by Laura Hile
Elizabeth rested a hand on her hip. “Anne,” she said, “is travelling to who-knows-where with Captain Wentworth. As we are delayed, pray tell me what to fetch from Lady Russell’s. Shall I make a list?”
Sir Walter waved an airy hand. “I wouldn’t dream of putting you to so much trouble. What I would like for today, besides my night gear and evening wear—which you should have no difficulty in finding, once you locate the proper trunk—is my apple-green frockcoat, the fawn breeches, and the green-and-salmon striped waistcoat. Mind, Elizabeth, to bring white lawn shirts, not linen. And the small clothes and several cravats, as well.”
Elizabeth pursed her lips in what Sir Walter considered to be a most unbecoming way. “Will there be anything else?” she said.
“Handkerchiefs, if you can find them, and a quantity of stockings. I can only hope that they will not have yellowed,” he said. “What is missing or stained will have to be purchased.”
Charles Musgrove clapped an ugly cap on his head. “I’m afraid it must be now or not at all,” he told Elizabeth. “I take Miss Owen to the coaching station in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll take Elizabeth, Musgrove,” McGillvary offered. He caught her eye. “Shall we be off?”
Elizabeth tripped down the stairs and, to Sir Walter’s surprise, tied the ribbons of her bonnet without reference to the mirror. She hunted out a parasol from the umbrella stand. McGillvary opened the door, and they went out. Charles Musgrove followed.
Sir Walter drummed the banister rail with impatient fingers. Where was that shiftless foreign butler? “What I would like,” he announced to the empty entrance hall, “is a bath! At once, do you hear?”
~ ~ ~
Winnie Owen answered the door herself. Charles’s heart sank at her obvious dismay. “I am perfectly able to take a hack—” she said haltingly.
There was nothing he could reply, for jokes and sallies seemed out of place today. He spied a trunk and leather travelling case standing ready in the tiny entrance hall.
“Please,” he said, stepping past her. “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is. I do not wish to argue with you on our last day together.” He gestured. “Is this your trunk?”
He heard her sigh. “Yes,” she said.
Dealing with the heft of Winnie’s trunk on his own seemed right—as penance, perhaps. A pressing home of the truth that she was leaving. Well, and so was he—eventually. Charles put on his leather driving gloves, gripped the handles on either end of the trunk, and lifted. Out the door he went with it. Winnie followed, lugging her leather case and a wicker hamper.
“It’s frightfully heavy, I fear,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
With a grunt, Charles heaved the trunk into the boot of the gig. With his free hand he felt for the length of rope he’d placed there. She watched with some anxiety, but Charles soon had the trunk knotted into position. She returned to the house to say her goodbyes.
Charles leaned against the wheel to wait. Soon enough she emerged, squeezed between the old cook and Ruth. All were crying—even cook who was as shrewish as they came!
“It’s for the best,” he heard Winnie say, as she kissed them on each cheek. “My father needs me. And you will have a new mistress who is good and kind.”
This brought little comfort; the women cried all the more. Above their bowed heads, Winnie’s eyes met his. “Mind the time,” he heard her say at last. “I must be off, or I’ll miss the stage.”
He helped her up, then mounted and stepped across to his seat. A cluck to Belle and a shake of the reins, and they were off. Her bonnet askew, Winnie slewed round in her seat to wave.
This is good bye, then. This is the end.
All too soon they reached the coaching yard. Charles removed Winnie’s belongings from the gig and went with her to purchase the ticket. They sat together on one of the empty benches.
“You needn’t wait,” she said. “I will be fine.”
Charles looked her fully in the eyes. “I know. But I will wait just the same.”
“But—” She hesitated, and then said, “Thank you.”
There seemed to be nothing more to say. The usual pleasantries about the fine weather and the length of the journey—he hadn’t the heart for them. He hadn’t the heart to laugh and joke, either. Instead he traced the pattern of the stitching on his driving gloves and studied the cobbles. He and this dear young woman, who once had had so much to say to one another, were now reduced to silence.
While she was looking the other way, Charles dug in his pocket. He pulled out a five-pound note and folded it into a tight square. She would not like this, he knew that full well, but he no longer cared. His peace of mind was more important than what she thought.
They were not alone in the yard; bit-by-bit a group of passengers collected. Charles strained his ears for the inevitable sounds; any minute now he would hear the thunder of horses and grind of wheels—and she would be gone forever.
Somehow he found his voice. “I’d like you to have this,” he said, taking hold of Winnie’s gloved wrist. He pressed the note into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “For your journey.”
She said nothing for a long while. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her unfold the note; he heard her sigh. “You know I cannot accept this,” she said softly.
“Winnie,” he said, turning fully toward her, “you’ve not travelled as much as I. Anything might happen on a journey. Money comes in handy. Say the coach breaks an axle and you find yourself stranded. What then? How will you pay for your meals and your lodging?”
“Where is your faith, Charles Musgrove?” she countered. “God will protect me.”
“And what if He has sent me ahead of time to give provision? Have you thought of that?”
It appeared she hadn’t. “But this is so much,” she protested. Her anxious expression softened into concern. “What of your farm? The sowing has not been done—and how can it be, with you in Bath for so many weeks?”
Was that the sound of horses? There, he heard it: the horn blowing for the change. The other passengers stirred to activity. From the stables, the hostlers came running.
Charles looked Winnie Owen fully in the eyes. It was obvious that she still did not understand the extent of his resources. “My income does not depend upon the farm,” he said bluntly. “This is only a part—a very small part—of the interest earned by investments my family has made. It is a paltry amount, Winnie. Five pounds, what is that? And yet, for me, today, it is a treasure. It can purchase peace of mind.”
He saw her lips part. She said slowly, “It is a false peace, is it not?”
“It is all the peace allowed me. Take it,” he urged, “as from one friend to another. I will sleep more soundly tonight, knowing that if something happens, you will have provision.”
“As from one friend to another,” she repeated.
He would not sleep soundly this night; he knew that. She would inhabit his dreams, this darling of a woman who was kind and yet so wise. The stage came sweeping into the yard. Together they stood to meet it, hand-in-hand.
~ ~ ~
McGillvary tossed aside the Holland cloth cover and pried open yet another of Sir Walter’s trunks. “So he was on his way to Venice,” he said. “But without Lady Russell. What happened to change that?”
Elizabeth sat back on her heels. It was so airless in this attic bedchamber—and there were so many trunks and boxes to go through!
“Charles Musgrove said he was snatched from the jaws of death. What that means is anyone’s guess. And now Father must make things difficult for everyone. If only we could find that frock coat! We’ve found almost everything else.”
McGillvary thrust his hand to the bottom of the trunk and felt around. His fingers found wool fabric … and buttons. He tugged; a green-coloured sleeve emerged. “Aha,” he said, pulling. “This must be it.” He shook out the frock coat for Elizabeth to see. “Here we are. Apple green.”
Elizabeth sighed. “I’m a
fraid not,” she said. “That’s olive, Patrick. Apple green is brighter.”
McGillvary cast the coat aside. “Brighter,” he muttered,” but not too bright. Green, but not too dark. Why am I surprised?” He held up one of the others he’d cast aside. “What colour did you call this?”
“Pistachio.”
“Not sage?”
She pointed. “That other one is sage.”
McGillvary shook his head. “How the devil can you tell the difference?”
“Sage is a green-silver. Olive is muddier.” Elizabeth refolded a white shirt and placed it in the growing pile. “Linen, not lawn,” she said. “Wouldn’t it figure?” She reached again into the trunk she was sorting through.
“Now there you are,” he said, watching her draw out another coat. “That looks promising. I call that a fine shade of green.”
“But it’s not green. It’s turquoise.”
“Close enough.” McGillvary got to his feet. “Your father will look like a parrot when he wears it, but what is that to us?”
He closed the trunk and replaced the Holland cloth. “That’s it,” he said, brushing dust from his knees. “These will have to do. How many green-coloured coats does one man need?”
“Define the term need,” said Elizabeth. “You know how Father is. Years ago he was told—by one of the patronesses of Almack’s, no less—that green was his most becoming colour. He took her at her word.”
McGillvary took hold of Elizabeth’s hands and pulled her to her feet. “Time to give it up, love,” he said.
“But Patrick, I haven’t yet located—”
“—the green coat? My love, you’ve found a half-dozen. And for what purpose? Ten to one he’ll send Wentworth’s man for all of it tomorrow. Now then, what we want is a bedsheet.”
“But why?”
He let go her hands. “Here we have a …” McGillvary squinted at it. “What is this thing? Oh, a nightshirt. A nightshirt large enough for an elephant. Lovely.”
He pulled out his knife and made a cut in the fabric. Deftly he tore the garment at the seam and spread it on the floor.
“Patrick,” cried Elizabeth. “You’ve ruined that.”
“I know,” he said, grinning. He gathered an armload of clothes.
“Now what are you doing?”
“Packing,” he said, and dropped the garments. “You see? Here we are: breeches, stockings, shirts …”
“But those are the wrong sort of shirt. And we don’t know if the stockings will match.”
McGillvary’s grin widened. “Right. Here, pass me those coats—the top two will do.” He tossed them on the pile, drew up the corners of the nightshirt, and tied the whole into a neat bundle.
“He won’t appreciate your workmanship,” Elizabeth observed.
“He isn’t meant to.” McGillvary swung the bundle onto his shoulder. “Half a minute, love. I’ll run this down to Henry to take to your sister’s. And then we’ll head for Bailey’s. I’m starving.”
Smiling, Elizabeth went out of the room. “What an overbearing husband you will be,” she said, catching hold of his free hand. “And the worst of it is, I shall have no choice but to obey.”
~ ~ ~
Sir Walter’s bellow brought Yee into the dressing room at a run.
“What-is-this?” he demanded, holding the just-delivered issue of the Bath Gazette aloft.
“Is there a problem, sir?” Yee enquired, with his usual quiet precision.
“I should say!” Sir Walter made a lunge for his spectacles, which were balanced beside the tub. Unfortunately, they fell into the bath water. He spent some minutes hunting for them on the bottom of the tub. At last, glaring at Yee, he got them dried and positioned on the bridge of his nose.
He read aloud:
Sir Walter Elliot, late of Kellynch Hall, is pleased to announce the betrothal of his daughter, Elizabeth, to Admiral Patrick McGillvary of Belsom Park.
Sir Walter’s face, already pink from the hot water of the bath, became redder still. “Who,” he shouted, “had the effrontery to place this notice in my name?”
“I believe Captain Wentworth placed it, sir,” Yee said. “In view of your protracted journey, he took the liberty of acting in your stead.”
“My daughter,” thundered Sir Walter, “is engaged to Mr. James Rushworth of Sotherton! She is not engaged to this fellow!”
“As to that, sir,” said Yee, “there has been a bit of a contretemps.”
“By all that is holy,” shouted Sir Walter, tossing the newspaper aside. “I’ve married one daughter to naval riff-raff! I’ll not lose another to the same!”
21 Mercy’s Embrace
When in residence at Kellynch Lodge, Lady Russell took afternoon tea in the front parlour, for the view of the grove was pleasant. The Crofts had not returned to Kellynch Hall—and now Lady Russell wondered if they ever would. Truth to tell, after days of solitude, Lady Russell was finding Kellynch sadly flat. When Longwell brought in the tea tray, she said as much to him.
“Very good, milady,” was his reply.
“Is it?” she said. “How so?”
With his good hand, Longwell poured milk into her empty cup. “Miss Anne is very well in Bath,” he said. “And her father is very well where he is.” He added two lumps of sugar and filled the cup with steaming tea, just as she liked.
Lady Russell took a tentative sip. “Sir Walter must be past Gibraltar by now. I wonder how he is coping with the exigencies of sea travel.”
Longwell made no comment. He placed the week-old Bath Gazette before her.
She glanced at the date and laid it aside. “Has it been over a week since we left Bath for London?”
Longwell’s lips twitched. “A madcap adventure from start to finish, ma’am.”
She sighed. “And yet, as I was saying, it is quiet—too quiet.” Lady Russell hesitated, studying his face. “What do you think about inviting Anne and her husband for the summer months?”
“It is not for me to say, milady.”
“I mean as far as the staff is concerned. To have only two extra bedchambers here is most inconvenient.” She unfolded the newspaper and pretended to read while she waited for Longwell’s answer. Over the top of the page she watched him.
He stood at rigid attention. “Milady’s house in Bath is more accommodating for guests,” he said at last. “But the Lodge is more private.”
“So,” she said, smiling, “we remain as we are and invite Anne and her husband to come here.”
“But is Captain Wentworth a sporting gentleman?”
Lady Russell gave Longwell a look. “Properly speaking, he is not a gentleman at all.”
Longwell cleared his throat. “Does he ride or fish?”
“Meaning, will he always be underfoot,” she said. “An excellent point to consider. However, Anne’s presence will more than make up for any trouble Captain Wentworth will cause. I daresay he will ride to Uppercross often enough.”
She paused to sigh. “How I miss Anne! And yet I cannot bear to make another journey so soon. She must come to us.”
“As you wish, milady.”
Longwell left the parlour but soon came back with a letter. “The post, ma’am,” he said, presenting the silver salver. “With something you will like.”
Lady Russell took up the letter and read the direction. “Anne,” she cried. “At last! I was beginning to wonder if she would ever reply.” She broke the seal and began to read.
“She took the news well, ma’am?” Longwell said, watching her expression.
“I must suppose so,” she said slowly. “Anne does not refer to our flight to London at all.”
Longwell gave a sigh of satisfaction. “All’s well that ends well,” he quoted.
But Lady Russell was absorbed in reading. “Why I never!” she said. “Anne and Captain Wentworth are in Lyme, Longwell. Apparently he wished to visit the Harvilles. I like that! Never mind what Anne might wish to do, he must carry all before him!”
She resumed reading. “Charles and Mary—and the children—are staying on at the White Hart, owing to an illness of Mary’s.” Lady Russell looked up. “Illness, my eye. Mary wishes to remain in Bath, that is all.”
Longwell raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps she finds Uppercross sadly flat, ma’am?”
“Anne will feel the same way about Lyme soon enough, for what is there to do in Lyme?” Lady Russell went back to reading. “It seems that Elizabeth has written to Anne—can you imagine? Elizabeth never writes to anyone if she can avoid it! Anne says that —something seems to agree with her.”
Lady Russell bit her lip, perplexed. “Longwell,” she said, “do you have your spectacles? I cannot make out this word. Betr—something. It ends with an l. Or—perhaps not.”
From a pocket Longwell produced them and bent over the letter. “The word,” he announced, “is betrothal, milady.”
Lady Russell wrinkled her nose. “Are you certain?” She squinted at the page. “Betrothal seems to agree with Elizabeth?”
Longwell cleared his throat. “It’s an odd world, ma’am.” He collected her empty plate and silver service.
“No, no, Longwell,” she cried. “Do not go. Stay and help me think this out. To whom is Elizabeth betrothed? Surely not Mr. Rushworth.”
“To a deaf man, milady,” he said promptly. “A very rich, very deaf man.”
“Do be serious!”
“Perhaps the Gazette will shed some light?”
“Oh, excellent!” Lady Russell snatched it up. “Notices, notices,” she murmured, running her finger down the society page. “Ah, here we are: Announcements.” She spread the paper so that Longwell could see.
“You’re in luck. There you are, ma’am,” he said, pointing. “Sir Walter Elliot, late of Kellynch Hall, is pleased to announce the betrothal of his daughter, Elizabeth, to Admiral Patrick McGillvary of Belsom Park.”
“Has Elizabeth taken leave of her senses? What in heaven’s name possessed her to marry him?”
“Desperation, ma’am, might well be the cause of it.”
