by Laura Hile
Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. “N-no!”
“Very well. If you wish to remain, so be it.” McGillvary dropped to one knee beside her chair.
Elizabeth’s eyes grew wider still. “What—are you doing?”
“Proposing marriage,” he said, smiling. “Or I will when you stop talking.”
He found her hand and gently took it between both of his own. “Elizabeth,” he said. “Dearest Elizabeth, will …”
Speaking became difficult; McGillvary swallowed and began again. This time he would not make a mull of it! “Will you,” he said, “do me the honour of becoming my wi—”
Mary Musgrove’s fork went clattering to her plate.
Captain Wentworth set down his glass. “Paddy, have you lost your senses? Do you realize what you are saying?
“Frederick,” whispered Anne. “Really!”
“Say yes,” said Mary. “Oh, please, please, say yes.”
“Mary!”
“It’s a miracle, Anne, that’s what it is,” Mary called down the table. “If she marries him, we won’t have to have her at Uppercross.”
McGillvary looked down the table. “If you will kindly allow me to finish?”
“But is he a man of means? What is his family?” Mary said to Admiral Croft.
“Now don’t fret, Mrs. Charles,” said Admiral Croft. “We sailors don’t waste time when we go a-wooing. McGillvary’s a capital fellow. Quite the catch for your sister.”
Admiral Croft looked to his wife. “Another link our Frederick has forged with the Elliots. Makes me wonder if we should rethink quitting Kellynch, eh, Sophie?”
“Well, Elizabeth,” Charles Musgrove said cheerfully. “What will you answer the man? Speak up, he’s waiting.”
19 Man Was For Woman Made
Sir Walter drifted into an uneasy sleep that was punctuated by the asthmatic breathing of the clergyman, the whimpering of the child, and any number of bad smells. He awoke with a cramp in his leg.
Beside him the large woman snored on. Her dog was on the floor chewing at something. Sir Walter peered into the swaying darkness. It took him some time to realize what was happening.
“My hamper,” he cried. Sure enough, the dog had chewed through the rattan basket. “My salmon!” He elbowed the woman in the ribs. “Madam, curb your dog.”
The young mother sighed heavily. “Pray do not upset him. He might lose his dinner, and it smells bad enough as it is.”
“No thanks to your child soiling his breeches,” said Sir Walter.
The clergyman coughed and opened an eye. “That is nothing to the reek of fish, sir,” he said, “for which I believe you are responsible.”
Sir Walter’s mouth fell open. “This dog, my good man, is eating fish. Top quality salmon, to be precise, which accounts for the fishy smell.” He pushed at the dog with his foot. “Drop it, I say. Drop it!”
“For mercy’s sake, let him have it,” said the young mother. “Anything to keep him quiet.”
Instead Sir Walter gave the dog a kick. “Take that, you fiend.”
The dog snarled and lunged. Sir Walter gave a shriek of pain. “He bit me! That foul cur actually bit me!”
The baby awoke, and the little boy began to cry. The clergyman raised his voice. “You might find it more comfortable, sir, to ride outside on the roof.”
“Hear, hear,” said the weary mother.
Sir Walter stared at them in disbelief. His ankle was bleeding all over the stocking, but did anyone care? The fat woman continued to snore, and her dog resumed his chewing.
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth was miserably aware that she was trembling. For here was Admiral McGillvary kneeling beside her chair, right in front of everyone! His eyes were sparkling, as if he were sure of her answer! He had caught her before with that adorable, boyish smile of his, and like a fool she had trusted him. And to what end?
Admiral Croft said that he was quite a catch, but what did he know? For she was the one who was caught, not Admiral McGillvary! If she had plotted and connived to land him, this would have been a moment of triumph. As it was, she felt rather ill. How was she to answer him?
Apparently he noticed her discomfort, for his smile slipped. “But how is this, love?” he said softly. “Won’t you have me after all?”
Elizabeth choked back a sob. Facing his irritation was so much easier than facing his gentleness! “Not here,” she whispered.
He leaned in. “Would you prefer to speak privately?”
She nodded, and he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. With as much dignity as she could muster, Elizabeth rose to her feet and was led from the dining room. She had no idea what she would say to him, for she could scarcely think!
But she was not given the opportunity, for once outside in the hall she was folded into his arms. This was not what Elizabeth wished to have happen, but what else could she do? She pressed her cheek against the wool of his uniform. “Oh, sir,” she whispered.
There was a pause. “Sir?” Patrick said, with a catch in his voice. “How is this?”
He pulled away to gaze into her face, but Elizabeth kept her eyes averted. How could she look at this man with any kind of composure?
At last he said, “It’s too great a gap to jump, is it?”
This was so unexpected, and he sounded so disheartened, that Elizabeth dissolved into tears.
There was a bench in the entrance hall, and before she knew what was happening she was seated on his lap. She knew she ought to pull away, but he held her too firmly. And so, unable to resist his embrace, she pushed aside the epaulet and nestled her head against his shoulder.
“Don’t fret, dear one,” he whispered into her ear. “It isn’t your fault.” She felt him draw a long breath and let it out. “It’s quite simple, is it not? I am not the man you fell in love with.”
Elizabeth’s response was to cry harder. He brought out a clean handkerchief and passed it. “I thought that an exchange, though awkward at first, would be possible.” His fingers stroked her hair. “Apparently it is not.”
Elizabeth did not know how to answer. Mary-like, she sought refuge in her handkerchief.
The silence stretched between them. “And so,” he said, “I suppose all that is left to us is to,”—his voice broke and grew husky— “is to say good-bye.”
She winced at the painful word. “Good-bye?” she whispered.
He pulled her closer. “Know that it will break my heart to do it! But if you cannot care for me, there is nothing to be said. I love you so dearly that I thought you might—” He broke off speaking.
Elizabeth raised her head. “But I have nothing to give,” she cried. “Not to you.”
His response was surprisingly gentle. “Do you think so?”
“Mr. Gill,” Elizabeth said haltingly, “was different. He was poor. And lonely.”
“And I am not … lonely?”
“But to him I could be a help!” Elizabeth paused to dry her eyes. “Well,” she admitted, “not exactly a help, for I know nothing about keeping house. Or cooking! I daresay if I had to live for years as purse-pinched as I have been lately, I don’t know what I would do.
“And also,” she went on, “I was Mr. Gill’s one and only love. Whereas you can have any woman you wish—simply by snapping your fingers.”
He made a wry face. “As you are so aptly demonstrating.”
“How can you jest?” Elizabeth cried. “I struggle to explain why I cannot trust you, and you … you …”
He took a long breath. “Why should you trust me indeed,” he said.
Elizabeth sat very still--so still that it seemed that she could feel the beating of his heart. Patrick said nothing at all; he did not even argue! Then a dreadful idea presented itself. When it came to trusting, what reason did he have to trust her?
This was a ridiculous notion, and she was determined to quash it. “You,” she told him warmly, “are a man of the world. Whereas my own Mr. Gill was not. He—” She caught up short. “
But he was only an illusion.”
“Yet you felt you could trust him. Why?”
“For one,” she flashed, “he did not have your experience with women.”
Patrick McGillvary gave a sharp sigh. “Elizabeth, must you dredge up every sin I have committed?”
She choked back a sob.
“Of course you must,” he amended hastily. “It is only right that you should. We’ll have no more secrets.” His hold on her tightened. “What I was as a young man I regret. You have no idea how deeply.
“As for the recent past—” He gave a ragged laugh. “My dear, from the start you’ve seen me in the worst possible light. Never mind Gill. If I could expunge that curst house party from your memory I might have had a chance! How I wish I’d never set eyes on that guest list or taken pains to bring you there.”
Elizabeth pulled away. “Do not,” she cried, “speak of that event to me! I cringe to recall how I hunted Mr. Rushworth—right before your eyes. You do not know how much I wished I hadn’t.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “I am no more trustworthy than you. It is a wonder that you care for me at all!” She buried her face in his shirt.
~ ~ ~
“Honestly, Anne,” said Mary. “We ought to go into the drawing room. These gentlemen will be wanting their port, and I am longing for a cup of coffee.”
Anne exchanged an anguished glance with her husband. So much for a quiet dinner with a few friends! This disastrous dinner would shortly be the talk of the town!
“Right,” Wentworth said to Mary, and he signed to Yee. “We’ll have both served. At once.”
As Yee came round with both cups and glasses, Mary gave a scandalized huff. “Well I never.”
“Sounds all right by me,” chirped Charles. “For all we know, it’s a tradition of the navy. What do you say, Croft?”
“Hear, hear,” Captain Spurlock chimed in. “For months at a time we are without the ladies. Might as well enjoy ’em while we have ’em, eh, Admiral?”
Anne, who was not impressed with Captain Spurlock or his manners, sighed. “Are they still in the entrance hall, Yee?” she whispered, as he filled her cup.
“They are, madam.” Yee balanced the coffee pot in one hand and the wine bottle in the other. “They do not appear any nearer to rapprochement.”
Wentworth sat back. “Thank God for that.”
Spurlock lifted his glass in salute. “Fine looking woman, Miss Elliot. Plenty of fish in the sea, is what I say. No harm done if she tosses him back.”
“My sister,” Mary informed him, “does not like sailors.”
“Nonsense. All pretty women like sailors.”
“If you ask me,” said Captain Wentworth, “that word is too freely misused. Pretty is as pretty does.”
“I quite agree. And what we ought to do,” Mary told him, “is to go into the drawing room.”
~ ~ ~
McGillvary stroked Elizabeth’s hair with gentle fingers. “What a sorry pair of fools we are,” he said.
“I must suppose,” Elizabeth said brokenly, “that it is better this way. Everyone would say that I’d only married you for your fortune. And in your heart of hearts, you might wonder if I had.”
“If you could have brought yourself to marry me.”
“Of course I could have! I am no coward.”
He smiled. “Even if I turned out to be the devil of a husband?”
She fingered the gold braid on the lapel of his coat. “It is more likely that I would be the devil of a wife! But what I feared most was that—”
“Go on,” he said gently. “We might as well have this out.”
Still she hesitated.
“My dear, does your mistrust of me extend so far?”
This was said so gently, and with such sadness, that Elizabeth could not bear it. She moved her hand to cover his fingers. “What I fear most is that you would be disappointed. And that, I think, is why I was willing to consider William Elliot.”
“Weren’t you afraid of disappointing him?”
“Of course not. He hates me already, you see.”
Suddenly and surprisingly, McGillvary laughed. “Happy thought indeed.”
“And so,” said Elizabeth bracingly, “I am off to Uppercross to be a companion to Mary and care for her children.” But her courage was short-lived; a tear rolled down her cheek.
He wiped it away with careful fingers. “Is Uppercross a long way off? Would I be welcome if I came to call?”
“But Patrick,” she objected, “it’s more than fifty miles.”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind if it were several hundred.”
“Wouldn’t you?” Elizabeth digested this news with her head on his shoulder.
“What better way to avoid the Bath gossips?” he pointed out.
This lighthearted remark was so much like his usual self that Elizabeth was emboldened to look at his face. Sure enough, his eyes had something of their former sparkle.
“You’ve no idea what you’re up against,” she told him. “No one there has any conversation! Charles Musgrove will prose on about hunting and dogs and horses …”
“I don’t mind that,” he said, smiling.
“And Mary speaks only of herself. Wait until you see their house. The parlour was well enough when they married, but the little boys have been allowed to run wild. Oh, and the senior Musgroves will ask you to dine at the Great House—he’s the squire, you know. You will enjoy that! There are always so many, and everyone talks at once. Your ears will ring for days.”
He shifted his hold. “Cannon fire,” he murmured into ear, “has inured me, dearest. What else?”
The sensation of his lips touching her ear was unaccountably pleasurable. Elizabeth worked to apply herself to the conversation. “Charles and Mary,” she said, “will have no room for you. Indeed, they have no room for me! And there isn’t a proper inn in the village, so you will have to stay at a horrid tavern.”
She wrinkled her nose at the thought. “You won’t like it—no one would. Charles Musgrove calls it a hole-in-the wall, and I daresay he is right. You might have to share a bed. Or sleep in a stable.”
“Reminds me of the south of France. I, er, dabbled in a bit of espionage there.”
Elizabeth looked at him with new eyes. “Did you?”
He turned his hand to show the scar. “My souvenir, if you will.”
She cradled his hand between her own. “It must have pained you dreadfully.”
“Only a flesh wound, my dear. Nothing like a blow to the heart.” He took possession of her fingers and kissed them. “And so,” he said, “have we agreed on a battle plan?”
“A … battle plan?” she repeated. “But Patrick, I do not wish to fight you! Not anymore.”
“We’ll call it a course of action, then. You will retreat to your sister’s cottage—”
“—travelling all the way in Charles Musgrove’s horrid gig,” she added. “I shall be covered with dust and rattled to bits.”
“I’ll loan you the travelling coach.” His lips brushed her cheek. “Then, once you are settled in, I shall come to call.”
“Not if I have your coach, you won’t.”
“I own more than one, love. I’ll drive the phaeton. Or better yet,”—his arms drew her close—“as I cannot bear to be parted from you, I believe I shall stow away in the boot.” His lips touched the lobe of her ear.
She giggled. “You wouldn’t! It would be too horrible!”
“Later, having exhausted all topics of conversation, you and I shall talk over—” A strident rapping on the main door cut him short.
Elizabeth looked round for Yee. “Who would be calling now?”
Patrick McGillvary was frowning. “I wonder,” he said slowly. “Yes, I wonder …”
Something about his tone made Elizabeth look at him closely. His eyes had narrowed to slits.
“What time is it?” he said abruptly.
Elizabeth glanced at the clock. “Just after
ten.”
“Ah.” He brought a finger to his lips, then put her gently aside and rose to his feet. Before Elizabeth knew what he was about, he was unbolting the door, taking care to make no noise.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“You missed an appointment, Miss Elliot,” he said. “Methinks a certain gentleman is calling to learn why.”
Elizabeth felt the blood drain from her face. “He wouldn’t!”
“You think not? We’ll see soon enough.”
The knocker sounded again, this time more insistently. Abruptly McGillvary pulled the door open, but not before William Elliot had let go of the knocker. He came staggering across the threshold. His hat went rolling on the floor.
“Good evening,” said McGillvary, assuming Yee’s role. He retrieved the hat and presented it. “I beg leave to inform you that the lady is not at home to callers.”
Mr. Elliot eyed McGillvary with hostility and jammed his hat on his head. “Good evening, Cousin,” he said to Elizabeth, speaking through clenched teeth. “I have come to fetch you, as well you know.”
“I do not think the lady is in agreement, Elliot. She has made her choice, and her plans do not include you. I am sorry to put it to you so brutally,” McGillvary added, “but there you are.”
William Elliot drew himself up. “Cousin,” he said to Elizabeth, “you will come with me. At once.”
Elizabeth stepped back a pace. “No,” she said clearly. “Indeed I shall not.”
Like lightning, Elliot’s hand shot out and grasped her forearm. “Ah,” he said, “but I think you—ouch!” He immediately pulled back.
“Outside, Elliot,” McGillvary said cheerfully. “We’ll finish this there.” He pushed past, working at the buttons on his dress uniform as he descended to the street.
Elizabeth followed hard on his heels. “Patrick,” she cried. “Where are you going?”
“Into the square, dearest. Too many breakables in the house.”
“Are you going to fight? I do not wish you to fight!”
“I wouldn’t be much of a man if I cried off, now would I?” Patrick gently removed his arm from her grasp and shrugged out of his coat. Business-like, he began to roll up his sleeves. “‘Life with disgrace is dreadful,’” he quoted. “‘A glorious death is to be envied.’”
