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

by Laura Hile

  Immediately there was a scratching at her door. “Come,” she said wearily.

  Sir Walter put his head in. “I beg your pardon, my dear,” he said. “I did not catch that last.”

  Lady Russell strode to the bell cord. “Would you like a glass of Madeira, Sir Walter? I’ll have Ellen bring it directly.”

  “Why, a little sherry would be lovely, thank you. I have had a most exhausting morning.” With these words he withdrew.

  Presently Ellen came, and before she went down for Sir Walter’s sherry, she helped Lady Russell into her travelling dress. Amanda Russell surveyed her reflection unhappily. Disguise or no, Sir Walter was a stickler where women were concerned. It would never do for his affianced wife to appear haggish.

  Sometime later Ellen came back to say that Longwell had returned. The next sound Lady Russell heard was not her butler’s steady tread but another tentative knock. She turned to face the door, hands on hips. “Come,” she said sharply.

  “I do not wish to trouble you,” Sir Walter said, “however—”

  “Botheration!” cried Lady Russell. “What now?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth’s spirits rejoiced. She had been in the Pump Room for close to an hour, and yet she had never been alone. As she left the building and stepped into the street, she met Lord Atherton, an old friend of her father’s. The man greeted her with marked affability before he passed on. She could only hope that many observed the exchange.

  Watching eyes were everywhere. Elizabeth was mindful to keep her posture erect and her pace serene as she strolled through the Abbey Courtyard. All that remained was to occupy the time until her appointment with Patrick Gill at two o’clock. Normally she would have spent time in the shops, examining goods she could no longer afford to purchase, but she had been on her feet all morning. She searched the Abbey Courtyard for a vacant bench.

  “Miss Elliot?”

  She turned, shading her eyes against the sun’s glare. Here was an unexpected surprise. “Mr.—Shepherd?” she enquired. “How do you do?”

  He bowed. “I do not like to intrude upon your reverie, but this matter is of some urgency. Have you seen William Elliot?”

  “He was in the Pump Room earlier. I do not know where he is now.”

  Mr. Shepherd’s lips compressed. “He was traced to the Pump Room this morning. I was not quick enough!”

  “Is there a problem?”

  Mr. Shepherd consulted his timepiece. “A matter of business compels me to find him immediately. Does he call upon you at St. Peter Square?”

  Elizabeth was reluctant to answer. “He does not,” she said. “We—my sisters and I—have had a falling out with him.” She studied his face. “Have you seen Father recently? I have only Lady Russell’s reports about him, which seem dramatic and mawkish. What is your opinion of his condition?”

  “I cannot say. I am no longer in your father’s employ, Miss Elliot.”

  Elizabeth could only stare. “I know he has been grouchy, but I had no idea he was as bad as that. I shall speak to him on your behalf. He needs you.”

  “Indeed he does,” said Mr. Shepherd “but you do not apprehend the matter correctly. It is I who do not need him.”

  He stalked off, leaving Elizabeth alone with her thoughts. Certainly Mr. Shepherd knew about the amount of money her father owed. Why was he so eager to find Mr. Elliot?

  She could sit no longer; she must walk. Presently she found herself pulling open the thick oaken door at the entrance to the Abbey. From within rolled a darkened, comforting hush.

  And then Elizabeth heard her name. A man came toward her across the bright courtyard. He was fashionably dressed, and she could see the gleam of his smile.

  “How delightful,” he called. “I was hoping to speak to you today. A rather important day for you, is it not?”

  Elizabeth let go of the Abbey door; it swung closed with a whoosh. “Sir Henry,” she said. “How do you do?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Lady Russell’s unusual request troubled Anne all morning. What possible harm could there be in calling on her father? Frederick was not at home to advise her—and she knew what he would say. In the end Anne decided to go anyway, if only to test the No Visitors Allowed stricture.

  She came through the gate at The Citadel, pausing to secure the latch behind her. The walled garden was peaceful; the trees cast dappled shadows on the small lawn. The tranquility was at variance with the agitation in her heart.

  What would she find when she spoke with her father? Surely he must know about Elizabeth. Gossip was the sort of thing he delighted in. Of course he would know.

  The vestibule was deserted. This did not trouble her; she had often found it so. She knew the way to her father’s rooms—and perhaps it would be better to arrive without an attendant. She trod the long expanse of hallway. One look at her father’s face would be enough.

  Oddly enough, his door was open. Anne could hear voices within—men’s voices. This could not be right. Her father did not entertain guests with the door open! Next she heard whistling, and then there was a bang—as if something had been dropped—and a burst of laughter.

  Yes, this was the correct hallway; these were her father’s rooms. She glanced at the nameplate beside the door—but what was this? The card bearing Sir Walter’s name was no longer there.

  Anne hurried inside. His sitting room was bare—his things were gone! Workmen in spattered smocks were painting the walls and the woodwork. They gazed at her with open curiosity.

  “My father,” she cried. “What have you done with my father?”

  ~ ~ ~

  At last Mr. Crooks and Mr. Pinner took their leave. The library door closed with a comfortable click. Patrick McGillvary leaned forward in his seat behind a wide mahogany desk. His fingers found and rubbed at a sore spot on his left shoulder. Old Crooks and Pinner were good men, but devoid of imagination. They had served his late father well; their loyalty to his family was unquestioned.

  McGillvary lifted tired eyes to survey the interior of the library. It had been his father’s, as had the house and everything else. While some aspects of a land-bound life were wearing, being master of Belsom was not one of them.

  He had not slept well the night before, and it had been a long morning. McGillvary closed his eyes, until he heard the door open. Mr. Starkweather came in with something in his hand. He hesitated, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Come in,” said McGillvary. “It’s been a busy day, I take it.”

  “It has, Admiral. This came just now. I did not wish to disturb, as you were occupied with the books.” Starkweather held out a packet—a letter.

  McGillvary took it. “Not from Whitehall,” he said, breaking the seals, “but sent, I see, by express. A matter of some urgency.” He looked up. “Ten to one it’s Ronan asking for money. By express.”

  Starkweather said nothing as McGillvary spread the single sheet. “Yes,” he went on bitterly. “Ronan. What the devil ails the fellow, that he should write in this affected scrawl?” He read only the salutation and part of the first sentence. “No, my dear Ronan,” he said, tearing the letter in half, “you must make do with your quarterly allowance.”

  “I take it there will be no reply, sir?”

  “There will be no reply. Let him come to beg on bended knee.”

  Starkweather withdrew, and McGillvary was left to his thoughts. His half-brother was a scoundrel and worse. What was most galling was that Belsom Park itself would one day pass to Ronan. McGillvary made a mental note to wear his sword while at home the coming week. It would never do to miss an opportunity!

  His eyes travelled to the clock, for he had an appointment at two. The thought of Elizabeth smoothed the sharp expression from his face. He reached for the newspaper Starkweather had brought and turned to the society pages. There was the retraction, printed exactly as he had dictated, word-for-word. “That’s that,” he said, folding the paper.

  ~ ~ ~

  Anne let herself out of
the front gate of The Citadel, allowing it to clang shut behind her. Hateful place! No one knew where her father was—and no one seemed to care! Her father’s physician was nowhere to be found. The man in the office informed her that Sir Walter Elliot was no longer a resident. He had no information about where he had gone.

  And so Anne was left to fret and worry while she waited for the chairmen to return. She pictured her father ill, helpless, and alone. The longer she waited, the less she was convinced that this was true. Her father was seldom at a loss. He might act the part of the victim, but only when it suited his purposes.

  “But perhaps,” she whispered, “not this time?”

  Where could he be? He had hinted about coming to live with them on St. Peter Square—quite broadly—and yet in his time of need he had not come. Anne could think of only one other person to whom he would turn: Lady Russell. So it was to Lady Russell that Anne intended to go—if only the sedan chair would come!

  ~ ~ ~

  “You ought to get away from here,” Sir Henry said softly. “You have suffered long enough. It will only grow worse if you remain.” He raised a gloved hand, as if to ward off her surprise. “I mean no criticism of your performance in the Pump Room just now. You made a brave show of it. I commend you! But it will not answer.”

  Elizabeth did not know what to make of this remark. She was tired and hungry and she wished Sir Henry would go away.

  But he did not appear to be in any hurry to leave her. He indicated the Abbey door. “As for going to church to pray—a bit too obvious, Miss Elliot. The maudlin does not become you. You are better off attending a gay event—a ball, for instance.” He smiled. “I understand you attend Mrs. Buxford-Heighton’s gala.”

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth. “With my godmother.”

  “Excellent, my dear. Nevertheless, I cannot hide from you the fact that your sufferings in Bath have only just begun. Shall we walk a little?”

  Sir Henry offered his arm, and Elizabeth took it reluctantly.

  “I must say,” he went on, “you have made quite an enemy in Mrs. Rushworth.”

  “You mean Mrs. Leight—” Elizabeth caught herself. She had spoken without thinking. She shot a look at Sir Henry.

  His eyes glittered in a way that made her squirm. “Ah,” he said softly. “Perceptive girl!”

  “I beg your pardon, Sir Henry,” she said quickly. “Mrs. Leighton is a friend of yours. I had no right to—”

  He cut her apology short. “She is a most formidable opponent.”

  Elizabeth did not like his smile, and she did not like his eyes. He too was a dangerous opponent.

  “Yours is a complex situation, is it not?” he went on. “Such a pity, your father’s predicament.” Sir Henry shook his head. “Run off his legs, by all reports. I, for one, shall miss him.”

  Elizabeth did not trust herself to speak.

  Sir Henry did not appear to notice her discomfort. “You are well rid of Rushworth, by the bye. It was a sporting attempt, my dear, but no.” His face screwed into a grimace. “If a beautiful woman must offer herself, she should at least choose a man who is passably attractive.”

  He caught her eye and winked broadly. “Which the young Rushworth certainly is not, eh?”

  “Sir Henry!”

  “Now my dear Miss Elliot, there is no need to get in a huff because I speak plainly. It is one of my finer qualities, in fact.” He came nearer. “I only wish to offer a little friendly advice. You’ve no objection to that, surely.”

  Elizabeth longed to withdraw her hand from his sleeve. What did she want with his advice? And yet she could hardly tell him so!

  “As I was saying, what you need is a change of scene, my sweet.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Have you such a refuge?”

  Sir Henry did not give Elizabeth a chance to respond. “Your sister, let me see. The short, brown one, married to the up-and-coming squire? Perhaps she has a place for you until winter is past.”

  “Winter?” said Elizabeth. “I would never stay away as long as that. If I went away at all …”

  Sir Henry gave her a look of mild reproof. “To return sooner would be fatal.”

  Elizabeth could feel a flush rise to her cheeks. She would never go to Mary’s home. Uppercross Cottage was so small; there was barely room for a guest. And besides, Mary was in Bath. Elizabeth stole a look at Sir Henry. She suspected that he knew this.

  “Ah well,” he said. “The husband is not yet squire; perhaps it would be awkward. You have another sister, if I am not mistaken, with whom you now are living? But since she resides in Bath, she can be of no use to you. There is your worthy godmother, who also lives in Bath.” Sir Henry shrugged. “A pity, that.”

  Elizabeth found her voice. “You are too kind, sir, to concern yourself on my account. I have no relations outside Somerset upon whom I might impose. I shall weather the storm as best I can. I daresay the gossips will find someone new to discuss.”

  Sir Henry looked alarmed. “But my dear Miss Elizabeth, you have not considered your situation! It is precarious in the extreme!”

  Elizabeth’s eyes followed a crack in the pavement. “You are too kind,” she murmured.

  “Nonsense,” he replied.

  She ventured to glance at him then; a small smile was hovering on his lips. “Truth to tell, Miss Elliot,” he confessed, “It so happens that I have a place of refuge to offer.” The yellow flecks in his hazel eyes were now especially bright. “Have you ever seen the Mediterranean, my sweet?”

  14 This Be War!

  Church Street was narrow and the buildings on either side of it were tall, and yet there were so many passersby. Sir Henry Farley was well-known; Elizabeth dared not cause a scene by tearing herself from his grasp. But how could she escape?

  Meanwhile his voice—so quiet and yet so penetrating! —droned on. He must now describe to her in detail her own beauties: the luscious curve of her neck; the shine of her luxuriant hair (which he knew was waiting to be released from its bonds); the hidden deliciousness of her figure. To hear such things made Elizabeth’s flesh crawl.

  Surely she was imagining this! Sir Henry Farley was her father’s friend. How dare he say such things to her!

  “What I like most in you,” he was now saying, “is your independence, my sweet. You are your own woman. You are not bound by social conventions or by the opinions of others.”

  “That is not true,” she said.

  He merely laughed. “My sweet, your modesty is charming! But dissembling is unnecessary with me! For I have seen you with him myself.”

  Elizabeth’s head came up. What had Sir Henry seen?

  The man’s eyes were bright and mocking. “The fellow in the brown coat,” he said, smiling. “One of your many conquests, no doubt.”

  “I have no idea of whom you are speaking,” she said, with a confidence she did not feel. “Bath is filled with men in brown coats.”

  “But this was a most unusual fellow. You needn’t fret; I don’t object to a woman having adventures prior to entering my protection. Experience gives a certain spice to life, does it not?”

  He lowered his voice. “I do not know him, of course, but I do remember this: his coat had patches on the elbows.”

  Elizabeth gasped—she could not help it. He had seen her with Patrick Gill.

  Sir Henry chuckled at her blushes. He laid his gloved hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “Charming,” he said. “Absolutely charming. His was the admiration due a truly desirable woman. I salute you.”

  Elizabeth fought to maintain composure. If he had seen her with Mr. Gill, what else had he seen? How much did he know? And when she refused his offer, as surely she must, what would he do?

  “You were made for Paris, the eternal city of lovers,” he murmured. “In my younger days, that is just where I would have taken you, to my pied-à-terre in Paris.” He pressed more closely against her. “As you know, these arrangements are understood in Paris.”

  Bile rose in Elizabeth’s throat.
She willed it down and kept walking. She lifted her gaze to the Abby. Angels were carved into the walls, angels ascending a ladder to heaven. Elizabeth longed to climb with them—away from Sir Henry’s abhorrent whispers!

  To reach the Abbey door was now her object. Surely he would not accost her in church!

  “My sweet,” he lamented, “you have not been attending.” He smiled widely, revealing a set of even, stained teeth that once must have been quite fine. “You have not yet given your answer.”

  “You are too kind, Sir Henry,” she managed to bleat. Even now, she knew she should not offend him!

  “Ah, but I long to be kinder still.”

  Hating herself, Elizabeth said, “Must I give an answer right away?”

  He gave a sharp sigh. “Do not keep me in suspense, my sweet. For having aroused my interest, I shall not be kept waiting.” He lowered his voice further. “The sap must come out of the tree, you know.”

  This cryptic answer caused Elizabeth’s stomach to convulse. “I-I shall think about it,” she whispered. She removed her hand from his sleeve and reached for the Abbey door.

  “Off to pray, are you?” His mockery was unmistakable. “Perhaps, my sweet, I shall be the answer to your prayers, eh?”

  Summoning the last bit of courage, Elizabeth managed to arch an eyebrow. “Perhaps,” she said, and pulled open the heavy door.

  Her feet stumbled as she made her way into the narthex. She pressed a hand over her mouth—she must not cry out! A sob was stifled in her throat, but it would not be suppressed for long.

  She searched for a pew in a dark corner, but there were none. White light came pouring in through the tall clerestory windows; it seemed to fill the Abbey. Where could she hide? Everywhere were watching eyes, pressing at her, accusing her.

  She crossed to the side aisle. The pews ended at the wall; she chose one, followed it, and sank onto the bench. Against her shoulder the massive granite was solid, substantial. She bit back a sob and cradled her head in her hands.

  “Oh God,” her dry lips whispered. “Oh God.”