by Laura Hile
She fought to maintain her composure; she must not allow Sir Henry to guess her despair! Elizabeth rose to her feet. “I bid you good evening, sir,” she said. Her voice sounded strange in her ears.
She turned to find Ronan McGillvary standing beside her. He was also smirking. Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. How much had Ronan heard? Then she remembered what Ronan thought she was. She glanced wildly at the crowd. Who else thought this was true?
Ronan fingered his moustache. “Beauty in distress again?”
Elizabeth raised her chin to keep it from quivering. She must not fall to pieces. Not here. Not before Ronan and Sir Henry!
All around her were eyes—watchful eyes, mocking eyes.
McGillvary’s latest flirt.
This was what she was. Now Elizabeth realized that this was all she was!
The air in the ballroom was oppressive, stifling. She turned from Ronan and opened her fan. “It is rather close in here,” she heard her voice say. “I shall be better with a bit of fresh air. Presently.”
Fool! She was speaking nonsense! Could she not maintain composure before Ronan, of all people? Surely she could smile and converse as if nothing were wrong. She had done this sort of thing countless times before.
“Pray excuse me, sir,” she said, but her voice was shaking and so were her knees. Elizabeth looked to the tall windows, but they were closed. The ballroom was on the first floor—there was no escape to a formal garden! An obvious flight would be ruinous. Elizabeth made for the gallery.
“Pardon me,” she said to strangers into whose paths she stumbled. Her feet were heavy and awkward, and her knees felt like jelly. Nevertheless, with head held high and a smile on her face, Elizabeth descended to the ground floor.
Presently she came to the cloakroom. She stood there, indecisive, wondering what to do next. She glanced at the main door. Lady Buxted-Heighton had long ago abandoned her position.
“My dear Miss Elliot, are you leaving?” It was Lady Buxted-Heighton’s daughter who spoke. “Lucy,” she said to the attendant, “Miss Elliot’s wrap, please.”
To Elizabeth’s surprise, she heard her own voice exchange polite words of thanks and farewell. Then, without a backward look, she approached the door. A footman opened it. Elizabeth stumbled a little as she crossed the threshold. A moment later she was out of the house.
~ ~ ~
All was quiet in the bedchamber, save the hiss of the burning candle on the nightstand. Presently rain began to lash at the windows. Mary Musgrove sighed and turned over. She pulled a pillow over her head. Anne’s beds were so uncomfortable! And why must Anne have so many pillows?
Lightning flashed, followed by a roll of thunder. Mary pushed and pulled at the pillow, but still it was not right. She decided to fold the pillow over.
In the process her elbow hit something, and whatever it was fell clattering to the floor. Mary gave another sigh and snuggled beneath the blanket. Lightning flashed again, lighting the room. The storm drove rain to batter against the windows. Mary hid her eyes, and very soon her breathing became shallow and regular.
Another flash lit the room. Light flickered and cast dancing shadows on the ceiling—but the light was not coming through the windows now. It was coming from the floor. The flame from Mary’s fallen candle was burning spilled wax.
A corner of the blanket was in the flame’s path. Wool did not burn as readily as spilled wax—at first.
~ ~ ~
Patrick McGillvary nearly laughed aloud. What a fellow he was to be humming along with the music! Even his strides resembled a dance. And yet, tonight he was past caring. His smiling eyes roved to and fro, searching for Elizabeth. She had slipped away, as females were wont to do. He knew his part; he would be patient.
He took another look at the corners of the ballroom. Had she disappeared into thin air? For a moment he thought he saw her and swung round, causing the punch to spill on his hand.
“Looking for beauty?” Ronan’s insolent voice reached his ears.
McGillvary’s smile vanished. “Her name,” he replied coolly, “is Miss Elliot.” He put the glasses on a nearby table. “You have no reason to concern yourself with her whereabouts.”
Ronan shrugged. “You won’t find her,” he said. “She spoke with Sir Henry and then,”—he spread his hands—“she vanished.”
“Vanished.” McGillvary blotted his hand with his handkerchief.
“She said she needed air.”
“You spoke with her?”
“Yes and no,” Ronan said. “She looked poorly. Pale. The sickly way women look before they faint.”
“And being a gentleman of many parts, you naturally offered no assistance.”
Ronan’s lips twisted into a smirk. “She would never have accepted my help, brother. If looks could kill, I would be a dead man.”
McGillvary was torn between giving Ronan a much-needed set-down and finding Elizabeth. “One of the things I most admire in Miss Elliot,” he said, scanning the crowd, “is her taste in men.”
Ronan gave a loud sniff. “Suit yourself. As I said, you won’t find her here. She’s gone.”
McGillvary stuffed his handkerchief into a pocket. “We’ll see about that.”
~ ~ ~
Charles Musgrove came up the stairs one weary tread at a time. The house was closed for the night. No light shone under Wentworth’s library door, which was a relief. Doubtless Anne had confided her fears about Miss Owen. Charles’s decision was newly-made and fragile. He did not wish to discuss it with Wentworth—or anyone.
Presently he gained the upper landing. There was a light under Mary’s door. Charles sighed heavily. Mary had taken to doctoring herself with the syrup of poppies. He was not happy about that, but Mary would not listen. How would she take the news that they would soon be going home?
Charles’s head hurt at the thought of the packing she would do—and the last-minute shopping. And the gig—he would have to drive the gig to Uppercross. Would the boys be with him? But no, Mary would not be content to ride in a hired coach without them—or perhaps she would? He shook his head to clear it. He could sort everything out in the morning.
Treading quietly, he moved past Mary’s door. Something was wrong, however. Charles’s steps slowed, and he stood frowning at the door. Mary hadn’t taken up smoking, had she?
He sniffed the air. It was not the scent of tobacco he smelled. But if it wasn’t tobacco, what was it?
~ ~ ~
There was no one in sight—no one of consequence. Elizabeth saw a fair number of vehicles waiting at the end of the street. She allowed herself to lean against one of the columns of the portico as she took in great breaths of air. A flash of lightning lit the sky; a gust of wind tugged at her skirts.
Elizabeth pulled her evening wrap more closely around her shoulders and shivered. Why had she insisted on coming tonight? What was she to do now?
Lady Buxted-Heighton’s daughter had all but thrown her from the house—what pleasure the woman must be feeling! Then again, she could not help leaving early. Her stomach was in knots, and her mind was sick with grief and shame. She was a fool.
No, worse! She was McGillvary’s latest flirt. Oh, the man was certainly charming. Clever, too. Her gloved hand closed over the pendant. Did he think to purchase her affection with this?
For a fleeting moment she wondered if Sir Henry and Ronan could be wrong. Instantly she dismissed this thought. She was the one who was wrong. She ought to have recognized the truth when he’d given this lavish gift. Elizabeth knew about gifts. They always had strings.
A shaft of light shone out as the front door came open again. She heard footfalls across the pavement; someone else was leaving. Elizabeth remained where she was behind the pillar, praying that she would not be seen. Rain began to fall in earnest.
Whoever it was came nearer. “Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth winced. She knew who this was.
“My dear, I have looked everywhere for you. What are you doing out her
e?”
Before she could stop it, a cry escaped from her lips. She turned away from him.
“Are you ill?” he said.
Elizabeth braced herself against the pillar; somehow she must speak. “I am,” she whispered. “Sick at heart.”
She felt his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Explain that.”
Explain? Did he need her to explain that she had no intention of becoming his mistress? Elizabeth’s pent-up anxieties melted into a blaze of anger. She raised her eyes to meet Admiral McGillvary’s.
“I thank you, sir, for your kind offer,” she said, repeating the words she had once said to Sir Henry. “But I am unable to accept it.”
Again lightning flashed. Elizabeth could not miss the perplexed look that crossed his face. “Offer,” he repeated.
She took a quick look for eavesdroppers; there were none. Her hand closed over the pendant. “This offer,” she hissed. She twisted her shoulders from his grasp. “Do you know what they are saying in there? Do you?”
His lopsided grin appeared. “McGillvary’s put his head in the noose at last?”
“Your head in the noose? Your head? What about mine?”
He shrugged. “Both our heads are in the noose?”
“How can you laugh?” Her voice caught on a sob. She must not cry! Not here!
Lightning flashed, followed by a rumble of thunder. Elizabeth tore away from beneath the shelter of the portico.
“Here now! Where are you going?”
“Away!” she cried. ‘Home!”
He caught her easily. “Elizabeth, it’s pouring.” He had to shout to be heard over the downpour.
“It suits me fine!” she retorted. She was furious at the laugh in his voice and the strength in his arms and the rain that was soaking her gown. She was also furious that she was making a spectacle of herself. And it was all Admiral McGillvary’s fault!
A shrill whistle sounded. She turned to see Admiral McGillvary waving an arm.
Now what was he doing? Must he call attention to the state she was in?
Another stroke of lightning lit the sky, causing the gold on his uniform to glitter. “I am taking you home,” he said.
“No!” she cried.
A clattering of hooves and grating of wheels came from behind. Through the rain she could see his shining carriage looming. At once the footman—a real, liveried footman—had the steps down and the door open. The man struggled to open an umbrella.
“Were you intending to walk?”
Elizabeth brushed her wet hair from her eyes. “Yes!” she flung at him.
“Vixen!” He caught hold of her shoulders. “Come here,” he said laughingly. “You’ll catch your death.”
“What an excellent notion!” she replied hotly. “Death is preferable to dishonor!”
“I quite agree,” he said and drew her nearer.
Startled, she looked into his face. “What are you—”
But Elizabeth never finished her sentence, for McGillvary caught her against his chest in a crushing embrace. His wet hair was hanging in his face; his eyes were alive.
“Elizabeth, my love,” he said.
Elizabeth felt her heart turn over in her chest. She must not give in! He had kissed her once before, just like this. She pushed against his chest, fighting with all her strength. He did not seem to mind.
Then Elizabeth felt a tapping on her shoulder. “Pardon me,” said a man’s voice.
Patrick’s eyes never left Elizabeth’s. “Go away, Ronan,” he said. “Not now.”
“I am not Ronan.”
At that Elizabeth turned her head. From the shadows her cousin’s face leered. “Mr. Elliot,” she cried. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he said wrathfully. “I go to the trouble to escort you home, and what do I find? You, being compromised!”
William Elliot puffed out his chest. “Unhand my cousin, sir!”
“I never asked you to come for me,” objected Elizabeth. “I am perfectly able to take care of myself.”
“As I see,” he said. “I suppose you enjoy being groped by this person?” Mr. Elliot addressed McGillvary. “I should call you out for this!”
Admiral McGillvary laughed. “Please do,” he invited. “Swords or pistols?”
Elizabeth extracted herself from Patrick’s embrace. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she told Mr. Elliot. “Duelling is undignified. And illegal.”
“It is well that I am a law-abiding man, Cousin, or I certainly would.”
She noticed Admiral McGillvary looking over Mr. Elliot’s shoulder. “H’m,” he said. “Where’s the carriage, Elliot?”
Mr. Elliot put up his chin. His eyes shifted.
“You did bring a carriage, did you not?” demanded Elizabeth. She caught sight of the porters. “Upon my word!” she cried. “You don’t mean to convey me home in a sedan chair?”
“There were no other conveyances available,” Mr. Elliot complained. “Under the circumstances I did the best I could.”
“Of all the shabby things!” said Elizabeth. “I never take a public chair! Who knows what filthy invalid has been in it? My dress will be quite ruined from the rain.”
“It already is.” This was from Patrick McGillvary.
“Oh!” she cried, stamping her foot at him. “I’ll not be conveyed home by either of you!”
Mr. Elliot’s face was dark with anger. “I do not know why I put up with you!”
Elizabeth returned the glare. “You take too much upon yourself, Cousin!”
“Easy,” Patrick McGillvary warned. “We have an audience.” He took hold of Elizabeth’s hand. “Smile, Elliot,” he said. “You are being closely observed.”
Elizabeth glanced behind. A small crowd had gathered.
He waited a moment and then nodded. “I present to you your cousin, ma’am,” he said, speaking crisply. He gave Elizabeth’s hand to William Elliot and made a bow. “My carriage is at your disposal.” He indicated the door with a sweep of his hand.
“What?” said Elizabeth blankly.
“It is undignified to fight like cats in the rain,” McGillvary murmured. “Especially before this crowd.”
“You wish me to go with him?”
“Indeed he does! Now get inside! God only knows what you’ll say next!”
“But—”
“You heard the man,” said Patrick. “Inside.” He lowered his voice. “No need to worry, my dear.”
Elizabeth looked at him uncertainly, a hand on the doorsash. “Admiral,” she said. “I really do not think—”
“Just do as you’re told!” snapped Mr. Elliot, giving her a push. “I’d like to get out of the rain.”
It took time for Elizabeth to settle herself. Admiral McGillvary paced to and fro. “Up with you,” he said to the footman. “Onto the box with Henry.”
He reached up, deftly removed the whip from its place, and sauntered back. McGillvary’s own hand closed the door behind him.
The driver’s face peered down. “St. Peter Square, Henry,” said McGillvary, stepping back.
“Very good, sir.”
The street was crowded with waiting vehicles. As soon as McGillvary’s carriage was in the clear and away, he swung himself into the groomsman’s perch.
“Tally-ho,” McGillvary cried, keeping a firm grip on the whip.
15 A Sorry Procession
Sir Walter Elliot followed the ladies through the elegant beveled glass door of their hotel. Lady Sarah Jevington observed, with wonder in her voice, that even at this hour there were footmen on duty.
“I should hope so,” said Sir Walter, with an indulgent smile. “The evening is young.”
“But I am not,” said Sir Aldeburgh, around a yawn.
“Such a glorious night, Sir Walter,” said Miss Neville. “I thought that we would be confined to our cabin aboard the ship. Instead, an opera, a sumptuous dinner, and a stroll through Vauxhall Gardens!” She sighed happily. “Truly,
Sir Walter, you are the most complete hand.”
Sir Walter dipped his head modestly. “I only regret that I am unable to entertain you properly at my ancestral home, Kellynch Hall. Although I must admit, our garden there does not compare with the magic of Vauxhall.”
Sir Walter shook hands with Lord Aldeburgh, and he made a courtly bow to each of the ladies, lingering a shade longer with the widow Jevington. “A most delightful evening,” he said. “The pleasure has been all mine.”
After that the guests ascended to their respective rooms. Sir Walter Elliot watched them go with a sigh of satisfaction. He had fronted the cost for the evening himself. It was a large amount to be sure, but nothing he could not handle. An excellent investment, in point of fact. These days he could afford a few luxuries. There would be plenty of time for economization later. Indeed, he was now reconsidering the idea of settling in Venice. Perhaps a holiday in Greece would serve as well?
Sir Walter slowly mounted the wide, carpeted stairs. Another way to economize would be to turn in Lady Russell’s ticket and take a smaller cabin. This idea he discarded at once. He would much prefer to have the stateroom to himself. After all, life was too short to be pinching pennies.
But it occurred to him that he ought to write to William Elliot. It was only decent that he apprise his heir of the change in his plans. After all, William Elliot believed he had married Lady Russell.
Visions of Lady Sarah Jevington’s classic profile drifted through Sir Walter’s memory. Sarah. Such a beautiful name.
No, he was not married—yet. Sir Walter smiled a little. Here was a woman worthy of his admiration and found in London, of all places. A few more references to Kellynch Hall, a few more liberal entertainments, and Lady Sarah would be in the palm of his hand.
Sir Walter could not repress a smile. If he knew anything, it was how to properly court a beautiful woman!
~ ~ ~
The minutes ticked away, and McGillvary’s impatience grew. “Can we not go faster?” he longed to bark at his driver, but he kept his peace. Navigating the rain-filled narrow streets would be a challenge. Still, he did not like to leave Elizabeth alone with her cousin.
McGillvary’s foot tapped impatiently against the brass rail of the groom’s perch. “Get on with it, man,” he muttered.
