by Laura Hile
Lady Russell hesitated. Sir Walter Elliot was not precisely a righteous man. She flipped several pages back.
He trusted on the Lord that He would deliver him;
Let Him deliver him, seeing as he delighted in Him.
Well. As much as she valued her old friend, he was hardly one who delighted in the Lord! At last she found something that might do. Sir Walter was not a perfect man, but he was a good man—or so he tried to be.
The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord,
And He delighteth in his way.
Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down,
For the Lord upholdeth him with His hand.
Unfortunately, Lady Russell had reservations about this one as well. Although the text was suitable, the word good was a bit troubling. When referring to Sir Walter Elliot, the most honest use of the word good was in the term good-looking! Lady Russell did not think the steps of a good-looking man were necessarily ordered by the Lord. In fact, it was so often just the reverse!
~ ~ ~
Wherever Elizabeth went that morning she took dancing steps—to the dressing table to peek at the looking glass, or to the bed (where she sat and dreamed of an impossible future), or to the wardrobe to sort through her gowns. Humming a tune, she removed her favorite day dresses for inspection. Soon her bed was awash with colour.
Yellow would be perfect, she decided. Pale yellow muslin—layers of it, drifting about her as she walked—and a straw hat trimmed with a wide ribbon. Unfortunately Elizabeth owned no yellow dresses. Instead, she selected the green walking dress and gave it to Elise to press. Green was an even better choice, for was Patrick not an Irishman?
All that morning his name floated through her mind like music, wrapping her thoughts with a tender whisper of romance. She took up pencil and paper to write a note to Anne, but she wrote Elizabeth Gill instead. And then she had to laugh, for this was a perfectly dreadful name! Why did she not care?
Now that she thought on it, every aspect of her future would be dreadful! She would be married to a man of no distinction like Anne and would grow coarse like Mary. And have a nursery filled with children.
The thought of becoming a mother, once so repulsive, now brought only smiles. She had become rather fond of her young nephews. What would it be like to have a nursery filled with Patrick’s children? Elizabeth discovered that she was blushing.
She did not know what Patrick’s income was, but did it matter? Was it so expensive to marry and raise a family? People did it every day! Then too, had she not become wise in the ways of money? They would take one of those narrow houses, she decided, with lace curtains in the front windows and flowers in a bed out front. She could adjust to living in smaller quarters—had she not done so when her father took the house on Camden Place? A little house could be quite charming. And she would be sharing it with Patrick—Elizabeth paused to sigh—which would be absolutely wonderful.
Suddenly she laughed. Such thoughts were lunacy, for he had not yet asked for her hand. Would he do so today? Would he again bring her home in a job carriage and demand another kiss? She rather hoped so.
Elise came in to dress her hair, and this put an end to romantic speculations—almost. Soon Elizabeth was busy with her thoughts. Patrick Gill was intelligent and industrious. Surely he would succeed in his business endeavours, and then everything would be better. She had nothing to blush for in his manners. He was both handsome and distinguished, unlike certain pedigreed gentlemen she could name. And she wouldn’t be a cit or a mushroom, for she was an Elliot. Perhaps, she thought recklessly, she had enough breeding for the both of them?
~ ~ ~
The parlor in which Lady Russell was left to wait was littered with old newspapers and smelled strongly of smoke and sweat. She used a clean handkerchief to cover the seat of a rather grimy chair. Presently Sir Walter was brought in. The elegant dressing gown was gone. Instead, he wore an ill-fitting jumper of coarse brown cloth over striped pantaloons. On his feet were woolen stockings, well-darned. Lady Russell’s compassionate heart was wrung. “Oh, Sir Walter,” she whispered.
Once they were alone, he gave a mournful sigh. “These clothes,” he said, making a futile gesture. “Have you ever seen anything so disgraceful?” His eyes brimmed. “It is bad enough to be in this place, Amanda, but to be so attired is …” His chin quivered.
Lady Russell did not know whether to laugh or cry. Who but Walter Elliot would think of clothing at a time like this? And what was he about, to be using her Christian name? “My friend,” she said, “I am so sorry.”
Again he sighed. “This is all a dreadful mistake.”
“Of course it is. And as soon as you feel able, we shall discuss what must be done.” She indicated the chair opposite hers. “Do sit down.”
He looked so glum that Lady Russell decided to bring out her Bible. “Even in the face of shocking injustice,” she said, turning the pages, “we must not abandon hope.
Sir Walter lapsed into silence; then his countenance brightened. “A brief confinement in the sponging house,” he said hopefully, “is not unknown among the more reckless members of the nobility. Due to gaming debts and such.”
She looked up. “Thank God you are not a gamester.”
“Or,” he went on, “after a bit of a drinking spree.”
Lady Russell pursed up her lips. “Crapulous behaviour,” she said, “is unbecoming in any man, regardless of his station.” She hesitated, wondering how to phrase a delicate question. “You … have not encountered anyone we know here, have you?”
He shook his head. “Alas, I have not a friend in the world. Besides yourself, that is.” His voice rose higher. “Oh the horror of it all!”
Lady Russell made sympathetic sounds.
“The most pressing matter,” he went on, “is that I am obliged to provide tonight’s dinner.”
Her brow wrinkled. “You must procure your own food? Nonsense! You are confined!”
“Well—” Sir Walter paused to sniff. “I suppose I could arrange for one of the inns to deliver it. The meal is not only for myself, you understand. I am to provide dinner for everyone.”
Lady Russell was shocked. “But—what about the expense?”
“Bother the expense! The question is, how can I host a dinner while wearing these clothes?”
“Clothes be hanged,” cried Lady Russell. “You are in the sponging house!”
“My dear, we are speaking of Tradition. Since when is Tradition affordable? I am to give the poor fellows a treat, as befits my station as the New Man.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It is rather like a Public Day, is it not?”
Lady Russell thought it was nothing of the sort. “This is outrageous!”
He lowered his voice. “I needn’t provide a splendid dinner,” he said. “Think of the savings!”
Lady Russell could only stare.
“The meal will be below the mark, but my attire needn’t be.” Sir Walter rubbed his hands together. “Now then, I recall that you have several of my trunks at your house.”
“But you must leave this place,” she protested. “I cannot bring your trunks here.”
“No, no, dear friend. That would be too much. However, perhaps you could bring a change of raiment?” He grew thoughtful. “There is a very fine waistcoat in one of those trunks. White satin, embroidered with leaves and pomegranates.”
“You wish me to bring evening clothes?”
“For the dinner, Amanda.” His eyes were pleading. “I’ll need morning wear as well, but we can discuss that later.” He paused. “The clothes in those trunks are sadly out of fashion.”
“How can you think of fashion at a time like this?”
Sir Walter gave a heavy sigh. “I suppose it cannot be helped. I do so dislike being behind the times! Ah well, anything will be an improvement over these … togs.” He attempted a wan smile.
Lady Russell’s heart was touched. “Do not fret,” she soothed. “I shall bring the clothes straightwa
y—and some soap and a towel. Longwell will arrange for the dinner.” She paused. Did inmates of a sponging house keep town or country hours? “Is seven o’clock convenient?”
“It is, and I am most grateful.” Sir Walter lifted his chin manfully. “I might be quartered among the ranks of the Great Unwashed,” he said. “But I am not required to be wholly given over to barbarianism.”
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth descended at half-past the hour, pulling on her gloves as she came. She took a brief look into the drawing room and found Mary on one of the sofas.
“Hello,” she said pleasantly. “I see you are better.” Elizabeth knew her sister’s illness was a hoax, but she was not of a mind to twit Mary today. “I am going out. Is there anything you need?”
“There are a great many things I need.” Mary’s mouth puckered into a pout. “No one thinks of me at all; it is all rush-rush-rush! Everyone runs away, and I am left alone.”
“I am sorry,” said Elizabeth. “It is a lovely day. The garden should be pleasant.”
“I do not like the garden. It reminds me of the country.” Mary began to hunt in her pockets. “I have another clean handkerchief somewhere.”
Elizabeth gave her one of her own. “You really ought to visit Father,” she said. “He has been grouchy lately. The two of you should get on very well.”
With a final look at the clock, Elizabeth nodded to her sister and left the drawing room.
~ ~ ~
“And now,” said Lady Russell, “we must attend to business.” This, she knew, would be difficult. How delicate was a gentleman’s sense of dignity! How dearly she wished to avoid giving offense! He looked at her with expectation, which leant her courage. “Sir Walter,” she said, “exactly how much are you in arrears?”
“Are you referring to … money?” His voice quavered as he said the word.
“Yes, dear,” she said gently. “How much money do you owe the bailiff?”
Sir Walter’s face fell. “I do not know,” he said slowly. “Shepherd has handled everything for me.”
“Then we must contact Mr. Shepherd.”
Sir Walter plucked a thread from his sleeve. “You cannot imagine my distress, to be so brutally treated. I haven’t even had my morning bath.”
“Yes, lamb, I know. I shall send for Mr. Shepherd, and he will see to everything. My express should reach him this very day. As soon as you are free of this place, you may have a lovely soak in the tub.”
Sir Walter looked up. “You needn’t send for Shepherd. He is here in Bath.”
Lady Russell brightened. “Why, that is wonderful.”
He sighed again. “Not at all. The man is no longer in my employ. I dismissed him.”
“But—who is to handle your business if Mr. Shepherd does not?”
Sir Walter hung his head. “I am sure I do not know.”
“Well then,” said Lady Russell bracingly, “let us see for ourselves what must be done. Would you be so kind as to summon the bailiff?”
Sometime later, after the warrant had been produced, Lady Russell and Sir Walter sat together at the parlour table. She spent some time examining the charges against him which, as it turned out, had been brought by that evil physician, Mr. Savoy.
“Two hundred fifty pounds,” she read aloud. “That is not so much.” She looked up. “My dear, do you have this amount at hand?”
He cast up his hands. “How should I know? This is all a mistake.”
“Very probably, but it is in your best interest to pay the bailiff.”
“Thieves and robbers! That is what the lot of them are.”
“I quite agree,” said Lady Russell, thinking of Mr. Savoy’s heartless tactics. “And yet you cannot go free until that amount is paid. Therefore you will give me a draft on your bank, and I shall get the money.”
Sir Walter did not answer right away. “I … do not know if I have that much,” he confessed. “I did, but there have been expenses.” His voice rose to a wail. “The excessive fee charged by Elizabeth’s modiste, for one. Unbelievable.”
“Elizabeth!” Lady Russell made a clucking noise. “Vanity, vanity! And what has been the result?”
Sir Walter was not attending. “Elizabeth!” he shouted joyfully. “By Jove, why did I not think of this before? Elizabeth must contact Rushworth, do you hear? She’ll have to send an express, but he won’t mind the expense. Men who are in love never do. Tell her to say this: I need that settlement money right away.”
“Settlement money?”
“Yes, yes. For the engagement. Elizabeth knows nothing about it, but Rushworth does.”
“Sir Walter, of what are you speaking? Money paid out at an engagement? I have never heard of such a thing. That is not a settlement!”
His voice took on a pleading tone. “A little honey to sweeten the deal, that is all. Think of it as a gift.”
Lady Russell’s brows knit. “Do you mean a bride price? Surely you did not ask it of him!”
“He offered! Which was most generous, considering the sensitive nature of his proposal.” Sir Walter lowered his voice. “He is, after all, divorced. Think of the disgrace.”
“Would it be any worse, having a father-in-law in the—” Lady Russell broke off, horrified at what she’d been about to say. It was unwise to remain here. She needed time to think and so, it appeared, did he.
She pushed back her chair. “Leave everything to me,” she said, refolding the warrant. “I shall see to your clothes and have Longwell arrange for the dinner.”
Sir Walter’s face was eager. “And the express to Rushworth? He is in London, you know. At his house in Grosvenor Square.”
“You may leave everything to me.”
Sir Walter came round the table to assist her with her chair. “You know best, my dear,” he said meekly. “You always do.”
As she reached the door, she heard him call her name. She turned. He held out her handkerchief. “Did you drop this?” he said. His smile, she noticed, was singularly charming.
~ ~ ~
The drive back to Rivers Street gave Lady Russell time to think, and yet her thoughts did not follow a proper direction. For some reason, she could not stop thinking of the handkerchief. There it was on the seat beside her, soiled with the dust—an ugly thing, really—and yet to see it made her smile. How long had it been since a gentleman was so gallant? A very long time indeed.
At last she pushed the handkerchief aside. There were things to be decided; so many things to be done. For as she was leaving, the bailiff had mentioned a most interesting development. Apparently there was a second warrant ready to be issued against Sir Walter, but because of a technicality—a missing seal or some such thing—it had not been brought forward. If Sir Walter were able to pay the amount he now owed, before the defective warrant was reissued, he would go free. The question was, how long would that freedom last?
Lady Russell smoothed her gloves, tracing the ridges of the seams. Such a tangle Walter Elliot had made for himself, and all so unnecessary! If Lady Elliot were yet alive, this catastrophe would never have occurred. Mr. Shepherd made attempt after attempt, but the sorry truth was this: Sir Walter Elliot could not be made to mind a manager’s instructions. It was not in him to submit to a lesser man.
Well. She had come up with a solution, though he would not like it very well—and neither would her solicitor. Fortunately, Mr. Hinks had his office here in Bath. Lady Russell squared her shoulders and reached for the check string. It would be best to see Mr. Hinks at once, before she changed her mind.
11 Beat To Quarters!
The window of his bedchamber was open, allowing the breeze to tug playfully at the draperies. McGillvary finished buttoning his waistcoat. That flapping reminded him of canvas, stout and seaworthy. Oh to be at sea on such a day as this—in command of his own ship and pacing the quarterdeck!
His mind came alive with memories. From the lookout in the crosstrees came the shout: “Sail ho! Sail ho to the wind’ard!” And his bellowing a
nswer: “What do you make of her?”
“Full-rigged ship, sir! French, by the cut of her tops’ls—”
French indeed. As if he could forget the day he’d intercepted the Durance. Glass in hand, he’d swung into the ratlines, bringing the enemy ship into focus, his mind racing to meet the challenge—
“Mr. Jones, you may beat to quarters.”
“Beat to quarters it is, sir.” Jones raised his trumpet. “All hands to clear ship!”
Everywhere around him, the ship came alive. Bulkheads were knocked down, gunports hauled up, the guns run out and loaded with double shot—
“Beg pardon, sir.”
McGillvary gave a start. His man Pym stood at his elbow.
“Your carriage is ready, Admiral, sir,” he said.
Reluctantly, McGillvary pulled himself from the imaginary quarterdeck. He would now be heading into battle of a different sort, this time alone at the helm. Pym helped ease him into a dark blue coat of exquisite cut. As Pym adjusted the set of it across the shoulders, McGillvary surveyed his unsmiling reflection.
Why the devil had he kissed her? He had worked so blasted hard to keep Elizabeth at arm’s length. And it was for nothing. He had slipped—but for a moment—and the damage had been done. The woman he loved, his darling Elizabeth, had kissed not him but another!
What would happen today, when he confessed the truth to her? McGillvary sighed heavily. If there was a way to extricate himself from this tangle, he did not know it.
His secretary met him in the hall. “Mr. Lonk’s report,” he said, handing a sealed packet. “And the afternoon’s Bath Gazette, sir, just arrived.”
McGillvary accepted both with a word of thanks. There was more. “Mr. Lonk was wishful to know, sir, if you plan to call this afternoon to discuss the problem accounts.”
McGillvary had forgotten; he gave a noncommittal answer. As he went out to the carriage, the breeze pulled at the lapels of his frock coat. McGillvary removed his hat and allowed the breeze free rein with his hair. He would no longer dress like Gill, but he ought to wear his hair in the man’s unruly style.