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

by Laura Hile

  “And I,” he countered with equal vehemence, “will not allow you to go in alone.”

  “If you come with me, you will prove beyond doubt that you are a heartless monster!”

  “Then so be it.” He grinned at her. “My dear, it will take more than one crusty old lady to frighten me.”

  “Patrick,” she cried, “I do not care if Mrs. Rushworth is the devil incarnate! You cannot come into that house with me!”

  “I’m no coward.” McGillvary took hold of the latch and gave it a sharp twist. The carriage door swung open.

  Elizabeth uttered a shriek and pulled it shut. “But I am!” she cried.

  McGillvary had had enough. He stuffed both calling cards in a pocket and took hold of her shoulders. “Look,” he said, giving her a shake, “we stand together, understand? There is strength in numbers.”

  The despair in her eyes caused him to unbend a little. “Come, dearest,” he urged, more gently, “we must not retreat. Now is the time to engage the enemy more closely.”

  “But my reputation,” she protested. “It is bad enough that I must break off my understanding. But if you are with me when I do—!”

  So this was the heart of the matter. “You do not wish to be seen with me, is that it? Patrick Gill, the clerk, has no place in Mrs. Rushworth’s salon?”

  “Patrick Gill, the man! What will Mrs. Rushworth think when I say what I must, accompanied by a man who is not a member of my family? She will think I am utterly wanton, that’s what!”

  “That,” he said, “is ridiculous.”

  “One does not bring an unmarried man when breaking off an engagement. Even you know that much.”

  McGillvary did know, unfortunately, and he gave himself a mental kick.

  Elizabeth shook off his hold and opened the door. He allowed her to have her way, though she did not know it. When she had exited the carriage, she turned to face him. “Do you hate me so entirely?”

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth’s hat was askew and her temper was in shreds, but she did not care. Fortunately Patrick Gill remained inside the carriage. She strode to the door and took hold of the brass knocker. “Odious man,” she muttered, and rapped sharply.

  The butler came to the door. Elizabeth thrust her calling card under his nose. “I would like to see Mrs. Rushworth, if you please.” Anger gave her voice an edge.

  The man retreated a step. “Permit me to ascertain whether Mrs. Rush—” he began, but Elizabeth interrupted.

  “I am Miss Elizabeth Elliot. Mrs. Rushworth will definitely wish to see me.” She pushed past him into the entrance hall. “I will wait here,” she told him.

  A mirror was there, which was just what she needed. Turning her back to the butler, she made a minor adjustment to her hat. The man remained where he was, staring. Elizabeth looked over her shoulder at him. “Kindly inform Mrs. Rushworth that I am here.”

  The butler took his time in returning, and Elizabeth fell to pacing. Pacing brought on thinking, and thinking was dangerous. She knew that if she thought too much, she would lose what little courage she had left. She would say her piece to Mrs. Rushworth and hope that the woman would be gracious enough to accept her apology.

  For Patrick Gill there would be no apologies. Elizabeth’s gaze swept the empty entrance hall. True, it would be reassuring to have a companion just now, but certainly not him! And his advice to her—something about engaging the enemy—was ill-timed and in very poor taste! The more she thought about him, the angrier she became.

  The butler returned and begged leave to inform her that his mistress would see her right away. And so Elizabeth followed him up the flight of stairs to the drawing room, her thoughts still focused on Patrick Gill. With each step she pictured his laughing face—mocking her, encouraging her to fight. Fight? Elizabeth’s courage was almost nonexistent. It was the force of her anger that propelled her up those stairs.

  ~ ~ ~

  The drawing room door was opened, and Mrs. Rushworth’s butler stepped back to allow Elizabeth to pass. He announced her name and that was all. There came a sniff and a loud whisper.

  The room was darker than she expected, for net blinds covered the windows. Mrs. Rushworth, grim and unsmiling, sat rigid on one of the sofas. Without a doubt she had seen the announcement.

  Elizabeth made herself come fully into the room. It was then that she noticed that Mrs. Rushworth was not alone. Mrs. Leighton sat opposite, her teacup suspended in midair. Elizabeth’s remaining courage deserted her.

  “You may go, Howell,” said Mrs. Rushworth. “And Howell,” she added, “close the door.”

  Elizabeth raised her chin. Why, Mrs. Rushworth was being deliberately manipulative! She was intending to frighten her! The knowledge of this changed everything. No longer did Elizabeth wish to be apologetic and contrite. Patrick Gill’s words came flooding back: Engage the enemy. Very well, she would.

  It was then that Elizabeth realized what she had to do. She must be honest—plainly, disastrously honest. And in order to gain the advantage she must be the first to speak. If only her voice did not falter!

  “Good morning, Mrs. Rushworth,” she said crisply. “I wonder if you would be good enough to explain the announcement in today’s Gazette?”

  Mrs. Rushworth gave a perfectly genuine start. Her mouth fell open, revealing a row of unattractive teeth.

  “You cannot imagine my surprise when I read what was printed there,” Elizabeth went on. “I wonder if you would be kind enough to explain.”

  Mrs. Rushworth set her cup and saucer on a small table. Her face was now alarmingly red. “I beg your pardon?” she said.

  To Mrs. Leighton she added, “Impertinent girl.” She turned again to Elizabeth. “I am the one who should be asking that question of you. To learn of a beloved son’s engagement in such a way!”

  Tell the truth, Elizabeth reminded herself. Engage the enemy.

  “How do you think I felt,” she countered, “to learn about my supposed engagement from a newspaper column? It has caused a world of trouble for me.”

  Mrs. Rushworth’s lips were white with anger. “Supposed engagement? You are not engaged to my son?”

  “I am not.” Elizabeth drew a long breath. “He never proposed. That is to say, he wished to, but I would not allow him to speak.”

  “You would not allow him?” Mrs. Rushworth repeated.

  “At the time your son was married, ma’am. For all I know he might be married still.”

  Mrs. Rushworth bristled. “He thinks himself to be in love with you, Miss Elliot. I will have you know that my James is an honourable boy!”

  Elizabeth had her own opinion, which she wisely decided not to share. “I am fond of your son, Mrs. Rushworth,” she said, speaking carefully. “That is, we are friends, but nothing more.” She pulled the glove from her left hand. “Do you see? He has given me no ring.”

  Mrs. Rushworth’s voice shook with emotion. “But he has spoken to your father.”

  “Very possibly,” said Elizabeth, “but my father has not spoken to—” Here she suffered a twinge of conscience. She must say something in her father’s defense—but what?

  “My father has been ill, as you know, and is under a physician’s care.” Elizabeth was treading warily now. “He is sometimes confused. I do not know what medications he might be taking.”

  Mrs. Rushworth’s glare was openly hostile. “My James planned to propose when he returned from London,” she said throbbingly. “I can scarcely see why!”

  “He hinted that he might. But in all honesty, I could never accept.”

  Mrs. Rushworth made a strangled sound, either from rage or joy, which told Elizabeth that she had gone too far. “I have had time to reflect during his absence,” she continued more gently, “and I have come to the conclusion that we do not suit.”

  “You do not wish to marry my son.”

  “It is better said that I oughtn’t to marry your son. For one thing, I am older than he—”

  “Past the age
of foolishness, I had hoped.”

  Elizabeth gave Mrs. Rushworth a measured look. “And for another, the state of my father’s health makes a wedding quite impossible.”

  Mrs. Leighton, who had been silent, gave a malicious laugh.

  Mrs. Rushworth appeared to get hold of herself. “And so,” she said icily, “you have come to break your engagement.”

  These words were loaded with meaning. “No,” Elizabeth said distinctly, “I have not. I have come to say that there never was an engagement, and that I have no idea who placed the announcement.”

  Mrs. Leighton coughed. “You father, presumably,” she said.

  “My father is convalescing. He does not go out.”

  Mrs. Leighton made an impatient gesture. “Such notices are sent by letter, stupid girl! Or through the offices of another family member—a brother or a cousin.”

  “A cousin!” The word slipped out before Elizabeth could stop them.

  Her surprise did not go unnoticed. Mrs. Leighton exchanged glances with Mrs. Rushworth. They turned to Elizabeth with narrowed eyes.

  “Good day, Miss Elliot,” said Mrs. Rushworth.

  There seemed no more to be said. The interview was over.

  And so, Elizabeth knew, was her good standing in Bath.

  12 What Price Freedom?

  Lady Russell worried her way through the night, wrestling with thoughts that were both fantastic and uncomfortable. She suffered pangs of conscience as well, not only for the things she was planning, but also for what she had left undone. For instance, she ought to have informed the girls of their father’s plight. And yet so much depended upon the timing of events! That dreaded second warrant was nothing to be trifled with.

  And so Lady Russell gazed at the ceiling, waiting for dawn and listening to the sound of her clock. With each tick came another accusing thought: What will people say? What will the girls think? What will he think?

  She pulled the blanket more closely against her chest. It did not matter what he thought—or what anyone thought. Hers was the most reasonable course of action. Did not desperate times call for desperate measures?

  At last she slipped out of bed and found her dressing gown. Soon the new day would come, and with it the beginning of her plan. She eased into the chair behind her writing desk and lit the lamp. The flame continued to flicker, so she adjusted the wick. Immediately the flame grew small and bright. Lady Russell considered this. One small adjustment—just so! —and yet so much improvement was accomplished.

  So much improvement.

  Her gaze dropped to her hands. The lamplight cast unflattering shadows, causing the veins to stand out in bold relief, an unhappy reminder of her age. Quickly she looked away. A letter, written with the help of her solicitor, was propped against the inkstand. It would be sent to London this very morning by express. There, in her own hand was written the direction: Vicar-General, The Faculty Office of the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  ~ ~ ~

  The dining room was deserted that morning, but the sideboard was not. Elizabeth took up a plate and began to fill it. She had just begun her breakfast when Yee came in with a letter. “An answer is required,” he said. “The man waits.”

  Elizabeth laid down her fork, wishing that he did not speak so loudly. This morning she had a wretched headache. This urgent letter he brought was, no doubt, from her father, demanding an explanation. Or else Mrs. Rushworth had communicated with her son, and James was now making an anguished appeal. Or perhaps Lady Russell had heard the news—but no, Lady Russell would come herself, wouldn’t she? Reluctantly Elizabeth broke the seal and spread the sheet.

  My Dearest Elizabeth—

  A promising beginning. Then she noticed the Elliot crest embossed at the top of the page. Sure enough, there were her cousin’s initials. He requested a private interview at her earliest convenience. Obviously he had heard the news and wished to offer—what? Congratulations? Hardly.

  She pushed back the chair. If William Elliot required an answer, she would give it. She went directly to the drawing room and sat down at the writing desk there.

  Mr. Elliot,

  Mary and I will be meeting friends in the Pump Room this morning at eleven. Since your business is urgent, I shall not object to seeing you there.

  Elizabeth signed her initials with a flourish. Meeting him in a public spot would accomplish several things. For one, she would be seen conversing with at least one person besides Mary, which on this particular day would be helpful. Then too, William Elliot would be reluctant to deliver a rebuke before so many watching eyes. Elizabeth sealed up the note and went downstairs to find Yee.

  A delivery boy was sitting on a chair in the entrance hall while the main door stood open. “Sir Walter Elliot does not reside here, sir,” she heard Yee say, but the person was insistent.

  Elizabeth went over to see what was going forward. The man standing there was somberly dressed. His figure was not quite as robust as James Rushworth’s and he was considerably older. For some reason he looked familiar.

  Elizabeth stepped forward. “I am Sir Walter Elliot’s daughter,” she said. “Perhaps I may be of assistance. What is it that you require?”

  The man removed his hat, revealing a balding head. “Harold Lonk of Madderly Kinclaven, ma’am,” he said. “A signature is what I require, if you please. Would you see to it that your father receives this immediately? It is rather urgent.” He held out a letter.

  Elizabeth could feel Yee’s disapproval as she took the letter and signed her name in Mr. Lonk’s receipt book.

  Upstairs in her bedchamber she tossed the letter onto her bed. What a waste of everyone’s time! As before, her father would throw it in the fire, and then where would she be? But Mr. Lonk, whom she now remembered from the counting house, said it was important. If so, shouldn’t it be read?

  Pressing a hand to her throbbing temple, Elizabeth sat down on the bed. Her father used to say that women were ill-equipped for the world of business, but this was a falsehood. Her mother had been an admirable manager of their finances. Hadn’t Elizabeth demonstrated similar skill when she called on Mr. Lonk and negotiated that thirty-day extension? Could it be that the thirty days had already passed?

  All at once she snatched up the letter and broke the seals. Sure enough it was a demand for payment, signed by Mr. Lonk. There would be no further Term of Extension offered. He went on to express the hope that the matter would be resolved in a timely manner without involving the services of the bailiff.

  The bailiff?

  Elizabeth’s gaze darted to the bottom of the page. Here were written various sums, including the total amount of the loan. Aghast, she stared at the numbers. The total was staggering—over nine thousand pounds! She willed herself to stop trembling and counted out the digits.

  This was impossible. It had to be!

  ~ ~ ~

  In the end, Lady Russell’s honour won out. She would not ignore her goddaughters; she would tell them the news about their father. Therefore, later that morning she presented herself at St. Peter Square and was taken up to the drawing room. The butler brought in tea and biscuits, but no one joined her. Were none of the girls ready to receive callers?

  With rising impatience, Lady Russell checked the clock. She could not waste half the morning on one visit. There were things to be done! She dug in her reticule for a paper and pencil.

  Anne’s drawing room displayed a number of Captain Wentworth’s foreign curios. There was something about them that put Lady Russell in mind of a thing she needed, but what? She rose to her feet and wandered about the room, considering each piece in turn. The Chinese chest of drawers by the window? The Turkish carpet? The Venetian mirror?

  Venice—now here was an idea. Because Napoleon had recently abdicated, it was possible to travel to Venice.

  And then Lady Russell remembered: passports. She wrote the word and underlined it twice. Did he have a passport? If so, where was it kept? Passports brought to mind foreign money. Lira, Marks,
Schillings were added to her list.

  Eventually Mary came in. She was looking very much better, and Lady Russell told her so.

  “Better than what?” Mary wanted to know. She took a seat on the sofa opposite.

  This peevish mood of Mary’s could ruin everything, Lady Russell realized. Breaking the news about Sir Walter would be even more difficult. “I’ve been to see your father,” she began carefully.

  “How fortunate for him. Imagine, having callers when one is ill. No one comes to see me when I am ill.”

  “I am come to see you, Mary.”

  “Yes, but this morning I have something to do, so it is not at all convenient. Elizabeth and I are going to the Pump Room. Can you imagine? After weeks of living like a recluse, she now wishes to walk about in company—which is very odd, considering.”

  Lady Russell had no idea what this meant. She said, “I trust I will not detain you,” and took another look at the clock. What was keeping Anne and Elizabeth?

  “So,” said Mary, “how is Father these days? Is he crabby? Elizabeth says that he is. But then, anyone would be crabby around Elizabeth.”

  “He is out of sorts, yes. Your father has many worries, Mary. Many difficulties. Particularly now.”

  “If Father is cross, I believe I won’t visit him after all. Which is too bad, because I wanted to find out about Elizabeth’s betrothal.”

  Lady Russell quickly concealed her surprise. She had forgotten all about Mr. Rushworth. “Betrothal?” she said.

  Mary shrugged. “There was a notice in the Bath Gazette yesterday. Didn’t you see it? I thought that’s why you came so early.”

  Lady Russell’s heart was hammering now. If her plan were to succeed, Mr. Rushworth’s financial ‘gift’ must not be encouraged! What she needed most was information, and Mary was the perfect source.

  “Please tell me more,” she said. “It appears that I am sadly behind-hand.”

  Mary needed no encouragement. “Well,” she said, with unbecoming eagerness, “Anne was tremendously upset when she saw the announcement. You should have heard the things she said to Elizabeth. But that’s only because she was thinking of Mr. Rushworth and his awkward manners. She hasn’t yet considered the advantages of the match. I think they should be married right away—so romantic! And then, once they return from their wedding trip, we can visit. London is lovely in June, I’ve heard.”