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

by Laura Hile

  ~ ~ ~

  Lady Russell stood uncertainly outside Sir Walter’s door. She had been searching without success for an attendant to announce her arrival, for she wished to visit him. The sound of voices within his room caught her attention, and she came nearer to listen. Was the phrase good day among the babble?

  The handle of the door turned. Apparently someone was coming out.

  Lady Russell stepped back a pace. A moment later a gentleman emerged, and he carefully closed the door. He was a wide fellow. Lady Russell coughed, and he turned round.

  “Why, Mr. Rushworth,” she said. “How do you do?”

  Mr. Rushworth pulled the hat from his head. “Very well, ma’am,” he said and made a little bow. “Very well indeed. In fact—” His polite smile dissolved into a boyish grin. “In fact, I was never better in my life.”

  “How thoughtful of you to call on Sir Walter. Charity toward the sick is a becoming virtue.”

  Mr. Rushworth was now twisting the brim of his hat. “I came all the way from London, ma’am,” he confessed, “on an errand for Mama. So I thought I would—you know—pop by.”

  “I trust you enjoyed your visit?”

  “Very much, ma’am. He was most agreeable about—about everything. I didn’t think he would be.” And then Mr. Rushworth’s supply of words deserted him. He mumbled a brief farewell and moved off.

  Puzzled, Lady Russell watched him go. Such an odd young man! She looked again for an attendant but eventually gave it up. “Good morning, Sir Walter,” she called and opened the door a crack. “May I come in?”

  Sir Walter’s greeting was clear and strong, an excellent sign. He sat in a chair by one of the windows; sunshine streamed through the panes to light his head and shoulders. At his side was a small table upon which were spread writing materials. Apparently he was working on a letter.

  “This is perfect,” he said and returned his attention to one of the pages. He bent and signed his name with a flourish. “There we are—finished. Your timing is superb.”

  She brought out a bundle of his most recent letters. “Where would you like me to put these?”

  “Oh, anywhere. On the chair, on the bed, on the floor—it matters not.” He read through what he had written and nodded. “Yes, quite perfect.”

  Lady Russell smiled; she would never put his letters on the floor. “I’ll just set these on the mantelpiece,” she suggested, “where they won’t be misplaced. Several look to be rather important.”

  Sir Walter turned his head. “Invitations?”

  “I believe these are letters of business.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Business.” He became occupied with the sealing wax. When he finished, he glanced up. “Good gracious, forgive my appalling manners. Please, do sit down.” He waved a hand toward a chair adjacent to his. “I have had such a morning.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I have had a caller, you see. With news.”

  It must have been some news, for Sir Walter’s eyes were shining.

  “And so, as you see,” he continued, “I have written to Shepherd.” He held out the newly-sealed letter. “Would you be so kind as to have this sent by express? He must come to Bath straightway, for I have need of his counsel.”

  Lady Russell took the letter with raised brows. “By express,” she repeated.

  “I must see Shepherd about several things. The settlements, for one. He needs to be on hand to record the settlements.”

  “The—settlements?” Was someone contemplating matrimony?

  “There is another little problem,” he said, “regarding the loan payment. But no matter, Shepherd will handle it admirably, I am sure.” Sir Walter sat back in his chair. His fingers drummed on his knee. He hummed a tune and tapped his foot. “I say,” he complained. “Aren’t you going to ask about my caller?”

  ~ ~ ~

  The late afternoon was golden, so uncharacteristic for that time of year. The sunshine, brilliant clouds, and caressing breeze made being out-of-doors a delight. Even Elizabeth, who had been under a cloud since her interview with Captain Wentworth, was drawn out to enjoy the park. The added benefit was that she would not find Captain Wentworth there. The sooner she was married and out of his house, the better!

  When she reached the top of the slope, she heard the sound of children laughing. Sure enough, Miss Owen and the Musgrove boys were beside the lake. She turned to go, but then she remembered Captain Wentworth and thought better of it. It was far nicer to be here.

  Little Charles came running up. “Aunt ‘Lizbeth,” he shouted. “There’s frogs in the mud! By the rushes! I caught one! Want to see?” He held out cupped hands, the prison for the unfortunate frog.

  Elizabeth brought a gloved hand to her breast. “Er—no, thank you, Little Charles,” she said, as kindly as she could. She had noticed that Miss Owen was gentle with children and received much better responses from them.

  Together she and Little Charles made their way to the bench. “Have you found any birds’ nests?” Elizabeth enquired politely. The boys were wild to find one, she knew.

  Little Charles’s face lit up. “Oh lots!” he bellowed. “Miss Ow’n found a dandy one in that bush over there.” His face fell a bit. “But it’s old. Miss Ow’n says it’s not time for nests.”

  “Little Charles,” Miss Owen broke in. “Have a care for the frog! Do be gentle.”

  Little Charles glanced down at his hands. “Oh,” he said. “Sorry.” He parted his fingers to peer at his captive. “He’s trying to get out.”

  “Perhaps you should return him to his friends in the mud?” Elizabeth had to smile at her advice—what did she know about frogs? Little Charles’s stockings and breeches were covered with mud; what harm could more do? He went galloping away.

  “What an excellent suggestion,” said Miss Owen merrily. “What is it about getting dirty that is so attractive to a boy?”

  Elizabeth sat down. “I have no idea.” She allowed herself to relax against the back of the stone bench. Since it was only Miss Owen, it did not matter if she indulged in the luxury of lounging. “I know nothing about boys,” she admitted, closing her eyes against the bright sun.

  “I do,” said Miss Owen, “and young or old, when it comes to adventures they are all the same. The dirtier, the better.”

  Elizabeth opened an eye. “They are the same, aren’t they?” she said, caught by a sudden memory. “Climbing through hedges and jumping into canals and—”

  How had Patrick Gill put it? Ah yes. “And messing about in boats.” Elizabeth’s smile faded. It was better not to think about Patrick Gill.

  “Aunt ‘Lizbet?” Walter stood at her knee. “I looked,” he said solemnly, “but there’s nothing hiding under there.” He pointed to the bench.

  His question brought a pang. When they were here last, she had asked him to check for a note. But this was before her interview with Captain Wentworth. Had Mr. Gill placed one? Given the severity of her situation, it was better not to know. Patrick Gill had been a charming diversion, nothing more.

  “I thank you, Walter,” she said and gave his curly head a pat. “You needn’t look under the bench anymore.”

  “Are you brave now?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I think I am brave now.”

  He scampered off to join his brother.

  “He is a fine little fellow,” said Miss Owen. “Always checking for creatures beneath the bench.”

  “He is,” said Elizabeth softly. “And I am a simpleton.”

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Mice give me a terrible fright. Although …” Miss Owen paused. “To say truth, I am most afraid of people. My Great Aunt Minthorne in particular. I shouldn’t be, but there it is.” She glanced shyly at Elizabeth.

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  “Mr. Yee says I must overcome it. He says ‘The fear of man bringeth a snare,’ and I daresay he is right. You know how fond Mr. Yee is of quoting texts.” Miss Owen paused to smile. “It’s odd, isn’t it?
I cannot imagine him being afraid of anyone. Yet to hear his story, he and his wife have had very difficult lives.

  Had Yee a story? Elizabeth eyed Miss Owen wonderingly. She had never thought about servants as having lives. They were just—servants.

  Miss Owen gave a sharp sigh. “How the time does run away,” she said. “I’d best get these fellows home. They want a good washing and clean clothes. We’re having a bit of a treat later this afternoon.”

  Elizabeth chose to remain behind. She adjusted the brim of her hat against the glare of the sun. Now that it was quiet she ought to enjoy the beauties here. The willows were covered with the new green of spring—a pretty sight—and the water sparkled merrily.

  Elizabeth could only frown and kick a toe against the turf. Birds flitted in and out of trees, singing and trilling. Each blade of new grass shone golden. But Elizabeth was too occupied with her thoughts to care.

  If only she could stop thinking! Was this why Anne was so fond of reading? To avoid thinking of Captain Wentworth after their father sent him away? Perhaps next time she should bring a book.

  A slight sound caught her attention, and she glanced up. A lone horseman was cantering along the top of the hill. She quickly looked the other way, feigning unconcern. Perhaps he would not notice her and go away? To her distress, she heard the hoof beats draw nearer.

  Hating herself, Elizabeth finally looked up. The rider, who was now very near indeed, was dismounting. He removed his hat, exposing unruly brown hair. And then he smiled.

  Elizabeth caught her breath in surprise.

  “Miss Elliot,” he called. “Good afternoon.” It seemed as if he would say more, but no words came.

  Elizabeth’s heart was pounding alarmingly. “You’ve returned,” she cried and rose from the bench. She could feel a smile spreading across her face—a foolish smile, she knew. She had forgotten how handsome he was.

  Patrick Gill held up a sealed letter. “I have no need to place this, have I?” There was a pause. “You’ve found the bench, I see. Do you like it?”

  Elizabeth discovered that she’d been staring instead of listening. His face held an expectant look; had he asked a question? She must say something. “Is this not a lovely day?” she managed.

  He came nearer. Left to itself, his horse began to tear at the grass. “Yes,” he said, “it is a very lovely day.”

  “I—was beginning to wonder whether you would return.” She was finding it difficult to breathe properly.

  “But I had given my word.” He flashed another delightful smile. “Did you doubt me?”

  “It has been my experience that gentlemen often change their minds.”

  His eyes glittered, or so it seemed to her. “Ah, but I am not a gentleman. Or so I have been told.”

  “You certainly look like a gentleman today,” she countered. “Are you helping Burns to exercise the horses?”

  Mr. Gill seemed pleased by this. “Have you met Burns?”

  “Miss Owen has.” Elizabeth stopped. “He—Burns—told her that it was permissible to be down here. I doubt this is true. If our gardener at Kellynch told trespassers such a thing, I would be angry.”

  Mr. Gill’s smile turned into a grin. Why was he so pleased by this?

  Elizabeth swallowed. She had to say something—she couldn’t just stare! “The horse you are riding is beautiful.” And it was. Large and handsome, it was as black as jet.

  “Would you like an introduction?” Mr. Gill patted its neck and shoulders. “This,” he said, “is Aoife.”

  “Ee-fa.” Elizabeth repeated the unfamiliar name. “That’s Irish, isn’t it?” She reached out a tentative hand. “I have always longed to ride.”

  Mr. Gill had become occupied with untwisting Aoife’s bridle, but at this he looked up. “How do you mean?”

  “My father never kept saddle horses. He does not ride—and neither do his daughters.”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “You cannot expect me to believe that. Come, confess your cowardice and be done with it.”

  “I am no coward,” she retorted. “My father thinks horses are dirty animals and would never let us near them. I would gladly ride if given the chance.”

  Mr. Gill straightened. His eyes were very blue. “Very well,” he said, looking her over. “Is that a good dress you are wearing?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Excellent. Come here.” He bent down and cupped his hands together. “Put your foot here, and I’ll throw you up.”

  “You’ll do what?”

  “Hold on tightly—use your knees to grasp Aoife’s sides—until I’m up behind you.”

  Elizabeth caught his arm. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said, grinning, “to teach you to ride—now. Are you game?”

  “Am I?” she cried.

  ~ ~ ~

  Before Elizabeth had time to settle herself, McGillvary swung up behind. He threw his free arm round her waist and reminded her to use her knees.

  “My knees,” she repeated, a little out of breath. “But surely this is not the way I ought to sit. As a lady, I mean.”

  McGillvary did not answer; he had all he could do to keep Aoife from plunging sideways. Obviously she was not happy at having two riders to bear.

  “I do apologize,” he said, making his seat secure. “This is how I taught my daughter. Now that I think on it, she must have been four or five.”

  He turned his head one way and then another, wondering how to deal with Elizabeth’s wide-brimmed hat. “If you sit just here,” he said, using his free hand to place her shoulder, “I shall be able to see—”

  Instead of complying, she twisted round. “Is my hat in your way?”

  “Think nothing of it,” he said courteously, applying a firm hand to the reins. Aoife had taken to prancing. She was fresher than he thought.

  To his surprise, Elizabeth’s response was to pull roughly at the hat’s ribbons. “There,” she said, removing it. “Since I am riding like a hoyden, I might as well look the part.” She made a move to toss her hat to the ground.

  McGillvary intercepted. “Gently, my dear, gently,” he said. He brought the horse forward until she was alongside the bench. “There you are, milady,” he said, smiling. Elizabeth dropped her hat neatly on the seat.

  “And now,” he said, “shall we ride?”

  “You will keep away from the house, won’t you?” This was said with some anxiety. “I don’t mind riding like a gypsy,” Elizabeth confessed, “but I’d hate to be caught looking like one.”

  “Your wish is my command. In fact,”—McGillvary pulled off his own hat—“there!” He tossed it onto the bench beside hers. “Now we both look like … what was the charming word you used?”

  “Gypsies,” she said, laughing with him. “Trespassers, in fact.”

  “We are definitely not trespassers.” He urged Aoife into a walk, and slowly they made a circuit around the far side of the lake. “Am I taking it too fast?”

  “Oh, no! Not at all!” She turned her head. “May we not ride faster?”

  “Not yet.” If he allowed Aoife a bit of liberty, she would break into a trot, which would be uncomfortable for both of them. “First,” he said, bringing his lips near to Elizabeth’s ear, “I’d like you to become accustomed to the feel and movement of the horse. Fair enough?”

  This was only part of the story. McGillvary was very much enjoying becoming accustomed to Elizabeth, as they were pressed so close together. His left arm encircled her waist, drawing her to rest against his chest. Best of all, she did nothing to resist. Strands of her hair brushed his cheek; her scent—a hint of jasmine—was intoxicating.

  A series of sharp barks broke the silence. McGillvary turned to see two dogs racing toward them. “Hugo!” he cried hoarsely, “Tough! No!”

  As Hugo and Tough rounded the lake they startled the geese, setting into motion a flapping cacophony. Aoife reared suddenly, causing Elizabeth to gasp. Ignoring McGillvary’s attempts to rein her in, A
oife charged up the hill in the direction of the mansion.

  McGillvary and Elizabeth disappeared at a hand gallop, heading toward the avenue of chestnuts with the two dogs in joyous pursuit.

  5 Is She Not Passing Fair?

  When Yee brought down the two Musgrove boys, now wearing clean clothes, Winnie Owen was ready for them. She took a small hand in each of her own. “You are spending the afternoon with me at my cousin’s house,” she announced. “We’ll play games and have an early supper. What do you say to that?”

  Little Charles and Walter cheered, and Winnie smiled with them. Cook would not be happy—she hated impromptu entertaining—but she knew her cousin Michael would not mind. Yee opened the main door.

  “Mr. Yee,” she said, “if they are needed, you may come at any time. Please remember to knock hard at the service door, as Cook is so deaf.”

  “You should be calling me Yee,” he said softly.

  She flushed. “I forgot. I’m sorry, it’s just that—”

  “Why, Miss Owen,” called a voice.

  Winnie looked up to see Mrs. Musgrove standing on the landing above. She clung to the bannister rail as she made her way down the stairs. She was, Winnie noticed, wearing a lovely dressing gown of pink satin. “I cannot thank you enough,” she said, “for taking charge of my sweet boys.” She turned aside to cough.

  “It’s best for everyone. The older children have been twitting them so. And I very much enjoy the company.”

  Mrs. Musgrove came to pat Little Walter on the head. “The Braggs are perfect beasts,” she complained. “And there is something else …”

  She lowered her voice. “It’s their father,” she said, behind her hand. “He’s been due anytime this past week. As you might expect, the boys are wild to see him. And of course, nothing.”

  Mrs. Musgrove rolled her eyes heavenward. “Another delay. You know what that means.”

  Winnie did indeed. “I am very sorry,” she said. “Let us hope he will arrive soon.”

  “In one piece and with my trunks.” Mrs. Musgrove waved her handkerchief. “Farewell, boys. Mind your manners.”