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

by Laura Hile

  “Then you are a bigger simpleton than I took you for,” Elizabeth said. “One of these days, Mary, your pride is going to choke you.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk,” Mary retorted. “Where have you been all afternoon?”

  “If you must know, I visited Father. And then went to church to pray. And then …”

  Elizabeth hesitated. She had vowed to tell no more lies, and she meant to keep her promise. “I met up with a handsome, dashing man who invited me to take tea with him, and then he saw me home in a carriage—and made violent love to me!”

  Mary plucked at the coverlet. “What a stupid, hoaxing story,” she complained. “You must think me a sapskull. You went to see Father; Charles told us that.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “And then, as you had nothing better to do, you had tea. Alone. And came home in a chair.”

  “As you wish,” said Elizabeth.

  “By the bye,” Mary continued, “Lady Russell sent a note for you. It’s there on your bureau. You and she have received an invitation.”

  Elizabeth’s lips hardened into a line; Mary was such a snoop! As expected, the note was unsealed. “Mrs. Buxford-Heighton’s ball,” she read aloud. Lady Russell had enclosed a note of explanation, written by the hostess, explaining the lateness of the invitation.

  “It is quite a feather in your cap, dear,” Mary mocked. “For my part, I think it’s awfully rude of Mrs. Buxford-Heighton not to invite the rest of your family. Poor Anne—think of her lacerated feelings!”

  “Yes, well …” Elizabeth knew very well that Anne would be glad to escape such an overblown affair. As for herself, she had no desire to attend a ball, no matter how prestigious, accompanied only by Lady Russell!

  Besides, of what use to her was a ball without Patrick?

  ~ ~ ~

  William Elliot’s brows went up. “With whom am I supposedly cohabiting?” he said. “Who the devil is Mrs. Penelope Clay?”

  He frowned, as if making an effort to remember. “Ah yes,” he said at last. “Sir Walter’s daughter’s companion.” He laughed softly.

  “You are correct.” Mr. Shepherd’s tone was cold.

  Mr. Elliot spread his hands. “Surely you jest, sir. Your daughter flatters herself.”

  “I speak truth, Mr. Elliot,” Mr. Shepherd said. “I have seen Penelope quite recently. She told me the sorry story of your escapade together.”

  “I take it you have evidence? My name on the lease of the house, for example? Or an incriminating piece of correspondence, perhaps?” William Elliot’s brows rose in hauteur. “If the lady is residing under my protection, surely you have proof?”

  “I have my daughter’s word of honour,” Mr. Shepherd said hotly. “Can you deny what has transpired between you?”

  “I can and I do,” Elliot said evenly. “Your accusations insult me, sir. A man of my status and position, involved with such canaille? It is unthinkable.”

  He gave the bell cord a series of tugs. “We have no more to say to one another on this subject. I bid you good day.” Elliot pulled open the parlour door to admit the Wallis’s butler. “Mr. Shepherd,” he said sharply, “is leaving.”

  Mr. Shepherd was taken into the hall. “You have not heard the last from me,” he shouted. “Do you hear me, Elliot? You have not heard the last from me!”

  William Elliot stood motionless in the centre of the room. So this was Penelope’s little game. Having lost her bid to ensnare Sir Walter into matrimony, she had set her sights on himself! He was all too familiar with the allure of the future title. How his late wife’s family had fairly salivated over the prospect! Mr. Shepherd might spout righteous indignation, but he was no different. The man had some nerve, bringing along the legal paperwork.

  He began to pace, calling down curses on both father and daughter. He had no desire to marry Penelope Clay or any other strumpet of low birth. As for Wallis and his little joke about marrying his cousin Elizabeth …

  Elizabeth.

  The thought burst upon William Elliot like an explosion. It was so bold that it made him shiver. The idea grew in strength. He began to laugh softly. “A man who is already married,” Elliot said aloud, savouring the words, “cannot be forced to the altar, now can he?”

  He drew out a cigar and lit it. His hostess wouldn’t like him smoking here, but what of it? He blew out a stream of smoke. If he played his cards right, it would be perfect. He could even allow Elizabeth to think that she had entrapped him!

  ~ ~ ~

  When Charles had first presented his plan for that evening, Elizabeth assumed that she would enjoy the assembly far more than the dinner. As it turned out, she was wrong. The dinner was quite nice, even if the company left something—or rather, someone —to be desired. Elizabeth found herself looking for Patrick Gill’s face everywhere. His presence at the assembly was impossible—he was hosting a dinner himself—and yet she knew he was a man of considerable talents. Would he find a way to put in an appearance by evening’s end?

  Elizabeth chose not to dance, but kept occupied by picturing how he would look in evening dress. Would he wear the beautiful faux-diamond stickpin?

  A voice recalled her to her surroundings. Apparently she had dropped her fan. Sir Henry held it out to her.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said politely. Her fingers closed on the fan, but Sir Henry did not let go.

  “I am so very sorry to hear about your father.” Sir Henry brought his other hand to rest upon hers in a warm clasp of friendship.

  As luck would have it, a set was forming for the next dance. Elizabeth knew what would follow. To dance would be a good thing, for then Sir Henry would have to release her hand.

  And it was not so very bad. Sir Henry Farley was an accomplished dancer, even at his age. As they moved through the figure of the dance, Elizabeth’s gaze strayed now and then to the crowd—it seemed she could not help herself.

  “Your father?” Sir Henry was saying. “How is he, truly?”

  “I believe he is pining for visitors, sir,” she said. “His health does seem to be improving.” They were parted in the dance just then. She tried to ignore the squeeze Sir Henry had given her hand.

  “I did hear,” he continued, as soon as the dance brought them together, “that your father’s troubles are considerable. You are so brave, Miss Elliot. Unbowed by gossips and tattlers. I salute you.”

  Elizabeth murmured assent and made her turn. She could not help but notice how intensely he gazed at her. “A lesser woman,” he said, “would have been undone by such events. But not you.”

  “You are too kind, Sir Henry.” Common politeness was now uncomfortable. She kept out of reach as much as possible.

  But the figure of the dance worked against her. As soon as he was able, Sir Henry took hold of her hand and gave it another squeeze. “I only hope, my dear, that what transpires next will not be too distressing for you.”

  Elizabeth kept her head high. The closing bars of the dance could not sound soon enough!

  At last it was over; Sir Henry led her from the dance floor. “Do bear in mind, dear Miss Elliot,” he said softly, “that I am your friend. Troubling times reveal true friendship, n’est ce pas?” Again his disturbing smile appeared. “It would be my pleasure to assist you in any way I can.”

  “T-thank you, Sir Henry,” she stammered.

  Patrick Gill had warned her about this man, and like a fool she had brushed his concern aside. Sir Henry’s eyes were shining with open admiration—as if she were a common trollop! Had her father been present, Sir Henry would never display such obvious regard!

  Smiling, he raised her hand to his lips. Thank heaven she was wearing gloves!

  Elizabeth looked up to see William Elliot come into the ballroom. Never was she more relieved to see him. She carefully pulled her hand from Sir Henry’s grasp and excused herself.

  Having endured Sir Henry’s compliments, Elizabeth was unimpressed with what her cousin had to say. Mr. Elliot talked on, while she kept an eye on Sir Henry. Onc
e he was out of sight she opened her fan. “This room is so close,” she complained. “If you will excuse me, I would like to speak to my sister.” She moved away.

  William Elliot followed. “What is this I hear about you and Rushworth?” he said.

  “Nothing,” she replied, over her shoulder.

  “An engagement, perhaps?”

  Elizabeth stopped. So he had overheard her conversation with her father. “Perhaps,” she said. “But it is none of your business, Mr. Elliot.” Again she attempted to slip into the crowd.

  He caught her elbow. “As acting head of the family, it is my business,” he said. “I cannot countenance an engagement that will bring dishonouor to us all.”

  If her cousin felt disgraced by James Rushworth, what would he say when he learned about Patrick Gill? “Head of the family, indeed,” she scoffed. “My father lives—or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “He lives.” There was bitterness in Mr. Elliot’s tone. “He told me of your secret engagement. Really, Elizabeth!”

  “Then he betrayed a confidence. I do not wish to discuss it. Good night.”

  Again he pulled her back. “Hang it all, this is too much! I understand your desperation, truly I do. But I cannot stand by while you make a disastrous misstep. He is unworthy of you!”

  Elizabeth bristled, thinking of Patrick Gill. “Is he indeed?”

  “You deserve a better man.”

  “Pray keep your voice down, Mr. Elliot. You will cause a scene.”

  “You worry about causing a scene, yet you think nothing of shaming your family?”

  “You are a fine one to talk! You, lecturing me about marriage! You can have nothing to say. Your own behaviour was appalling.”

  Mr. Elliot’s hold on her arm tightened. “Ah, but I believe I do have a right—speaking from experience!” His gaze never left her face. “Be sensible, I beg you,” he said more quietly. “The ink on the divorce decree is scarcely dry. You have not considered.” He moistened his lips and added, “There is another alternative.”

  “Pray enlighten me!”

  “Very well, if you must know, there is … myself.”

  “What?”

  He bowed modestly. “I adore you. Surely you must know that.”

  “Indeed I do not.” She twisted from his grasp. “Is this the way you court a lady? With bruises?”

  William Elliot colored slightly. “I have not spoken until now out of respect for my late wife,” he said stiffly.

  Elizabeth laughed. “How can you say that,” she mocked, “when you so obviously preferred Anne?”

  “She was a distraction, but only for a time. It is you I love.”

  “Oh please. I, who am disgracing your name by allowing a lowborn man to court me?”

  “Rushworth isn’t lowborn, Elizabeth,” he pointed out. “And I am a forgiving man.” He spread his hands. “There is much I am prepared to forgive in the woman I choose to love.”

  Elizabeth felt her lip curl. Was he insulting her, even as he proposed?

  “This time,” he said, “I am determined to follow my heart.”

  “How very nice. Mrs. Clay will be delighted to hear that.”

  He was rendered speechless, and Elizabeth concealed her smile of triumph. “Pray excuse me, Mr. Elliot,” she said frostily. “I have the headache and wish to go home.”

  Again his hand closed on her arm. This time his voice was harsh. “Your father has given me a commission, the consequences of which you will not like. Cross me, and I will be forced to follow through with his request.”

  “Who am I to stand in your way?” she flashed. “As the self-styled head of the family, you must do as you see fit.”

  “Very well,” he said roughly, “I will. But bear this in mind: You have not heard the last from me!”

  9 A Day of Reckoning

  On Wednesday morning John Shepherd presented himself at The Citadel. He glanced at the clock. Sir Walter might not yet be dressed for the day, but Mr. Shepherd’s business could not wait.

  As he walked along the passageway, Mr. Shepherd reviewed yesterday’s painful interview with William Elliot. He had made a tactical error—he knew that now. It was naïve to think that Penelope’s seducer would succumb without resistance.

  Jonas Clay had not put up a fight when confronted all those years ago. For a monetary settlement, the man had been quite willing to marry Penelope and remove her disgrace. William Elliot, who rated himself higher, would not be run to earth so easily. But he would yield eventually, of this Mr. Shepherd was certain. If Elliot thought to fob Penelope off like so much baggage, he had another thing coming.

  Mr. Shepherd would now enlist the aid of Sir Walter Elliot. Not for nothing had he cultivated a business relationship with the baronet—although God knew it had not been easy or profitable. As a gentleman, Sir Walter knew what was due a lady in Penelope’s condition. If anyone could bring pressure to bear, it would be Sir Walter.

  Sir Walter’s rooms were located at the corner of the building and overlooked a charming garden—not bad for a man who was hiding from his creditors. A pretty comfortable life the baronet led, and that without working a day! Among the landed gentry there were few who took their responsibilities less seriously than Sir Walter Elliot. Without shame he wrung every last groat from his tenants, and as landlord did as little as possible. Sir Walter would do more than whine today.

  An attendant came to the door. Mr. Shepherd gave his name and stepped back to wait. Sir Walter must have overheard the exchange, for he called “Shepherd!” with genuine pleasure.

  “Just the man I wish to see. When did you receive my express?”

  Heartened, Mr. Shepherd checked his timepiece. Yes, he would have time to finish here, return to the Wallis residence for the necessary signatures from William Elliot, and post back to London tonight. Things were definitely looking up.

  ~ ~ ~

  Charles came into the drawing room, asked after Captain Wentworth and, after receiving a vague answer from Anne, dropped into one of the large chairs. He took up the newspaper.

  Mary was silent for a minute and then began to talk. “Of all the insensitive, unfeeling creatures, Elizabeth is surely the worst.”

  He did not look up from his paper. “What has she done this time?”

  “She thinks I should visit Father today—she told me so at breakfast. Me, in my miserable, weakened condition!”

  Charles turned a page. “You seemed well enough last night.”

  “That,” she said, “was a demonstration of silent suffering. No one gives me credit for the agonies I endure.”

  Mary fell silent, and then said, “Charles, I am running low on my medicine. Won’t you tell Anne to speak to that physician about it? He has a special sort he makes up himself.”

  “Do you mean Minthorne? Ask him yourself. The walk will do you good.”

  “You know how my feet always ache after a ball.” Mary wound her handkerchief around her fingers. “That sleeping draught is most effective,” she added. “I never sleep well when I am in Bath.”

  “Then perhaps we ought to go home.”

  “But if I have my medicine there is no need. As you know, I am never as well at home as I am in Bath.”

  Mary coughed a little, and he looked up. She eyed him expectantly. “Would you mind, Charles?”

  He sighed and crossed his legs. “What is the name of the stuff?”

  “Bless me, I don’t know. Syrup of poppies or some such thing.” She began to hunt through her pockets. “I have the name written somewhere. Ah.” She brought out a scrap of paper. “Here it is. This tells what I need.”

  Charles threw down the newspaper and heaved out of the chair. Mary’s paper was twisted into a screw, which he carefully unfolded. Then he exploded.

  “Burn it, Mary, this is not a prescription! This is a bill. Why was it not given to me?”

  Mary was taken aback. “Why, I don’t know.”

  “Did you pay Minthorne yourself?”

  “Good
gracious, of course I did not.” Mary’s voice rose higher. “So I haven’t paid him. I shall. Eventually.”

  “Yes, eventually,” Charles said, growing red in the face. “The question is, when? Next year? In the meantime, here I am having to face Minthorne and Miss Owen any day of the week. A fine fellow I am, to be ignoring my debts.”

  “There is no need to fly into the boughs with me, Charles Musgrove,” Mary cried. “I don’t know why you make an issue of such a trifling thing. It really is most shabby of you.”

  “Shabby?”

  “Yes, shabby! Uncouth and ungentlemanlike as well!”

  “We Musgroves pay our debts. Unlike certain people I could name.” He flung over to the door.

  “Charles,” cried Mary. “Where do you think you are going?”

  “To pay this debt. Tell Wentworth I’ll meet him later.”

  ~ ~ ~

  John Shepherd paused only to slam the door behind him. After years with the baronet—slaving for him, negotiating for him, shouldering the burden of his financial catastrophe, laughing at his inane jokes—and this was the answer he received? Such things Sir Walter had said about Penelope! Unbelievable!

  Not only had he disbelieved the information about William Elliot, he flatly refused to speak about the matter. Nor would he agree to interview his heir in order to ascertain the truth. He had the audacity to say that William Elliot was hoaxing him—as if Penelope’s condition was a joke! And then he had smiled and changed the topic of conversation.

  Shepherd ground his teeth. “If you think you have heard the last of this,” he muttered, “you are sadly mistaken.” So intent was he on his thoughts that as he rounded the corner he ran smash into someone.

  He stammered an apology, but the gentleman waved it aside. “You are Sir Walter Elliot’s man of business, are you not?”

  John Shepherd stiffened; the fellow was looking him over as if he were some sort of vermin!

  “My secretary tells me,” the man continued, “that Sir Walter’s account is seriously in arrears. If you would kindly step into my office?”