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

by Laura Hile

  “Elizabeth—” he said warningly.

  She faced him with something like her old spirit. “Should I see Mr. Lonk then? Is he the highest authority in the counting house?”

  McGillvary gave a hollow laugh. “The highest authority? Surely not. That would be McGillvary.”

  There, he had said it. He waited for her reaction.

  The hunted look returned to her eyes. “McGillvary. Yes, how stupid of me. He signed this.”

  She pushed the letter toward him and pointed. “That is his signature, is it not? You of all people would know.”

  McGillvary felt the skin on his neck prickle. He had countersigned this cursed letter! And he hadn’t even known it.

  “Is there anyone else I can see?”

  McGillvary’s mouth was suddenly dry. Here was the answer to everything.

  “No,” he heard himself say. “You will need to speak to McGillvary yourself. Tomorrow.”

  15 The Passage To Remorse

  Elizabeth descended from the job carriage, shielding her eyes against the glare of the sun. A boy had let down the steps for her, but she did not see his outstretched hand. She did not see him shrug and hold the door, either. The door was slammed shut, and the vehicle drove off.

  She watched it disappear around the corner. Patrick Gill had paid the fare when he put her into it, which was a very good thing for her purse. He had also instructed the driver to drop her at the corner. It was like him to attend to such details. This meant nothing, of course. Patrick Gill was thoughtful, that was all.

  She made her way to St. Peter Square, mindful to keep her chin up and her eyes fixed ahead. She must remain strong! Patrick had advised her not to allow fears to prey upon her mind, and she had every intention of following his advice.

  Did he understand the nature of her fears? She was certainly troubled about the debt and Sir Henry. But now that she was parted from Patrick, Elizabeth was painfully aware that more than anything she feared losing his friendship.

  And it was friendship—only that.

  Kisses are not promises, nor are gifts guarantees.

  Patrick had given both a gift and a kiss, but there was nothing binding in them. Nothing.

  She must be realistic. There was no room in her heart for fantasies—not now or ever! The simple truth was this: Despite his many kindnesses, Patrick Gill did not care for her in any extraordinary way. Though he paid the fare today, he had not come with her in the carriage. Nor had he expressed interest in meeting her family or in speaking to her father. None of his actions had been lover-like.

  Elizabeth felt her throat tighten. Not for anything would she give in to grief—not here. She was done with tears, at least for today.

  In future, she would be more careful. She would guard her heart against Patrick Gill. No longer would she look into his eyes while he spoke or allow herself to be captivated by his smile. Bit by bit she would learn to live without him. This was not impossible; for how many years had she survived on her own?

  “For too many years, unfortunately,” she whispered. Nothing good ever lasted. Patrick Gill, so precious to her now, would lose interest and fade away, just like all the others. In the end, all that would be left was William Elliot.

  Elizabeth was quiet as she entered the house. This time she deliberately kept her back to the mirror hanging in the entrance hall.

  The drawing room door opened, and Mary came out to the landing. “Why, hello,” she called down. “Are you coming up? I have had the most staggering good luck. Wait until you see!”

  Elizabeth bit back a groan. Happy chatter was the last thing she wished to hear! “May I see your purchases another time? I am worn to the bone, truly, and I …”

  Her words of refusal died when she saw their effect on her sister. Mary looked quite crestfallen. “Oh very well,” Elizabeth relented. “But only for a moment.”

  Mary beamed, and as Elizabeth gained the landing Mary took hold of her arm and pulled her into the drawing room. “You just sit there,” she said, “and I’ll ring for tea.”

  “Anything but tea, if you please,” Elizabeth said faintly.

  Mary led her to one of the sofas, talking all the way. “Well. Annette Wallis is a wonder! She took me to the most delightful shops. Not your precious Pultney Street boutiques, but others.” Mary spread her hands. “I don’t know how she came to be so clever. I suppose an army officer’s wife must learn frugality. At any rate, dear Annette knows how to make the most of a pound, bless her.”

  Elizabeth kept her opinion of ‘dear Annette’ to herself.

  “Look at this,” Mary gushed, and held up a lawn under dress. “Compare the workmanship with anything made by your top-lofty London seamstresses. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  To please Mary, Elizabeth fingered the hem. Her brows rose. Mary was right; the hemstitching was very fine. Caps, handkerchiefs, and silk stockings—one by one each of Mary’s purchases was poured into Elizabeth’s lap. Mary’s eyes shone with pleasure at Elizabeth’s admiration.

  “I’ve saved the best for last,” Mary announced, pulling at the ribbon on the largest bandbox. “It’s a dress, and at such a price! I simply could not pass it by.”

  It was obvious that Mary had passed nothing by, but Elizabeth did not voice this thought.

  “The colour suits me down to the ground, or so Annette says.”

  Elizabeth knew all about Mary’s taste in clothing, so she prepared herself for the worst. Still, she was mindful to keep a pleasant look on her face as the cover came off. Mary parted the layers of tissue and drew out a gown of rose pink. The overskirt was chiffon, embroidered with tiny shimmering flowers of muted green.

  Astonished, Elizabeth reached to feel the fabric. “This must have been very dear.”

  “Not at all.” Mary held the gown aloft; the skirt floated into soft folds. “It was made for last season, because the price was greatly reduced.” Elizabeth noticed that the dress had long sleeves. Mary correctly guessed her thought and added, “I daresay the sleeves can be changed.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I wouldn’t attempt it,” she said. “These are beautifully done. It is too easy to bungle the set of a sleeve, and then where will you be? I must say, the colour is perfect for you. Much better than the lavender you wore yesterday.”

  Mary’s cheeks grew as rosy as the gown, but whether this was from pleasure or annoyance Elizabeth could not tell. “It wants a brooch,” Elizabeth added, “just there to draw the eye.”

  Mary looked suddenly suspicious. “Why would I wish to do that?”

  “You are a bit pigeon-breasted, dear. A brooch will look very well.”

  “I am not pigeon-breasted,” Mary cried, firing up. “You would say something cutting! You always do.”

  Elizabeth let out a long breath. How like her sister to take everything the wrong way! “It was not meant as a criticism,” she said. “One should face one’s deficiencies honestly. For in that way a lady is able to compensate for what is lacking, ahead of time, before anyone notices what is amiss. No woman has a perfect figure,” she added.

  “Except, of course, yourself.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. There was some justice in this observation. She shrugged. “You can see all the good it has done me.”

  Mary’s expression grew mulish, and Elizabeth rose to her feet. “I believe I’ll go upstairs now. I have had a beastly morning, and my head aches dreadfully. What I need is a nap. Be an angel and tell Anne that I’ll be taking dinner in my room tonight.”

  “Tell her yourself!” Mary cradled the dress in her arms. “Pigeon-breasted indeed.”

  Elizabeth sighed again. Why must Mary make things so difficult? As she moved to open the door, she caught sight of her sister’s unhappy face. Perhaps it would be best to make amends?

  “I am sorry that I offended you, Mary,” she said, more stiffly than she meant. “Never mind what I said about the brooch. The dress is beautiful, and it suits you perfectly.” She paused before adding, “I hope your husband wo
n’t be angry about the money you spent.”

  “I do not care what Charles thinks,” Mary cried. “We’re not paupers, you know.”

  Paupers. The word was like a slap.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said quietly, “I know.” She used to say the very same thing and now, because of her excesses, it was quite true.

  “For your information,” Mary went on, “I haven’t got a brooch to match this gown. I am to wear it to Captain Wentworth’s dinner. Doubtless the entire company will be overcome by my deficiencies.”

  The spite in Mary’s words stung. “Oh surely not,” Elizabeth flung back. “I’ve asked Anne to use that hideous silver epergne. No one will be able to see you.”

  “Oh!” Mary shrieked. She dropped the gown; her fingers curled into fists. “How dare you! Not see me, indeed!”

  “It is not meant to hide you, silly,” Elizabeth amended. “We’ll be having the ugliest dinner guests in all of Bath. From what I’ve seen, the men of the navy are disgusting, both in looks and manners! Furthermore, Anne tells me that we shall be the only ladies at table, which means they will stare at us like schoolboys! I doubt they will notice deficiencies in any of us!”

  “You mean me,” Mary cried. “My deficiencies!”

  “All I ever said was that the dress looks very well on you. Never mind about the brooch. I ought to have kept my mouth shut.”

  “A truer word,” said a masculine voice, “was never spoken.”

  Elizabeth whirled to see Captain Wentworth standing in the doorway. His eyes held an unpleasant glint.

  “Oh blast,” muttered Elizabeth. “What are you doing here?”

  His lip curled. “Displaying my ugliness and ill-manners to the entire household, apparently,” he said. “Where, if you please, is Anne?”

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks begin to burn. “I have no idea,” she said. “She was here when I left. Charles had the gig out; perhaps he took her to call on someone.”

  “No,” he countered, looking even angrier. “Charles did not take Anne anywhere. He has been with me. According to Yee, she left in a sedan chair.” His gaze swept to Mary. “When did you last see Anne?”

  Mary began to stammer. “B-bless me, I-I don’t know. I’ve been unwell, very unwell. You cannot expect me to remember who goes here or there.”

  But Captain Wentworth did expect Mary to remember, and he told her to kindly exert herself. “Anne was h-here this morning,” Mary said, “when Lady Russell took us to the P-Pump Room, but that was the last I saw of her.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I have no time to drive all the way to Rivers Street,” he growled. “As a matter of fact, I did not have time to come here, but I wanted Anne’s opinion on something. Tell her I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

  “Anne’s opinion,” said Mary, as soon as he was gone. “I like that. Why did he not ask for mine?”

  ~ ~ ~

  By nightfall, Lady Russell had had enough. The Mail had been bowling along at a rate that shattered her nerves. To make matters worse, it was stuffed with passengers—six in a space not large enough for four! To her left sat a man in a scarlet frock coat, none too clean, whose grizzled face wore a permanent scowl. Lady Russell sat as far away from him as possible. To her right was her man Longwell.

  As always, Longwell was neat and composed, unruffled by the exigencies of travel. This was more than Lady Russell could say for herself or Sir Walter, who sat in the opposite corner. At present he was asleep. She did not see how this could be possible, for whenever the coach gave a jerk, his head bumped against the window frame. To Lady Russell, who had not slept a wink, this seemed grossly unfair.

  The coach ran onto cobbled pavement, and Lady Russell set her teeth to keep them from rattling. Because of the stifling air, the windows were cracked open and dust was everywhere. Her travelling gown was filthy, and as for her hair—!

  The shout of the coachman, warning the roof-passengers to keep their heads down, brought Lady Russell out of her stupor. Sure enough, the coach swept under the arch of an inn. The blowing of the horn came next. Outside were shouts—the hostlers coming to change the horses, no doubt.

  “Longwell,” she murmured, “this is intolerable.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  She peered out of the window. “Might we disembark and proceed to Mayfair on our own? I cannot appear in all this dirt at any civilized place.”

  “I shall ascertain after we alight, milady,” Longwell replied. “However, I fear it might not be possible to remove your trunks until we reach our destination.”

  He drew a paper from his pocket and consulted it. “We are due to reach London late tomorrow morning. Perhaps it would be best to persevere?”

  Lady Russell closed her eyes. What had possessed her to travel in this wretched manner? Her gaze travelled to the sleeping Sir Walter. The test of true friendship was heavy indeed.

  The coach came to a halt, and the passengers stirred. Twenty minutes was all they were allowed. The man in the scarlet coat was first on his feet. He yanked the door open and pushed his way out. The young farmwoman’s fretful child began to cry.

  Lady Russell sighed heavily. “Perhaps you are right, Longwell,” she said wearily. “You know best, as always.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Anne bore her part at dinner with weary patience. Frederick and Charles had arrived just in time to change, flush with victory over the purchase of a pair of horses. It seemed like they could talk of little else. Mary’s shopping expedition had likewise been a success, and she was in very good spirits. Anne, on the other hand, was feeling rather depressed. For once she was sorry that Elizabeth had taken dinner in her room, for at least she had the goodness to be grieved over their father’s disappearance. It seemed Frederick cared only about the new carriage and horses. After the others retired for the night, she confronted him.

  “Anne,” he replied, “you father is responsible for himself. You are his child, not his keeper.”

  “You do not know my father.”

  He gave her a look. “What is it, exactly, that you think we ought to do? Check every back alley and mews in Bath?”

  “If necessary, yes.”

  “Do you honestly believe your father is shivering on a street corner? Be reasonable, darling.”

  Anne almost stamped her foot. “I am being reasonable. Father has disappeared and so has Lady Russell. And you care nothing about it.”

  A light came into his eyes. “Oho! Perhaps they have followed our example and made for the border?”

  “Frederick! Be serious. Father would never consider such a thing.”

  Captain Wentworth spread his hands. “Perhaps he was overmastered by passion?” he suggested. “Or, more likely, by the size of her bank balance?”

  “This is no joke!” Anne cried. “If you had not spent all day at that wretched horse auction, I would not have had to deal with this alone! Lady Russell left behind a stack of letters, one for each of us. If Longwell hadn’t come in when he did, I might have learned something.”

  “So you think her disappearance has something to do with your father’s?”

  “What else am I to think? I cannot shake the notion that Father is in trouble, and that I ought to help him.”

  “And since when have you—or anyone else—been able to help him? He has never shown a particle of interest in your advice.”

  “I know,” she said, twisting her fingers. “And yet, I …”

  Captain Wentworth took Anne’s hands in his. “My sweet, your father is a resourceful fellow. The explanation is probably quite simple. Ten to one he has come to his senses, realized that the rates at The Citadel are both exorbitant and unnecessary, and has taken new lodgings.”

  “Without telling anyone?”

  Captain Wentworth raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what he did the last time?”

  Anne was not happy with this answer. “I think he is fleeing from the scandal Elizabeth has created.”

  “Well now, I don’t know. It s
eems to me that he was caught in his own trap there.”

  Anne’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

  “What’s the expression? Too clever by half? Anne, the man announced Elizabeth’s engagement to a fellow she loathes. Smacks of trying to force her hand, that does.”

  “Father would never resort to such—such farcical tactics,” she cried.

  “It is rather like something out of a melodrama,” he agreed. “What interests me is today’s retraction. I wonder how he managed to pull that off. It probably saved your sister’s sorry stern.”

  “Elizabeth,” cried Anne, “is not missing. She does not need our help. Father does. If only I’d been able to read that letter!”

  “Then let us hope it is posted soon. Unless you wish to keep watch on the front step of Lady Russell’s house, we shall have to wait.”

  Anne’s head came up. “Could we?”

  “Anne!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Yee came in response to Elizabeth’s summons and later, when he cleared her dinner tray, he brought with him the grey velvet bag containing her jewels. With trembling fingers she unfastened its silken cords and poured the contents onto her lap. She gave a cry of triumph for here, wrapped in felt, were her mother’s pearls and the Stevenson diamonds. The pearl earrings were also here, along with her mother’s amethyst set and the turquoises.

  As Elizabeth sorted, her spirits rose, for there were quite a few pieces, including the paste emeralds. She had taken the bag with her to Chalfort House, which was a very good thing. If it had been left behind at Camden Place, she would never have seen these jewels again.

  But how much were they worth? Some were obviously in need of cleaning, but Elizabeth did not wish to involve Elise. She filled a basin with water and used her toothbrush, a generous amount of tooth powder, and a little soap. The amethysts cleaned up especially well; their rich purple sparkled in the candlelight. She had always disliked this set, and yet tomorrow it would be gone. Sentimentality, she reminded herself, was both foolish and unwise. There was no use crying over what could not be helped.