The Deception at Lyme Read online

  “I think it takes more than a uniform,” Georgiana said. “Though … Lieutenant St. Clair did look terribly handsome the other night, did he not?”

  “He did indeed—second only to your brother, of course. If Darcy had first appeared to me with a gold epaulette, I might have been utterly lost.”

  The climb up Broad Street toward their lodgings seemed steeper following their exertions in the sea. Elizabeth and Georgiana paused to catch their breaths before continuing, and found themselves in front of a fossil shop that they had passed numerous times since their arrival in Lyme but had never entered.

  “Sir Laurence says that Lyme is becoming as famous for its fossils as for its seabathing,” Georgiana said.

  “Indeed?” In the reflection of the shop window, Elizabeth regarded her with an arch look. “What else does Sir Laurence say?”

  “That the region’s landslips uncover extraordinary specimens that attract collectors. He owns several himself.”

  “Sir Laurence is a fossil collector?”

  “Not specifically—he collects all manner of things. He has a great interest in history, and art, and antiquities. He admires Lord Elgin tremendously for having rescued the Parthenon marbles.”

  Elizabeth read the esteem in Georgiana’s eyes and doubted they glowed for Lord Elgin. “Does Sir Laurence admire anybody else?” she asked softly.

  Georgiana turned away from the shop window to look directly at Elizabeth. “He says he would like to show me his collection one day.”

  “And would you like to see it?”

  She smiled.

  Elizabeth was tempted to ask whether a title enhanced a gentleman’s appearance to the same extent as did an officer’s uniform, but forbore, not wanting to chance Georgiana’s misconstruing her gentle teasing. Whatever feelings about a certain baronet might be developing in Georgiana’s heart, Elizabeth left it to her sister-in-law to confide them to her when and if she chose.

  Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the emergence of one of the shop’s customers, a spectacled man in his middle thirties whose clothing boasted an extraordinary number of pockets. A man whose countenance lit with delight upon recognizing Elizabeth.

  “Why, Mrs. Darcy!”

  “Professor Randolph!” Elizabeth’s pleasure matched that of her friend; she and Darcy had not seen Julian Randolph in two years. They spent more time at Pemberley than in London, and even when they were in the city, the professor’s work as resident archaeologist of the British Museum often took him away from it.

  “And Miss Darcy,” he continued. “Imagine, meeting you here in Lyme. This is the very best of surprises.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Elizabeth said, “though I cannot say I would be altogether surprised to meet you anywhere.”

  A specialty in New World artifacts—Professor Randolph was American by birth—had earned him the attention of the museum, but a scientific passion that comprehended artifacts of all cultures and eras had taken him around the world. His eclectic knowledge had proved critical in assisting Elizabeth and Darcy in two adventures early in their marriage.

  “I am here at the invitation of the Philpot sisters—have you met them?”

  “I have not had the pleasure.”

  “Lovely ladies, all three—prodigious fossil-hunters. Their collection is considered one of the best, and includes several discoveries that are the first of their kind. Lord Chatfield introduced me to Miss Elizabeth Philpot at one of his dinner parties. We had a most enjoyable conversation about paleontology and archaeology—how they are really quite similar, both sciences in which their practitioners sift through earth searching for evidence of those—be they creatures or men—who lived before us.” He paused. “But you—how are you and Mr. Darcy? And your little one? I regret that I have not yet had an opportunity to meet her.”

  “We are all well, thank you. Lily-Anne is here in Lyme with us. Perhaps you would like to come to dinner one evening?”

  “I should enjoy that above all things. I am engaged this evening—the Philpots have invited some promising local young people for a scientific salon—but I am otherwise at your disposal.”

  “Tomorrow evening, then, at six?” Lyme, she had found, did not keep London hours.

  “I look forward to it already.”

  Fourteen

  “You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always laboring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own.”

  —Anne Elliot to Captain Harville, Persuasion

  Darcy’s pace slowed as he reached the end of the Walk and neared the harborside pub. He was yet uncertain of what he hoped to learn from this meeting with Lieutenant St. Clair, a meeting arranged at Darcy’s initiative. He was therefore even more uncertain how to direct their conversation. It is difficult, after all, to set a course without knowing one’s destination. And Lieutenant St. Clair struck Darcy as a shrewd enough sea officer to detect any sign of foundering.

  What Darcy did know, was that since reading Gerard’s diary, he remained troubled by the unfinished business his cousin had left behind. What had happened to the idols Gerard found? Had St. Clair ever determined their ownership? Had he even attempted to?

  And now, years later, did it matter?

  The tavern sat in a narrow street in Cobb Hamlet. Darcy passed the Harvilles’ cottage and continued a few more doors to the Sheet Anchor. Though the meeting had been Darcy’s suggestion, the venue had been St. Clair’s.

  Sailors and dockmen crowded its tables, some eating dinner; fish dominated the menu, from the look of their plates. Others merely enjoyed the local brew; a few of them appeared to have been enjoying it all day. Peace was not an altogether good thing for men susceptible to idleness.

  Darcy spied St. Clair in the back of the tavern, where the lieutenant sat with another gentleman at a table abutting one wall. The two were engaged in close conversation, necessitated by the volume of the ballad being sung two tables away by half a dozen seamen deep in their cups. Fortunately (for Darcy, if not the song’s hero), the betrayed cabin boy was cast overboard and the Golden Vanity sailed off upon the lowland sea just as Darcy reached St. Clair.

  “Mr. Darcy! I did not hear you approach.” He gestured toward his companion, a weathered, gouty man who could have been any age from forty to sixty. He had a round face, a rounder gut, and a nose that pointed toward intemperance, but his well-made clothes indicated that he had not abandoned all consciousness of his appearance. “Allow me to introduce Captain Tourner, under whom your cousin and I served aboard the Magna Carta.” St. Clair turned to the captain. “Mr. Darcy’s cousin was Lieutenant Fitzwilliam.”

  “Fitzwilliam?”

  “Gerard Fitzwilliam.”

  “Of course—the Dangereuse,” he said. “Do you think I could forget that day?” Darcy could not tell whether his disdain was directed toward St. Clair for his implied suggestion that Tourner had forgotten his fallen lieutenant, or toward the French ship that had been the cause of his death. The captain glanced up at Darcy. “Lieutenant Fitzwilliam was a promising young man. His death was a loss for the navy as well as his family.”

  “We appreciated the letter you wrote at the time,” Darcy replied. In truth, the earl had criticized Captain Tourner’s letter as being too brief, the minimum that duty required, with very few particulars. “We are also grateful to Lieutenant St. Clair for having recently returned my cousin’s sea chest to us.”

  Captain Tourner regarded St. Clair critically. “You returned Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s sea chest only recently? Where has it been all this while? I ordered you to arrange for his effects to be transported home with all reasonable expedience, as with any other fallen officer.”

  St. Clair shifted in his chair and signaled the serving maid. “The rest of his belongings were delivered in a timely fashion; the chest remained in my custody at the request of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam himself.
Would you care for another tot of rum, Captain?”

  Tourner’s heavy face flushed. “Why would Fitzwilliam have wanted his chest floating around the world with you rather than sent home? And when did he make this alleged request? You were not with him when he was shot.”

  “Some weeks before. I hoped I would never have to make good on the promise.”

  The serving maid brought rum for three. St. Clair moved his chair closer to the wall and surveyed the room for an unoccupied chair that could be commandeered for Darcy, but Captain Tourner stood.

  “You are welcome to my seat, Mr. Darcy. I have business to attend.” Apparently, however, the captain had no intention of also relinquishing his rum. Tourner drained his glass and set it beside three empty ones on his side of the table, then picked up his hat and departed.

  Darcy sat down, leaning back as the girl cleared away the empty glasses. He noticed that St. Clair had only one glass on his side, and wondered how long he and the captain had been in conference. “Forgive me if my arrival curtailed your meeting with Captain Tourner.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “We were merely reminiscing about past days. Idle talk.”

  “I am glad for the opportunity to have made his acquaintance. Had you mentioned when we spoke the other evening that he was in Lyme, I would have sought an introduction. Is the Magna Carta in port here with him? I should like to lay eyes upon the ship, even if only from shore.”

  “When last I heard, she was in Bristol. Lyme’s harbor is too small to comfortably accommodate many ships of that size. Regardless, the Magna Carta is no longer Tourner’s ship. He now captains the Swansea, an old sixth-rate docked in Plymouth at present. However, there is talk of the Admiralty breaking up the ship now that the war has ended.”

  “What will Captain Tourner do then?”

  “Go on half-pay, I suppose, while he waits for the Admiralty to offer him another ship. It will be a long wait, though, as there are many captains with more seniority and more distinguished service records in similar straits. Alternatively, he could take up an appointment on a private vessel or in another branch of the service—transport, packet ships, or the like. Such duty, however, is hardly glamorous, and would be felt as a demotion.”

  “Perhaps the Preventives?” Since arriving in Lyme, Darcy had seen numerous ships patrolling the coast to deter smugglers.

  “Captain Tourner, command a revenue cutter?” St. Clair chuckled, lifted his rum, and drank.

  “He would not find such duty attractive?”

  “Actually,” St. Clair mused, “he might.” He set the glass back on the table. “But unless I am mistaken, we are not here to discuss Captain Tourner.”

  “No, we are not.” Darcy took a drink from his own glass. “Since examining the contents of my cousin’s sea chest, I have additional questions about his time aboard the Magna Carta.”

  “You were indeed able to open the chest, then? Before bringing it to you, I had noted some rust on the lock, so I am glad it gave you no trouble. I hope you found his belongings none the worse for their delay in reaching you.”

  “All appeared in order.” He would not mention the diary—not yet. “I wonder, however, now that we are not in the presence of ladies, whether you might relate more particulars about the day my cousin died.”

  “What do you wish to know?”

  “Everything. Whether the day dawned bright or cloudy. Whether the cook burned the porridge. What my cousin’s mood and thoughts were—conversations you had.” What happened to the idols Gerard told you of just before he died. “Anything you recall about that day, before the ship became engaged with the Dangereuse.”

  St. Clair released a short laugh. “You do not ask much, do you? That day was years ago.”

  “I realize that considerable time has passed, but I hope that perhaps its having been a day of battle might have fixed details in your memory more firmly than is ordinary.”

  “Indeed,” the lieutenant said soberly, “battles tend to do that.”

  St. Clair drained the remaining rum from his glass. Darcy signaled the barmaid to bring another round, wondering how much rum it would require to loosen the tongue of any veteran seafarer, let alone one who had spent half his career in islands known for producing the best rum in the world. Captain Tourner had certainly seemed a man in the habit of consuming generous quantities.

  “The day was foggy,” St. Clair said. “Mist as thick as the porridge—which, by the way, our cook never burned. Hart was the best ship’s cook I ever knew.”

  “My cousin wrote that the wardroom messes were superior to those he had as a midshipman.”

  “Did he? Doubtless they were, though I do not know that the fare was worth writing home about. A ship’s cook can do only so much. Hart was skilled, however, at making the most of whatever he had to work with. We missed him, after.”

  “After what?”

  “After he died. He lost his life in the same battle as Lieutenant Fitzwilliam.”

  “How came a cook to be fighting in a battle?”

  “When a boarding party breaches your ship, everyone fights—cooks, carpenters, coopers. Every hand is needed—if not to wield a weapon, to assist someone who does. Even passengers become involved. It is mayhem.”

  “I suppose a cook might prove very handy with knives.”

  “Hart was. Unfortunately, firearms have a longer range.”

  “He was shot?”

  “Yes.” He uttered an oath against the French. “The cowards shot him in the back, but I like to think he filleted a number of Frogs before he went.”

  “You did not witness his death, I take it?”

  “I had other distractions.”

  Darcy could well imagine. “I am sure everyone did, particularly the ship’s officers.”

  “You want to hear more of your cousin, of course.” The serving girl returned with their drinks. St. Clair waited until she left before continuing. “Lieutenant Fitzwilliam acquitted himself well that day. I saw his sword take down several of the enemy early in the melee, as he helped three passengers defend themselves. I lost sight of him after that, but the passengers survived, and no doubt have him to thank for their lives.”

  “You said you discovered him after he had been shot. Did the passengers simply abandon him when he fell?”

  “They became separated before then, and had all they could do to save their own skins. Though many gentlemen train in swordplay, controlled single combat at Angelo’s fencing school is a far different experience than the pandemonium of hundreds of men on a ship’s deck splintered by cannonballs and slick with gore, dodging pistol shots and sniper bullets and falling rigging and the swings of nearby combatants.”

  Darcy trained at Angelo’s.

  Although St. Clair’s tone had not implied intentional insult, Darcy’s pride was ruffled nonetheless. The lieutenant’s words essentially questioned the collective honor of all gentlemen not in possession of a military uniform, suggesting that their pursuits were mere playacting.

  The suggestion chafed. It was possible to be a man of action without brawling in the middle of an ocean. Was it not? Darcy was vexed at St. Clair, and even more vexed with himself for his own defensiveness. He had nothing to prove to this man. In points of honor, he could match any gentleman, uniformed or not.

  He could certainly match St. Clair, who in this conversation still had not alluded to, let alone explained the fate of, the figurines Gerard had brought to the senior lieutenant’s attention earlier that fateful day—and who had dissuaded Gerard from sharing the discovery with the captain. Had the first lieutenant ever seen fit to inform his commander? Perhaps Tourner was not the fleet’s best captain. Perhaps he was a drunk. But at the end of the day, he was responsible for every thing and every person on that ship. Darcy wondered whether the idols’ existence had ever become known to anyone beyond St. Clair, Gerard, and the cook.

  The cook who had been killed in battle shortly after Gerard had spoken of the idols to St. Clair.

&
nbsp; The cook who, like Gerard, had been told to keep the knowledge to himself.

  The cook who had been shot in the back.

  Startled by the wild course onto which his thoughts had veered, Darcy took up his rum. As the liquor dissolved the sudden thickness that had formed in his throat, he studied St. Clair, seeking in the lieutenant’s countenance some sign that the notion coalescing in Darcy’s mind was utterly outrageous—or horrifically plausible. St. Clair, however, declined to make such discernment easy for Darcy. He did not cackle maniacally or radiate a virtuous glow. He merely surveyed the room with his gaze—a sea officer ever on watch, or a guilty man always on guard?

  “When you found my cousin, what was his condition?” Darcy asked. “Where did the bullet strike?”

  St. Clair hesitated. “It struck his stomach.”

  “How did he appear?”

  His expression tightened. “The effects of lead balls and black powder on human flesh are never pretty, and stomach wounds are among the worst. Are you certain that you want to hear more?”

  “I have seen fatal gunshot wounds and gruesome corpses before.” Though his statement occasioned mild surprise on St. Clair’s part, Darcy did not elaborate.

  “Then I will not whitewash the details. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam was lying prone in a crumpled heap on the quarterdeck, sword still in hand. His knees were beneath him—it looked as if he might have tried to raise himself to standing after he went down, but had not the strength. The ball had passed through him, leaving holes in his abdomen and back that bled profusely. I spoke his name repeatedly and received no response, though he moaned and his face contorted as I rolled him onto his back.”

  “You told my sister that his expression was peaceful.”

  “I wanted to spare Miss Darcy the images I now relate to you. His countenance did relax at the end, though to describe it as peaceful was … generous.”

  “When you moved him, did he utter any words?”

  “No, he only moaned. I was at first buoyed by the sign of life, but quickly realized he was insensible to everything around him. A seaman helped me carry him below deck.”