The Deception at Lyme Page 4

  The gentleman regarded Darcy warily. “What sort of news?”

  “She has suffered an accident.”

  “An accident? Here on the Cobb? Did she fall?”

  “Indeed, she did.”

  “Whatever was she thinking, walking upon the upper wall on a morning such as this? Rain and wind that could knock a man down.” He paused, his expression sobering as the situation settled more firmly upon his understanding. “Is she injured? She must be injured—you said the news was urgent. Where is she?”

  “She has been taken to a nearby house. Come, I shall bring you to her.”

  They reentered the elements, which had worsened while Darcy was inside the warehouse. The gentleman opened his umbrella and carried it between them, but the wind drove rain at them at such an angle that it provided little protection. Darcy put up the hood of Captain Harville’s oilskin, allowing the gentleman full use of the umbrella as they walked with all possible haste.

  “Did you witness the accident?”

  “No,” Darcy replied. “My wife and I came upon her afterward.”

  “How badly is she injured?”

  “A surgeon has been summoned.” Darcy searched for the proper words to convey the gravity of the situation to someone who must hear the news from a stranger. His hesitation must have said enough.

  “I am sure you must have noticed her delicate condition,” the gentleman said. “Do you know whether the child survived the fall?”

  “It was yet alive when we found her.”

  “Did she tell you how the accident occurred?”

  “She has not regained her senses since the fall.”

  Thunder boomed. A powerful gust of wind caught the umbrella, forcing it inside out. The gentleman swore under his breath and paused to fix it, but the umbrella was beyond repair.

  “Damn this deuced thing!” He flung the umbrella into the harbor, then apologized almost immediately. “Forgive me—I am not myself at the moment.”

  They resumed walking. They had covered about half the distance to the Harvilles’ cottage, and now advanced with still more rapid strides.

  “So she has not spoken?” the gentleman asked. “She cannot tell what happened?”

  “I am afraid not. Though perhaps she has awakened in my absence.”

  “Let us hope so. I appreciate your trouble on her behalf. Might I ask to whom I am obliged?”

  Startled, Darcy realized that in the urgency of delivering his news and the fury of the weather, he had failed to introduce himself properly. “Fitzwilliam Darcy. My wife is with your friend now, along with Mrs. Harville, to whose house she was taken.”

  “I am indebted to you all.”

  They had reached the cottage, and Darcy stopped before its door. “Might I, in turn, ask your name?”

  The gentleman offered his hand. “It is Elliot. William Elliot.”

  Four

  Her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death.

  —Persuasion

  Elizabeth helped Mrs. Harville and the maid exchange the patient’s wet dress for a dry bed gown, then followed the servant upstairs to another small bedchamber where she changed into dry clothing herself. Afterward, Mrs. Harville deployed the maid to fetch smelling salts while she herself prepared a plaister for their patient’s head. Elizabeth was assigned to watch over the patient while Caleb was enlisted to light the fire in the hearth. From the efficiency with which the naval captain’s wife took charge, one might have thought it was she who regularly commanded a warship and its crew.

  Left alone with the unconscious woman once the fire was lit, Elizabeth covered her with a blanket. “You are in good hands,” she said, hoping that the sound of her voice might penetrate the unnatural slumber. “Mrs. Harville seems to know what she is about.” Elizabeth could barely bring herself to look at the head contusion, which was turning a hideous shade of purple. The swelling at her temple had doubled since she and Darcy first came upon her.

  In the relative privacy of the moment, she felt the woman’s abdomen again to check on the dependent being within. It was alarmingly still. But then … a faint kick. Weak, but perceptible. As if to confirm that it had not been merely an illusion of her hopeful imagination, she felt a second movement.

  “The surgeon is coming,” she said, unsure whether she spoke the words aloud to reassure the baby, its mother, or herself.

  The maid returned with the salts, then went to check on the children. Elizabeth passed the vial of hartshorn beneath the woman’s nose, holding her own breath as she did so. The powerful odor always brought tears to her eyes, and reminded her of her mother’s nervous fits.

  The woman’s countenance tightened. With what appeared great effort, her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze appeared unfocused.

  Encouraged by this sign of consciousness, Elizabeth leaned closer. “Can you hear me, ma’am? You have suffered a fall.”

  “No…” The woman winced.

  “I am afraid so—a bad fall, ma’am.”

  “Ell—” Her eyes drifted closed, as if she had not sufficient strength to at once hold them open and speak. “Elliot…”

  “Is that your name? Elliot?”

  She did not respond. Mrs. Elliot—if that were indeed her name—had drifted back out of consciousness. Elizabeth attempted the hartshorn again, but without success.

  Mr. Sawyer at last arrived, so familiar with the route to the Harvilles’ home that there had been no need for the officer who had summoned the surgeon to accompany him. Elizabeth somewhat guiltily recalled that Sir Laurence was also to have sent a surgeon, and hoped the second medical man was not wandering the Cobb in the storm wondering where his would-be patient had disappeared to. She supposed that if there were any survivors of the ship explosion, his services would be needed there more than here anyway, now that Mr. Sawyer had come.

  He immediately set about examining the patient, assisted by Mrs. Harville. Their communication betokened familiarity, and references to “last time” and “Miss Musgrove” implied that Mrs. Harville’s nursing experience had proved indispensable to him in the past.

  Elizabeth described the state in which she and Darcy had found the woman, and the baby kick she had just felt. “She regained consciousness briefly,” Elizabeth finished. “That is a good sign, is it not?”

  The surgeon nodded absently as he felt the woman’s ribs and took her pulse. “Unfortunately, she shows other signs that are not as encouraging. Was she able to speak?”

  “She was very disoriented, and said only the name ‘Elliot.’”

  “Elliot?” Mrs. Harville glanced up from her ministrations. “Are you quite certain?”

  “Yes. I assumed that to be her name, though she lost consciousness again before I could confirm it.”

  Mrs. Harville returned her attention to the patient. “I wonder whether she is connected to the Elliots of Kellynch Hall. The two younger daughters of that family are well known to us. Mr. Sawyer, you will recall them from Miss Musgrove’s accident.” She smoothed the woman’s hair away from the plaister she had applied. “Mary is wife to Miss Musgrove’s eldest brother, and Anne recently wed Captain Wentworth.” She looked at the patient’s rounded abdomen. “This cannot be the eldest sister, however, for Miss Elliot is a spinster.”

  Mr. Sawyer determined that leeches must be used to reduce the head swelling. As he prepared for the bloodletting, the maid entered to inform them that Darcy had returned. Elizabeth left the patient with the surgeon and Mrs. Harville, and entered the main room to find a rather wet Darcy with an even more soaked gentleman. He introduced his companion as Mr. Elliot.

  “Mr. Elliot! Thank goodness my husband found you. The surgeon is with your wife now.”

  An odd expression passed over his countenance. “My wife passed away little more than a year ago.” Despite his rumpled appearance, he stood stiffly.

  Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. I assumed—”

  “I believe, however, that I am acquain
ted with the woman Mr. Darcy described to me. Might I see her?”

  “Of course.”

  She led him into the bedroom, where Mr. Sawyer was applying leeches to the woman’s temple. Mr. Elliot looked at her face, then averted his gaze from the business under way.

  “I do know her. This woman is Mrs. Clay.”

  Elizabeth was relieved to at last have a name with which to address their patient. “Where might we locate Mr. Clay?”

  “Penelope is widowed.”

  “Oh.” Elizabeth was not certain who engaged her pity more—the mother left to raise her child alone, or the child who would never know its father. “She is fortunate to have friends at such a time. She asked for you.”

  Mr. Elliot started. “She is awake?”

  “Not at present, but she woke briefly.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Only your name: Elliot.”

  His features relaxed. “Yes, well … she has been under my protection for the past several months.”

  A moan from Mrs. Clay drew the attention of all in the room.

  “Does she waken again?” Mr. Elliot asked.

  Mrs. Harville called Mrs. Clay by name several times, but received no response. “Poor dear. I wonder whether she feels the leeches.” She adjusted the blanket, which had become rumpled during Mr. Sawyer’s examination. As she smoothed it over Mrs. Clay’s abdomen, the patient released another soft moan.

  Mrs. Harville stopped mid-motion and frowned. Pushing aside the blanket, she placed her hand firmly on Mrs. Clay’s belly. Her expression of concentration alarmed Elizabeth, who crossed and placed her own hand beside Mrs. Harville’s.

  Time seemed to creep as she waited for the baby to signal her again, but in fact little more than a minute passed. This time, however, she did not feel a kick, but a hard tightening. She met Mrs. Harville’s gaze, and saw that she had recognized it, also.

  “Is she—”

  Mrs. Harville nodded. “Mr. Sawyer, I believe Mrs. Clay has begun to labor.”

  Five

  Mrs. Hall of Sherbourn was brought to bed yesterday of a dead child, some weeks before she expected, oweing [sic] to a fright.

  —Jane Austen, letter to her sister, Cassandra, 1799

  As birthing chambers are no place for gentlemen, Darcy and Mr. Elliot quit the bedroom directly. Their adjournment to the main sitting room, however, afforded Mrs. Clay and her attendants little privacy, and the gentlemen little relief from noises and other signals of the trial so near. Moreover, as Mrs. Harville had pressed all able female hands—namely, her maid and Elizabeth—into service to assist Mr. Sawyer with the lying-in, the gentlemen found themselves left with Caleb and two smaller sprites whom Darcy guessed to be five and two.

  “Who are you?” the five-year-old asked.

  “Two gentlemen come to call,” Mr. Elliot replied. “Pray, do not stare so.” He shifted under their continued scrutiny. “I cannot believe their mother countenances such impertinence,” he muttered.

  Though the children’s curiosity was poorly concealed, Darcy considered it natural. He and Mr. Elliot—not to mention the laboring woman in the next room—were, after all, strangers in the boys’ home, and their arrival had been dramatic. He supposed, however, that anxiety for Mrs. Clay and the physical discomfort of damp clothes left Mr. Elliot little patience for conversation with young children. Darcy himself could have done without their surveillance at present.

  “As we can be of no use,” Mr. Elliot said, “I shall retreat to my lodgings.”

  Darcy regarded him with surprise. “You are going?”

  “The rain has diminished, and I want to change into dry clothing. I will return later to enquire after Mrs. Clay.”

  Mr. Elliot seemed curiously detached from Mrs. Clay’s plight. From his demeanor, his connexion to her would seem a slight acquaintance, yet the dockworker had suggested a much more intimate relationship between the pair. Darcy could not help but wonder whose baby Mrs. Clay was about to deliver. Mr. Elliot had implied to Elizabeth that the child belonged to the late Mr. Clay. Had the dockworker presumed too much, on too little intelligence? Darcy was not inclined to invest a great deal of credibility in the speculations of a man with more tattoos than teeth, and so withheld judgment. “If you are wanted before then, where might I find you?”

  “In Broad Street, at the inn.”

  With that, Mr. Elliot was gone.

  * * *

  Elizabeth pushed hair away from her damp forehead with the back of her hand. It was warm in the room, almost intolerably so, and the maid had just banked the fire with more wood. The heat mixed with the scents of perspiration and blood and other effusions to create a heavy musk that gave rise to memories of her own lying-in and other births she had attended, including that of Darcy’s cousin Anne Fitzwilliam little over a month ago. Anne’s lying-in, however, seemed a world away from this one. Though not of especially robust constitution, Anne had at least been a conscious, active participant in the proceedings, awake to not only the travail but also the joy of presenting a healthy son to her husband once the ordeal ended. She had rapidly recovered her strength, and the Darcys had left the new family a happy threesome.

  Mrs. Clay, however, hovered on the edge of awareness. Due to her accident, the baby was coming quickly. Her distressed countenance and the soft moans that heralded each contraction revealed that she felt pain, but she remained insensible to every attempt to speak to her.

  Once, Mrs. Clay had roused enough that, at Mr. Sawyer’s direction, Elizabeth and Mrs. Harville had raised her to a sitting position, supporting her through a contraction and urging her to push. Mrs. Clay had opened eyes that appeared filled with confusion. As the pain receded, Mrs. Clay met Elizabeth’s gaze. “Pushed.”

  “You did a fine job, dear,” Mrs. Harville replied. “Stay awake with us now, and help with the next one.”

  “No—I … before…” She closed her eyes and brought a hand to her head. “Pushed…” She lost consciousness again.

  Mr. Sawyer, his expression grim, withdrew a set of forceps and other medical instruments from his bag. “Her pains are coming so rapidly now, it will not be long.”

  “Another pain is starting already,” said Mrs. Harville, whose hand was on Mrs. Clay’s abdomen. “The child is coming now.”

  * * *

  Caleb, Adam, and Ben. Those were the names of the Harvilles’ children, though Darcy was begun to think the elder two would have been better named Cain and Abel. Though of good dispositions, they competed fiercely: whose turn it was to sit on the tallest stool; who had played with the bilbocatch longer; and most especially, who could command the greater portion of Darcy’s attention. The youngest, meanwhile, had stationed himself immediately outside the bedroom door, where he called alternately for his mother or the maid.

  When the bedroom door opened, Darcy hoped to see Elizabeth emerge. Instead, it was the maid, so full of purpose that she did not pause to share any news, only retrieved additional linens and hurried back into the bedroom. Anxiety evident in her every movement, she did not even notice that the youngest child, Ben, trailed after her, and she unknowingly shut the door in the little boy’s face.

  The toddler erupted in tears.

  Darcy picked up the child, who burrowed his sniffling nose into Darcy’s shoulder. Between the rain and the toddler, his new serge coat would never recover.

  Thankfully, their father soon appeared. Captain Harville stood a few inches taller than Darcy, with dark hair and a face weathered by the sea. Despite his rough features, he had a kind face and genial manner. He walked with a slow limp.

  The boys greeted their father with the exciting news that they once more had a lady with a head injury receiving treatment in their home. When they paused for breath, Darcy introduced himself. Captain Harville listened soberly as Darcy summarized Mrs. Clay’s accident on the Cobb, how he and Elizabeth had come to bring her to Harville’s cottage, and what he knew of Mrs. Clay’s present condition. He omitted the questiona
ble nature of the woman’s connexion to Mr. Elliot.

  “Mrs. Clay could ask for no better care than what she is receiving from Mrs. Harville and Mr. Sawyer,” the captain said.

  A tiny cry from the next room announced that Mrs. Clay’s travail had ended. Darcy was heartened by the sound; the infant had survived its mother’s fall and its own birth. Captain Harville grinned. “What did I tell you? All is well.”

  Several minutes later, Elizabeth emerged from the bedroom. Darcy expected her countenance to reflect relief and cheer, but her face was drawn, her manner grave. Her gaze swept the room—not a lengthy process in the confined space. Her resulting frown indicated she had not found what she sought. She crossed to Darcy, acknowledged Captain Harville, and enquired after Mr. Elliot.

  “He is gone back to his lodgings and will return later,” Darcy said. “He did, however, leave his direction. Does Mrs. Clay ask for him?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. In the bedroom, the newborn renewed its cry. The sound seemed to settle on Elizabeth’s shoulders like a heavy weight.

  “Mrs. Clay is dead.”

  Six

  A Mr. (save, perhaps, some half-dozen in the nation) always needs a note of explanation.

  —Persuasion

  It was with heavy steps and a heavier heart that Elizabeth climbed the sharp incline of Lyme’s main thoroughfare. The strain of the morning’s events made it hard for her to believe that it was now only early afternoon. After powerlessly witnessing Mrs. Clay’s death in childbirth, she wanted nothing more than to return to her own lodgings and hold her own child. However, Mrs. Clay’s next of kin must be notified without delay, and provisions made for the care of the new son she left behind.

  Broad Street, she and Darcy learned from the Harvilles, held multiple inns. As Mr. Elliot had not specified which one enjoyed his patronage, Mrs. Harville suggested the Darcys seek him at the Lion or the Three Cups, two of Lyme’s finer establishments. They went first to the Three Cups, where the innkeeper confirmed that he had a guest by the name of Elliot.