The Deception At Lyme m&mdm-6 Page 12

  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.”

  “What did the surgeon do for him?”

  “There was little he could do. Your cousin received immediate attention, but Mr. Phelps had scarcely cut away his uniform to examine the wounds when Lieutenant Fitzwilliam expired.” He paused. “I am sorry—I wish he had spoken final words that I could pass on to you, or left some other message that could now offer comfort.”

  Gerard had indeed left a message; Darcy merely needed to determine what it meant. This he knew: it was not bringing him comfort. Suspicion. Apprehension. Distrust. But not comfort.

  “I hope the items in his sea chest, at least, provide consolation,” St. Clair continued. “Did you find much of interest?”

  If you only knew.

  Or did he? Both today and the night he had delivered it, St. Clair had repeatedly brought the conversation round to the sea chest. Although having said himself that it likely contained the typical possessions of a sea officer, the lieutenant seemed preoccupied by its contents. Did he know about the diary? In their months of service together, St. Clair could very well have observed Gerard writing in it. Was he concerned about what the junior lieutenant might have privately recorded? Or did a different item altogether spur his fixation with Gerard’s effects?

  “We indeed found much to occupy our attention.” Darcy regarded St. Clair closely as he spoke, hoping to provoke a telltale response.

  “Any objects about which I might provide elucidation?”

  “No,” Darcy replied. “I believe their significance is self-evident.”

  Though St. Clair maintained his affable expression, its brightness diminished. “Well, my offer stands. If I can ever be of service to you or another member of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s family, you need only ask. You have my direction here in Lyme.” He consulted his pocket watch, a modest but handsome silver timepiece with an anchor engraved on its lid. “I am afraid another appointment commands my appearance now. Pray, give my compliments to your wife and Miss Darcy.”

  Darcy would certainly remember the sea officer to Elizabeth at first opportunity. He was anxious to show her the diary and relate the conversation just passed, for he wanted her opinion on the speculations forming in his mind.

  But tender Lieutenant St. Clair’s compliments to his sister?

  Never.

  Fifteen

  At the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a Gentleman in a Buggy, who on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall—& Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that either his Mother, his Wife, or himself must be dead.

  —Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra, 1799

  Elizabeth was not the only person issuing invitations that day. She and Georgiana returned from seabathing to a note from Miss Ashford soliciting Miss Darcy’s company for an afternoon walk with herself and Sir Laurence—an invitation Georgiana accepted with alacrity. As Darcy, too, had gone out, Elizabeth had no one with whom to share the joy of conversing with two of the most shallow people in all Lyme when Sir Walter and Miss Elliot paid an unexpected visit.

  Sir Walter paraded into the sitting room in his mourning finery, confident in the belief that black showed his figure and complexion to best advantage. Miss Elliot seemed blissfully unaware that the somber shade drained her already pale skin of color, sharpening her unforgiving features even more than nature had. Although Elizabeth still could not cast off her misgivings about the cause of Lady Elliot’s death, the widower and his daughter had turned the tragedy into opportunity.

  “There were ten carriages—eleven, counting my own,” Sir Walter said of Lady Elliot’s funeral, from which he had just returned to Lyme. The former Mrs. Clay had been buried at the ancestral Elliot estate in Kellynch, some twenty miles from Lyme, in a manner commensurate with her newly elevated station. “Not so many carriages as the first Lady Elliot’s cortege,” he continued, “but a respectable showing. Our cousin Lady Dalrymple sent her carriage from Bath, though the dowager viscountess could not herself attend. So did Lady Russell, one of our Kellynch neighbors. Eleven is an entirely respectable number, considering most of my acquaintance received word of the marriage and death in a single announcement. Did you see the notice in the Times?”

  Elizabeth had indeed seen the notice, which had briefly mentioned Lady Elliot’s marriage and death before proclaiming at length the birth of Walter Alfred Henry Arthur Elliot. “I read it with great interest,” she said, “including the announcement of your new son’s name.”

  Sir Walter appeared pleased. “He is named for myself, of course, and three of England’s greatest kings.”

  “You named him for monarchs you admire?”

  “I—no … well, yes. Monarchs of importance, of great reputation. The Elliot heir needs an impressive name, one worthy of inclusion in our Baronetage pages.”

  The poor child might very well inherit his baronetcy before he learned to spell a name that long and pretentious. “Will you call him ‘Walter’ at home?”

  “Alfred, since his namesake was known as—”

  “Alfred the Great,” Elizabeth finished.

  “Precisely.”

  For little Alfred’s sake, she hoped that, free of being called by his father’s name on a daily basis, the child might also escape his father’s obsessive self-consequence. “And how does Alfred do in his new home after such a dramatic entrance into the world?”

  Miss Elliot rolled her eyes ceilingward. “We have not known a single peaceful night since he was born. I do not comprehend how a creature that size can produce so much noise, or what grievance could possibly justify it. I believe Mrs. Logan incompetent.”

  Her criticism of the helpless child and his nurse moved Elizabeth to defend them. “Newborn babies cry—they have no other way to speak.”

  “What reason has any child to ‘speak’ every two hours?”

  “I am certain Mrs. Logan has matters well in hand.” She paused. “Nevertheless, perhaps I might call upon you and see the child? I have been thinking about him these several days.”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Darcy,” Sir Walter replied with delight, “you are welcome any time. Except mornings, for that is when I endure my daily sea immersion—ghastly ordeal, seabathing, but my physician insists upon its health benefits. Indeed, that is the entire reason we came to Lyme. Mornings, however, are an uncivilized hour for calling, regardless. Evenings used to find us at the Assembly Rooms—now, only private card parties since entering mourning—and we generally promenade along the Walk or the Cobb in the afternoon. But otherwise—yes, do call upon us anytime.”

  “Does your schedule never vary?”

  “Only with the weather. We go nowhere near the sea if it rains, or if
the sun shines brightly. The damp is bad for one’s lungs, and the sun harsh on one’s complexion.”

  “Did Lady Elliot accompany you on walks along the Cobb?”

  “I never visited Lyme whilst Lady Elliot was alive. Fifteen years ago it was not the resort that it is now.”

  “I meant the second Lady Elliot—the former Mrs. Clay.”

  “Oh! Of course you did. No, she did not.”

  Miss Elliot cast a sharp glance at Sir Walter. “Mrs. Darcy, I believe my father finds your conversation so charming that he has entirely forgotten the purpose of our visit.”

  “Alas, I have indeed.” He produced a sealed note addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq., and Miss Darcy. “We are come to personally deliver this invitation to Alfred’s christening.”

  “We do hope you can attend,” Miss Elliot said.

  “It will be the social affair of the season,” Sir Walter declared. “The Lyme season, at any rate. We have hired out the Assembly Rooms for a grand celebration following the ceremony at St. Michael’s.”

  “The christening will be celebrated in Lyme, then—not at Kellynch, where Lady Elliot was buried?”

  “Though I would prefer that my son be baptized in the same church as myself and generations of Elliots before him, my physician advises against risking his health by subjecting so small an infant to the ardors of travel. Alfred therefore will be christened in the parish of his birth. Do not fear, however, that this is an inferior alternative. The vicar assures me the rite will reflect all the ceremony due the heir of an ancient and dignified family. The church is named for an archangel, not some obscure saint nobody has ever heard of, and the baptistry dates to Norman times.”

  Were it not for the Elliots’ attire, one would never know they were in mourning as they described plans for the event and boasted of names on the guest list. “Everybody of significance” in Lyme had been invited, as well as notable personages from Bath and London whose names and importance Elizabeth was apparently supposed to recognize but did not.

  “Our cousins, Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Carteret, are traveling all the way from Bath,” Miss Elliot said.

  Sir Walter’s chest puffed with pride. “Her ladyship has graciously consented to stand as godmother to Alfred.”

  “Who is to be his godfather?” Elizabeth half expected to hear they had solicited the Prince Regent himself.

  “Sir Basil Morley. Lady Russell, who is godmother to my daughters, will also stand for Alfred, so he shall have three titled godparents. I have also asked my daughter Anne and her husband, so Alfred will have five godparents in total—more than even the Prince Regent.”

  Elizabeth silently congratulated Sir Walter on having managed to enter the prince’s name into the conversation after all.

  Sixteen

  “Nobody else could have saved poor James. You may think, Miss Elliot, whether he is dear to us!”

  —Captain Harville, speaking of Captain Wentworth, Persuasion

  The Sheet Anchor had two doors; one fronted the street, the other, the shore. As St. Clair exited through the street door, Darcy quit the tavern harborside, intending to circle round and note the direction in which St. Clair headed to his engagement. For a man at liberty until his next ship posting, the lieutenant certainly had a full schedule.

  The door deposited Darcy very near the start of the Cobb. The tide was in, raising the water in the harbor several feet higher than when it was out, and liberating the fishing boats and other vessels that spent low tide grounded in their moorings. With those craft out to sea, the result was a relatively empty harbor that granted Darcy a clear view across to the far curve of the Cobb. He could see nearly the full length of the seawall, excepting the most extreme segment. That section remained obscured by the quay warehouses, beside which two gentlemen engaged in conversation and a few workers went about their business in comparative quiet.

  It was not the men, however, who caught Darcy’s notice. It was a boy, a very young boy, who toddled along the rough stones of the lower seawall by himself, too close to the harbor’s edge for any witness’s comfort. A boy who, even from this distance, Darcy recognized.

  Ben Harville.

  The two-year-old was about halfway along the seawall. There was no one anywhere near him, no one paying heed to that side of the Cobb, no one to act on a shouted warning. Something in the harbor caught Ben’s interest, and he moved even closer to the water.

  Darcy hurried toward the child, accelerating into a run. If his sudden sprint attracted the notice of anyone near the tavern entrance, he did not know, for his vision focused on the small figure he wished would retreat from the wall’s edge. Ben, however, leaned toward the water for a better view of whatever will-o’-the-wisp distracted him.

  The sound of Darcy’s footfalls striking the hard pavement did command the attention of the gentlemen near the warehouses on the quay. One of them, identifying the danger and realizing Darcy’s purpose, himself broke into a run. From opposite ends of the Cobb they neared the toddler, their swift advances at last penetrating Ben’s awareness. The sudden sight of two men descending upon him startled the child. As the gap between them closed, the boy jerked involuntarily, upsetting his equilibrium.

  Ben teetered over the water at an angle impossible for the child to correct on his own. Darcy reached for him, but his grasp was two strides shy. The other gentleman, however, was just close enough to extend his arm and push the boy toward Darcy, sacrificing his own balance—and tumbling into the water himself.

  The resulting splash sprayed Darcy and Ben as Darcy scooped up the child. Ben’s rescuer quickly surfaced. Though the water would have been well over Ben’s head, the gentleman could stand.

  “Is the boy all right?”

  “Yes,” Darcy said. “Give me a moment to set him down safely, and I will help you out of the water.”

  “No need.” The gentleman retrieved his floating hat, an act that put Darcy in mind of his own hat, which had flown from his head somewhere during his sprint. He would find it later. The stranger then began sloshing toward a set of stone steps that emerged from the water to the quay, doubtless employed more commonly at low tide to load and unload boats.

  The splash had drawn the attention of several dockworkers who, seeing that nobody was injured, offered a few comments Darcy could not distinguish, and a few chortles he could, before they headed back to the duty of unloading cargo from a small cutter, the only ship presently anchored in the harbor. Meanwhile, the man to whom the wet gentleman had been speaking before the accident was making his way toward Darcy with as much haste as a person with a bad leg could manage. It was Captain Harville; distance had prevented Darcy from identifying him earlier.

  Darcy carried Ben round the walkway and met Captain Harville near Granny’s Teeth, at the landing of the steps to which his companion was swimming. His face bore the expression Darcy expected his own would had he just witnessed a similar incident involving Lily-Anne.

  “Mr. Darcy, how can I ever express my gratitude? I had no idea—Ben must have followed me out here when I left the house with Wentworth—” The bewildered child lunged toward his father’s arms. The captain took him from Darcy. “Ben, do you not know better?” Though his words expressed admonishment, they were gently delivered. He glanced back to Darcy. “I saw you running toward him but I—damn this leg! Damn the French, I should say, and their grapeshot. Were it not for you and Wentworth—”

  “Think nothing of it,” Darcy assured him.

  “I cannot help but think upon it, and offer you my thanks.”

  The swimmer—Wentworth, he presumed—having reached the steps, Darcy extended his hand to help him up the slippery stones. Wentworth accepted, and soon stood dripping on the quay. Rivulets of water ran into his eyes from his hair, his soaked, tight-fitting coat looked a straitjacket, and he would be very fortunate if his boots were not ruined.

  Darcy was a little embarrassed that he himself had emerged from the incident
dry save for the effects of Wentworth’s splash. “If you must thank somebody,” he said to Captain Harville, “thank your friend. It is he who met with greater inconvenience.”

  Wentworth laughed and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “This old sailor is quite used to getting wet, I assure you.” He now extended his hand to Darcy. “Captain Frederick Wentworth.”

  Darcy would hardly describe Captain Wentworth as old. The man before him could not possess many more years than thirty, and, despite Sir Walter’s oration on the detrimental effects of life at sea, looked the model of health and vigor. Even dripping water from his coat sleeves, he bore himself with dignity Sir Walter could not touch. Darcy could easily imagine this man leading a full ship’s complement to victory.

  He heartily shook the captain’s hand. “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  “Darcy?” Captain Wentworth turned to Captain Harville. “Is this the gentleman of whom you were telling me?”

  “The same.”

  “Mr. Darcy, my friend Harville is not the only person here in your debt. My family is much obliged to you and Mrs. Darcy for the aid you rendered my wife’s stepmother when she fell on this very pavement. I understand that were it not for you, her child would not have survived.”

  “I hope Captain Harville retained some of the credit for himself and his wife.”

  “Not nearly enough, I am sure.”

  They stepped back against the wall to let a cart pass. The horses plodded slowly, in no hurry to take their cargo from the cutter to the Customs House. The creatures traversed the same road so often that they probably did not at all mind when smugglers managed to bypass this required review process and spare them their labor. Darcy wondered what these barrels held. French brandy? Spanish wine?

  Jamaican sugar?

  “Lady Elliot was also assisted by another naval officer, Lieutenant Andrew St. Clair.” Darcy hoped Captain Wentworth would be able to tell him more about the dubious lieutenant. “Are you acquainted with him?”