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

by Laura Hile

  Lady Russell became even more puzzled. “Safe? Of course, it is safe.”

  He leaned forward and placed his hand over hers. “My dear,” he said in a low voice, “do you suppose you could bring Anne to visit me tomorrow? I must see her as soon as may be—to make the arrangements.”

  Lady Russell stared at his hand. “Whatever you like,” she faltered. “Shall I bring Elizabeth as well?”

  “There is no need to see Elizabeth. Although—” Sir Walter grew thoughtful. “There is the matter of her bridal things. Doubtless she will wish to choose a gown and such. But there is so little time! May I count on your assistance, my dear? To find a suitable gown for Elizabeth?”

  “Since when has Elizabeth needed help in choosing apparel?”

  Sir Walter’s voice sank. “Yes, but you see,” he confided, “Elizabeth does not understand.” He gave Lady Russell’s hand a squeeze. “Mr. Rushworth is so very anxious to be married. Elizabeth has no notion of the eagerness, the understandable eagerness, of a young man.”

  “But would it not be better to wait? His divorce has only just been granted!”

  “All the more reason for them to be married, my dear.” Sir Walter gave a great sigh. “Think of Elizabeth’s happiness.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth said a brief word of thanks and scrambled out of Charles’s gig as soon as he pulled up before the Abbey. The pain in her limbs was unbearable, but she made herself turn and wave to Charles. In her haste she forgot to return his umbrella, but she did not notice this until after he had driven off.

  Dodging puddles, Elizabeth made for the entrance to the Abbey. Once inside she closed the umbrella carefully and left it with the others. It was a shabby thing and dirty, too. She was glad to be rid of it.

  Coming inside the Abbey was only pretense, in case Charles happened to see her. She would only stay for a minute or two—just until the rain tapered off. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see that she was not the only one who had this idea. There was a sizable group gathered along the rear wall, with more coming in the door. These people were every bit as shabby and careworn as Charles’s umbrella. Elizabeth edged away.

  ~ ~ ~

  As the rain increased, the street filled with carriages. Charles slowed Belle to a walk and bit back an oath. A gust of wind blew rain into his face. With his free hand, he tipped the brim of his hat. How bothersome life in the city could be! It was not the rain, he was accustomed to that, but to be snarled in traffic was miserable.

  He was not the only one who was caught. Small knots of people hiding from the rain peered from doorways. A few continued walking, though at an increased pace. There was the woman just ahead on the left, for instance. Charles felt for her, for she was bedraggled; and yet she toiled on. There was something familiar about her. Without thinking, Charles called out a name: “Miss Owen!”

  The woman turned, and then she smiled.

  Charles motioned wildly. “Get in!” he cried. Miss Owen hesitated, but only for a moment. She gathered her sodden skirts and ran toward the gig.

  “I’ve an umbrella, somewhere.” Charles now remembered that Mary insisted on keeping two umbrellas in the gig. But he didn’t like to think about Mary just now; he was too busy helping Miss Owen. Grinning, he jumped down and held out a hand to her.

  He helped her into the gig and then climbed up after. He fished out the other umbrella and opened it for her. “I’m afraid it’s old and shabby,” he explained, “but it’s the best I can offer.”

  Miss Owen took hold of it willingly. “It’s perfect,” she said, smiling at him. “I too am rather shabby. We match.”

  Charles couldn’t help himself; he continued to apologize. He wiped at the seat with the newspaper Elizabeth had discarded, which caused Miss Owen to laugh.

  “Please,” she said, “don’t trouble on my account! I’m so very grateful for the ride. You have no idea how weary I am.”

  Charles knew all about feeling weary—but he didn’t feel weary any longer. He grinned at her and gave the reins a shake. “Walk on, Belle,” he called.

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth did not know how it happened, but she found herself moving down the aisle toward the front of the sanctuary. Every pew was empty, save for the occasional old woman. Elizabeth eyed them warily. They looked so worn and dismal, these women. She decided they must have nothing better to do, so they came to pray. As she slid into a pew, Elizabeth tugged at the brim of her hat. Her hat today was very smart and its brim was small, but she wished to conceal as much of her face as possible.

  As she sat, a gasp of pain escaped and the pew creaked. These small sounds were alarmingly large in the vast building. Elizabeth held her breath and willed herself to remain absolutely still. Several minutes passed before she dared to look up. Everything within the Abbey seemed shrouded—even the windows looked dark. Odd little sounds came from everywhere, unnaturally magnified: a cough, a door closing, the rasp of turning pages, the echo of footsteps, and the sound of rain drumming on the windows.

  The rain was coming down in earnest now. If she tried to dash across the street to Bailey’s tearoom, she would be drenched. There was nothing to do but wait it out. Fortunately, she was early for her appointment with Mr. Gill. Since she was there, she might as well say a prayer. She had not brought her prayer book, but surely she could remember one.

  Elizabeth bowed her head and searched for the proper words. But instead of words, images came hurtling forward—hateful, wretched images: her father, frowning and scolding; Mr. Rushworth’s eager face; the page from today’s newspaper.

  This would never do. Elizabeth composed herself, took a deep breath, and made another attempt. This time, Estella and Mary leered at her. Elizabeth covered her face with her hands, but the awful images continued to come: Anne’s tired face and Miss Owen’s trusting one, Captain Wentworth’s sneer as he cruelly refused to assist her father, and Yee’s calm visage, always watchful.

  And there was more. Lady Russell came forward with a reproachful look and Lady Eleanora, too. A lump rose in Elizabeth’s throat; she had abused Lady Eleanora’s hospitality shamefully. And Elise—she was quite harsh with Elise this morning. Why had she been so unkind?

  Elizabeth’s head came up. She was not on trial here! She had done nothing wrong! She had merely come to say a prayer!

  Through sheer force of will, Elizabeth dredged up a prayer, one she had recited every day as a child. She was determined to say it, come what may. Somehow she had to drive the horrible faces from her mind. She set her teeth and once again bowed her head.

  “Our Father, Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name,” was what she meant to say; every fiber of her will was focused on it. But instead, Elizabeth found her lips whispering these words: “Lord, be merciful to me, the sinner.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Sometime later, Charles Musgrove was settled in Wentworth’s library. He accepted the glass of sherry with a grateful sigh and propped his stocking feet before the fire. What could be better? The chair adjacent to his gave a leathery whisper as Frederick Wentworth lowered his form into it. A gust of wind lashed rain against the library windows.

  “Beastly weather,” Wentworth remarked, lifting his glass to his lips.

  “Not a day for the gig,” agreed Charles. “You should have seen Elizabeth’s face when it came on to rain. As she was already in a rare tweak thanks to His Highness, we had a pleasant trip together.” He took a sip of sherry.

  “Pleasant,” echoed Wentworth. “I see.”

  Charles lowered his glass. “Do you know,” he said, “I used to think Mary’s tirades were bad. But Elizabeth’s silences—gad! I thought she was going to bite my head off, but she just sat there and glared. And when I came to a stop she went bounding off. Strange.”

  “M’m,” said Wentworth.

  “I hope you didn’t want today’s paper, Frederick,” Charles continued, “for she’s ruined that. Something was the matter with it, but I never found out what. Whatever it was, sh
e seemed to think it was your fault.”

  Wentworth cocked an eyebrow. “At the moment the old girl is probably drowning her troubles in a hot bath. So, we are safe until dinner.”

  Charles looked up. “Oh, Elizabeth’s not here. She had me drop her at the Abbey, of all things.”

  “The Abbey?”

  “Said she had to pray.” Charles grinned. “Don’t that beat all?”

  Wentworth glanced at the clock. “Just past two,” he said slowly. “And—what day is this, Charles?”

  “Tuesday.” Wentworth rotated the stem of his glass between his fingers.

  “What’s the matter with Tuesday?”

  “Elizabeth has been leaving the house on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.”

  Charles thought for a moment. “Mary mentioned that. Estella told her Elizabeth is having secret meetings with some fell—say!” He leaned forward. “You don’t think Elizabeth’s sneaking around with a curate, do you?”

  Wentworth did not return the smile. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “Estella is not a reliable source of information.”

  “But you do suspect something.”

  “Yee does,” Wentworth said. “And that’s enough for me.”

  Charles set his glass on the table. “I say! How about we pop over there? Catch her in the act, eh?”

  “Charles.”

  “Never mind the weather! I like driving in the rain!”

  “Charles.”

  But Charles was on his feet. “What do you say, Frederick?” He looked around. “Where’d Yee put my boots, anyway?”

  “Not yet. We wait, and we watch. When the time is right, we act.”

  Charles scuffed the carpet with a sock-clad toe. “Burn it, we won’t get anywhere that way.”

  “What we won’t do is set Elizabeth on her guard,” Wentworth said. “We will certainly do that if we barge in today, unprepared.”

  Charles threw himself into a chair. “I suppose.”

  “I suspect the Abbey is only a meeting place. Elizabeth could easily get into a carriage and no one would be the wiser.”

  Charles’s smile slipped. “Get into a carriage, you say?”

  “With a gentleman. You know.”

  “I see what you mean, but …” Charles gave a tug to his collar. “Perhaps she’s simply going for a little drive with a friend. Around the town, seeing the sights. Is that so wrong?”

  “Seeing the sights with a friend.” Wentworth raised both brows. “In the rain, Charles?”

  ~ ~ ~

  How long she sat in the pew Elizabeth could not say. She had begun badly, and from such a start there could be no recovery. Every worry and hurt in her overburdened heart came pouring out. Like a child, she buried her head in her hands and wept, though silently. Long ago Elizabeth had learned this skill.

  At last there were no more tears left. Elizabeth remained huddled in the pew, not wishing to move. The accusing faces were gone now, and in their place had come peace—and something else. Dare she name it … forgiveness?

  And there was music. Elizabeth listened for some time before she realized that the organist was playing the introit; the afternoon service was about to begin. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She knew that her eyes were red and puffy, but that did not matter, not any longer. The service was set to begin at three o’clock. She had missed her appointment with Mr. Gill.

  Elizabeth drew an uncertain breath. It was probably still raining, and she had no way home. She did not want to think about Mr. Gill or of what he thought of her. But as she was straightening her hat, she noticed something—and stiffened. She was not alone. Someone was sitting beside her in the pew.

  “Elizabeth,” he whispered. “Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth, what is wrong?”

  7 Hard Down the Helm!

  The Abbey was not so dark that McGillvary could mistake the stricken expression on Elizabeth’s face. She had been weeping, but why?

  She gave him a fleeting look, then turned away to wipe her tears with bare fingers. “I’m s-sorry I missed our appointment,” she whispered brokenly. “I did not intend to, but my father …”

  Immediately he had his own handkerchief out and slid nearer to offer it. The pew creaked. Elizabeth gave a start. “Your father,” he repeated gently. “He is worse?” This must be the reason for her grief; he could imagine no other. Indeed, he had been watching her carefully; she flinched when he said it. Was this not confirmation? Sir Walter Elliot must be at death’s door.

  “Yes,” whispered Elizabeth. “Oh yes. My father is very much worse.”

  “In what way may I serve you? You have only to say, you know. I am yours to command at any time.”

  Elizabeth’s chin came up. “Thank you, Mr. Gill,” she said, “but I do not believe there is anything you, or anyone, can do.” She paused and then added, “You are very kind, but this is something I must face myself.”

  “Alone?” said McGillvary.

  “Not alone.” She smiled a little; her eyes traveled to the altar. “I am never truly alone, am I? Then too, I have my family to—good gracious, my family!”

  Abruptly Elizabeth stood and began gathering her things. “I must go. I have been away too long.” She attempted to put on her gloves, but they were too wet.

  McGillvary was on his feet too. “Not before you’ve had some tea.” He took a firm hold of her elbow. “Come.”

  “But—there is no time for tea, Mr. Gill.”

  “Please don’t call me that,” he said. He led her into the aisle and offered his arm.

  Elizabeth looked at him in frowning surprise. “Very well … Patrick,” she said. She placed her hand on his arm. “But not for long. Mary and her husband are taking us to dinner, and then we attend the assembly. I must prepare.”

  “You must be joking.”

  “It’s for Estella, you see,” Elizabeth explained in an undervoice. “I’d rather not go at all, but Estella sets great store by such things. I should go to entertain her. For Anne.”

  McGillvary struggled to digest this. “For Anne,” he repeated. “But what about your father?”

  “He will be all right.”

  When they reached the door, she took her hand from his arm and pulled an umbrella from among a pile of others. McGillvary stepped forward to open the door. “I take it Anne will be staying with your father?”

  Elizabeth crossed the threshold and paused to open the umbrella. “No,” she said. “I expect Anne will attend the assembly with us. But she’ll wish to dance with her husband or others and not be plagued by Estella.”

  McGillvary took the umbrella from her. “Do you mean to leave your father alone tonight? Shouldn’t you be keeping vigil?”

  “Vigil! Why would I do that?”

  He turned his head in surprise. “Isn’t your father dying?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “But I thought you said he was worse!”

  “He is!”

  He blinked and made another attempt. “You mean his illness is worse.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth crisply, “I mean my father is a worse liar than ever!”

  McGillvary gave a shout of laughter. “Great heaven!” he cried. “What will you say next?”

  “Well, he is,” she muttered. “It’s the honest truth. I’ll not make excuses for him any longer.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” he said gaily, offering his arm. “My father told lies too, God rest his soul. What has the man done this time?”

  Elizabeth fell into step beside him. “He treats me as if I were chattel! As if my life, my future, my—” She gave a huff of frustration. “As if my only reason for living was to further his purposes!”

  McGillvary grinned. “I believe that is the way of fathers—to be overbearing.”

  “You would never treat your own daughter in such an infamous way, I am sure.”

  “My daughter.” McGillvary sighed. “So far as my daughter is concerned, I am every bit the tyrant.”

  “Not you,”
Elizabeth said warmly. “You would never run roughshod over her future plans, with a total disregard for her happiness, or—”

  “That’s just exactly what I have done,” he interrupted. “If I had an ivory tower handy, I’d lock her in!” He had to smile at the dismay on Elizabeth’s face. “My sweet daughter,” he explained, “has had the misfortune to fall violently in love with her music teacher. He has been dismissed, but I caught her writing to him.”

  Elizabeth thought for a moment. “I remember,” she said slowly. “You told me that she had fallen in love with someone ineligible.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, at our first tea together. You asked for my advice.”

  McGillvary frowned. He might have said such an outrageous thing, by way of conversation, although it was not true at the time.

  Elizabeth’s father is not the only liar, his conscience whispered.

  “I suppose I did,” he said, and guided her across the street. “And yes, I would like your advice. When you are feeling up to giving it.”

  He opened the door to Bailey’s, and she gave him a wry smile. “I am always up to giving advice, unfortunately. It is a habit I learned from my father—that of being pleased with my own opinions.”

  “Along with being a liar,” he joked, following her to their table.

  Her voice grew wistful. “I am very good at lying, too.”

  “You have never lied to me.” McGillvary held the chair for her. “I, on the other hand—”

  She interrupted. “On the other hand, everything my father says is a lie, or very nearly! I am thoroughly sick of lies! I shall never tell another!”

  He regarded her solemnly over the top of his menu. “Never?”

  “Not if I can help it,” she said seriously. “And let come what may! Lying is … cowardly!”

  Her words made him wince. “Not everyone tells lies out of perverseness, Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “Sometimes a lie begins as a simple jest, which then gets out of hand and grows.”

  “There was nothing funny in what my father said to me today.”

  “He has been ill,” McGillvary reasoned. “You must forgive his overbearing ways and short temper.”