by Laura Hile
Elizabeth set the amethysts aside and began to work on her mother’s pins. These were more difficult—and painful! —to clean. There were several she remembered very well, in particular a gold-edged ivory cameo which her mother had worn often in the months before her death. Elizabeth remembered this vividly; her mother’s skin had been as pale as the cameo. Her poor mother! What she had suffered! And now, all these years later, what would she think of her daughter selling her precious pin to pay her husband’s debt?
“My debt,” Elizabeth reminded herself. This time she would not shirk responsibility.
Once the dust was cleared away, the cameo’s face shone. Elizabeth buffed the gold setting with a towel. She had never realized how fine the setting was or how beautiful the Grecian woman’s face. How had her mother come by this piece?
Then she remembered what Mary said about needing a brooch. Objections rose at once: Elizabeth ought to keep this for herself; Mary had been too young to remember; it would have no value in her eyes.
And yet the idea would not go. At last Elizabeth gave up the struggle. She hunted in a drawer for writing materials and cleared a dry area on the dressing table.
Dear Mary,
Perhaps you will not remember this brooch of Mother’s, but it is just the thing for your new rose gown. I know she would be pleased for you to have it as your very own.
Elizabeth signed her name and pushed back the chair. In the morning she would slip into Mary’s room and place the pin on her dressing table. Her sister might not appreciate its value, but neither would Admiral McGillvary. Now it would never be his.
Admiral McGillvary. The memory of his laughing face, half concealed by shadows on that terrace at Chalfort House, took on a ghoulish aspect. How she would face him tomorrow she did not know.
~ ~ ~
The following morning found London shrouded with fog, which suited Lady Russell perfectly. “I declare, I could sleep for an age,” she said aloud, and she pressed a warm, damp cloth to her face. Of course she would not be able to sleep, but it was a lovely thought.
For one thing, the room was in motion, evidence of how the Mail had preyed upon her mind and body. Although the walls seemed to sway, the chair, at least, was still. Lady Russell leaned her elbows on the dressing table. She and Sir Walter were solidly, if not comfortably, established in a small hotel on Piccadilly. The morning was now well-advanced, and a stream of vehicles clattered over the street outside. Lady Russell was past caring. What a blessed relief to be out of the coach!
The maid brought a pot of tea and Lady Russell helped herself, watching the steam curl invitingly from the cup. A spot of tea would set her to rights. She was mindful to keep her eyes turned away from the looking glass, for the strain of travel had surely taken a toll. Fortunately, Sir Walter was having his bath and would then take a nap.
How she wished she had brought her own maid! Her hair was filthy, although she had tried to repair the damage. She’d washed her face and arms too, but what to do about her stained and creased clothing she did not know. Soon she and Sir Walter would be on a ship bound for Venice, and everyone knew that clothing was never properly maintained at sea.
Despite the hardships, she had to admit that her plan was successful. If Longwell was able to book passage on a ship, all would be well. It would be best not to linger in London, for Sir Walter could not be trusted there. However, Lady Russell knew she could rely on Longwell. Always, he cared for her impeccably. Had he not arranged everything thus far?
Soon a soft knock sounded at the door, and in answer to her call Longwell entered. His face looked pale and drawn—a result of the journey, no doubt. Lady Russell felt a stab of pity. The poor man had been given no time to prepare! At the last moment she had bundled him into the Mail coach.
“The arrangements for your passage are complete, milady,” he said woodenly. “You depart tomorrow on the vessel Sarabande bound for Venice by way of Gibraltar, Corsica, and Malta. You are required to be on board by four o’clock in the evening, as the ship leaves at the turn of the tide.” Longwell shot a look from beneath bushy brows. “Passage for two,” he added gruffly, “double occupancy.”
“Thank you, Longwell.” She gave his arm an affectionate pat. “Most satisfactory. I can always depend upon you.” She lifted the teacup and took a tentative sip. “Venice, Longwell. Think of it! I own, I am surprised at that destination—so romantic! However we shan’t dwell on it as there is work to be done. Now then,” she continued, “there are several articles of business to which we must attend.” She began to search through her belongings on the dressing table. “Dear me, where did I put that list?”
Longwell slid a hand into his coat pocket and produced it.
Lady Russell beamed at him. “Why, thank you, Longwell. Where would I be without you? Now let me see. Ah, yes. Banking and the acquisition of the license. If it is not too much trouble, would you be so good as to enquire at the nearest parish church whether we might be—”
Longwell interrupted. “No, milady.”
Lady Russell blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“That I will not do, ma’am.” He squared his shoulders. “If I may, I would like to return to my room.”
“Why, certainly,” she said. “No doubt you are tired and would like to rest. We can attend to business in the afternoon.”
Longwell’s rigid stance became straighter still. “I misspoke, milady,” he said gruffly. “What I meant to say is that I would like to return to my room—in Bath.”
“But we need you here!”
“I do not scruple to leave you in your bridegroom’s care, milady,” he said roughly. “He will see to your needs admirably, I am sure.”
“He shall do no such thing, as well you know! Indeed, I do not know what I shall do without you.”
Longwell cleared his throat; his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Milady,” he said, “I’ve stood by you in good times and in bad, and never have I shirked my duty—even in this madcap adventure, which I must say is next door to breaking the law! But to take you to church to be wed to That Man?” He gave a rumbling cough. “That I will not do.”
“Why, Longwell!” Lady Russell was rendered speechless She had never heard her butler speak so many words at once. From all appearances, he was not finished!
Indeed, the torrent of words served to give Longwell courage. “You must do as you see fit, milady, and I’ll not criticize your judgment. But I won’t be a part of it—never!” He raised his chin. “Your late husband, God rest his soul, wasn’t worthy of you, and neither is this man! I won’t stand by and watch him lead you into ruin!”
With difficulty, Lady Russell found her voice. “He is my friend, Longwell,” she said quietly, “and my longtime neighbour, as well as the father of my goddaughters. The situation is desperate. Sir Walter needs me.”
“What about you?” demanded Longwell. “What do you need from him? Not money; he can’t give it. Not a title; you already have one.”
She thought for a moment, and then looked up at her butler’s stolid face. “Companionship, perhaps?” she offered.
“Harrumph! He won’t be needing your companionship. Not if he’s got his looking glass! He’s all the company he needs!”
Lady Russell gasped aloud—and almost laughed. What had come over Longwell? “Well then,” she said, “I suppose I must journey to Venice without you … alone.” From beneath her lashes she stole another look at him.
He did not soften. “I had planned to serve you all my days, milady,” he said grimly, “but no more. We have reached an impasse.”
Lady Russell became very still, feeling more than a little fearful at the direction this conversation was taking. “Longwell, my dear, what are you saying?”
“I’m giving notice, milady. I shall return to Bath with the next Mail to collect my belongings.”
“What? Brave the Mail again so soon?” she teased. “But come, I’ll not accept your resignation.” Her voice softened. “I need you, Longwe
ll. Now more than ever. Please don’t leave me.”
The imploring note in her voice was not without effect. Longwell’s rigid reserve shattered. “Were you expecting me to come on your honeymoon trip?” he shouted. “Serve you breakfast in bed each morning? Wait hand and foot upon your useless fop of a husband, who is no better than a dandified looby? Stand by while he paws at and takes liberties with your person? No, I thank you!”
“Longwell, please!” Lady Russell laid a desperate hand on his sleeve. “You are upset and fatigued. Believe me, I understand. Can we not discuss this later? I never expected you to come to Venice with us, but while we are in London, I—”
He jerked his arms away and folded them defiantly across his chest. “There is nothing to discuss, milady. I won’t retrieve your marriage license, and I won’t escort you to church. Were you wishful for me to give you away at the altar? Have you no regard for my sincerest feelings?”
With that, Longwell turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind.
Lady Russell discovered that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Her butler, she realized, had been weeping as well.
“Oh, Longwell,” she whispered.
Soon after he departed another knock sounded. Lady Russell’s heart nearly flew from her chest. Hastily she dried her tears. “Come in, dear Longwell,” she cried.
It was not her butler but Sir Walter who came sauntering in. He wore a magnificent dressing gown of purple and gold. On his feet were purple velvet slippers. His legs, she noticed, were bare. Quickly she brought her hands to cover her mouth—she must conceal what she was thinking!
“Good day, my dear Amanda,” he purred. “My, what an attractive dressing gown.”
“Do you mean mine?” she enquired. “Or yours?” For the one she was wearing was very old indeed. She moved away from the lamp, all too aware of the ugly shadows it cast.
It did not appear that Sir Walter heard her remark, for he was smiling at her in a singular way. “Then again,” he said, continuing his sentence, “by this time tomorrow I shall be acquainted with all of your dressing gowns, shall I not?”
He put a hand on his hip and made a leg.
“Sir Walter,” cried Lady Russell. “You forget yourself, sir!”
“Only until tomorrow,” he said with a wink.
Lady Russell was struck speechless. Apparently these were the man’s bedroom manners. She much preferred his drawing room manners!
He took a suggestive step forward. “I have been consoling myself, my dear, with the recollection that there are benefits to the married state,” he said. “Very nice benefits.” His cheek dimpled. “Surely you remember.”
He strolled more fully into the room and took a seat on the bed, crossing one bare leg over the other. “My one regret is that we must spend our wedding night aboard ship.” He gave a great sigh. “Such a setting, while romantic, is so very cramped and uncomfortable.”
“Not to mention un-private!” cried Lady Russell.
“Ah, but never you fear,” he said, twinkling. “We shall manage.”
Lady Russell pulled her dressing gown more firmly about her person and tightened the knot. “Perhaps,” she said faintly, “such intimacies ought to be postponed.”
“But why?” he said. “By the bye, I’ve brought you a gift.” Sir Walter slid a hand into a pocket and brought out a bottle. “In anticipation of our wedding night, I would like to present you with this.” It was a bottle of Gowland’s lotion.
“It is not a proper wedding present, but it is a useful one.” Sir Walter’s smile disappeared. “Apply this to the face twice daily,” he instructed, “and three times while we are at sea. The salt air is treacherous to the complexion! By the time we reach Italy’s sylvan shores, your crow’s feet will have faded away to nothing.”
“Crow’s feet?”
“How do you ladies call them? Expression lines? Smile creases? They’re facial wrinkles, at any rate, and they are most unsightly.”
Lady Russell’s fingers closed around the bottle. She did not trust herself to speak.
Sir Walter continued to talk. “The face is the first to show the effects of age—it grows lank and wrinkled. The neck succumbs next and then the breast and arms. You might not realize this, but I have read extensively on this subject,” he explained. “It is known as the Deficiency of the Fluids. It appears first in the highest parts. But the lowest parts,” he said more brightly, “that is to say, those below the waist, continue as plump and fresh as ever. Indeed, in those areas it is quite impossible to tell a young woman from an old one!”
Lady Russell tightened her grip on the bottle. It was a very good thing that Sir Walter was out of reach!
At any cost she must change the subject. “Sir Walter,” she said, “I have distressing news. Longwell has given notice.”
Sir Walter’s brows went up. “Has he indeed? How very fortunate. It saves us the trouble of dismissing him.”[1]
16 The Very Riches of Thyself
Patrick McGillvary stood before the tall Palladian windows in the yellow drawing room, watching a kestrel glide over the lawn. Beyond the trees, the buildings of Bath shone golden in the morning sun.
It was a pleasant vista, but McGillvary did not linger. His real interest was with the windows themselves—were they perfectly clean? The ormolu-mounted clock on the mantelpiece struck nine. He had two hours to prepare for her arrival. Every detail had been meticulously planned, but even the best-laid plans could go awry.
His mother’s round table, clothed in crisp, snowy linen, stood ready for their meal. Everything was of the very best; Lewis had assured him of that. Nothing second-rate would do, for Elizabeth would know if he were shirking! The silver, placed in flawless alignment, had been polished to perfection; the blue and white luncheon plates shone, as did the crystal glasses. It pleased McGillvary to use this china today. His late wife had favored a pink flowered set, which he thought insipid.
The door opened and Mrs. Lewis came in with a floral arrangement and a crystal bowl of berries. “White and purple iris, sir, and pink rosebuds,” she said, placing the arrangement at the centre of the table. “And a lovely bowl of strawberries to complement the whole.” Her fingers lingered fondly on the bowl. “Your mother’s, these were,” she added. “Reminds me of the old days.”
“Indeed it does,” he agreed. His father’s second wife, an indolent Italian, had not been fond of hosting luncheons. Constanza McGillvary now lived in London with Ronan. McGillvary never gave them a thought if he could help it.
“By the bye,” he said, returning his attention to Lewis, “have you seen Starkweather?”
“That I have not, sir.”
McGillvary thanked her and left the room, intent on finding his secretary. There was a foul-up with the warrant—he would have Lonk’s hide for that! —and Sir Walter Elliot had given him the slip. But the baronet’s departure did not matter. One way or another the man would be found. Together they would hammer out a cordial understanding regarding the debt.
Naturally, he was prepared to abrogate Sir Walter’s original contract in favor of another, more favorable agreement. This went against the grain, for his firm would forfeit the interest, but it could not be helped. One could hardly fleece one’s future father-in-law! Still, it was irksome that the man was missing. He had planned to show Elizabeth the new agreement today, already signed by her father.
He stopped a passing footman and enquired about Starkweather’s whereabouts. The man paled—and almost saluted—before stammering an evasive reply. McGillvary regarded him steadily, then thanked him and moved on.
His staff was on edge today, and he was the cause of it. He had not minced words when he’d issued orders about the house. Perfect meant perfect by navy standards; his servants had not lived a year with him as master for nothing. He meant business—and they knew it.
At last he came into his library. This was where Elizabeth would be brought. It was a comfortable room, at variance with the pomp of the
entrance hall just outside. McGillvary had always liked this room. He spent some time fussing over the position of the chairs. Elizabeth would sit there. And he, when he gave her the news, would stand just there. Or should he take up a position behind the desk?
Experience had taught him that small details like these were important. On his desk lay Sir Walter Elliot’s papers, ready for perusal. He would discuss the situation in a businesslike way, and once that was taken care of, they would move on to personal matters.
He smiled, picturing her relief. They would then lunch together and later take a tour of the house—she would like that. The gallery, which occupied the entire west end, was reputed to be one of the finest in that part of the country. He would show her the portraits, and thus she would be introduced to the McGillvary family line.
It was a good plan. It had to be. There was no time to think of another.
~ ~ ~
Charles stifled a yawn and turned another page. It was thoughtful of Wentworth to leave the morning newspaper for him. He was trying to appreciate this favor, but it was heavy going. He had already read through the political pages—such stuff, it made his head ache! As for the rest, he could not have cared less. The political cartoons made no sense, and he didn’t give a hang about the goings-on in London.
Charles turned another page. The society news was here, but he had no reason to read any of it. Mary would, and later he would hear all about it—endlessly.
Presently the door opened and Yee came in with the silver coffee pot. The last thing Charles wished for was more coffee, but he made no objection as Yee filled his cup.
“Has Captain Wentworth come back?” Charles said, watching the dark, steaming coffee fill his cup.
“I believe not, sir. Would you care for another muffin?”
Charles tried to ignore the quizzing gleam in the old butler’s eyes. “I would,” he admitted, “but my waistcoat wouldn’t.” Since coming to Bath it was becoming more difficult to fasten the buttons!
Yee withdrew, and Charles lifted the coffee cup to his lips. What he wouldn’t give for an afternoon with his cousins, trading stories in the horse barn at Uppercross or in his aunt’s cramped parlour at Wynthrop. Charles knew their stories by heart, but any company would be better than none.