by Laura Hile
The door was closed smartly behind him, and the carriage lurched into motion. On the seat was the newspaper Starkweather had given him. On a whim, or perhaps because his thoughts were filled with Elizabeth, he turned past the more tempting front pages to those featuring society news. He scanned the latest on-dits and announcement—always the same, these were. He felt his eyes begin to glaze.
Suddenly McGillvary sat up. Frowning, he scanned the text. “Oh hell!” he spat at the page. “What the devil does she mean by this?”
~ ~ ~
It took every bit of willpower to hold back what Elizabeth knew was a foolish smile. What else could she do? Just to see him sitting at their table made her feel giddy. But as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the tearoom, Elizabeth suffered a shock. Patrick Gill was not smiling, and his jaw was tensed. His eyes did not sparkle. Instead, they were watchful, as if he was weighing what to say to her.
With customary grace, he assisted her with the chair but said nothing while she drew off her gloves. A little fearfully, Elizabeth raised her eyes to meet his.
As soon as the serving girl left them, he spoke. “I thought I told you not to kiss anyone.” There was no smile in his tone.
“I-I didn’t!”
“Then will you please explain to me the meaning of this?” He slapped a newspaper onto the table.
Elizabeth bent over it, but the words swam on the page. Patrick was looking so very angry! But he couldn’t be angry—he loved her! Didn’t he?
“I don’t understand,” she faltered.
“Do not play the innocent with me, Elizabeth,” he snapped. “It doesn’t become you.” He pointed to a line of text.
Elizabeth took hold of the newspaper and forced herself to read.
Sir Walter Elliot, late of Kellynch Hall, is pleased to announce the betrothal of his daughter, Elizabeth, to Mr. James Rushworth of Sotherton.
What horror was this? “Someone is jesting,” she managed to say. “They must be.” She attempted a smile.
“You will notice that I am not laughing.” His finger jabbed at the newspaper. “According to this you are engaged to be married.”
“But I am not! He never proposed! He spoke to my father, but never to me!”
“Never?” There was a knowing look in Patrick Gill’s eyes.
She felt her face grow warm. “We had an understanding, but—”
“An understanding?” he cut in. “What kind of understanding?”
Her breath now came in gasps. How angry he was! How could she make him see that it was all a mistake?
“Elizabeth,” he said, speaking low, “how could you? How could you offer yourself to him?”
Elizabeth could not bear to answer. The expression in his eyes made her wince.
“I have to wonder,” he continued, “what he could have offered you that is worth such a sacrifice.” His lip curled. “Was it the money?”
“No!” she flared. “It was not the—” What could she say? For of course he was right! She hung her head. “It was not only the money,” she said. “He offered independence.”
“Indeed.” There was contempt in his voice. How she felt it!
Elizabeth was trembling now. “You can have no notion of how it was,” she said thickly. “My situation was impossible. What could I do but find a husband?”
She heard him mutter an oath, and his chair scraped the floor. Elizabeth closed her eyes. No longer would she face him across the table. Any moment now she would feel his arms around her—holding her, comforting her—and the world would be right again. There—she could hear him moving toward her. She readied herself for his embrace—but it never came.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. Patrick Gill was gone.
A sob rose in her throat; she had not the power to hold it back. She covered her face with her hands. How long she sat this way she could not say.
A movement startled her, for someone had taken hold of the back of her chair. She raised hesitant eyes. Patrick Gill’s unsmiling face looked into hers.
“Come,” he said, and he held out his hand. “They have prepared a private room. You may have your cry there.”
“I am not crying,” she whispered brokenly. “And they do not have a private room.”
“They do now.” A sardonic smile pulled at his lips. “Have you never noticed, my dear, how resourceful men become when money is involved?”
~ ~ ~
“Beg pardon, sir. This table all right?”
Captain Wentworth gave a start and tore his gaze from the curtained doorway. The serving girl repeated her question.
“No,” he said shortly, and pointed to a table that gave a clearer view of the room. ‘That one.”
She shrugged. “Very good, sir. Will you be having the special, then?”
Wentworth muttered an affirmative, and she went off. He tossed the newspaper on the table, his eyes focused on the curtain. Unless he was mistaken, Elizabeth was behind it—with a gentleman. No, Wentworth corrected himself. Hardly that.
The trouble was, he’d only just come in. It was a long shot that he’d found this place at all, for the chairman’s directions were garbled. Still, he’d seen enough of the woman to recognize Elizabeth’s auburn hair and erect carriage. He’d had the fleeting impression of green—but was she wearing green today? He frowned in an effort to recall.
He knew he ought to follow the pair and accost them straightway—and if he were mistaken, what would be the harm? Then again, if Elizabeth were within, would a forced marriage be such a bad thing?
Wentworth slid into the chair at the new table, but carefully. He did not trust it to hold his weight. This was a fool’s errand and no mistake—a waste of a perfectly good afternoon. What did he care about Elizabeth’s actions? But Anne would care. It was for Anne’s sake that he had traced Elizabeth to this place.
He glanced around the tearoom with distaste. Bath offered a variety of spots for lovers’ trysts, but this? It was hardly up to his fastidious sister-in-law’s standards. And women were everywhere—fusty, prying old birds, by the look of them. If Elizabeth wished to broadcast her indiscretion to all of Bath, this breeding spot for gossip was the perfect choice.
Sooner or later the pair would have to come out, and then he would know. He gave a tug to his cravat and, after another glance at the curtain, opened the newspaper. The clatter of flatware against porcelain and the nattering of the women made concentration difficult.
“Here you are, sir.” The girl’s shrill voice caused him to look up. “A nice fresh pot,” she said and plunked it down. “And our best selection of fancies.”
He managed a tight smile as she filled his cup with the steaming brew—cheap tea, unless he missed his guess. He glanced again at the curtain and, with a sigh, returned to the newspaper. It would likely be a long afternoon.
~ ~ ~
McGillvary handed Elizabeth into her chair, but did not seat himself. How he wished she would own the truth and be done with it! As it was, her evasive answers were remarkably like the excuses offered by his junior officers—and Admiral McGillvary had no tolerance for excuses.
He allowed his hand to rest on the back of his chair, a reminder to himself that he was not dealing with one of his men. “Tell me again,” he said with careful patience. “If you are not engaged to Rushworth, how came your father to place that announcement?”
“I have no idea. Truly.”
“That I find hard to believe,” he countered. She looked up then; the hurt expression in her eyes caused him to soften his tone. “He said nothing to you about it?”
McGillvary was no stranger to the changes guilt brought to a man’s features. He saw Elizabeth’s jaw tighten. “H-he mentioned an agreement,” she stammered.
“An agreement. The ‘understanding’ you and Rushworth had made?”
“No.”
“Did you inform him of what had transpired between you?”
She bit her lips and said something he could not hear. McGillvary pulled hims
elf to his full height. “Answer the question, please,” he said sharply.
“I did not tell my father. I believe he learned of it from Mr. Rushworth himself.”
“And was your father pleased with such an alliance? Rushworth has neither the looks nor the title you say your father requires in a son-in-law.”
Her eyes flew to his face. Yes, he remembered what she had said. She would be even more alarmed by the time he was finished. The thought crossed his mind that she was not one of his officers and that he ought to temper his responses. This time he ignored it.
“What concerns me most,” he went on, “is that you entered into this so-called ‘understanding’ willingly, did you not?” Memories of the kiss he had witnessed made his tone bitter.
Elizabeth’s gaze was now downcast. He saw her swallow. Would she lie or own the truth? The answer, he knew, would be in the eyes. “You will look at me while I speak to you, sirrah,” he ordered.
Elizabeth’s eyes came up; their gaze held his. This was a good sign. “Elizabeth,” he amended, correcting his slip.
“I was willing,” she said slowly. “Or I thought I was. But—”
“Was it the lure of his person? As you say, you were not interested in his money.”
“I told you. He offered me independence.”
McGillvary snorted. “I do not think being saddled with a dullard for a husband is independence, my dear.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “If you must know, Mr. Rushworth is easy to lead—as is my father! I am accustomed to dealing with fools. Besides,” she spoke recklessly now, “Mr. Rushworth needs a woman who can manage him. I am not precisely a green girl.”
“That is exactly what you are!” McGillvary drew out his chair and sat. “A mansion, a staff of workers—these look vastly romantic until one takes possession. Then a woman seeks refuge in vapours and spasms.”
“I have never had the vapours in my life! And believe you me, I have been tempted. No one knows better than I how difficult it is to manage a large house. As I told you, for thirteen years I have stood in my mother’s place.”
“I have not forgotten.”
Elizabeth’s blush became more intense. “And you needn’t tell me that I was robbing the cradle by pursuing him,” she said thickly. “I know that.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
He dug out a clean handkerchief and passed it to her. “The man’s wife left him, Elizabeth,” he grumbled. “Does that tell you nothing? Her replacement will have it even worse.”
She dried her eyes. “I daresay Mr. Rushworth has learned to be more careful about how he treats a wife.”
McGillvary gave a snort of derision. “No,” he said, “you’re out there. Oh, he’s learned to appreciate a wife, but not for the reasons you think.” He paused, wondering how much he should say. “Have you never wondered why Rushworth is so eager to marry again?”
“He would like to put the past behind him, I suppose.”
“Or he has become more particular in his appetites! And misses having them gratified!”
At that her head came up. “Mr. Gill!” she protested. “That remark is not in the best of taste.”
“You were the one who wished to take him on as husband. I assumed you’d considered all the angles.”
“But I don’t wish him to be my husband,” she insisted. “Not any longer!”
“Then I suggest you tell him so.”
“I shall.”
“Indeed?” McGillvary’s lips twisted. “Then do so—now.”
“How can I? He is in London.”
He pushed back his chair. “That needn’t deter you,” he said, reaching for his hat. “I can take you to London myself. Where is he staying?” He rose to his feet.
Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with shock. “I have no idea,” she faltered. “His mother lives here, but—”
McGillvary made his way to her side of the table. “Rushworth’s mother,” he said. “Ah yes. Pug-faced old thing, isn’t she? Wears turbans with her hair tucked up underneath—looks like a toadstool, I’ve always thought.” He paused to consider this. “Or is that her sister?”
Elizabeth sat staring up at him.
“At any rate,” McGillvary went on, “she’s read the afternoon paper and no mistake. We’ll see her instead. Come.”
“We?” Elizabeth looked truly frightened now. “What do you mean, we?”
“We’ll go together; I’ll take you myself.” He held out a hand. “Nothing could be easier. You’ll tell her of the mistake, and she will then inform her son.”
“But I cannot break an engagement. It isn’t done! I know you think it is nothing, but I will be ruined!”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But the way I see it, it’s the lesser of two evils.”
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth came out of the storeroom with Patrick Gill close behind. The tearoom was filled with patrons—and most of them were looking at her! Their frank curiosity made her squirm. She knew her world; she could guess what they were thinking. Even so, Patrick Gill’s hand was at her elbow, propelling her forward. She heard him speak to someone—the proprietor, she supposed.
As before, Mr. Gill reached in front to open the door. He was not wearing gloves today—and across the back of his hand was a pale, jagged scar. Elizabeth winced to see it. Why had she never noticed this before? Here was the man she loved—and she’d never noticed!
The shop’s bell tinkled merrily as the door came open. And then they were standing in the sunlight together, surrounded by the clatter of street traffic. Elizabeth stumbled against him, but only for a moment. Immediately she pulled herself erect.
If only he would not be so angry1 If only he would forgive! But Elizabeth knew this would never happen. Her father never forgot his anger, and there was no reason for Patrick Gill to do so, either. Why should he forgive when the entire situation had been her fault?
Instead of heading for the hacking stand, Patrick Gill just stood there. Then he gave shout and plunged into the street. A carriage immediately pulled up, causing havoc for the other drivers. It was jet black and gleaming, and was drawn by two matched horses. A liveried footman jumped down to open the door. Mr. Gill turned and came sprinting back.
Elizabeth was astonished. “You’d better have the money to pay for this, Patrick Gill,” she told him. “For I certainly have not!”
~ ~ ~
Once inside, Mr. Gill was talkative—which would have been enjoyable under other circumstances. “There is no time like the present to put things to right. Mistakes happen. Your father ought to bring a suit against that publisher for libel.”
But Elizabeth knew that this was the last thing her father would do, for he had supplied the information! And here was another problem. Even if she could come up with a story to satisfy Mrs. Rushworth, what could be done about her father? He expected her to marry James Rushworth!
She glanced at the door. The latch looked unhappily secure, and Patrick Gill sat right beside it. There would be no escaping for her.
And so Elizabeth held herself prim and erect, portraying a confidence she did not feel. “Perhaps Mrs. Rushworth will not be at home,” she heard her voice bleat. “Or she might refuse to see me.”
“After reading that notice? I think not.”
“Especially after reading that notice,” she shot back. “James has told her nothing. It will be a complete surprise.”
Mr. Gill stiffened. Instantly Elizabeth regretted using Mr. Rushworth’s Christian name.
“I think you mistake your suitor, my dear. There is very little he does not tell his mama.”
Elizabeth’s heart jumped to hear the words my dear, but his tone gave little cause for hope. A glance out of the window showed that they were not far from the Rushworth residence.
With trembling fingers, Elizabeth hunted in her reticule for her card case. She attempted to open it, but her hands were awkward. It fell. Mr. Gill knelt to retrieve it. It was then that she realized that he held a card case of his own, a gold on
e. He opened it and extracted a stiff white card.
Elizabeth became instantly suspicious. “What are you doing?”
He snapped the case shut and returned it to his pocket. “Give me your card,” he said. “I’ll present both to the butler.”
“Both? Have you lost your mind? You are not coming with me!”
He took possession of her card case. “Oh, but I think I am, my dear.” He removed one of her cards. “Don’t fret. After all, I am the most experienced duelist.” A smile appeared. “Watch and learn, Miss Elliot,” he said.
~ ~ ~
At last the carriage arrived at their destination. McGillvary fingered both calling cards, his and hers, with a smile hovering about his lips. Gad, it was perfect. He could picture the scene that was about to unfold in Mrs. Rushworth’s drawing room. Elizabeth would stammer out her version of the tale, and then he would step forward to inform Mrs. Rushworth of the truth—that Elizabeth had never been nor would ever be engaged to her son.
After that, what could Mrs. Rushworth do? Nothing! McGillvary knew very well that the woman would not dare to argue with him. Nor would Elizabeth—at least, not in front of Mrs. Rushworth. Later he would settle up with her.
The only hitch was that Elizabeth might hear the name McGillvary before he delivered his set-down. Well, he would simply have to keep her occupied in the entrance hall while he was being announced.
He lifted a hand to hide his smile. He could think of a most excellent way of detaining Elizabeth, though she would probably not appreciate it!
There would be time for that after the interview—a lifetime’s worth. Soon Elizabeth would learn the advantages of the McGillvary name. He glanced at her. To be sure, she was adrift at the moment. But she would appreciate the genius of his plan once she saw the look of chagrin on Mrs. Rushworth’s face.
“Mr. Gill,” said Elizabeth, “you cannot come with me!” The desperation in her voice tore at his heart.
“My dear,” he said gently, “I refuse to send you to face that old gorgon alone.”
Elizabeth squared her shoulders. “You will wait here, or you will drive away and leave me. But you will not accompany me inside.”
