“I have.”
“See! Everybody here bathes—everybody except me! Why should I be deprived simply because my husband does not like it? This is always my lot! Whenever there is something desirable going on, I am sure to be excluded.”
“Our father goes only because Mr. Edwards urges him,” Anne said.
“I do not think I like this new physician of his. He has our father suddenly fearing that he is halfway to his grave. That is the only reason he married Mrs. Clay, you know.”
“Mary,” Anne said emphatically, casting a pointed look in Elizabeth’s direction. Elizabeth took a sip of lemonade and developed a sudden, intense interest in the pattern of the glass.
“Well, it was,” Mary continued. “The marriage was beneath him, but he was not going to leave this earth with Mr. Elliot as his heir.”
Wanting to relieve Mrs. Wentworth’s self-consciousness over Mary’s speaking so candidly about family matters in front of a slight acquaintance, Elizabeth rose and went to the window. It offered a lovely view of the beach and the sea, which was calm today, though the sun’s brightness through the glass was uncomfortable.
Anne shifted Alfred to her other shoulder. “Our father could not have known the child that Mrs. Clay carried was a boy.”
“Oh, he was certain—Mrs. Clay already had two sons, and kept bringing that fact to his attention the whole while she stayed with our father and sister in Bath. Do you not recall? I said once that I wished I had a daughter instead of only sons, because a daughter would surely be better behaved, and Mrs. Clay declared that she was delighted to be the mother of boys, and believed herself incapable of producing anything but sons. Delighted—ha! There she was, living a life of leisure and amusement in Bath, while her boys were back in Kellynch with Mr. Shepherd. So of course when Mrs. Clay came to our father in Lyme, he believed she carried a boy. And of course she convinced him that the child was his, despite her having run off with Mr. Elliot, because nobody was better at flattering our father than she was—how else could a freckled thing like her have seduced him, right under our noses last winter? And of course Mr. Shepherd was able to persuade him to marry her, because our father is used to following Mr. Shepherd’s advice.” She released a dramatic sigh. “And of course, while Mrs. Clay got everything she wanted, I still have all the care of my own two boisterous sons, with a mother-in-law who spoils them with too many sweets and then leaves me to contend with their misbehavior.”
“I would hardly say Mrs. Clay got everything she wanted,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “She is dead.”
Mary sighed again. “I suppose.” Having failed to gain her sister’s sympathy, she turned her attention to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy, do you have sons?”
Elizabeth was happy to come away from the heat of the window and sit down again. “No, only a daughter, Lily-Anne.”
“A daughter! How fortunate you are. I would do so much better with daughters. They are quiet and mindful, and one can dress them in such pretty clothes. Boys cannot wear clothes five minutes before something is dirty or torn. But husbands always want boys. Mrs. Smith, do you have daughters or sons?”
“I have no children.”
“None at all? How very sad. I do not know what I would do without the cheerful sounds of my darlings at play. I suppose your husband was disappointed to have no son.”
Mrs. Smith responded with a polite smile, but Elizabeth saw in her eyes that this was a painful subject to her.
Apparently, Mrs. Wentworth, too, sensed Mrs. Smith’s discomfort, for she quickly said, “Mary, I wonder if you might do me a favor and suggest to our father that Alfred’s nurse be summoned. He begins to stir—I suspect he will wake soon, and when he does, he will be hungry.”
Mary, looking rather put-upon, roused herself enough to cast her gaze about for the Elliot patriarch. With a relieved half-smile, she settled back against her chair. “You may offer the suggestion yourself. He comes this way.”
Sir Walter approached, trailing in the wake of Miss Elliot, who parted the crowded floor like a ship’s figurehead, with Sir Laurence and Miss Ashford in tow.
“Here you are, Anne. Are you monopolizing the guest of honor? Sir Laurence has expressed a desire to meet our little future baronet. Alfred was out of sorts when the Ashfords arrived, but I see he is in better temper now. You have been holding him some time—here, let me take him from you.”
“But he is sleeping.”
“I can see that.” Miss Elliot reached for him.
“Indeed, Miss Elliot, you need not disturb him,” Sir Laurence said.
“A sleeping baby is such a heart-moving image that I cannot resist.” Miss Elliot snatched Alfred from Anne, lifting him right out of the blanket that had been loosely gathered around him. Strategically positioning him over the stain the infant had previously made on her gown, she attempted to rest him against her shoulder as Anne had done. Hers, however, was an awkward, insecure hold, not at all convincing her audience of her potential as a mother to a different future baronet—which, given that this sudden display of interest in the baby took place before Sir Laurence, Elizabeth recognized as Miss Elliot’s true purpose.
“There—see how he snuggles against me? He is such a sweet little thing.”
Until that moment, Elizabeth would have wagered a year’s worth of pin money that the word “snuggle” was entirely absent from Miss Elliot’s vocabulary. As it was, Miss Elliot appeared oblivious to the fact that Alfred was instinctively seeking the soft shoulder from which he had been so abruptly torn, not snuggling into the bony one upon which he had just been thrust. He squirmed, fully wakening, and released a mew that quickly turned into a full, incessant cry.
“There, now … little … darling.” Miss Elliot’s steely voice jarred Elizabeth more than the baby’s cries. “Do not cry for your sister—”
Miss Elliot’s eyes suddenly widened, and her countenance went rigid. She pulled the mewling infant away from herself and thrust him toward Mary. A damp, uneven circle now darkened another portion of her gown; the lower half of Alfred’s sported a matching one. “Would you kindly take this child from me?” Her strained voice came through clenched teeth.
Elizabeth, happening to meet Sir Laurence’s gaze, saw that she was not alone in working to conceal amusement.
Sir Laurence coughed. “I should … go seek Mr. Darcy. My sister and I have not yet spoken with him today. Unless, Miss Elliot, I can be of use to you?”
“No,” she said tightly, a scarlet flush creeping across her cheeks faster than the stain on her dress. Alfred, still in her hands, increased both his agitation and his volume. Sir Laurence bowed and withdrew with Miss Ashford.
Miss Elliot looked at her sister sharply. “Mary—”
“Why must I take him? He has already ruined your gown. I should sacrifice mine?”
As the sisters quarreled, Alfred’s high-pitched protests continued. Elizabeth itched to take him from Miss Elliot and offer the neglected baby what comfort she could, but she would not insert herself in a family dispute. Thankfully, Mrs. Wentworth stepped forward and reclaimed Alfred. She wrapped the blanket around him and held him close, murmuring soothing words, mindless of whatever indignity her own gown might suffer in consequence.
Miss Elliot looked down at the damp spot on her dress. The black fabric helped diminish its conspicuousness, but it was obvious nonetheless. “Where is Mrs. Logan? What sort of a nurse is she, who cannot even properly apply a napkin?”
“She is in our rooms at the Three Cups,” Sir Walter said. “Where else would she be—here, sipping lemonade with her betters? The inn is mere steps away; I told her I would send Alfred to her if she were needed.”
Anne’s face was incredulous. “Alfred has not fed nor had a fresh napkin since before church?”
“That was but a few hours ago,” Sir Walter said.
“It is little wonder he is so irritable.” Mary shook her head with an air of superiority. “Honestly,” she said to her eldest sister, “one would think you kne
w nothing about children.”
“That is because I do not have any. Yet somehow I have been saddled with responsibility for a small creature that does nothing but cry and ruin my clothes. Perhaps, Mary, since you possess so much more experience with children, you should take Alfred home to live with you.”
“At Uppercross Cottage? I am sure our father wants to keep his new heir closer to him than that.”
“As a matter of fact,” Sir Walter said, “that idea holds merit. We are quite cramped in our rooms here, and even when we return to Bath, a town house offers nothing compared to a country home in space for a growing boy.”
Mary suddenly had the look of a chased fox. “The cottage is already too small for our comfort—it is not as if we live in the Great House yet. Our own two boys—”
“Will be perfect companions for Alfred,” Miss Elliot said.
“… consume all my time as it is,” Mary finished. “You have no idea. I am a slave to their needs from sunrise till bedtime.”
“I thought you employ a nursery maid.”
“Of course we do.”
“Well, then, with Mrs. Logan’s assistance, the addition of Alfred will hardly be noticeable,” Miss Elliot declared.
Now Mary had the look of a cornered fox. She glanced at her other sister, hopeful of sympathy from that quarter, but Anne spoke only sibilant whispers as she swayed in a gentle rhythm that abated but could not eradicate the hungry infant’s distress. Mary turned an imploring look upon her father. “Anne has stayed with us at Uppercross. She can tell you how—”
Mary stopped. She glanced once more at Anne, longer this time, her gaze shrewdly contemplative.
“She can tell you how much better it would be for Alfred to live with her.”
Anne’s rocking and murmurs ceased as she regarded Mary in astonishment.
“Alfred, live with Anne?” Sir Walter sounded even more surprised than Anne appeared.
Miss Elliot seized upon the suggestion. “Yes, of course—Anne! Who better? She is married now, which makes her far more suitable than I to oversee his care.”
“Yet she has no children of her own to demand her attention,” Mary hastened to add. “She can devote herself fully to Alfred.”
“That is true…” mused Sir Walter.
“She is his godmother, after all,” Mary reminded them. “And Captain Wentworth, his godfather. Why, I should think that office alone obliges them to superintend his upbringing and education.”
“Indeed, I believe you have something there,” Sir Walter said. “Very well, Anne. I grant you permission to take Alfred home with you. I shall send his things to you, including Mrs. Logan, directly after this celebration concludes.”
At last, Anne found her voice. “Captain Wentworth and I are to raise Alfred? Are you quite certain, sir?”
“Yes, quite. Think you that I do not know my own mind? I shall have him for visits in Bath when he is old enough, to ensure he is prepared to take his proper place in society. But until then— Oh! Lady Dalrymple is departing. I must go see her off.”
“And I must return to the inn to change my gown,” Miss Elliot said.
Elizabeth noticed that she did not offer to take Alfred with her, so that his clothes could be changed, too. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot hurried away, the latter smiling smugly (as smugly as possible for a lady so unceremoniously perfumed) at this turn of events. Mary, realizing how narrowly she had escaped the addition of a third noisy boy to her household, found reason to scuttle off, as well.
Elizabeth was stunned. There was no doubt in her mind that the outcome of the discussion she had just witnessed was the best possible result for Alfred; of all the Elliot family, Captain and Mrs. Wentworth appeared the most capable, most conscientious, and most caring guardians Alfred could have. Yet Anne had acquiesced to a life-altering commitment without so much as a single word of dissent. At a minimum, one would expect her to consult her husband before agreeing to raise someone else’s child in their home. Whatever would Captain Wentworth say when she told him?
“Well, that went better than you ever could have anticipated,” Mrs. Smith said to Anne. “Your entire family thinks it was their idea.”
“I dared not speak much for fear they would change their minds.” Anne’s rocking of Alfred grew more pronounced. The baby was doing a remarkable job of containing himself, given the overstimulation, lack of nourishment, and wet clothes, but it could not be long before his fussing escalated to full-scale wailing.
“Oh, I believe there is little danger of that. They are all congratulating themselves at having dodged unwanted responsibility by foisting it onto you. Captain Wentworth will be impressed.”
“I must find him and tell him I am taking Alfred to Mrs. Logan to be fed.”
“Allow me to find him for you,” Elizabeth offered. “You have your hands full.”
Anne smiled. “I do indeed. And, I suppose, shall for some time.” She paused. “May I ask you something, Mrs. Darcy?”
“Certainly.”
“I understand you accompanied Mr. Shepherd to interview Mrs. Logan. What was your impression of her? I have heard only complaints from my father and sister.”
Elizabeth chose her words carefully, not wanting to insult Mrs. Wentworth’s family, but wishing to be fair to the wet nurse. “I believe she has a good heart and wants very much to do well by Alfred. At the same time, she is young and inexperienced. I suspect, therefore, that she lacks the confidence to question orders given by equally inexperienced persons of higher social rank, whereas a veteran nurse might manage matters with more authority.”
“I thought as much. My own experience with infants is limited to assisting Mary during her lyings-in.”
“You also appear to have sound instincts and a good deal of common sense, which is all I had when my daughter was born. Between you and Mrs. Logan, I believe you will get along fine.”
“With Mrs. Smith as our houseguest, we also have her nurse in residence.”
“Then Alfred is in excellent hands, not that I ever doubted. He is extremely fortunate to have you and Captain Wentworth as his godparents. So many occupy the role in name only.”
“I have been blessed with a good example,” Anne said. “Lady Russell has been an attentive godmother to me, taking her duty seriously and fulfilling it to the best of her capabilities. I lost my own mother at age fourteen, and I do not know what I would have done without her constancy and friendship.” Elizabeth followed Mrs. Wentworth’s gaze to the lady herself, who was disengaging from a conversation and looked to be headed their way.
“When my father asked her to stand for Alfred, she recognized that my new brother would be even more in need of steady direction as he grew up and prepared to assume the responsibilities of a baronet,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “However, she also recognized that she is considerably older now than when she stood for me and my sisters. So she wrote to me and Captain Wentworth, and asked permission to suggest to my father that we be named godparents, as well, in hopes that by virtue of the office we might exert more influence over decisions regarding Alfred than we otherwise would as mere sister and brother-in-law. We readily agreed, and afterward discussed between us offering to raise Alfred ourselves, so that our guidance might be constant and not occasional, and that we would have more power to execute decisions. Captain Wentworth and I had reached an understanding, but had not yet determined how best to approach my father, nor the precise terms of our proposal. And now—” A laugh escaped her, one that sounded disbelief and delight. “We are parents sooner than either of us ever anticipated.”
“So Captain Wentworth will not be surprised by this arrangement?”
“Only that our own wishes were effected so easily. In truth, I myself am amazed.”
“Then I shall go tell him he is wanted, but leave to you to share why.”
“Thank you. Let me take my leave of you now, and say that I have enjoyed talking with you. I doubt Captain Wentworth and I will return here after attending to Alf
red—I think he has had as much celebration as he can tolerate for one day.”
“Alfred, or Captain Wentworth?”
She laughed again. “Both, I expect.”
* * *
Elizabeth longed to hear more of the history Mrs. Smith had been imparting to her before Mary Musgrove’s interruption—not out of a gossipy interest in scandal, but to better understand the events that had led to Lady Elliot’s death. Unfortunately, Mrs. Smith departed with the Wentworths, taking her trove of knowledge with her. Elizabeth and Darcy quit the Assembly Rooms soon after.
Later, she shared what she had learned with Darcy as they walked along the Cobb. It was a lovely, tranquil evening. The heat of the day had eased; both sea and sky were calm. Though a light breeze drifted across the bay, no wind caught her bonnet as it had on their first night in Lyme, when she had been forced to retreat into the alley beside the Lion to unknot its ribbons. Sunlight stretched long upon the waves, a golden contrast to the dark matter of their conversation.
“The relationships between the Clays and the Elliots are more tangled than we ever imagined,” she said. “I heard today that Mr. Elliot’s late wife had an affair with Mrs. Clay’s late husband.”
Darcy’s brows rose. “I thought I had interesting news to communicate, but you have trumped me. When did this occur?”
“I do not know. Mrs. Smith told me of the affair, but she cut her narrative short when Mary Musgrove joined us. Mary, however, revealed additional information about Sir Walter’s relationship with Mrs. Clay. Apparently, she openly pursued him last winter, hoping to seduce him into marrying her.”
“Ultimately, she succeeded, though one wonders why she ran off with Mr. Elliot in the interim. She could not have thought it would advance her suit.”
“Perhaps Mr. Elliot saw what she was about, and to end her scheme—and obscure the paternity of any child she might have conceived with Sir Walter—made her promises of marriage that he never intended to keep. He would certainly not be the first man in the history of elopements to do so. And Mrs. Clay, believing him, preferred the young heir to the aging title holder.”
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