The Deception at Lyme Read online

  “Well,” he said, “this is a happy coincidence.”

  “Indeed.” Darcy had not decided yet whether “happy” was the term he would use, though St. Clair’s quick-thinking aid with Mrs. Clay had raised him higher in Darcy’s regard. Darcy gestured toward the sea chest. “Please, let me relieve you of your burden.”

  He moved forward to assist St. Clair, but the sailor set the chest onto the floor in an easy motion. “It is no burden, I assure you. I only regret that I have been unable to deliver it before now.”

  “We appreciate your having kept it in your custody all this while.”

  “That commission has been my privilege.” The officer’s manner was all that any bereaved family member could wish from an emissary of the service for which his cousin had given his life.

  Darcy made the proper introductions between St. Clair and the ladies, whom the lieutenant acknowledged with a bow.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you on more stable ground, Miss Darcy.” The allusion to Georgiana’s slip on the steps brought color to her cheeks. “I trust you suffered no ill effects from our first meeting?”

  “I am quite well, thank you.” Despite her evident self-consciousness, Georgiana answered with composure, even offering him a faint smile.

  “I am relieved to hear it.” The lieutenant’s gaze rested on her a moment more before turning to Darcy. “Had I known during our previous encounters that you were the party I was engaged to meet tonight, I would have taken the liberty of introducing myself before now.”

  “All of our thoughts were occupied by more pressing concerns this morning,” Darcy replied.

  “They were, indeed. I regret that our rescue efforts proved insufficient to save Mrs. Clay. When I called upon the Harvilles this afternoon to enquire after her, they told me her fate. At least, however, the child survives. Is he yet with the Harvilles?”

  “No, with his father,” Elizabeth said. “Sir Walter Elliot.”

  “Sir Walter? I understood Mrs. Clay to be under the protection of a Mr. William Elliot.”

  “It seems to have been a rather complicated state of affairs,” Darcy said.

  “We are grateful that you came along on the Cobb when you did,” Elizabeth added, “else I do not know how we would have found a safe place where Mrs. Clay—Lady Elliot—could deliver her child, let alone have transported her there. Did you simply happen upon us, or did you witness the accident?”

  “As I approached the quay, I saw her on the ground, with you attending her.”

  Disappointment crossed Elizabeth’s countenance. Darcy, too, wished that Lieutenant St. Clair had been able to put to rest her doubts regarding the cause of the accident.

  “I assumed at the time that she was of your party,” St. Clair continued, “though I later realized that you were merely passers-by, like myself. How did she come to injury? I expect she fell from the upper wall, or descending the steps?”

  “We do not ourselves know with certainty,” Darcy replied. “We had seen her on the upper wall not long before, but paid her little mind. After lightning struck the merchant ship, we took the far steps to lower ground and found her as she was when you arrived.”

  “When you saw her before the accident, was anyone with her?”

  “No.” It now struck Darcy as odd that Lady Elliot had been on the Cobb unescorted. Propriety dictated that women of her status did not roam public streets unaccompanied, let alone in such a delicate condition.

  “I suppose, then, that we shall never know the particulars,” St. Clair said.

  “Nor will her child,” Georgiana said softly. Until now, she had followed the conversation in silence. Like the rest of them, she wore a sober expression—they spoke of a tragic matter, after all—yet hers held something more, and Darcy suspected what might occupy his sister’s thoughts. Their own mother had died within hours of giving birth to Georgiana. The circumstances had been far different—she had died peacefully, in her own bed, their father at her side—but Georgiana possessed a heart that could not help but empathize with the baby Lady Elliot left behind.

  A change of subject was in order. “Will you take a glass of wine with us, Lieutenant?” Darcy asked. “We would very much like to hear about your voyages with my cousin, if you would be so generous as to indulge us.”

  Elizabeth, too, recognized the need to shift the mood. “Yes—please sit down.” She gestured toward an armchair. “We have been looking forward to this meeting.”

  As Darcy signaled a footman to bring wine, Elizabeth and Georgiana settled on the sofa. Lieutenant St. Clair did not take the chair that Elizabeth had indicated, but one opposite it—a chair with no arms that could interfere with the sword hanging at his side. The seat also put the officer closer to Georgiana.

  Georgiana cast off the melancholy that had temporarily claimed her and addressed Lieutenant St. Clair with the attentiveness due a guest. “You mentioned in your letter that you are recently returned from the West Indies,” she said. “Have you spent much time in that part of the world?”

  “Most of my career.” St. Clair accepted a wineglass from the servant. “I first sailed there as a midshipman under Captain Croft—Admiral Croft, now—and returned many times. As you know, that was the destination of the Magna Carta, the ship on which I served with Lieutenant Fitzwilliam.”

  “That was his first voyage across the Atlantic.” Darcy’s gaze strayed to the sea chest as he took the chair nearest it. The small trunk elicited in him feelings of both curiosity and sorrow. Gerard had died much too young, his naval career barely begun. The contents of the chest were all that remained of his service to the Royal Navy, and Lieutenant St. Clair, one of few people—the only one Darcy had personally met—who had known that side of him. “Were you well acquainted with my cousin?”

  “Fairly well. As you might imagine, living for months in the confines of a ship rather restricts one’s society, and the higher an officer’s rank, the fewer his equals. The Magna Carta had a complement of nearly three hundred fifty, but of that number only a handful were commissioned officers. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam had just been made, and so was the most junior lieutenant. As first lieutenant, I took him under my wing, though he needed my guidance in few matters. By the time we left Jamaica on our return voyage, I relied upon him as confidently as I did the other lieutenants. More so, in some instances.”

  “Why is that?” Elizabeth asked.

  “He was quick-minded, brave but not foolhardy, loyal to the navy and proud to be serving His Majesty. He reminded me of myself not too many years earlier. Indeed, we had much in common—both younger sons making our own way in the world, and determined to make our fortunes in the process.”

  Lieutenant St. Clair shared several stories of Gerard, tales that rekindled Darcy’s memories of his cousin’s integrity, intelligence, and good humor, while also casting him in new light. Darcy found it revealing to hear someone so close to him described by a stranger.

  Darcy’s gaze drifted to Georgiana. But fifteen when she had last seen Gerard, she had been so proud of her older cousin—proud of his dedication to the service, his sense of honor and duty, the fine appearance he presented in navy blue. It was little wonder that shortly afterward she had fallen prey to the reprehensible George Wickham, another lifelong acquaintance who looked dashing in uniform. She had learned, nearly too late, that impeccable regimentals cannot dress up a scheming, selfish soul.

  The conversation ebbed temporarily, one of those quiet pauses when new acquaintances are unsure where the discussion should next lead. It was Georgiana who broke the silence.

  “We were told that Gerard died in action,” she said. “I have always wondered about the particulars.”

  “He died bravely,” Lieutenant St. Clair said. “We were escorting two merchant ships back to England when we encountered a French frigate—the Dangereuse—traveling with a sloop of war. Her cannons crippled our rigging, but when her boarding party breached our deck, they found us rather disinclined to surrender. We force
d them to retreat, but Lieutenant Fitzwilliam took a pistol ball during the melee.”

  Darcy knew St. Clair was leaving much unsaid. War was a brutal business; Andrew St. Clair and Gerard Fitzwilliam had lived the violence merely summarized in the battle accounts published for public consumption in the Naval Chronicle. While Darcy appreciated the officer’s discretion—the horrors of battle were no subject for ladies’ ears—he himself longed to hear more. He had no taste for gore; rather, he wanted to fully understand his cousin’s final moments. For all of Darcy’s responsibilities, many of them settled upon him at an early age, his own life seemed sheltered and safe compared to Gerard’s and that of Colonel Fitzwilliam. Darcy had faced danger, but only when it came looking for him—he had not deliberately committed himself to a profession that actively sought it, as his two cousins had.

  “Did Gerard suffer a great deal of pain?” Georgiana asked.

  “I did not see him take the shot; I came upon him afterward. By that time he had lost consciousness. A seaman and I carried him down to the surgeon, but we had scarcely laid him on the table when he died.” He paused. “This may seem small consolation, Miss Darcy, but the final expression of his countenance was peaceful, so I believe he was insensible to pain at the end.”

  “I was under the impression that my cousin’s request to you regarding his sea chest had been a deathbed wish,” Darcy said.

  “No, he had asked me some time earlier, after we lost two of our midshipmen in another engagement, and a number of seamen to fever, all within a se’nnight. Ours is a hazardous profession, and we try not to dwell upon its risks, but the spectre of death does hover, and after a week of seeing dead crewmen’s belongings sold before the mast, the possibility of an untimely demise was much on everyone’s minds. An officer’s belongings, of course, are not subject to such an auction, but Lieutenant Fitzwilliam asked me, should he perish at sea, to personally convey his sea chest to his family were it within my power to do so, rather than leave it to be transported by unknown personnel with the rest of his effects. It was a promise I readily gave, and regret that duty prevented me from carrying through until now. I appreciate your meeting me here in Lyme, though I gladly would have traveled to Buckinghamshire to deliver the chest to the earl.”

  It was just as well that Darcy’s travel plans had coincided with Lieutenant St. Clair’s arrival in Lyme, for the Earl of Southwell—Darcy’s eldest Fitzwilliam cousin—was not the most tactful individual, nor did he hold the navy in particularly high regard following his youngest brother’s death. His reaction upon receiving Gerard’s sword and other effects forwarded by the navy had been acrimonious; Darcy winced to think of what Southwell might have said to Lieutenant St. Clair upon receiving the chest in person.

  “It is amazing to me that you have been so long from England,” Georgiana said. “Is it usual for a ship to be away for such an extended period, even during war?”

  “I have served on numerous ships,” St. Clair said, “and been appointed to them at the will and convenience of the Admiralty. Some of the transfers occurred in foreign ports; on other occasions my new ship was leaving so soon upon the arrival of my former that there was no time for shore leave.”

  “You must be grateful, then, to finally stand on English soil once more,” Elizabeth said.

  “I am, indeed.” He set his wineglass on a side table. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy, Miss Darcy—I appreciate your kind interest in my history, but no doubt you would much rather examine the accoutrements of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s career than politely endure an account of mine.”

  “I assure you, our interest is not feigned,” Elizabeth said. “But if you have another engagement…?”

  “I am entirely at your disposal, madam.”

  “Then I beg leave to quiz you awhile longer, for we have no other acquaintance in the navy, and are intrigued by that life.”

  “I shall do my best to offer intelligible replies. However, my society has been limited to shipmates for so long that I cannot guarantee conversation worthy of such fair company.”

  “You have acquitted yourself perfectly well thus far,” Elizabeth assured him. “Now, do present duties bring you to Lyme, or are you here by choice?” Though Lyme boasted a shipyard, it was not a naval base. The navy, however, maintained a presence along the entire south coast. Lyme appeared to have a higher naval population than Darcy had anticipated; he had also seen a number of marines.

  “I expect to remain here until joining another ship.” St. Clair glanced at Gerard’s sea chest. “And when I do, I imagine I shall feel strange not bringing that chest aboard with my own possessions. After traversing the world together, at least one of us is finally where it belongs.”

  “I can scarcely comprehend the distances you have traveled,” Georgiana said. “Lyme is as far as I have ever journeyed from home.”

  Darcy regretted the truth of that fact. His sister’s life had been more circumscribed than he would have wished for her, and as her guardian he felt keenly this gap in her education. Georgiana longed to see more of the world; for that matter, so did he. However, circumstances beyond any individual’s control had prevented fulfillment of that desire. Though the rest of Europe stood but a brief sail across the Channel, politics had created a vast gulf that made travel difficult and dangerous. England had been at war with France for most of Darcy’s life and all of Georgiana’s, and the hostilities had encompassed other countries, as well. Gone were the years when a young gentleman’s Grand Tour marked his coming of age, or when a lady might visit Paris to acquire the latest fashions. While a few intrepid individuals yet traveled for pleasure, most foreign journeys were undertaken by necessity, as Darcy’s rare trips had been.

  Napoleon’s recent defeat, however, had made the seas safer and travel possible once more. He hoped, after the political climate stabilized further, to take his family to the Continent. Elizabeth and Georgiana both possessed natural curiosity and strong intellects that would be stimulated by exposure to the art, music, and culture of other countries, and even Lily-Anne, young as she was, would benefit.

  “Now that England is at peace, perhaps we shall travel abroad,” Darcy said.

  “Truly?” Georgiana’s eyes lit at the prospect. Elizabeth, too, appeared very pleased by the suggestion.

  His sister was still smiling when she turned back to Lieutenant St. Clair. “My brother knows how much I would enjoy that. I have long wanted to visit other places, to see people and landscapes and buildings I have only read about. Has your naval service taken you to the Continent?”

  “Which one?” he asked in good humor. “I have seen more of the American continents than ‘the’ continent of Europe. Most of my time in the New World, however, has been spent among the islands.”

  “I have not read as much about the New World as the Old,” Georgiana confessed. “What do they look like—the West Indies?”

  “Like no other place you have seen. The sea is different there—not the cold grey of the Channel, but warm and bright—vibrant blues and greens.” His own eyes lit with his subject. “All colors seem more brilliant, in fact—perhaps it comes from being so close to the equator.”

  “I had always envisioned that part of the world as quite wild,” Georgiana said, “but you make it sound enchanting.”

  “It is both. Parts of the islands do remain untamed, and even the civilized areas have their less pleasant sides. Though the commerce of slavery has been abolished, many of the plantations still use slaves to work in the fields and great houses, a condition that it troubles me to behold. Yet the islands possess a beauty of their own, one very unlike England’s and which I have grown to admire as much as that of my native land. If you ever have the chance, Miss Darcy, you should see them with your own eyes. My poor description cannot begin to do them justice.”

  “Your description is not poor at all, for it has certainly engaged my imagination and made me wish I could view them myself. However, I doubt very much that such an opportunity will ever come along
.”

  “If it does,” he said lightly, “and we ever have the fortune to meet again, you must tell me how you liked them.”

  Their visitor rose. “It has been an honor to conduct Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s chest to you, and to formally make your acquaintance. But I shall depart now, so that you can open the chest in private.” He glanced at the chest once more, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped a smudge off the escutcheon. “You will be able to open it, will you not? That is a very clever lock. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam never revealed its code to me.”

  A letter lock secured the hasp; it had been the suggestion of Gerard’s father to avoid the risk of losing a key in the course of many long voyages—and so that, should the unthinkable occur, his family could open the chest under these very circumstances. The late earl had predeceased his youngest son, and so never knew how prescient his advice had been.

  “I know the lock combination,” Darcy said. Colonel Fitzwilliam had shared it with him. It was the late earl’s name: HUGH.

  Lieutenant St. Clair nodded. “I assume the chest contains the typical items of a sea officer. Should you discover anything unfamiliar that sparks your curiosity—navigational equipment, perhaps, or some souvenir of the West Indies—I would consider it an honor to call upon you again to explain it.”

  They thanked him, and the officer took his leave. When he had gone, Elizabeth turned to Darcy. “I found him perfectly agreeable,” she declared. “A gentleman in all respects.”

  “It was kind of him to stay and talk with us about Gerard for so long,” Georgiana added.

  Darcy conceded that it had been a pleasant evening, even if Lieutenant St. Clair had paid a bit more attention to Georgiana than Darcy liked. However, he was now anxious to conclude it by having a look inside the sea chest. Elizabeth and Georgiana were equally curious, and the three of them gathered round it.

  This weathered box of wood and iron had accompanied Gerard from the time he was first made a midshipman; it had traveled across oceans with him, and in the earliest days of his naval career had contained every personal possession he had aboard. The silver escutcheon on its leather-covered lid declared its owner’s name— G. Fitzwilliam—in engraved script. The plate shone so brightly against the darkened leather that Lieutenant St. Clair must have polished it before bringing the trunk to them.