet’s line of vision. We will move beyond the gate in order to greet him …”

  “… and the bailiff’s men,” said Mr. Shepherd, “will take it from there.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Mr. Savoy lost no time in putting the plan
into action. Unfortunately, the street was remarkably clear that afternoon. No elegant barouche presented itself during the time he and Sir Walter walked the front lawn. Mr. Savoy was about to give it up when two vehicles rounded the corner.

  “Sir Walter,” he cried, with real excitement in his voice. “I recognize that gentleman. It cannot be—but it is! Sir Henry Farley!”

  Sir Walter slewed round. As his arm remained linked with Savoy’s, this was an awkward maneuver.

  “I say! I do believe the man is waving!”

  “What? Where?” said Sir Walter. “I do not see him!”

  “Come closer.” Savoy deftly unfastened the gate-latch. Shepherd had thought to have someone oil the hinges; the gate swung open without a sound.

  “I do believe his carriage is pulling up,” agreed Sir Walter.

  This was perfectly true. One of the carriages had drawn aside. Sir Walter smoothed the folds of his brocade dressing gown. “I am not precisely attired for callers, am I?”

  “My dear Sir Walter,” said Savoy, leading him into the street, “of all my patients, you are the most elegant.” He stood back and watched the men jump into action.

  ~ ~ ~

  And so it was that when Lady Russell arrived at The Citadel for her daily visit, she encountered a most unusual sight. Here was her old friend, wearing a sumptuous dressing gown, being helped into a shabby black coach without windows. Sir Walter looked about with obvious dismay. Before Lady Russell’s horrified eyes, the door was pulled to. The windowless coach rumbled away.

  Lady Russell could not believe it. Was Sir Walter being kidnapped? Forgetting the check string, she pounded on the ceiling. The door was pulled open, and Hullin’s worried face appeared.

  “Follow that coach!” Lady Russell shrieked. “Something dreadful is happening to Sir Walter!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Winnie Owen finished the bandage with a flat knot. She studied her handiwork with critical eyes; would it hold? She glanced at Mr. Musgrove. He did not seem as careless as Wally or Gareth, but with men there was no telling. He was a talkative man and so very pleasant—just like her youngest brother.

  “Now what are you thinking, Miss Owen?” he teased. “I’ve been rattling on like a chucklehead. You must think me a dead bore.”

  Winnie shook her head. “You remind me of one of my brothers,” she said. “Wally, who has the happiest nature. He would like your horse-raising scheme, I think.”

  “Wally, eh? A youngish fellow?”

  “Cadwallen, I should say. A grown man does not like to be called by his nursery name.”

  “I’ll attest to that,” Mr. Musgrove said, grinning. “Cadwallen has a ring to it.”

  “It means battle-scatterer. My brothers and I have Welsh names.”

  Mr. Musgrove tilted his head to one side. “I didn’t know Winifred was Welsh,” he said.

  Winnie pushed back her chair and stood. “But my name is not Winifred. It’s—”

  “Yes?” His eyes had an expectant look—just like his son’s!

  “No, no,” she said, laughing. “You’ll not get that out of me. I never use my proper name.” She gathered a stack of clean bandages.

  “Family name, eh? You have my sympathies. My family’s littered with fellows named Charles. It’s my father’s name as well, so I have been called Master Charles or Mr. Charles since I can remember. And what must my sister do but marry a chap named Charles?”

  “And your son?” The words slipped out before she could stop them, but Mr. Musgrove did not look offended. He merely shrugged.

  “You have me there. But the name’s been passed from father to son for generations. I wouldn’t want him to feel slighted.”

  “That is why he is Little Charles.”

  “Now then,” he said, “you still have not told me your name. Shall I guess? Is it … Wilhelmina?”

  “No,” she said, smiling. It was a good deal worse, but she did not intend to tell him that.

  Somehow he guessed her thought, for he gave her a twinkling look. “Gwendolyn?”

  “No, no. That is a pretty name.” Winnie returned to the table and took up the basin of water. “You’ll never guess.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he replied cheerfully. “Let me see.” He thought for a minute. “I know,” he crowed. “Winola.”

  “No.”

  Worse?” he said. “Very well. Wilma? Waluga?”

  Winnie almost spilt the water for laughing. “What mother would name her sweet baby Waluga?” Something about his expression made her suspicious. “I don’t believe there is such a name, Mr. Musgrove.”

  “You’re right,” he confessed. “I made it up.” With his good hand he took the pitcher and brought it to her. “Tell me, won’t you? I won’t tell a soul.”

  Winnie hesitated. Her lips parted.

  “Aha,” he said. “Go on.”

  “It’s a Welsh name,” she said, feeling foolish.

  “So it has a meaning. Perhaps I can guess. Is it stubborn goat?”

  She gave a gurgle of laughter. “Of course not. If you must know,” she said, unable to resist the teasing look in his eyes, “it means flower.”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said. “I’ve only to ask Wentworth. I bet he can come up with a book about Welsh words.”

  This never occurred to her. Mr. Musgrove and Captain Wentworth would talk about it and joke—and would they discuss it with others? Perhaps it was better to trust Mr. Musgrove? “If I tell you,” she said slowly, “you must promise not to use it.”

  “Not even to you?” he teased.

  “Especially not to me!”

  “Very well,” he said, more seriously now. “I promise.”

  Winnie took a deep breath. She lowered her voice. “My name,” she said, “is Blodwyn.’

  ~ ~ ~

  Oaths were shouted (by passers-by, not Hullin—or so Lady Russell hoped!) as her carriage swung round another corner at breakneck speed. She clung to the armrest. How Hullin managed to follow that windowless coach through the crowded streets Lady Russell did not know. She glanced out. They were passing into the lower section of Bath. Surely Sir Walter knew no one here!

  Lady Russell could hardly bear to think of him. The expression on his face, and the brusque way in which the men had forced him into that coach—it was horrible! For they did force him, this she knew. Without a doubt, Sir Walter had been taken from The Citadel against his will.

  If only Anne or Elizabeth had called on him this morning, as they ought to have done, this might never have happened! Anne, she knew, was fighting fatigue, but surely Elizabeth could have bestirred herself. Once she got to the bottom of this, things would certainly change! Sir Walter’s daughters—particularly Elizabeth—would no longer be allowed to neglect him!

  The carriage came to a stop. Lady Russell peered out. Her driver’s boy was in the street engaged in earnest conversation with a group of labourers. His father gave a shout, and the boy came running back. Lady Russell hurried to let down her window.

  The boy obediently came up. “Don’t you worry none, milady,” he panted. They can’t have got far.”

  Lady Russell’s heart skipped a beat. Had Hullin indeed lost track of Sir Walter’s coach? She struggled to speak. “Every street,” she called out hoarsely. “Do you hear? Tell your father that you are to search every street, every alley and mews, until we find that coach!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The boy pulled at his forelock and went clambering onto the box.

  The coach lurched forward and Lady Russell shut the window. She pressed her hands to her temples, willing down panic. “Dear Father in heaven,” she whispered, “please, please let us find him.”

  10 The Indignity of It All

  Lady Russell’s carriage came to a halt before a tall house of stained brick. This was a very modest quarter of Bath. Hullin went to enquire, and for Lady Russell every moment was agony. Fortunately he did not keep her waiting long.

  Again Lady Russell let down the windo
w. “Well?” she demanded. “What is this place? Is Sir Walter here?”

  Hullin took a moment to answer. “It’s the bailiff’s house, milady,” he said. “The man you’re asking about is here.”

  “Thank God for that. Kindly inform him that I have come and will take him home.”

  Hullin hesitated. “He won’t be going nowhere just yet, ma’am. He has business with the bailiff.”

  Lady Russell peered over Hullin’s shoulder. “What is this place?”

  Hullin coughed and said, “It’s a sponging house, milady. But not to worry,” he added quickly. “There’s plenty worse than this.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Few streets over are some real hellholes. Places a man oughtn’t to be after dark. Right proper, this is.”

  Lady Russell would not have described it in those terms, but she swallowed her comment. Again the building came under scrutiny. A sponging house, she knew, was the prelude to debtor’s prison—and bankruptcy. Sir Walter’s future would be littered with writs, law expenses, and ruinous sacrifices. But surely this was all a mistake!

  She addressed Hullin. “Is this sponging house a fit place for me to visit? I would like to call upon Sir Walter.”

  “He’ll be right pleased to see a friendly face, ma’am, and no mistake. Perhaps you’d best wait a bit? I imagine he’ll be settling in, so to speak.”

  “Very well.” Lady Russell closed the window and sat back. Yes, there was much to sort out. The merchants of Bath were fiends! A man of Sir Walter’s standing ought to be treated with dignity and consideration! But now he was cast to the wolves, as it were, over what was obviously a simple misunderstanding.

  Well. She would see him soon enough. God only knew what she would say to him.

  Presently she remembered the Bible. She’d brought it along today because Sir Walter’s thoughts could use a nudge in the proper direction. Now that he was taken by the bailiff, it appeared he needed more than a nudge!

  Lady Russell spent some minutes leafing through the pages. The psalms, she knew, were often used to bring comfort. One particular text caught her eye.

  Many are the afflictions of the righteous,

  But the Lord delivereth him out of them all.