The Deception at Lyme Read online

  They were directed to a room on the second floor. The manservant who answered the door did his professional best to conceal his appraisal of their appearance. Though Elizabeth had changed back into her own gown and Darcy’s coat had dried, they both had a rather sodden, weary look about them. When Darcy gave their names and asked for Mr. Elliot, the servant stiffly replied that he would see whether the baronet was at home, and left them standing in the hall while he disappeared into the apartment.

  Of course, the servant knew whether his master was within; “at home” was a tacit code in better society for “receiving visitors”—or, depending upon the particular visitors, “receiving you.” What puzzled Elizabeth was not the possibility that Mr. Elliot had somehow become lost in a small inn chamber, but the manner in which the servant had referred to his employer.

  “You did not tell me that Elliot is a baronet,” she said to Darcy.

  “He did not tell me,” Darcy replied. “I wonder that he did not introduce himself properly.”

  From within, they heard a lofty male voice. “Mr. Darcy? Who is this Mister Darcy? Is he a gentleman?”

  The voice was unfamiliar. Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. “I fear we have disturbed the wrong Elliot.”

  Though it seemed their luck could not turn any worse this day, Elizabeth harbored hope. “Perhaps he is a relation of our Mr. Elliot?”

  A moment later the servant returned. “Sir Walter is not at home.”

  As the servant began to close the door, Elizabeth said quickly, “Pray, advise Sir Walter that we have news regarding Mrs. Clay.”

  “Mrs. Clay?” said the voice within.

  Mention of the unfortunate woman won them entrée. Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves in a small but superiorly appointed sitting room, being assessed by a gentleman who indeed bore resemblance to the Mr. Elliot they had met earlier. This man, however, was older, of their parents’ generation, but more fashionably dressed than many gentlemen half his age. He was a fine-looking man, well preserved, with a complexion any woman would envy and not a hair astray on his powdered head. Soft white hands with neatly trimmed fingernails rested on crossed forearms as he studied Elizabeth and Darcy.

  A younger woman was also present. Elizabeth guessed her to be at most thirty, but yet quite handsome—and she held herself with the air of a lady who knows she is handsome. She did not rise, but remained seated stiffly. Her impassive gaze took Elizabeth’s measure. After a minute, a slight nod of greeting indicated that she had tentatively judged Mrs. Darcy acceptable.

  “You seem a decent fellow, by the look of you,” Sir Walter pronounced. “Mr. Darcy, is it? One meets all manner of individuals in a watering-place, Mr. Darcy. Where is your home?”

  “Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”

  “Derbyshire! How unfortunate. I hear it is ghastly cold in the Peaks during winter. Frigid air is brutal on one’s complexion—though yours seems to be holding up. You must spend your winters in town.”

  “Occasionally,” Darcy said. “In truth, however, I prefer to spend them at home.”

  The gentleman regarded Darcy as if he were addled. “Well,” he said finally, “I suppose there must be some appeal in Derbyshire, if only that the Duke of Devonshire resides there. I do not suppose you are acquainted with him?”

  “Devonshire is one of my closest neighbors. We dine at Chatsworth regularly when he is at home.”

  “Do you?” This connexion to one of England’s most influential peers—a personal friend of the Prince Regent—appeared to considerably raise Darcy in Sir Walter’s estimation. The fact that it did, lowered Sir Walter in Elizabeth’s.

  “Yes, and His Grace dines with us at Pemberley,” Elizabeth said. She turned to Darcy. “When was the last time we had him to dinner? Was it when your cousin, the Earl of Southwell, came to visit?”

  Neither Elizabeth nor Darcy were given to boasting of their titled acquaintances; indeed, they loathed the practice in others. She wanted to determine just how important their connexions were to the Elliots.

  “I believe it was,” Darcy said. She could read in the expression of his eyes that he understood what she was about.

  At this admission, the lady in the armchair took far more interest in both Darcys. “The Earl of Southwell!” A meaningful look passed between her and Sir Walter.

  “Forgive me,” Sir Walter said. “I have just realized that I neglected to introduce you to my daughter, Miss Elliot.”

  Miss Elliot was now all graciousness. “If the earl is your cousin, then I believe another relation of yours is our neighbor in Bath. Our house in Camden Place adjoins the one Lady Catherine de Bourgh takes each autumn.”

  “Lady Catherine is my aunt.”

  Elizabeth attempted to imagine how Sir Walter and Lady Catherine got on as neighbors. Were the pair attracted to each other’s pride, or did similarity breed contempt? Even the finest Bath town houses could contain only so much vanity.

  The confirmation of Darcy’s possessing yet a third titled connexion sent the Elliots into raptures. “Do sit down,” Miss Elliot exhorted. “May we offer you tea?”

  Elizabeth wondered whether a quiz regarding her relations would follow. As much as she would take perverse pleasure in revealing her own grand connexions to a country attorney, a London merchant, and a ne’er-do-well militia officer, the day’s events had left her with neither inclination nor patience for idle conversation with strangers. She and Darcy had come on serious business, and they must return to it. “Perhaps another time.”

  Sir Walter mistook their decline of hospitality for disdain. “With connexions such as yours, you are no doubt used to finer surroundings than these,” he said quickly. “I assure you, our occupancy of this inn is but temporary, until we secure more suitable lodgings. When my physician recommended seabathing, we traveled here directly to follow his advice. By this day week, we hope to be established in a style commensurate with that to which we are accustomed—not only at our house in Camden Place, but our family home, Kellynch Hall in Somersetshire.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Darcy said. “We decline only because it seems we have intruded upon you accidentally. We seek a different Mr. Elliot whom we met earlier today, to deliver pressing news. We understood him to be staying at this inn. Is there another gentleman among your party?”

  “No,” he said coldly. “If you mean Mr. William Elliot, my cousin is not part of our company. You will find him at the Lion. However, you told my servant that your news regarded Mrs. Clay. We are acquainted with that lady. What do you know of her?”

  “We are sorry to bear unhappy news, but Mrs. Clay suffered an accident this morning.”

  Sir Walter appeared confused by Darcy’s announcement. “An accident? Where?”

  “On the Cobb,” Elizabeth said.

  He looked at his daughter. “I thought she was in her room. Have you not checked on her today?”

  “Have not you?”

  Sir Walter scowled. “If this is how she intends to conduct herself—” He broke off, aware once more of his audience. “Well, I hope this incident has made her realize that she cannot gad about as she used to.”

  “Sir Walter,” Elizabeth said calmly, trying to ease him into the news she was about to deliver, “Mrs. Clay fell and injured her head. The surgeon offered what treatment he could, but…” She paused, allowing Sir Walter and Miss Elliot a moment to fortify themselves. “Mrs. Clay did not survive.”

  Sir Walter appeared stricken. He stared at Elizabeth, then looked to Darcy for confirmation. At Darcy’s nod, he turned away and uttered a soft oath.

  Miss Elliot was emotionless. “I presume the child died, as well?”

  “No, that is the good news—if anything good can be considered to have come out of this sad event. She lived long enough to deliver the child.”

  Sir Walter recovered himself. “Is it a boy?”

  “Yes. And healthy, as best one can determine.”

  “A boy,” Sir Walter repeated.

  “We must find
your cousin,” Elizabeth said. “I expect he will want to know this news.”

  Sir Walter stood. “The boy, and his mother’s death, are none of Mr. Elliot’s concern.”

  “But we understood Mr. Elliot to be … well acquainted with Mrs. Clay.”

  “Her name was no longer Mrs. Clay.” Sir Walter stepped to a small pier table, opened a silver snuffbox that had been lying atop it, and took a pinch. “She was Lady Elliot. My wife.”

  Seven

  Miss Blachford is married, but I have never seen it in the Papers. And one may as well be single if the Wedding is not to be in print.

  —Jane Austen, letter to her niece Anna Lefroy, 1815

  Elizabeth struggled to overcome her astonishment. If Mrs. Clay was in fact Lady Elliot, why had the other Mr. Elliot—Mr. William Elliot—not referred to her by her proper name, nor directed them to Sir Walter the moment he learned of the accident? And why had Mr. Elliot said she was under his protection, when she had a husband?

  “Allow us to extend our condolences, sir,” Elizabeth stammered, “and pray forgive our ignorance. We understood Mrs. Clay—pardon me, Lady Elliot—to be a widow.”

  “We are but recently wed—last night, in fact.” Sir Walter set the snuffbox back on the pier table and assessed his appearance in the glass that hung above it. “By special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, of course.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth echoed. Because special licenses required a fee and were issued only to persons of a certain station, they were sometimes obtained even if the couple did not need the dispensations they granted to perform the marriage ceremony wherever and whenever convenient, without the necessity of crying banns or marrying in either party’s home parish. It was not unheard of to secure a special license merely to show that one had the money and connexions to do so.

  Sir Walter smoothed his velvet lapels. “I must order mourning clothes posthaste,” he said more to himself than to anyone in particular. “A pity—my tailor just finished this coat.” He summoned his servant, directed him to find a reliable local tailor, then turned back to the Darcys. “Now, where can the new Elliot heir be found?”

  “He is at the home of Captain and Mrs. Harville, who took in Lady Elliot after her accident while the surgeon attended her.”

  “Naval people.” Sir Walter sighed. “One cannot go anywhere in Lyme without encountering them. At least this Harville fellow is a captain. Where is the house? Uptown, I hope?”

  “No, on the waterfront, in Cobb Hamlet.” At Sir Walter’s horrified expression, Elizabeth hastily added, “They appear a perfectly respectable family. I believe Mrs. Harville mentioned an acquaintance with two of your daughters.”

  “Naturally, they would boast of the connexion. My daughter Anne married a naval captain, Frederick Wentworth. He did well for himself during the war, and has friends among the Admiralty. His brother-in-law is an admiral—Admiral Croft.” The baronet sighed again. “If a naval person must enter the family, one connected to an admiral is tolerable. Fortunately, Captain Wentworth is a decent-looking man, as far as sailors go. The elements have not completely destroyed his complexion, though he does look more roughened than he once did.” He turned to his daughter. “Are Anne and her husband still guests of the Crofts?”

  “No, they have taken a house here in Lyme. That widow friend of hers, Mrs. Smith, is staying with them, so I have not yet advised Anne of our being in town—we would not want to give the mistaken impression of bestowing notice on Mrs. Smith.”

  Elizabeth wondered that Sir Walter wanted to discuss his son-in-law’s complexion and living arrangements immediately after receiving news of his wife’s death, but she supposed the shock of bereavement scattered his attention. She tried to redirect him to the duties now at hand. “We would be happy to accompany you to the Harvilles’ home.”

  “I would never visit such a house. My servant can collect the child.”

  After he collected the tailor? Were she Sir Walter, or even Miss Elliot, Elizabeth would not lose a moment retrieving that baby herself, no matter where he was. And what about poor Lady Elliot? “I thought you might wish to see your late wife or meet the people who cared for her in her final hours.”

  “Also,” Darcy added, “arrangements must be made.”

  “Financial arrangements? The surgeon can direct his bill to my attorney, Mr. Shepherd. He is presently in Lyme, having come to handle matters related to the marriage.”

  “I meant funeral arrangements.”

  “Of course—an undertaker. There must be someone local who can handle the necessities.”

  “Perhaps the surgeon or the Harvilles can offer a recommendation.”

  “Life at sea so ages one that I expect these Harville people have acquaintances expiring all the time. I defy you to show me any sea officer who does not look at least twice his age, and I would wager this Captain Harville is no exception. I suppose they also expect some consideration for their trouble?”

  “I do not believe so,” Elizabeth said. “They acted out of kindness.” She thought of the modest house, barely large enough to contain the Harvilles’ three young boys, and of the captain’s limp. The new peace had put many naval officers out of work; she doubted an injured one was still drawing full pay. “Though an expression of gratitude might not be unwelcome, were you so moved.”

  “I shall consult Mr. Shepherd on the matter. Claiming my son is the first order of business.”

  “When we left them, Mrs. Harville was making enquiries toward procuring a wet nurse.”

  “My daughter will see to that.”

  Miss Elliot started in surprise. “What do I know of wet nurses?” Her expression could not have been more appalled had her father suggested she nurse the infant herself. Elizabeth doubted the hard-edged spinster possessed a single maternal instinct.

  “Engaging a nurse cannot far differ from hiring any other type of servant,” Sir Walter said, “and I know you will ensure we retain a woman of proper character.”

  “Given the urgent nature of your search, you will be fortunate to find any wet nurse available with no notice,” Elizabeth said. “You might reconsider availing yourself of Mrs. Harville’s experience and local connexions.”

  “Nursing the Elliot heir is a privilege. We shall have no shortage of applicants.”

  Privilege or no, hiring a wet nurse was a challenging business even under the best of circumstances; the most reliable ones were engaged well in advance, timing the weaning of one charge with the birth of the next. Given the urgency of Sir Walter’s situation, he would be fortunate to locate one at all. Elizabeth, however, did not think it her place to explain the nuances of the process to Sir Walter, nor did she harbor great expectations of any such attempt penetrating his vain mind.

  She made one last, valiant effort to guide him, not for his own benefit, but that of the helpless infant now entirely dependent upon his judgment. “Boarding the child out would likely increase the pool of candidates.”

  “We most certainly will,” declared Miss Elliot.

  “We most certainly will not,” said Sir Walter.

  Though Miss Elliot’s vexation with her father was apparent, her tone was restrained. “We do not have space for an infant and nurse here, nor at our lodgings in Bath when we return.”

  “The Elliot heir will not spend the first year of his life living with a family of such ignoble origins that they make ends meet by the wife’s nursing a passel of other people’s children like a common dairy cow. He will have his own nurse, in his own home, as did you and your sisters.”

  Miss Elliot gestured about her. “Where is the nursery to be? This is not Kellynch Hall.”

  Sir Walter sighed heavily. “I must speak to Mr. Shepherd about this alteration in circumstances. It was all very well for us to reside in Bath this past year, but now that I have a son, we should return to the ancestral Elliot home.”

  Elizabeth hoped for everyone’s sake—most particularly the child’s—that Mrs. Harville’s efforts
had proved successful, and that by the time Sir Walter’s servant collected the celebrated “Elliot heir,” the matter of hiring a wet nurse would be a fait accompli.

  She had experienced enough of Sir Walter and his daughter; she wanted nothing more than to complete their melancholy errands and end this wretched day. Sensing that Darcy was of similar mind, she tactfully brought the meeting to an end. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot escorted them to the door, full of expressions of pleasure in having made their acquaintance.

  And not at all overcome by grief.

  Once on the street, Darcy offered his arm, which Elizabeth accepted as they continued up the hill. “That was certainly not the meeting I anticipated,” he said.

  “That was not even the person we anticipated meeting.”

  “I cannot say I feel improved by the acquaintance.”

  “Nor I,” she replied. “I had pitied Lady Elliot for having drawn her last breath among strangers, but now I believe she found more sympathy in Mrs. Harville’s home than she would have known in her own husband’s. When I die, I hope you take more interest in the event itself than in the modifications it will impose upon your attire.”

  “It does appear that the Elliots’ marriage was not a match of affection.”

  “How could it be, with Sir Walter already deeply in love with himself?” Elizabeth knew that many people married for reasons other than romantic attachment—her friend Charlotte Collins offered a prime example. But even Mr. Collins would pause to mourn his wife’s passing before hastening to Rosings with the news.

  “Did you notice that Sir Walter did not enquire into any particulars of his wife’s death?” she asked. “Whether her last moments were peaceful? Whether she died knowing that she had given him the son he so obviously wanted? His thoughts and words focused entirely on his connexions, his social status, his heir—as if the child had been created in a fine London shop and delivered by coach, not by a woman who died in the process.” She released a sound of disgust. “Sir Walter and his daughter seemed no more affected by Lady Elliot’s death than they would have been by a housemaid who quit her post after completing the day’s dusting.”