The Deception At Lyme m&mdm-6

by Carrie Bebris

  “An aging title holder whose estate is hazardously close to bankruptcy.”

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to express surprise. “How did you learn this?”

  “From Mr. Elliot. He spoke of it while I was with Captain Wentworth.”

  “Well, marrying either of them would procure her the title of Lady Elliot sooner or later—an improvement over her past affairs. Apparently, Mrs. Clay had a proclivity for naval officers before setting her sights on the Elliots.”

  “Indeed? Then I am surprised Mr. Elliot would bring her to a seaside resort, with half the navy ashore.”

  Darcy’s statement prompted a memory of the conversation she had overheard in the passageway of the Lion the night before Mrs. Clay’s accident. You are hardly guiltless yourself.… Half the navy is ashore. Though in your present state, you hardly present an enticing object.

  Elizabeth stopped. Mr. Elliot was a guest of the Lion. And until that night, so was Mrs. Clay.

  What of the promise you made me? Did you ever intend to keep it?

  In time.

  You have run out of time.

  Where are you going?

  Out.

  Her own eyes wide with astonishment, she met Darcy’s gaze. He regarded her questioningly.

  “I believe I might have overheard a conversation between Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay the night before she died.”

  “How?”

  “In the alley beside the Lion, when I stopped to adjust my bonnet. I heard a couple quarreling—I assumed it was a husband and wife, but now, knowing what we do about them both, I believe it was they.”

  “What was the subject of their argument?”

  “Infidelity—on the part of both parties. She was accusing him of continuing affairs he had told her were ended, and of having come to Lyme to rendezvous with his lovers. He responded that she was also guilty of unfaithfulness, but that she was hardly enticing in her present condition.”

  “That sounds like it could be they.”

  “Then she brought up a promise he had made to her, told him he had run out of time, and departed—I expect, for Sir Walter’s.”

  “Where she got married, thwarting Mr. Elliot’s expectations of inheriting Sir Walter’s title,” Darcy finished. They resumed walking. “This other affair you mentioned, between Mrs. Clay’s and Mr. Elliot’s spouses—the couples knew each other for some time, then?”

  “Yes, intimately.”

  “I should say so.”

  “Darcy!” She glanced round, but there was nobody nearby to hear them. “What I meant was that they, along with the Smiths, were particular friends. Though what happened after the affair was exposed, I did not learn.”

  “How was it exposed?”

  “Let us simply say that Mr. Clay was carried away by his passion for Mrs. Elliot.”

  He stopped again, searching her face to make sure he had correctly interpreted her meaning. “Mr. Clay died in the act of cuckolding Mr. Elliot?”

  She nodded.

  Darcy’s gaze drifted past her, beyond the edge of the upper Cobb, to the pavement below. Without her realizing it, they had reached the section of the seawall where Mrs. Clay had fallen. “And Mrs. Clay died within hours of leaving Mr. Elliot for Sir Walter.”

  The chill that passed over Elizabeth had nothing to do with the breeze coming off the sea.

  “How did Mrs. Elliot die?” Darcy asked.

  “Mrs. Smith did not say—our conversation was interrupted.”

  “I think we need to find out.”

  Twenty-Three

  “As to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was privy to all the fors and againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans; and though I did not know his wife previously … I knew her all her life afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her life.… He was very unkind to his first wife. They were wretched together.”

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

  The Wentworths lived in a charming two-story house high up the cliff on Pound Street, a dwelling they had taken for six months while they decided where they wanted to settle permanently now that the end of the war had cast the captain ashore. From the exterior, it looked everything a newlywed couple could want in their first home: a neat façade with bay windows and fresh paint, a garden blooming with more flowers than many twice its size, and a door that was always open to friends.

  The Wentworths’ housekeeper showed the Darcys into a well-proportioned sitting room when they called to deliver the small blanket Elizabeth had embroidered. A day of rain following the christening had enabled Elizabeth to complete the needlework while Darcy wrote a detailed reply to a letter he had received from Pemberley’s steward and caught up on other correspondence. Georgiana had spent most of the afternoon at the Ashfords’ house; Sir Laurence had left Lyme for a few days on business, and Miss Ashford preferred the company of a friend her own age to that of her middle-aged paid companion.

  Mrs. Wentworth welcomed them warmly and received the gift with appreciation, confessing that she had begun a similar project but had not advanced at all since bringing Alfred to live with them. She appeared tired, but in a happy sort of way. The captain, too, looked more fatigued around his eyes than when they had last seen him, though Elizabeth imagined that his profession had probably accustomed him to disrupted sleep. The young culprit was at present upstairs with Mrs. Logan in the hastily established nursery.

  “I am finding that I would rather hold Alfred than a needle,” Mrs. Wentworth said.

  Elizabeth thought of Lily-Anne, back at their cottage with her nurse. She would still rather spend time with her daughter than in sewing. “One cannot fault you for that,” she said to Mrs. Wentworth.

  “Mrs. Smith, however, has been employing her own to Alfred’s benefit—as you can see.”

  The good woman indeed had needles in hand as she sat beside a table where her work box was laid out. Hers, however, were knitting needles. Her fingers rapidly performed their movements, giving form to what appeared to be the start of a small cap. “I have never made anything for an infant before,” she said. “Most of my work has been little thread cases and pincushions, which I sell to support myself. I have not long known how to knit—Nurse Rooke taught me, to help strengthen my hands as I recover—but I am happy for the opportunity to apply my skills, such as they are, to something for Alfred.”

  If Elizabeth had previously harbored any doubt about the amount of affection Alfred would receive in the Wentworths’ home, she now believed beyond question that the little boy would enjoy at least as much attention as he would have known if his own mother had lived—probably a great deal more, judging from the unflattering accounts of Mrs. Clay that Elizabeth had heard at the christening.

  Elizabeth enquired after Alfred—his habits, his preferences, his temperament, all the small particulars in which mothers take interest, especially new mothers, who are always quite certain that no baby in the history of babies has ever gurgled, mewed, yawned, blinked, stretched, sneezed, or hiccupped in quite the manner theirs does. Mrs. Wentworth was able to retain some impartiality when it came to Alfred, but one could hear in her voice that her affections were most decidedly engaged. She delighted in the opportunity to discuss such minutiae with Elizabeth, whose conversation was grounded in more experience than Mrs. Smith or even Mrs. Logan were able to provide. The two were soon talking like friends of much longer acquaintance, the timeless experience of motherhood reinforcing their newer connexion.

  Darcy was bored nearly to the limit of endurance.

  He was a devoted father, and more engaged in Lily-Anne’s day-to-day existence than were most gentlemen with nursery-aged offspring. But with rare exceptions, his interest in discussing children began and ended in conversations with his wife, with his own daughter as the subject. Though the manner in which he attended the dialogue between Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth was all that courtesy demanded, Elizabeth knew him well enough to recognize each slight shif
t in his seat as evidence of much greater restlessness.

  Captain Wentworth exhibited similar behavior. Indeed, he seemed even more restless than Darcy. After a polite interval had passed, one gentleman’s gaze happened to drift toward the other’s, and she saw in the slight curl of Wentworth’s mouth and the responding spark in Darcy’s eyes their identification of a kindred soul yearning to talk about hunting, or politics, or guns, or swords, or brandy, or horses, or dogs—or anything, really, other than the present topic of discourse. The weather would suffice.

  The entrance of a servant who needed to consult Captain Wentworth’s preference regarding a repair to some item of furniture in his study led to the rapid determination that the captain had better view the article himself before deciding. It was additionally determined that Darcy’s opinion might also prove useful, and that he should accompany Captain Wentworth. They made good their escape, eliciting a laugh from Mrs. Smith once they had quit the room.

  “My husband would have fled along with them, though I doubt he ever repaired a thing in his life.” She laughed again. “But then, people can have all sorts of opinions about things they have never done themselves. Especially men. They must believe that however little they know, their judgment should matter. Mr. Elliot is a prime example of that.”

  “Mr. Elliot?” Elizabeth glanced to Mrs. Wentworth. “I hope he has not harassed you about Alfred since the child came to live with you?”

  “He has not called. I believe he spoke his piece to Captain Wentworth at Alfred’s christening.”

  “Well, you can wager Alfred is still in his thoughts,” Mrs. Smith said. “He will not forget a child who cost him his baronetcy. Self-interest is too great a portion of his character. So, too, is a propensity for plotting and scheming.”

  This declaration, issued with vehemence, unsettled Mrs. Wentworth enough that she excused herself to go upstairs and ascertain Alfred’s present well-being. Left alone with Mrs. Smith, Elizabeth was happy for the opportunity to speak privately with the widow. Though this visit to the Wentworths had been motivated by the Darcys’ genuine interest in improving their acquaintance with the captain and his wife, and in seeing how Alfred fared, Elizabeth also hoped to learn more about the circumstances of Mrs. Elliot’s death.

  “Was Mr. Elliot always this way?” Elizabeth asked. “Surely, in the days when he was your friend—”

  “I do not believe he was ever my friend, nor my husband’s. Not in the true sense of friendship. I do not believe him capable of unselfish feeling for any creature.”

  “Not even for his wife—before her affair with Mr. Clay?”

  “Especially not his wife. It was his heartlessness and neglect that caused the tryst in the first place. I think the months that Mr. Elliot was in the West Indies with my husband were the one period of her marriage when Mrs. Elliot was truly happy. Or at least, not miserable.”

  “The Elliots’ marriage was not a match of affection?”

  “It began as one on her side, but for Mr. Elliot it was never anything but a financial transaction. She was of common birth—the granddaughter of a butcher and the daughter of a grazier—but her father was successful enough to provide a decent education and dower her with a considerable fortune. Mr. Elliot wanted money, and she had it, so he wed her despite her lack of bloodline or connexions. At first he was content with the choice he had made—as I said when we spoke previously, we were all living in the moment, and at the moment her money and what it could buy made him happy—but as he became more conscious of his future as a baronet, he grew to despise his wife. Not only did he resent her pedigree and lack of connexions, but also the fact that their marriage had produced no children, and therefore no heir to succeed to the baronetcy after him. He blamed her entirely for their childlessness—men always do—and treated her cruelly.

  “I suspected his unkindness toward her, but it was not until both our husbands were overseas that I became her confidante and learned the extent of her mistreatment. She was desperate to have a baby, hopeful that the birth of an heir would appease Mr. Elliot. Mr. Clay having already proved himself able to father a child, Mrs. Elliot deliberately set about seducing him.”

  “Did she not consider that a betrayal of her friendship with Mrs. Clay?” The former Penelope Shepherd had fallen so far in Elizabeth’s esteem that, like Anne Wentworth and Mrs. Smith, she found she could no longer—whether in the privacy of her own thoughts or in conversation with anyone but Sir Walter—refer to the baronet’s second wife as “Lady Elliot.” It seemed the only thing ladylike about her had been her title, and that, she had enjoyed less than four-and-twenty hours.

  “Mrs. Clay had cuckolded Mr. Clay enough times that it was easy for an abused, despairing woman to justify borrowing a husband whose wife was herself so unfaithful,” Mrs. Smith said. “Indeed, when Mrs. Elliot told me of additional lovers Mrs. Clay had taken, paramours that I had not known about previously, I, too, lost all sympathy for her. Mrs. Elliot employed the period of Mr. Elliot’s absence to engage Mr. Clay’s interest, but delayed consummating the liaison until her husband returned to England, so that the child she hoped to conceive would not be born too soon to pass off as Mr. Elliot’s. Unfortunately, Mr. Clay died in the act, and their affair was exposed.”

  “How did Mrs. Clay respond?”

  “She was incensed with Mrs. Elliot, but soon saw Mr. Clay’s death as opportunity. Free of her husband, she became the quintessential merry widow and set her sights on Mr. Elliot. Tit for tat, as they say, but as a future baronet he also appealed to her social-climbing ambitions. She pursued him, and he casually took what was offered.”

  “Did Mrs. Elliot know?”

  “Certainly. After Mr. Clay’s death exposed her infidelity, Mr. Elliot subjected her to even greater cruelty than before. He took no pains to conceal his liaison with Mrs. Clay; in fact, he flaunted it.” Mrs. Smith shook her head sadly. “Poor woman. Mrs. Elliot died a very unhappy creature.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She fell down a flight of stairs. It happened only last year, and by then I was no longer on intimate terms with the Elliots, so I do not know the particulars. But given Mr. Elliot’s mistreatment of her, I have often wondered whether the event was an accident.”

  Despite the summer heat, Elizabeth shivered. “You suspect she was pushed?”

  “Either physically or emotionally, for I can easily imagine her reaching a state of despair great enough to have thrown herself down rather than endure her bleak existence any longer. Regardless, her death freed Mr. Elliot to marry someone capable of producing an heir, and he certainly lost no time in pursuing his bride of choice.”

  Elizabeth was confused. “Mrs. Clay?”

  “No, Mrs. Wentworth—when she was yet Anne Elliot.” Mrs. Smith glanced toward the door through which Mrs. Wentworth had exited, and lowered her voice. “However, shortly before he began courting Anne, Mrs. Clay returned to her father’s home in Kellynch village and became the eldest Miss Elliot’s bosom friend, visiting constantly at the Great House, so ingratiating herself that when the Elliots removed to Bath they invited her to take up residence with them. All the while, Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay affected indifference toward each other whenever he called upon the Elliots, never letting on that they knew each other intimately. In retrospect—I have told Anne this, and she agrees—I believe he installed Mrs. Clay in Sir Walter’s household so that she could gather information useful to his suit, or to his financial plans for the estate.”

  “How did he do that?”

  “By convincing her they would both benefit from his protecting his inheritance. If his courtship of Anne proved successful, neither he nor Mrs. Clay would see any reason why he should give up his mistress simply because he had taken a wife. And if it did not, Mrs. Clay would enjoy a more lavish style of living while possibly catching Mr. Elliot for herself at last. However, I think he underestimated Mrs. Clay’s cunning. If you recall what Anne’s sister Mary said at the christening fete, I believe that o
nce Mrs. Clay infiltrated Sir Walter’s household, she developed ambitions of her own, and set her cap for Sir Walter.”

  “Then why did she run off with Mr. Elliot?”

  “Not being privy to their thoughts, I can only speculate based on my knowledge of their characters. I think he realized her scheme, and eliminated the threat she posed by persuading her of his own intentions to marry her. Mrs. Clay was vain enough to believe him. The two of them deserved each other—they were a pair of despicable human beings.”

  Mrs. Wentworth returned with Alfred in her arms. “He was waking up,” she said, “and given the subject of our conversation, I—well, please do not think me silly, but I felt that I wanted him with us in here.”

  “I do not think you silly at all,” Elizabeth said.

  Mrs. Wentworth sat down on the sofa beside Mrs. Smith. The widow temporarily ceased her knitting and leaned toward Anne to stroke one of Alfred’s palms. The baby grasped her finger in his tiny fist.

  “He likes you,” Anne told her friend.

  Mrs. Smith smiled. “The feeling is mutual.”

  Mrs. Wentworth offered to let Elizabeth hold Alfred, a suggestion that Elizabeth was happy to accept. “Unless Mrs. Smith would like to hold him first?”

  “Not yet,” Mrs. Smith said. “I do not want to risk these rheumatic hands dropping him.”

  From the deftness with which the widow employed her needles, Elizabeth doubted this fear was valid. Her hands seemed as dexterous as Elizabeth’s own—and far more skilled at knitting. But Mrs. Smith resumed her work, leaving Elizabeth to indulge in the pleasure of holding a newborn. As she received the tiny boy in her arms, she wondered anew how anyone might wish harm on such a defenseless creature. “Mrs. Smith, you said earlier that Alfred is still in Mr. Elliot’s thoughts, and that the gentleman has a propensity for scheming … indeed, you have painted such a black picture of his character, that I am unsettled by it. You do not believe Mr. Elliot would go so far as to harm Alfred, do you?”