by Laura Hile
~ ~ ~
McGillvary came into the Abbey courtyard whistling; he rounded the corner and caught sight of the hanging sign outside Bailey’s. It was a glorious day—the sky was bright, the sun was shining, and he was in England. Best of all, he was set to meet his Elizabeth.
“My Elizabeth.” He repeated her name aloud, simply for the joy of it.
McGillvary slapped his thigh with the newspaper and grinned. Nothing could be better! For today he would rid himself of the hateful masquerade. He would show Elizabeth the retraction, they would exult together in her exoneration, and she would ask how he had done it. For the retraction was complete, just as he intended it should be.
And then he would modestly confess all. Not, perhaps, how much the retraction had cost him, but enough so that she would understand. Naturally, she would fly into a rage when she learned his true identity. But after the storm she would forgive.
McGillvary smiled again—a singularly foolish smile that he was powerless to stop. The forgiveness of his Elizabeth would be delightful.
He checked his timepiece. He was early, as he’d intended to be. The place was crowded, usual for this time of day, but a glance at the proprietor told him that he had received McGillvary’s instructions. The man nodded his head at the curtained door. All was in readiness.
Elizabeth was early. She sat at a table by the window, alone and very erect. Her bare hands were clasped before her on the white tablecloth; under the brim of her hat, her face was still. McGillvary stepped aside to have a word with the serving girl, and he watched as she delivered the message. Elizabeth rose obediently, went to the curtained door, and passed through.
Within moments, he joined her. “My dear,” he said, smiling broadly, “we’ve done it!” He slapped the morning paper onto the tabletop. “We’ve led the old weevil-box on a merry chase, and we’ve clipped her wings!”
Elizabeth stared at him.
He’d been too rash, to throw it at her like that. McGillvary began again. “We’ve hit her square, my dear! Mrs. Rushworth, I mean.” He gave the Bath Gazette to her. “Read this.”
She gazed at the page. “What does it mean?” she whispered.
“Victory, my dear! It’s as good as in our hands. Mrs. Rushworth has been routed.” He took a teacup and saucer from the trolley and placed them. “This calls for drinks all round. On the house.”
Elizabeth said nothing. McGillvary took hold of the teapot and gallantly filled both cups. He slid into his chair and watched her take hold of the saucer. The smile left his face. “Your fingers,” he said. “They’re bruised.”
She gave him a quick look—a frightened look? —and hid them from sight. “They are fine.”
“You’ve hurt your hands. Let me see them.”
~ ~ ~
Being occupied with closing an over-stuffed travelling bag, Lady Russell was in no mood for talk. “Longwell, I am surprised at you,” she said. “I am not at home to visitors. I do not care if it is the Emperor of China come to call, I am not here!”
“Very good, milady.” Longwell took the buckle from her, gave the sides of the leather bag a mighty shove with his knee, and fastened it.
“Thank you.” Lady Russell turned her attention to her hat. “The hired chaise is out front, is it not?”
“It will be momentarily, milady.”
“Sir Walter—is he ready?” She began to draw on her gloves.
Longwell grunted assent. “I believe I have, at last, arranged the baronet’s cravat to his satisfaction, ma’am. At present he is occupied in packing another bag.”
“Another? Is he mad? If we are to board the Mail, we must depart at once!”
“Yes, milady.” Longwell took up the traveling bag and two bandboxes. “I shall inform Mrs. Wentworth that you are not at home. Or you may do so as you pass the parlour door.”
Lady Russell wheeled. “Do you mean to tell me that Anne is in this house?”
“In the front parlour, ma’am. She insists on waiting.” He pulled open the door, but awkwardly because of the bandboxes.
“Longwell, stop!” she ordered. “I must think.” She struck her hands together. “Blast it all, the chaise will be in full view.”
“I take it your ladyship does not wish to be seen by Mrs. Wentworth. Shall I close the draperies?”
“No … yes! I … do not know!” Lady Russell frowned at the carpet. “We ought to leave by the service door,” she said at last.
“Might I suggest the back stairs,” Longwell offered, “in order to escape detection.”
“Very well. You’d best put the luggage into the chaise first. We shall await your signal.”
“What shall I tell Mrs. Wentworth?”
“Serve her tea. And Longwell, seat her near the fire, away from the windows.”
“I shall do my best, ma’am.”
Lady Russell began to warm to the plan. “Tell her I shall be down directly—which is quite true, Longwell, you needn’t make that face! After we are gone you may tell her that you were mistaken, that I have gone out without your knowledge.”
Longwell adjusted his grip on the bandboxes; his gaze never wavered. “What if Mrs. Wentworth desires to wait?”
“Then she may do so, by all means.” Lady Russell gave her bedchamber a final look-over. “You will remember to deliver those letters, Longwell? But not before tomorrow.”
She did not wait for his reply but went directly to Sir Walter’s room. He was dressed for travel in a white ruffled shirt (rakishly open at the neck) and a full-length cloak. Around his waist was knotted a black sash. Imploringly, he held out a waistcoat.
“Might you have room for this, my dear?” he pleaded. “I haven’t worn it above twice, and by autumn it will be out of fashion.” His smile became sly. “You see? I am able to be thrifty. It would be very bad economy to leave this behind. It is such a becoming shade.”
Lady Russell took it from his resistless grasp. He was right; that particular green suited him very well. “Very well,” she relented, “but if you cannot find room you must wear it. We must be on our way this instant.”
Sir Walter needed no further urging. He snatched up his hat and gloves. “And those bags, if you please.”
She took hold of a bulky carryall and lugged it toward the door. “We haven’t time to wait for the servants; we must carry these ourselves.”
Sir Walter gave a chortle and clapped his hat on his head. “With pleasure,” he said. “For I’m gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O.”
Lady Russell gave him a look. “Mind how you go. We shall be using the servants’ stairs.”
Humming, he took up the remaining bags and followed, with a thump and a bump. And then Sir Walter began to sing.
“Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown and put on hose of leather,
The ragged, ragged, rags about our door;
She’s gone with the raggle-taggle gypsies, O!”
~ ~ ~
Meanwhile, Anne was in a state of agitation: she sat; she stood; she wandered about Lady Russell’s front parlour. At last she tired of reading the titles embossed on the spines of books. Why did her godmother not come?
The door opened to admit Longwell. Ellen followed close behind with the tea trolley. This was encouraging.
Longwell made a slight bow. “Her ladyship has been detained, ma’am,” he announced and then waited as Ellen positioned the tea things on a low table. Longwell then arranged his features into something resembling a smile and gestured to a chair. “Here is your usual seat by the fire, ma’am.”
Anne did not know what to make of this. Longwell was never friendly! She moved to the chair and sat down. Longwell poured the tea and handed the cup and saucer.
“I trust nothing is amiss,” Anne said. What was she thinking? One never conversed with Longwell!
“No more than one could expect under the circumstances,” he replied. He gave a sidelong glance at the front windows and held out a plate of shortbread for her inspection. “Biscuit
?” he enquired, smiling again.
What was wrong with him? Anne took a piece of the shortbread; her gaze never left his face. It seemed to her that Longwell was looking rather harassed.
A loud bump sounded above stairs. Longwell gave a start and so did Anne. “What on earth?” she cried.
Longwell replaced the plate on the trolley. “Her ladyship has lately taken a fancy to moving furniture about,” he said, backing toward the door. “If you will permit, I shall ascertain the extent of the, er, damage.”
Anne put up her chin. “You will tell my godmother that I must see her at once.”
But if Longwell heard this command, he gave no sign. He went out, leaving Anne to stare at the closed door. More scuffling noises followed. Finally Anne had had enough. She rose to her feet and went out to the entrance hall. It was deserted.
Perplexed, Anne returned to the parlour. She took another turn about the room, but this time she looked about with wide-awake eyes. On Lady Russell’s writing desk lay a pile of letters. Anne gave a start, for one had Elizabeth’s name! She quickly pushed this letter aside. Beneath it was a letter to Mrs. Charles Musgrove—Mary! There were several to Lady Russell’s friends in Bath and one to a man Anne recognized as Lady Russell’s solicitor.
What did this mean? What did this mean? Anne continued her search. The letter on the very bottom was addressed to Mrs. Captain Frederick Wentworth.
Anne snatched it up. She gave an anxious look to the door—it would never do for Lady Russell to come in just now! —and went hunting in the drawer for a paper knife. If she could slide it under the seal, she might be able to unfold the sheet without detection.
Outside a carriage came rumbling up and stopped in front of the house. Someone came running down the stairs; a door was slammed. Shaken, Anne pushed the drawer closed and replaced the letter—just as Longwell came in. He went directly to the windows and began to let down the net blinds.
“The sun in Bath is quite destructive,” he remarked. “It is our custom to be at the Lodge during this time of year.” He fussed a bit with the arrangement of the folds before turning to face Anne. “Shall I bring a candle, ma’am?”
“I would like you to bring my godmother,” Anne cried. “Time is of the essence, Longwell. Every moment we waste is precious!”
An odd expression crossed his face. “So it is,” he said. “Permit me to ascertain.”
On his way to the door, Longwell walked past the desk. He halted, shot a quick glance at Anne, gathered the stack of letters, and went out. The door closed behind him.
Anne gave a cry of vexation. What was Longwell hiding? For surely he was hiding something! Her gaze strayed to the net blinds—there was something going on here. She pushed aside a blind and looked out. A job carriage waited in the street, and there was Longwell, handing cases to the driver!
She was about to cry out when Longwell climbed inside and shut the door. The carriage went rumbling away.
Anne bolted from the parlour and fought with the locks on the front door. She ran out onto the street; the carriage was nowhere to be seen. Grim-faced, Anne returned to the parlour. She gave the bell cord a series of violent tugs. Ellen came in answer to the summons—with a piece of pie on a plate.
“I do not wish for pie,” Anne interrupted. “I wish to see my godmother. You will take me to her—now!
Ellen’s face paled. “Oh no, ma’am,” she said.
Anne set her teeth. “Very well, I shall find Lady Russell myself.”
“Oh no, ma’am!” Ellen went running after Anne, out of the parlour and up the stairs.
~ ~ ~
“I daresay you won’t understand.” Elizabeth’s voice shook with emotion. “No one could. It is too dreadful.”
Where was her courage? Where was her fighting spirit?
“I won’t if you do not tell me,” McGillvary said reasonably. “Now then, what has happened?”
Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. “My father is ruined, Mr. Gill. And so am I.” A tear slid down her cheek.
McGillvary dropped to one knee beside her chair. “The paper has printed a retraction—an apology. Here it is. Do you see?”
She would not be comforted. “I am ruined,” she said again. “There is nowhere I can turn for help.”
“Surely it is not that bad.”
“I can turn to God for help; I know that. But I am to blame for much of what has happened, so perhaps I daren’t apply to Him?”
McGillvary did not know what to make of this. “You are not without resources,” he said. “What about your sister?”
“Captain Wentworth has made it quite clear that he will not help Father. He says that there is no point because he will only get into debt again.”
McGillvary swallowed his amusement at this very apt observation.
“And I know he is right,” Elizabeth went on. “But without my father, I am prey to—” She stopped.
“You are prey to—?” he promoted. “Prey to what?”
“I am prey to fears on every hand.”
His eyes searched her face. “But that is not what you meant to say, is it?” he said softly.
Her eyes flew to his, confirming his suspicion. He took hold of her hands and turned them palm-up. “What of these bruises?”
“I-I tried to open the window. It was stuck fast. I wished to open it, you see, because I …”
“Has your sister no servant?”
Elizabeth’s head came up. “Surely I am capable of opening a window! I did not wish to wait because I …” She swallowed several times. “It was so close in that room! You have no idea!”
She gave a queer little laugh. “And then I lost a shoe. Our butler brought it back. I can imagine what he thought of me!” Elizabeth covered her face with her hands. “But in the end,” she cried, “I couldn’t do it.”
McGillvary looked sharply at her, struck by an odd note in her voice. “What couldn’t you do?”
She twisted in her chair, away from him, and groped for her reticule. Her fingers plucked at the knot. “I went in for headache powder,” she said. “Truly, that is what I meant to buy! But when the man asked what I had come for I told him this, instead.”
She was working to remove something from her reticule, but he could not see what it was.
“After calling at the Pump Room, I was waiting,” she explained, “but it was not yet two o’clock. And then he came and spoke to me. He said—oh, horrible things!”
Her breathing became laboured. “I escaped into the Abbey. And then I went out and I bought this.” She raised her eyes to his. “I had to come to say good-bye first. And I cannot.”
Elizabeth pushed a slender box into his hand. “Here,” she said. Take it away. Please!”
McGillvary turned the box over. Inscribed on the lid were the words RAT BANE.
Arsenic?
He gripped her shoulders. “You’ve not taken this!” he fairly shouted, shaking her. “Tell me you’ve not taken this.”
She would not look at him. “I am too much a coward,” she whispered.
“Thank God!” McGillvary moved to take her into his arms, but she pulled away.
“My father,” she continued, “received a letter this morning. Or rather, I did. That is to say, it was addressed to him, but it came to me. Mr. Lonk brought it to my sister’s.”
“The devil he did!”
“And I saw—” She paused to pull the letter from her reticule. “For the first time I saw the extent of his debts. He owes a frightening amount of money.” She ventured to look at him. “But I imagine you know that.”
McGillvary could think of no suitable reply. “I do,” he said.
“When I saw that ghastly amount,” she said, “I knew that we were ruined.”
McGillvary held out his hand for the letter. Lonk would regret the day he allowed this to come to her hand! “Your father’s debts are considerable,” he said, “but his situation is not hopeless.”
“But it is,” she said with equal earne
stness. “And the worst of it is, that it is my fault!”
McGillvary was taken aback. “Your fault?”
“If you only knew how I encouraged him. I led him to make purchases that I knew were too extravagant. He said we could afford them, and I believed him. But in my heart I knew it wasn’t so.” She paused. “Until I opened that letter I had no idea he owed so much. It is far beyond his ability to repay. He will go to prison, and I shall be left destitute.”
McGillvary fingered the letter, feeling every bit like Judas. “The intent of this letter,” he said, “was to bring your father to exercise every means in his power to repay what he owes.”
She seemed calmer now, so he decided to explain. “There is, I believe, land adjacent to your estate. He must exert himself to sell this land.”
“That is something he will never do. He has his pride.”
“Then his pride will choke him.”
Elizabeth gave a brittle laugh and reached for the letter. “Poor Father. He used to burn these when they came.”
“That was extremely foolhardy.”
“Yes, and do you remember? I came to speak to someone at the counting house. That was the day I met you.” A smile trembled on her lips. “You spilled ink on your coat, as I recall.”
“Yes,” he said. “And I went on to make the worst mistake of my life.”
He waited quietly, looking into her eyes. Now she would enquire about the mistake, and he would confess his identity.
“I wonder,” said Elizabeth, “if I might do that again?’
McGillvary was caught off guard. “Spill ink?”
“No. Speak to someone about paying what we owe.”
This was wholly unexpected. “Elizabeth,” he said, “I consider myself to be a patient man, but I do not like to repeat myself. Hear this: There is no we. You are not responsible, legally or morally, for your father’s debts.”
She brushed this aside. “I have a few jewels left. My father replaced many of our stones with paste, but not everything.”
“My dear, I will not take your jewellery as payment.”
“You might as well. The pieces that are left I never wear. My grandmother’s diamonds, for instance, are in very ugly settings—quite hideous. I also have Mother’s pearls.” Her voice became wistful. “I don’t wear those either.”