The Deception at Lyme Read online

  The archaeologist found it fascinating.

  She glanced at the clock and wished he would accelerate his examination. Having, at her request, arrived earlier than originally agreed upon, the professor had already spent ten minutes with the idol, and only twenty remained until the Ashfords were due to appear.

  “I doubt this is of Jamaican origin,” he said at last. “Though your cousin might have acquired it on that island, more likely it was created elsewhere.”

  They had told the professor that they discovered it among Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s effects. They omitted the part about its having traveled halfway across the Atlantic hidden in a cask of sugar. And the part about suspecting Darcy’s cousin might have been murdered because of it. Oh—and the part about the cook getting killed, too.

  However, if full disclosure became necessary, Elizabeth knew they could trust Professor Randolph to keep the information to himself. They had taken him into their confidence in the past, and he had proved reliable.

  “Created elsewhere in the West Indies?” Darcy asked.

  “Elsewhere in New Spain, or perhaps Colombia. It is difficult for me to place it precisely without the opportunity to directly compare it with similar objects of known origin, but my guess is that it comes from the Central American isthmus. Though one does find gold artifacts in the Caribbean islands, they are more plentiful on the continents—or were, until the conquistadors plundered their way through the New World. The Spanish never did find El Dorado, the legendary City of Gold, but they seized plenty of other wealth for the crown. And for themselves.”

  He turned the idol again so that it lay faceup in his palm.

  “What does it represent?” Elizabeth asked. “Is it some sort of ritual object?”

  “This artifact is actually a pendant—a bird pendant, a type of ornament Columbus mentioned in his letters as being commonly worn round the neck by indigenous peoples. He called them águilas—eagles—but bird pendants can represent other species, generally birds of prey. They were symbols of prestige, worn to demonstrate power. Do you see how the wings are spread, and talons extended? And—oh!”

  From a pocket of his coat he withdrew a monocle. Unlike affected London dandies, Professor Randolph carried his for a useful purpose. He removed his spectacles, raised the monacle to his eye, and looked at the figure closely. “I believe that is—yes! That is a fish in its beak.” He replaced his spectacles. His face positively glowed. “What a beautiful piece! Your cousin was fortunate to come across it, Mr. Darcy. Though I suspect it cost him dearly.”

  Darcy started. It certainly had, but in ways the professor could not possibly know. “Why do you say so?”

  “Unfortunately, countless relics from the Spanish Empire were lost to greed. The conquistadors wanted gold, not art, and melted ancient treasures without care for their cultural or scientific significance. So much history was destroyed—reduced to merely its metallic value—that surviving items are all the more precious. Collectors pay considerable sums for ante-Columbian artifacts, not all of them legally obtained.”

  The door knocker sounded. Elizabeth rose and took the pendant from the archaeologist, who relinquished it with the reluctance of a suitor. “Thank you, professor. We appreciate your knowledge—and your discretion.”

  * * *

  Dinner proved a success. As Elizabeth had hoped, Sir Laurence and his sister perfectly complemented their party. Professor Randolph found the baronet a worthy conversationalist on subjects both artistic and scientific, and the pair were in mutual rapture over the paleontological promise shown by a young local girl whom the archaeologist had met at the Philpot sisters’ home the previous evening.

  “Only imagine, Miss Ashford—” A gentleman scholar, Professor Randolph always did his best to draw others into his discourse, no matter how obscure the topic. “Miss Anning was but thirteen when she and her brother discovered a full ichthyosaur skeleton—the first complete one ever found!”

  Elizabeth had not the faintest notion what an ichthyosaur was, but Professor Randolph spoke of it with such enthusiasm that she was impressed nonetheless.

  Miss Ashford smiled knowingly. “Miss Anning also oversaw the excavation.”

  Professor Randolph was delightfully surprised by her familiarity with the story. “Do you, too, study fossils?”

  “No more seriously than do most visitors to Lyme. My brother, however, maintains such eclectic pursuits that I cannot help but develop a dilettante’s knowledge in some of them. His interest in classical antiquities inspired me to read Homer.”

  “In Greek?”

  She laughed. “No, Chapman’s translation. As I confessed, I am a dilettante.”

  Elizabeth turned to Sir Laurence. “Miss Darcy tells me that your interest in Greek antiquities extends to the Parthenon sculptures that Lord Elgin has brought to Britain.”

  “Lord Elgin is a visionary man who does not deserve the controversy his noble operation and personal sacrifice have generated,” the baronet said. “When he saw the damage the building and its frieze had already suffered under the occupation of the Turks, and the continued deterioration to which it was subjected, he took action—at his own expense—to rescue the marbles and preserve them for posterity. And now,” he said with disgust, “his detractors accuse him of not having followed proper Turkish legal procedure, or of trying to profit by selling the sculptures.”

  “Is he not currently in negotiations with the British government regarding a price?” asked Darcy.

  “It was always his intention to present the marbles to the nation as a gift for the ages,” Sir Laurence said, “but dire financial straits have compelled him to request reimbursement for his expenses—paying his crew and transporting the marbles to England.”

  “He asks nothing for the value of the sculptures themselves,” Professor Randolph added. “A mercy, as I do not know how anybody could fix a price on such treasures.”

  “All objects have a price.” Sir Laurence swirled the wine in his glass. “Even if he did want compensation for his trouble, I would still consider him to have acted unselfishly in saving those artifacts from destruction. Would the world benefit any less from their preservation if he received a reward for having effected it? If he chose at this point to keep them for himself, I would not fault him.”

  “Do you think an ancient culture’s treasures can rightfully belong to an individual?” Georgiana asked.

  “Yes, I do.” He smiled at her, though his expression soon grew serious once again. “Particularly if that individual values them more than do conquerors into whose hands they have fallen. The Turks did not merely neglect the Parthenon, they used it as a powder magazine, caring not a whit when its roof was blown off during the Venetian siege. I would support Elgin’s rights to the sculptures even if he had not acted under the full knowledge and permission of the Ottoman authorities in removing them. Better such treasures survive in the private ownership of a man who appreciates them than be destroyed by an empire that does not.” He turned to Randolph. “As a professor of antiquities, surely you agree?”

  “Having seen the sculptures, I cannot imagine where a private individual—even an earl such as Lord Elgin—would display them for his own enjoyment. They require an enormous amount of space. As it is, the museum plans to build a new gallery for them, if Parliament ever finishes its negotiations and enquiries.”

  “What of smaller artifacts?” Sir Laurence asked. “Are they not better off intact as the personal property of a connoisseur than seized and squandered by unenlightened vandals?”

  “Certainly. Not every relic in the world need belong to a museum. Many artifacts were created as personal possessions. Why should they not remain so?” Randolph paused, then added, “If obtained legally, of course. I cannot countenance theft, either direct or through the circumvention of authority.”

  “Nor could I, of course,” Sir Laurence said. “But given circumstances similar to Lord Elgin’s, I would have done the same. Would not you, Miss Darcy?”
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  Georgiana appeared surprised to have her opinion solicited. “I cannot imagine ever finding myself in such a position. But if I were, I should like to think I would act to preserve artifacts from either destruction or theft.”

  The conversation wandered from there to other subjects, as any conversation with Professor Randolph is wont to do. When the evening ended, Sir Laurence and his sister invited Georgiana, Darcy, and Elizabeth to dine with them later in the week.

  Yes, Elizabeth thought as she prepared to retire, from Georgiana’s standpoint, the evening was a resounding success.

  Nineteen

  “Having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is heir to.… He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir William.”

  —Mrs. Smith, speaking of Mr. William Elliot, Persuasion

  “I do not understand why Anne was asked to stand as Alfred’s godmother, and I was not,” Elizabeth overheard one of the Elliots say as she, Darcy, and Georgiana joined the queue of guests waiting to be acknowledged by Sir Walter and his family at Alfred’s christening celebration. The religious rite complete, the witnesses—and, judging from the number of guests arriving, a good many others who had not been at the church—now converged upon the Assembly Rooms for a fete so extravagant that all other venues in Lyme (to say nothing of the bounds of good taste) were insufficient to accommodate it.

  Sir Walter had enlisted all five godparents to join him and Miss Elliot in greeting the company, that his guests might be sufficiently impressed; he also insisted that little Walter Alfred Henry Arthur Elliot be present for all to admire. The slighted would-be godmother, whom, based on her resemblance to Sir Walter, Elizabeth took to be the baronet’s youngest daughter, stood at the end of the receiving line with a gentleman Elizabeth assumed was her husband.

  “I have been married much longer and have two children, while my sister has been married but months,” the affronted speaker continued. For all her professed domestic experience, she appeared fairly young, perhaps a year or two older than Elizabeth. “What does Anne bring to the godmother’s office, of a mother’s feelings and sense of duty, that I could not?”

  “Mary,” her husband said in a low voice, “when we learned Mrs. Clay was in the family way, you declared that you would have nothing to do with the child.”

  “What does that signify? I still should have been asked, and you should have, too. You have been part of the family far longer than Captain Wentworth.”

  Further discussion between the couple was drowned out by a cry—the latest of many from the guest of honor. Alfred had cried during his baptismal rite. He had cried upon leaving the church. He had cried upon arrival at the Assembly Rooms. Indeed, the celebrated Elliot heir cried so often and so vehemently that he was at considerable risk of being ejected from his own party.

  Sir Walter was not pleased. Clearly, he had expected better behavior from the week-old future baronet. While he might tolerate his son’s wails in the privacy of their own lodgings, the public display was an embarrassment, particularly as the infantile protests took place under the judgmental gaze of Lady Dalrymple, to whom Sir Walter offered repeated apologies.

  Miss Elliot was even more displeased. When Lady Dalrymple had attempted to hand off Alfred to his eldest sister, he had baptized Miss Elliot with a bit of his breakfast. Miss Elliot now had a damp stain on the front of her gown which a hastily borrowed fichu could not effectively cover as she strove to greet her guests in a dignified manner.

  And so Alfred had been passed down the phalanx of godmothers and sisters with each new outburst. Having exhausted the patience of his more exalted patrons, he was now handed off to the last of his godmothers just as Elizabeth was being formally introduced to her: Anne Wentworth, second daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, and wife of the rather handsome Captain Frederick Wentworth, who stood beside her.

  Unlike her predecessors—who had awkwardly held Alfred at the maximum distance possible from their own fine attire while they forced the future baronet to face the press of well-wishing strangers—Anne settled the overwhelmed infant against her chest, his head on her shoulder, his countenance turned away from the crowd. As her hand stroked his back, Alfred quieted.

  Captain Wentworth greeted Darcy congenially, the unusual nature of their initial meeting having done more to advance accord between them than would have weeks of stilted drawing room conversation. Mrs. Wentworth acknowledged him with equal warmth. Darcy, in turn, introduced the couple to Elizabeth and Georgiana.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “The Harvilles speak of you with great regard, not only for your recent rescue of their son, but also the kindness you showed to Mrs. Clay. I understand we have you to thank for Alfred’s safe delivery.”

  Elizabeth gazed across the room, to where the Harvilles drank lemonade with a cluster of individuals whom she guessed to be fellow officers. Lieutenant St. Clair was among them. She was glad to see that Sir Walter had, despite their being “naval people,” demonstrated the grace to invite to Alfred’s christening the couple in whose home his child had entered the world, and the man who had helped carry the injured mother there. “If that is what the Harvilles told you, they were too modest about their own role.” Elizabeth turned back to the Wentworths. “Lady Elliot could not have known a better nurse than Mrs. Harville, nor a more compassionate household in which to spend her final hours.”

  A shadow passed across Mrs. Wentworth’s expression, and Elizabeth regretted her statement. “Forgive me,” she added quickly. “I did not intend to mention her death at an event intended to celebrate life.”

  “No—it is only that I am unused to hearing ‘Lady Elliot’ in reference to anyone but my own mother.”

  Elizabeth now wanted to bite her careless tongue. She hoped she had not offended Anne Wentworth.

  Lady Russell, who stood on Anne’s other side, heard her statement and turned to her. “Though the second Lady Elliot may have produced the heir, your dear mother shall always hold superior claim to the title ‘lady.’”

  Mrs. Wentworth thanked the older woman and turned back to Elizabeth’s party with a friendly look that assured Elizabeth that she had not given offense.

  “I believe I also have you to thank for the assistance rendered to my friend Mrs. Smith the day before yesterday,” Mrs. Wentworth said to Elizabeth and Georgiana. “She told me that two ladies named Darcy helped her after she fell on the beach.”

  “We were glad to have been of use,” Georgiana said.

  “Is Mrs. Smith all right following the incident?” Elizabeth asked. “She appeared fine when she left us.”

  “She is. In fact, she felt well enough this morning that she plans to join me and Captain Wentworth here; we expect her to arrive any time now. I know she would enjoy talking with you again.”

  “I will watch for her arrival,” Elizabeth said, “for I would enjoy speaking with her again, too.”

  The press of other guests moved the Darcys through the remainder of the receiving line at a pace which allowed for no more than perfunctory acknowledgments of introductions. They formally met Lady Dalrymple, Sir Basil, the slighted Mary Musgrove (indeed Sir Walter’s youngest daughter) and her husband, Mr. Charles Musgrove. They then found themselves at liberty to circulate.

  It was hot in the Rooms. The number of occupants only increased the August heat that had stolen inside along with them, and sunshine poured through a large window that overlooked the sea. Lemonade had been set out, and Darcy went to retrieve some for the ladies.

  Elizabeth had not anticipated knowing many of their fellow guests, but discovered that in addition to the Harvilles and Lieutenant St. Clair, she recognized quite a few others. Mr. Shepherd, apparently not illustrious enough a personage to merit a place in the receiving line—he was only the guest of honor’s grandfather, after all—was present with Alfred’s brothers, Mrs. Clay’s older two bo
ys. Elizabeth judged the boys to be perhaps eight and ten, dressed in mourning as deep as that of Mrs. Clay’s father. The family tree had not been kind in planting the seeds of their appearance. The elder boy bore his mother’s freckles and crooked tooth, while the younger had shockingly red hair which, for Alfred’s sake, Elizabeth hoped he had inherited from his father’s side. The boys had stationed themselves beside the refreshment table, a proximity ideal for sneaking rout-cakes each time Mr. Shepherd turned his head.

  In the opposite corner, Mr. William Elliot observed the room and its occupants. He wore merely a black armband in acknowledgment of Lady Elliot’s passing. The minimal display of mourning for so recent a death declared to the world that he considered his connexion to the deceased only a distant one—a far cry from his efforts just days ago to take custody of her newborn son.

  Darcy returned with three glasses of lemonade. Elizabeth gratefully accepted the one he handed her.

  “Mr. Elliot is here.” She nodded in the gentleman’s direction. “Given the scandalous nature of his relationship with Alfred’s mother, I am surprised Sir Walter invited him.”

  “I am more surprised that he accepted,” Darcy replied. “The invitation was actually a shrewd move on Sir Walter’s part. His marriage to Mrs. Clay thwarted any legal claim Mr. Elliot could make to Alfred or the estate—Alfred was born into a legitimate marriage, however tardily that union was formed—yet socially, the question of the child’s paternity remains fuel for gossip. By boldly including Mr. Elliot in Alfred’s christening celebration, Sir Walter publicly rejects any speculation regarding the true paternity of his heir, and at the same time reminds his rival that he will now never inherit the baronetcy.”

  “Meanwhile, the death of the child’s mother apparently means little to either Sir Walter or Mr. Elliot.” Elizabeth sipped her lemonade. It was tepid, which only dropped Sir Walter further in her esteem.