Mercy's Embrace_Elizabeth Elliot's Story [Book 2]

by Laura Hile

  “Money!” he cried out. “Do people think I am made of money? It does not grow on trees, my dear.” His voice was raspy now, and his fingers curled on the arm of his chair. “Do you know what shall become of me? I’ll be cast into prison, that’s what!”

  Elizabeth sighed Must he always be dramatic? “Surely not,” she said lightly. “As a gentleman, you are not bound by the—” She stopped. What did the law say? Was a baronet subject to the civil courts?

  “After all I have done for you,” he lamented, “is this to be my reward?”

  An attendant came in with the tea trolley. Sir Walter dismissed Elizabeth and reached for the plate of sandwiches.

  The journey back to St. Peter Square was equally unpleasant. Mary went stomping up the stairs to the drawing room, leaving Elizabeth to follow. Estella and Anne were there, seated before a bright fire. Mary went at once to join them. Elizabeth expressed surprise, as the weather was warm.

  Mary took instant offense. “I am cold,” she said, “and so is dear Estella. So you needn’t give me one of your looks. It will be a wonder if I haven’t caught my death, for that horrible chapel was so draughty. I daresay I have the beginning of a sore throat.”

  So it was now dear Estella, was it? It was odd how some women formed alliances; a mutual disgust of Argyle Chapel had done the trick. “Next week, bring a cloak,” Elizabeth said.

  “I have no intention of repeating the ordeal, thank you.”

  Elizabeth could not resist a smile. “So you will be returning to Uppercross?”

  Anne passed Elizabeth a cup of tea. “How was Father?” she said, before Mary could reply. “I trust he is well?”

  “This was one of his bad days.”

  “I wonder why?” said Mary. “When last I called he was in such spirits. So full of plans for his return to Kellynch. I could scarcely get a word in.”

  “And when was that?” flashed Elizabeth. “Last week?”

  Anne looked from one to the other. “Elizabeth, please,” she murmured.

  “Your pardon, madam.” Yee’s low voice caught Elizabeth’s attention. “Miss Owen has come to collect the children.”

  Elizabeth put down her cup and saucer. No matter that she was not dressed for walking, this was the perfect escape. “I believe I’ll join her.”

  “Is Miss Owen still hanging about?” Estella’s penetrating whisper could be heard by all.

  Elizabeth shook a scornful head. Her pretty cousin might have the better breeding, but Miss Owen certainly had the better manners.

  She met with Miss Owen in the entrance hall, and soon their little party was hurrying along the path. Miss Owen had hold of Little Charles and her basket, and Elizabeth, who knew nothing about children, had charge of young Walter. He was almost three.

  “Truly, Miss Elliot,” said Miss Owen, panting a little as Little Charles pulled her along, “you needn’t go to all this trouble. I can manage them quite well by myself.”

  Walter held tightly to Elizabeth’s bare hand; his fingers were sticky. “I don’t mind,” she said gamely.

  “Surely you wish to remain with your sisters. What about Mrs. Stevenson-Bragg?”

  Johnny and Bella, who were well ahead, had the gate open. Elizabeth could hear its hinges squealing as it was pulled open and shut, open and shut.

  “Hurry it up!” yelled Johnny.

  “Aunt ‘Lizbet,” Walter shouted up to her. “We’re going to play Ducks and Drakes.”

  “What on earth is that? And why must we go into the park to play?” She addressed Miss Owen, but Little Charles answered. He was four and, like his father, was very fond of talking. “We need water for Ducks and Drakes.”

  “Water,” Elizabeth repeated. “How … nice.”

  “You throw a rock,” Little Charles explained, “and then you say, ‘Duck-Drake-Duck-Drake’ until it stops.” His smile slipped. “I’m not a very good thrower.”

  “That is the game? Throwing rocks?” Elizabeth had never thrown a rock in her life.

  “He means skipping stones over the surface of the water,” Miss Owen explained. “Don’t worry, Little Charles, you are becoming better at throwing every day.” She raised her voice. “Follow me, children! And if we happen to see Admiral McGillvary, mind your manners! And stay clear of his horse!”

  Little Charles looked back. “Hurry up, Aunt ‘Lizbeth,” he bellowed. Walter pulled at her hand.

  Elizabeth sighed and trudged ahead.

  ~ ~ ~

  Once the children settled down, Elizabeth found herself in conversation. As before, Miss Owen began it. “And how is your father?”

  Elizabeth knew this was mere politeness, but since she could think of nothing else to speak about—save Miss Owen’s ugly hat—she took it up. “To be honest, he was … crabby.” She attempted to speak lightly, but she suspected her listener was not fooled.

  “My father is often the same,” said Miss Owen, “but he does not seem to be able to rise above it. His situation is far different from your father’s, I am sure.” She gave a sharp sigh. “Papa’s health is poor, but he brought that on himself by drinking far more than is good for him. And—” She hesitated. “And he has money troubles.”

  “Don’t we all,” said Elizabeth.

  “However,” she continued more cheerfully, “he is free now, thanks to my brothers. I hope and pray things will be better for him.”

  Elizabeth looked hard at Miss Owen. “Free,” she repeated. “How do you mean, free?”

  Miss Owen flushed; she began to study her clasped hands. “He could not pay his debts, you see. And so—” She made a vague gesture. “For a time Father was confined.”

  Elizabeth was shocked. “Do you mean he was imprisoned?”

  Miss Owen sighed. “When a man is unable to pay his creditors, then …”

  Elizabeth did not know what to say. She had heard of such things, but to meet the daughter of a bankrupt man made the threat terribly real. Would she face a similar fate? If so, what could be done? She shot a look at Miss Owen and spoke her thought. “How was your father to raise the money if he was—” Elizabeth hesitated. She did not like to say the word imprisoned.

  “That was left for my brothers to do.”

  The tight feeling in Elizabeth’s chest, which had been growing steadily worse, now threatened to overwhelm her. If her father were in similar straits, what would happen? For she had no brothers.

  It was not until later that night that the answer came. Elizabeth might not have brothers, but she did have brothers-in-law.

  ~ ~ ~

  And so one fine afternoon, when Captain Wentworth was at home and looked to be in a receptive mood, Elizabeth presented herself at the door of his ground floor office. He rose when she entered.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, with unbecoming surprise. When he realized that she had something to discuss, he indicated the chair in front of his desk. “Won’t you sit down?”

  Elizabeth drew a long breath. She expected to be uncomfortable, but she had no idea how much she would feel it now that they were face to face. “I have come to speak to you on a matter of some importance.”

  “So I see.”

  Apparently this was his invitation to continue. What shabby manners Captain Wentworth had! “It is a matter of business,” Elizabeth said, “in which you will be acting on behalf on another.”

  Captain Wentworth’s stern expression relaxed. “Is this about Mrs. Smith?” he said, smiling. “Anne has already informed me of the particulars. You may rest easy. I am prepared to act on her behalf.”

  Elizabeth frowned at him; she knew no one named Smith. “I have lately learned that our father is facing severe financial troubles, Captain Wentworth.”

  His smile froze. “This is hardly a new situation.” He leaned back in his chair. “But please, continue.”

  “He is truly worried. In fact, I fear his anxiety is affecting his health.” She waited for a response, but there was none. “He is despondent, Captain Wentworth,” she added.

/>   “So I would imagine.”

  He gave her no encouragement! How despicable it was to be reduced to begging!

  “What I would like to ask,” she managed, “is whether you would consider assisting him to pay his debts. It would certainly give peace of mind to Anne.”

  Captain Wentworth did not answer right away. “I take it you refer to paying his shot at The Citadel,” he said.

  “His shot? Do you mean his bill? Is he behind in his payments there as well?”

  “Is this a surprise to you?” Captain Wentworth’s smile became unpleasant. “Mr. Savoy is most insistent about being paid on time. At the moment he is not happy with your father.”

  Captain Wentworth’s eyes studied her face. “So,” he said, “I must assume that you are speaking of his other obligations. How much does he owe?”

  Elizabeth moistened her lips. “I do not know,” she said truthfully. “Several thousand pounds, perhaps?” She came to the edge of her chair. “You see, I’ve been thinking. Anne told me the story of how you paid for the pianoforte—with that unexpected money—and I was wondering if you could do the same for poor Father.”

  Captain Wentworth said nothing, so Elizabeth plunged ahead. “Surely there must be some way you can assist him. Anne would be extremely grateful. And,” Elizabeth continued, warming to her subject, “Father would be able to return to Kellynch Hall and not be a bother to you—or to her— any longer!”

  “A tempting inducement.”

  “You see?” she cried. “Everyone benefits.”

  “Everyone benefits,” he agreed, “except my estate. It’s a nice bit of wishful thinking, but fundamentally unsound. What you are suggesting is that I rob Anne and our children of ‘several thousand pounds.’ Oh,” he added, raising a hand, “you are not the first to suggest this. Mary also thinks it a praiseworthy notion.”

  Elizabeth froze to haughtiness. “Isn’t it?”

  He lifted a quill and began to toy with it. “I find it ironic,” he said, “that those who do not earn a living are always quick to tell those who do how to spend their money.”

  “I am not asking you to spend anything,” Elizabeth flashed. “I am merely suggesting that you help Father!”

  “Allow me to give you perspective. At my current rank, my yearly pay is in the neighbourhood of five hundred pounds.” He tapped the quill lightly on the desktop. “A year’s worth of work, Miss Elliot, during which time I must support myself while at sea, as well as my wife and children here in England.”

  Embarrassed, Elizabeth cried, “I am not asking you to hand over your slave’s wages to Father! But surely you can relieve some of his distress!”

  “I am in no way obliged to shoulder the load of his financial obligations.” He raised an eyebrow. “Have you consulted with Charles Musgrove on the subject? You will find him even less sympathetic. How many acres of his family’s land, I wonder, would he be obliged to sell to raise your ‘several thousand pounds’?”

  Elizabeth eyed him with growing resentment. Unfortunately there was more. “The simple fact is this,” he went on. “When a man fails to provide for his family and shows not a particle of remorse, he is little more than grain for the grist mill of life’s consequences. To put it bluntly, if a man refuses to swim, the sharks will eat him.”

  Elizabeth was too shocked to say anything. Did Captain Wentworth hate her father so entirely? Did he likewise hate her?

  He smiled slightly. “Let us say, for the sake of argument, that I do discharge your father’s debts. What then?”

  Elizabeth found her voice. “Father will return to Kellynch Hall.”

  “Where he will retire quietly? And meekly live within his means?”

  This was unanswerable.

  “You know very well that he would not.” Wentworth tossed the quill aside. “Within two or three years he would be back where he is now, just as much in the hole as ever.”

  Elizabeth said, in a rough whisper, “People change, Captain Wentworth. Perhaps he will reform. Turn over a new leaf, so to speak.”

  “Perhaps.” The sarcasm in Captain Wentworth’s tone was palpable. “It occurs to me that your father has had sufficient motive to make such a reformation before this—and has refused. He does not scruple, for instance, to deny his daughters of their rightful settlement income.”

  Elizabeth could no longer look Captain Wentworth in the eye.

  He broke the silence. “If ever I do agree to discharge your father’s debts, understand this: It will be after he is dead. Never before.”

  “Think of Anne!” Elizabeth cried. “Think of her peace of mind!”

  “I am thinking of Anne,” he replied. “While he lives, your father must find his own way.” The finality in Captain Wentworth’s declaration was unmistakable. The interview was over.

  Elizabeth rose to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster and said through clenched teeth, “Is this your final answer, sir?”

  Captain Wentworth likewise pushed back his chair. “It is.”

  “Then,” she cried, “may God help poor Father.”

  “What an excellent idea.” Captain Wentworth’s cold smile reappeared. “I suggest you apply to Him for the money.”

  4 Pribbles and Prabbles

  In the days following, Mary Musgrove did indeed develop a full-blown cold. She complained so much that eventually Yee was sent to summon the physician.

  Winnie Owen met him at the service door. “I am afraid Mr. Minthorne won’t have time until this evening,” she told him. “Is she very bad? Is there anything I might do for her?”

  “She is anxious because her husband has not come,” said Yee. “He sent a letter, but she has, I believe, a nervous disposition.”

  Winnie considered. “She has been alone for all this time?”

  “Today her breakfast tray was untouched.”

  “Mr. Minthorne won’t like that. She must eat.”

  Yee’s brows went up. “We shall prepare another tray if you wish, but it is well to remember: ‘The spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity; but a wounded spirit, who can bear?’”

  “A wounded spirit,” Winnie echoed. “Do you suppose she will see me? Sometimes it helps to speak about one’s troubles. While we talk, you can bring in a plate of sandwiches.”

  “I shall enquire.”

  Some minutes later Winnie followed Yee up to Mary Musgrove’s bedchamber. Although she had never conversed with Mrs. Musgrove, Winnie was too well acquainted with the rigors of the sickroom to be shy. She went directly to the bed.

  “Good morning,” she said pleasantly. “I am Miss Owen, Mr. Minthorne’s cousin, come to visit you. Mr. Yee will bring us tea and sandwiches, and while he does, you must tell me exactly how you are feeling.”

  Although Mary Musgrove made no move to return the greeting, Winnie knew herself to be on solid ground. She drew a chair forward. “Mr. Yee tells me your husband did not arrive as expected. You must feel it deeply.”

  Mrs. Musgrove turned her head. “My husband,” she repeated. “My husband is the greatest beast in nature!” Her face crumpled. “He was supposed to arrive with money and my trunks, but it seems he has more important things to do.”

  “Oh dear,” said Winnie. She located a fresh handkerchief. “Suppose you tell me about it.”

  “He is cruel and selfish and horrible,” Mrs. Musgrove said, dabbing at her eyes. “I ought never to have married him. Truly, you have no idea how I am treated. As if I am nothing!”

  Winnie sighed; it was always the same story. She was almost glad to be unmarried! “Has he a temper?” she asked a little fearfully. Her father had a vicious temper, especially when he had been drinking. It was well that he lived in Wales!

  “The worst.” Mrs. Musgrove hitched herself higher on the pillow. “You should hear the things he says to me.”

  Winnie closed her eyes, remembering. “Does he fly into a rage and curse?”

  Mrs. Musgrove looked startled. “Not exactly,” she said. “But he is terribly
unkind.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Winnie. “You know how men’s tongues will run away with them, especially when they’ve been drinking.”

  Mrs. Musgrove sniffed. “Charles,” she said “is altogether too fond of drinking! You would be shocked to learn the lowly sort of drink he prefers.”

  Winnie was all sympathy. “Rum,” she said wrathfully, “and demon gin. Horrible stuff. Altogether wicked.”

  Mrs. Musgrove’s eyes went wide, and Winnie realized that she must be unaccustomed to plain speaking. “I am sorry to offend,” she said gently, “but there is nothing like facing the truth of a matter. Tell me more.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Musgrove, warming to her subject, “Charles cares nothing for my feelings—my own sincerest feelings! Indeed, no one knows what I suffer at his hands.”

  Winnie caught her breath. “Does he beat you?”

  “Er—no,” Mrs. Musgrove said. “But I daresay he would like to!” She twisted the handkerchief. “He has no regard for the state of my health, Miss Owen, which is quite delicate. Indeed, Charles is forever comparing me to … to other women! It is horrible, I tell you, horrible!”

  Winnie laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Mrs. Musgrove you cannot mean he keeps a mis—a—” Winnie blushed; she could not bring herself to say the word! “Does he—keep another woman?”

  There was a pause. “Well, no,” said Mrs. Musgrove. “But his brother! His brother, Richard, certainly did. Or he would have if he had lived long enough. You know how habits run in a family.”

  As two of her brothers were now following in their father’s footsteps, Winnie knew exactly.

  “He complains how I manage the boys. And how I handle money. You have never met a more tightfisted, stingy man in all your life. The things other women receive as a matter of course he denies me.” Mrs. Musgrove’s tears began to flow again. “The basic necessities of life! It is too, too hard.”

  Winnie poured out a glass of water and offered the plate of sandwiches. Mrs. Musgrove helped herself. Soon color returned to her cheeks. Mr. Minthorne would be pleased, although it had cost Winnie to hear the sad tale. The woman’s husband was obviously a monster.

  Still, it would be some time before her cousin would arrive. She might as well hear it all. “What else is troubling you, Mrs. Musgrove?” she said gently.