by Laura Hile
The staccato of paws on gravel caught his attention. A large grey dog came loping along the path—mouth open, tongue lolling, tail wagging.
“Here now,” Charles protested, catching hold of the forepaws, for clearly the dog meant to jump up. The dog responded with a series of friendly licks. Charles laughed and gave him a pat.
“Where’d you come from, boy? Are you a pet of Anne’s?” Charles knew no one would be more unlikely than Anne to have a dog, unless it was Mary.
He caught the dog by the collar and together they made their way toward the house. “We’d best get you back where you belong,” Charles said cheerfully, “because if old Yee finds you in his flowerbeds, you’ll catch it for sur—oh! Hallo, Yee.”
The butler came along the path, a length of rope in his hands. Over his clothes he wore a work smock. As Charles and the dog drew nearer, the dog’s tail wagged more furiously. He yelped and attempted to lick Yee’s hands.
“Nice chap,” Charles remarked, holding the collar so that Yee could attach his rope. “Wentworth’s brought home a dog?”
Yee unbent enough to give the dog a pat. “No, sir,” he said “He is Miss Elliot’s dog.”
Charles opened his eyes. “You don’t say! Racing dog, isn’t he?”
Yee gave Charles a look. “Very fond of squirrels, he is.” He indicated a section of trampled flowers near the base of a tree. “And of running into the house. So I tie him thus.”
“Miss Elliot intends to keep him?”
“So she says. No! Go down, Sweetie!”
“Sweetie?” Charles had to laugh. “Leave it to Elizabeth to choose a name like that for a dog.”
Then Charles thought of something else. “I say, I’m going out for a bit this evening, Yee, and I don’t know how long I’ll be. Tell Anne not to expect me for dinner, will you?”
6 On Pins and Needles
Captain Wentworth returned to St. Peter Square in anything but a good mood. McGillvary was avoiding him, a thing he never would have believed. This was surely an admission of guilt! McGillvary’s butler had not been pleased that he’d kicked his heels all afternoon in that parlour—but what else was he to do? He would now wait for McGillvary’s call—if the man could be relied upon.
The house was quiet, and he remarked on this to Yee.
“Mrs. Musgrove is confined to her room this evening, sir,” Yee said, taking his hat. “And Miss Elliot has sent word that she too will take dinner in her room. Mr. Musgrove is out for the evening, and Mrs. Wentworth is in the library, sleeping.”
“The library?” If Anne was waiting there, she must have something on her mind.
“A quiet dinner suits me perfectly, Yee,” he said. “The post must be on my desk; I’ll look over it later. By the bye, has anyone called?” He looked through the cards on the hall table.
“There was a man who called some thirty minutes ago, Captain,” Yee said. “Gloria answered the door for us, which is most irregular. When the man did not offer his card, she became flustered. The dog had got into the house, and we had all we could do. I trust he will call again.”
“Dog? What dog?”
“Miss Elliot brought a dog home, Captain. A greyhound. Not a Savage Animal, but untrained.”
Wentworth stared at Yee. “Where is the, er, animal now?”
“In the garden, sir. We are hoping he will not dig or howl at the moon.”
Captain Wentworth rolled his eyes. “A delightful thought,” he muttered. “Let me know when Mrs. Wentworth is awake, will you?”
Wentworth established himself in the drawing room with a newspaper, and had just begun to read the second page when Yee came in. “A gentleman enquiring about the whereabouts of William Elliot, sir,” he said.
Wentworth read the name on the card and sighed. Unless he was mistaken, this man was Sir Walter’s solicitor. Would there never be an end to it? He heaved out of his chair and went down to the office.
“I’m happy to be of assistance,” he said, after shaking his caller’s hand. “However, I must tell you frankly that William Elliot and I are not on the best of terms.” Wentworth gestured to the pair of chairs before the desk.
Mr. Shepherd gave a dry little cough. “The man is in Bath, I know that much,” he said. “I was hoping that he had called to pay his respects and that you could tell me something of his whereabouts.”
Wentworth folded his arms across his chest. “I am, most regrettably, involved in a legal dispute on behalf of an impoverished widow—a friend of my wife’s whom Elliot, through deliberate neglect, has defrauded.”
Mr. Shepherd’s careful reserve vanished. “Damn him!”
Wentworth’s wintry smile appeared. “I quite agree. The man would never pay a social call—or inform me of his movements.”
“And yet,” said Shepherd, “it is imperative that I contact him.” He drew out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “It seems to be my lot in life to be entangled in the affairs of the Elliots. Until quite recently, I was Sir Walter Elliot’s solicitor.”
Wentworth looked at him more closely. Something more than business was at stake here. “Perhaps Elliot is staying with that army fellow,” he said. “I do not recall the name.”
“Colonel Wallis,” said Mr. Shepherd promptly. “I’ve hired a man to watch his house. Thus far there has been no sign of him, so I can only assume he has moved on. As I’ve told your butler, the matter is urgent. Legal business.”
“A more duplicitous man I’ve yet to meet.”
Mr. Shepherd opened his mouth to reply, just as Yee came in with a large tray.
Wentworth inhaled deeply. “Ah, coffee,” he said. “And, if I am not mistaken, Mrs. Yee’s cake. Just the thing to put heart into a man.”
Mr. Shepherd’s pinched expression abated somewhat; he took the plate Yee offered. “This is very kind, Captain Wentworth, but not at all necessary.”
“But it is. We cannot discuss my wife’s wretched cousin without sustenance.” He turned to his butler. “Mr. Shepherd was wondering whether William Elliot has called at the house, Yee.”
“Only once, sir, weeks ago.” He turned to Mr. Shepherd.
“Black, please,” he said, in answer to the butler’s mute enquiry. “I have spoken with Sir Walter, but he refused to listen to my entreaty.”
“That is to be expected, especially if the news is unpleasant. Which, in my experience of Sir Walter, it so often is.”
“William Elliot has not heard the last from me! He will not shirk what is due my daughter!”
Wentworth lowered his cup. “Your daughter is …?”
“Penelope Clay. She was at one time an intimate of Sir Walter’s household, the companion to Miss Elliot.” Mr. Shepherd drew himself up. “You would not believe how ill Mr. Elliot has used her, Captain Wentworth.”
“Ah,” said Wentworth quietly, “but I think I would.”
Mr. Shepherd’s coffee cup went clattering into its saucer. “Whatever the issue, he shall not cast her aside. No, by heaven, he shall not. William Elliot shall marry her!”
~ ~ ~
It was not until much later in the evening that Captain Wentworth was able to speak with Anne. “You don’t understand, Frederick,” she insisted. “Charles could not answer my question. Surely this proves he is entangled with Miss Owen.”
“Perhaps.”
“You must speak to him! You must tell him how wrong he is to be involved in a romance.”
Wentworth examined his fingernails. “Do you think it would help?”
“Certainly it would help. He would see that others know his secret.”
“And what secret is that?”
“That he is in love with Miss Owen, of course!”
Wentworth studied Anne’s anxious face. “Charles enjoys her company, certainly,” he said, “but is he involved in an affair?”
“If he is not, he is very near.”
Wentworth stretched his limbs. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ve seen them talking together. Mrs. Barrymore is a goo
d judge of character; they are well matched.”
“Frederick!” cried Anne. “You have known? And you’ve done nothing? You ought to have warned him.”
“On the other hand,” he pointed out, “having such a thing in the open might embolden him to act. After all, Charles knows the difference between right and wrong.”
“So does Elizabeth,” protested Anne, “and yet you have been on your guard regarding those secret meetings you think she has!”
“Elizabeth and Charles are in different situations. Your sister stands to become the victim, the one whose reputation will be ruined. Charles, on the other hand, is the perpetrator. I doubt that Miss Owen has tried to entrap him.”
“So we do not confront Charles?”
“I did not say that. I will speak to Charles. Yes, and to Elizabeth, too. And McGillvary. Yee tells me he has called.”
Anne’s expression softened. “You’re tired, Frederick. As if you didn’t have enough to do. You work too hard.”
“On the contrary,” Wentworth said, “I do not work enough. Life ashore is rather easier—and at the same time, more wearing.”
“You … wish to be at sea?”
“Not at all. What I mean is that I don’t mind a little work now and then. And I suspect it was the same with Charles when he came to Miss Owen’s aid. A man needs to do something productive.”
Anne was about to say something, but Yee came in to announce dinner.
“Frederick,” Anne protested, as he helped her to her feet, “you should not have held dinner on my account. You must be starving.”
He smiled ruefully. “I am a little, now that you mention it.” He stood aside to allow Anne to go before him. Yee remained at attention beside the door.
“Captain,” he said and presented a card. “I believe this is the man who called earlier. He insists on waiting. I took the liberty of putting him in the drawing room instead of the office.”
Wentworth read the name. “Very good, Yee. Convey my apologies to my wi—” He hesitated. For how long had he kicked his heels in that back parlor at Belsom?
“Belay that,” Wentworth said. “McGillvary can wait.”
~ ~ ~
Wentworth’s butler—old Yee, was it not? —came back in with the coffee pot for the second time. Captain Wentworth was still at dinner with his wife and would be in directly.
McGillvary sorted through the pile of periodicals on the table. Well, and he was nicely served for snubbing Wentworth earlier. But how could he have done otherwise?
He stretched his legs toward the fire and looked about the room. Wentworth had done well for himself, though his wife was not to McGillvary’s taste. Memories of the engagement dinner he had hosted flooded his mind. Who would have guessed then that he would one day be asking the pompous Sir Walter for the hand of his other daughter? Gad, that meant that he and Wentworth would be brothers!
The door came open abruptly. McGillvary jumped to his feet. “Wentworth,” he said. “I apologize for not seeing you when you called. I was—occupied.”
“Were you indeed?” Wentworth’s usual smile was absent. He lowered himself into a chair without offering his hand.
He was, McGillvary noted, looking rather harassed. The set of his jaw meant trouble. Very well did McGillvary know Wentworth’s simmering ways. He steepled his fingertips and waited.
At length Wentworth spoke. “My business with you is of a personal nature.” His voice was unusually cold. “I find myself in deuced awkward straits, thanks to you. You will tell me plainly, if you please, of your intentions toward my wife’s sister, Miss Elliot. Indeed, although I do not—”
McGillvary interrupted. “Thank God!” He gave a ragged laugh. “You must help me, Wentworth. I’ve made a mull of it—from beginning to end. I daresay she hates the very sight of me.”
Wentworth’s expression did not change. “As I was saying, I do not, myself, have much affection for Miss Elliot—nor vice versa. But why in God’s name she should trust you is beyond me.”
McGillvary blinked. “But—” he faltered, “I meant no dishonor, Frederick. In fact, quite the opposite.”
“No, you never mean dishonor, do you? The sorry fact is, where women are concerned, you are nothing but dishonourable. As well everyone knows.”
McGillvary’s smile froze. “That’s rather a foul shot, old boy,” he said softly.
“Are you telling me that you behaved honourably toward Mrs. Wilkins? And that dark-haired creature in Gibraltar?”
“Who well-nigh threw herself at me!” McGillvary’s chin came up. “But my dear,” he said, “that was years ago. Those associations I regret, deeply.”
“I daresay you do. As regards Miss Elliot—”
McGillvary attempted to interrupt, but no words came. Instead he heard the click of a latch. The drawing room door came open and a cheerful voice called out, “Hello-ello!”
“What the—” said Wentworth.
“I got things rather mixed up,” the fellow continued, after shutting the door. “I thought we were supposed to meet at the Saracen’s Head. I waited a long while, but no matter. My time there was not wasted.” He grinned. “They brew a most excellent ale. And I won a handy amount at darts.”
“Musgrove,” said Wentworth warningly, “now is not the best time—”
“How-do?” he interrupted and extended a friendly hand. “Charles Musgrove, at your service. I’m married to Wentworth’s wife’s sister.” He nodded in Wentworth’s direction and shook McGillvary’s hand.
McGillvary shot Wentworth a questioning glance. “He means Mary, Anne’s younger sister,” Wentworth explained gruffly.
McGillvary had heard plenty about Mary.
“Musgrove,” Wentworth said, “haven’t you something urgent to attend to? Your horse, perhaps?”
“You’re jesting, right?” Charles fetched a chair for himself and placed it beside McGillvary’s. “I never have anything urgent to do.” He looked from one to the other with an expectant air.
“I’m Patrick McGillvary, Wentworth’s friend and colleague,” he said to Charles. “We’ve served together, oh, time out of mind in various places. Escapes from death and all that.” McGillvary shot a pointed look at Wentworth.
“I’ve seen your name,” announced Charles. “You’re on the guest list for Friday night.” He turned to grin at his brother-in-law. “See? I’m not such a chuckle-head, Frederick.”
He looked from McGillvary to Wentworth and said, “So, what are we talking about? Or shall I fetch the cards?”
McGillvary gave a ragged laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “Isn’t this a cozy family party?” he remarked.
Wentworth made a strangled sound and turned away.
Charles blinked several times. “It ain’t exactly a family party,” he pointed out. “But it would be if you was married to Elizabeth. Which you’re not.” He shook his head. “Like anybody would be! My wife,” he explained, “she says men are fools. She’s dead wrong, and Elizabeth’s proof! No man’s fool enough to marry Elizabeth.”
Wentworth cleared his throat and said, “Musgrove—”
McGillvary’s crooked smile reappeared. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Musgrove, I …” he began.
But the quaver in his voice must have given him away, for Charles Musgrove sat up. “Gad,” he cried, “you don’t mean to offer for Elizabeth, do you? What did you say your name was?”
“Musgrove,” said Wentworth, more insistently.
“McGillvary. Patrick McGillvary. I—”
“Mister McGillvary?” interrupted Charles. He threw a grin at Wentworth. “No title. That settles it. You ain’t good enough.”
He held up a silencing hand. “You haven’t enough money, either. Sir Walter—he’s our papa-in-law, McGillvary—he don’t like the neighbourhood. So if you live around here …”
Wentworth gave a groan. “For pity’s sake! He owns Belsom Park Estate, Charles. Now will you kindly—”
“The place with the lake? No kidding
?” Charles gave a low whistle. “Maybe you do have enough blunt. Are you sure you haven’t got a title?”
“My rank in the Royal Navy—”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t bring that up! Sir Walter hates sailors! All sailors. Even Wentworth here.”
McGillvary began to laugh. “Upon my word.”
“And another thing, McGillvary,” continued Charles, with a wink to the fuming Wentworth, “you’re not handsome enough. Oh, you’ve a pretty face, which I’m sure is enough for Elizabeth, but Sir Walter is a stickler! Let me tell you, we know!”
“Charles,” snapped Wentworth, “kindly have the goodness to shut—”
But Charles kept right on talking. “Lucky for us,” he said, “Mary and Anne aren’t his special favourite, like Elizabeth is, or we’d never have made it to the altar.”
He paused to look McGillvary over. “But I daresay you don’t wish to marry Elizabeth.” His voice took on a pleading note. “After all, she don’t need a husband, not anymore! She’s got a dog now. It’ll do everything she says without talking back, which is what an Elliot needs in a husband.”
He paused, then added kindly, “I’m sorry to break it to you so brutally, but you need to know the truth.”
McGillvary returned the smile. “What I need to know, actually, is where to find Sir Walter. He seems to have changed his residence.”
“Handy, that,” said Charles. “Who knows where he is? But there’s always Lady Russell. She’s the godmother. Will she do for consent?”
“It seems as though she must.”
“McGillvary,” said Wentworth, in despairing tones, “have you lost your mind?”
The butler returned with more coffee. Just then, McGillvary remembered Elizabeth’s velvet bag. He went over to Yee. “This,” he said quietly, “belongs to Miss Elliot. If you would restore it to her, privately, I would be most grateful. And—” McGillvary drew out his wallet and removed something. “I believe this is hers as well.”
But the delicate gold object slid from Yee’s gloved palm and went bouncing onto the carpet. Wentworth reached for it, but McGillvary intercepted. He returned it to Yee.
