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

by Laura Hile

  “What I think,” said Lady Russell, “is that it is unwise to contemplate marriage—any marriage—without careful consideration. Has Elizabeth chosen a date for the wedding?”

  Mary sighed heavily. “Elizabeth says it is all a lie. She told Anne that she hates the very sight of Mr. Rushworth and that she won’t marry him. And let me tell you,” Mary added, “Captain Wentworth was not happy to hear that. He said Mr. Rushworth is the perfect husband for Elizabeth. He has pots and pots of money, so how can she go wrong? Then he said something about cats in the dark looking alike, which I thought very odd. After all, Mr. Rushworth looks nothing like a cat. He looks more like a hedgepig.”

  Lady Russell poured out a cup of tea and passed it to Mary. “Captain Wentworth,” she said sharply, “ought to keep his opinions to himself, instead of airing them before the family. How wretched for Elizabeth to hear such things!”

  “Oh, he did not say that before everyone. Only Anne.”

  Lady Russell blinked. “Then how did you learn of it?”

  “Why I …” A flush crept into Mary’s cheeks.

  Lady Russell put down her cup. “Mary, really. A gentlewoman does not listen at doors.”

  Mary’s voice rose to a whine. “Can I help it if his voice carries so distinctly? Well anyway, Captain Wentworth is perfectly right. Everyone we know will read that announcement. Elizabeth has no choice. She must marry Mr. Rushworth.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Lady Russell.

  “At her age, who else will have her? A bird in the hand, I say. Now then, if I can contrive to have a new wardrobe made up in time, I shall be perfectly happy.”

  “In time for what? The wedding?”

  “No, in time for our trip to London, of course. Think of it—a house on Grosvenor Square.”

  Lady Russell was certainly thinking!

  Mary continued to talk. “It will be like spending April in Paris,” she said, sighing. “I have always heard about that. Except I have never been to Paris. That brute Napoleon would have a war—for years and years. It is most unfair.”

  Lady Russell gave Mary a look. “He did not do so to inconvenience you, my dear.”

  “But I long to travel,” Mary cried. “And no one takes me anywhere!”

  “Foreign travel,” said Lady Russell, “is uncomfortable and inconvenient. And expensive.”

  “Don’t I know it? Oh, to have more money.”

  Oh, said Lady Russell silently, to have more time!

  ~ ~ ~

  Nine thousand pounds. The very look of the number made Elizabeth shiver. How could even half that amount be raised? The Crofts, she knew, paid a generous sum to live at Kellynch Hall, perhaps as much as five hundred per year. How Elizabeth wished it were more! She did a little mental figuring. If her father utilized every penny of that amount toward the debt, why—

  No, that could not be right. Elizabeth went hunting for a pencil. She must work the sum on paper, for the answer she’d come up with was too ghastly to be true. Eighteen. It would be eighteen long years before her father was free of this debt!

  And this did not account for interest—wicked usury she’d heard the rector call it. Interest, Patrick Gill had once explained, was how a counting house earned a profit. One paid for the privilege of using someone else’s money. He likened it to tenants farming on land belonging to an estate. This concept made little sense to Elizabeth then. Now it was all too clear.

  And then Elizabeth remembered something else. Anne had once proposed a plan—a ridiculous, severe plan—that would have freed her father in seven years. Would that he had listened to Anne’s advice! But it was useless to plan, for the Crofts were quitting Kellynch Hall. What if another tenant could not be found? What would become of her father? What would become of her?

  White-faced and trembling, Elizabeth once again read through the letter. Several others had signed it in addition to Mr. Lonk. One of the signatures looked familiar. A prominent M. An even larger G and a series of looped letters ending with a Y.

  McGillvary.

  Must he be witness to this, her newest disgrace? When her father could not pay, would Admiral McGillvary keep silent? Of course not. It would be all over Bath that Sir Walter Elliot was bankrupt, hauled off by the bailiff and cast into prison. And his daughter?

  Elizabeth rose to her feet and began to pace about the room. The entire amount was clearly impossible, but the quarterly payment was not out of reach. To whom could she turn for help? Not Captain Wentworth; he had made his position abundantly clear. Mr. Rushworth? Thanks to Patrick Gill’s interference, there would be no help from him. The only person remaining was William Elliot—and Elizabeth would rather die than go to him! Even now she could see his sneer of refusal. But what choice did she have?

  She came to a halt before the window. Here was what she needed, air! The latch was stubborn, but she persevered. At last she got the window open, drew up a chair and sat, leaning her elbows on the sill. No ideas came. There was only Mr. Elliot’s mocking face and Captain Wentworth’s scorn. Even if she could raise the two hundred pounds, she would have to do so again and again—every quarter—for years. By the end of it, her father would likely be dead and she would be—

  Elizabeth took a shuddering breath. She would be almost fifty; the spinster sister, old and faded, supported by the pity of her family. She was being supported out of pity now!

  Directly below the window was a flagged terrace. Here was an idea. Elizabeth had heard about women who ended it all by leaping from a window or a bridge. To do so was extremely stupid, for what did suicide solve? Pain, she now realized, provided motivation. Pain and panic and mortification and misery.

  Idly, she considered the distance. It was certainly enough to cripple, but would it kill? There was no sense in doing a thing unless it could be done properly.

  The size of the opening was another problem. If one sat on the sill—just so! —it could be managed. At best it would be difficult. But did that matter?

  Sometime later Elizabeth found herself standing on the seat of the chair, gazing at the pavement below. This, then, was the end. She would fall tragically, yet gracefully, to her death.

  She put one foot through the opening. Balance became difficult. With a cry, Elizabeth lost her footing and swayed. Desperately she clung to the sash. This was madness!

  And then her shoe fell off.

  Elizabeth watched it drop to the pavement below. “Botheration!” she cried.

  Somehow, seeing the shoe on the pavement below made a world of difference. Other uncomfortable thoughts followed. How, exactly would she land? Would her skirts fly up and cover her head?

  It was one thing to die elegantly, like that painting of a Grecian maiden she’d seen in a London gallery. But to die ungracefully on the pavement of a second-rate house was mortifying. As was being stuck on a window sill with her leg hanging out!

  Red-faced and shaking, Elizabeth drew in her leg and climbed off the chair. The floor was smooth and strong and safe. She sank to her knees, trembling.

  Within minutes the door opened. Elizabeth looked up to see Yee. In his hand was her shoe.

  Silently he held it out to her. His dark eyes never left her face.

  Red-faced, Elizabeth got to her feet. Either Yee had seen her absurd attempt, or he thought she’d thrown her shoe out the window in fit of pique!

  And yet the man would not go. “Life,” he said, “is a precious gift from God, ‘who redeemeth thy life from destruction, who crowneth thee with lovingkindness and tender mercies.’ We must not lose faith and hope.” Yee held out a letter. This has come for you. No answer is required.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. Doubtless this was Mr. Elliot’s answer. She hadn’t the heart to read it.

  She watched Yee walk to the window, close it, and force the latch to lock. “Lady Russell and your sisters wait in the drawing room,” he added.

  Elizabeth hadn’t the strength to conceal her dismay. Must she face Lady Russell as well? “Thank you,
Mr. Yee,” she whispered. “Please send Elise to me. I require assistance with my apparel.”

  Yee bowed and left the room. Elizabeth put Mr. Lonk’s letter and Mr. Elliot’s unopened note in her reticule. She would deal with those later, after the ordeal of the Pump Room—and the lecture she knew Lady Russell had come to deliver.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mary began talking a soon as Elizabeth entered the drawing room. Without so much as a good morning, she announced, “I still say Father will make you marry him.”

  “And as I told you,” said Elizabeth, firing up, “my marriage to Mr. Rushworth is out of the question. Indeed, it is the least of my troubles.”

  “Now, now,” said Lady Russell. “Of course you will not marry him if you do not wish it.”

  Elizabeth could not believe her ears. Her godmother was never compassionate! It must be the prelude to a scolding—which was a fine bit of hypocrisy, for Lady Russell had no children. What did she know about fathers and daughters?

  Lady Russell turned to Mary. “Your father is a just man. He will not force Elizabeth to marry someone who is abhorrent to her.” She looked again to Elizabeth. “Good morning, my dear. You look lovely today.”

  Again Elizabeth was taken aback; Lady Russell did not give compliments freely. She knew she should offer one in return, but she could find nothing to say. Lady Russell was looking unusually haggard. Indeed, old age must be setting in, for the cup and saucer trembled in her hand.

  Lady Russell put the teacup down and gazed at each of them in turn. “Since emotions are high over the news of this engagement—this supposed engagement”—she amended, looking to Elizabeth, “I think it is best that none of you visit your father today.”

  “Not visit Father?” said Anne. “Oh, but I do not agree!”

  “Your father will be distressed over the fuss and gossip,” she said, “and this might cause him to fall into a decline.” She held up a hand as if to silence Anne’s protests. “In a day or two, after things have settled a bit, you may call. Is this agreed?”

  “But what if he has seen the notice in the paper?” said Anne. “Shouldn’t we explain?”

  “I will instruct the staff to keep the newspapers out of his reach.”

  Anne was not satisfied. “What if he hears of it from another source?”

  “We will allow no visitors,” said Lady Russell.

  “Yes, Mr. Savoy will know what to do,” agreed Mary. “He is a dab hand at that sort of thing.”

  Lady Russell turned to Mary. “I believe that we are capable of handling matters without involving Mr. Savoy. And you will kindly refrain from using cant speech, Mary. It is most unbecoming.”

  Naturally, Mary began to object. “If,” Lady Russell went on, “you would care to write your father a note, I will gladly deliver it.”

  Anne rose and went immediately to the writing desk. Elizabeth remained where she was, tapping her foot and thinking. Should she send Mr. Lonk’s letter in care of Lady Russell? It would serve her father right, for Lady Russell would not allow him to destroy it. On the other hand, it was wretched to allow him to be further debased in Lady Russell’s eyes.

  No, Elizabeth decided, as before she would see to this business herself. Even if it meant—Elizabeth stiffened—consulting Mr. Elliot.

  ~ ~ ~

  After dropping Mary and Elizabeth at the Pump Room, Lady Russell was driven to the bailiff’s house. At this point her courage nearly deserted her. How simple it would be to order the carriage to return to Rivers Street!

  Not alone, she told herself firmly. She would not leave this place without Sir Walter. Still, she couldn’t help smiling a little. What must Longwell have thought when she told him to lay an extra place for dinner and make ready the spare bedchamber—for a gentleman?

  Sir Walter was in fine form this morning. The clothing she had sent yesterday had made an impression on the other inmates. Sir Walter’s title and manners, along with the dinner he had provided, caused them to venerate him in a way Lady Russell considered unseemly.

  “Really, Sir Walter,” she said, after the others had withdrawn from the parlor, “you should not allow these men to call you Your Honour or Your Grace or Your Worship.”

  “But they mean no harm,” he protested. “And it does no good to correct them; I have tried. They think me a capital fellow, and naturally they must show it by their speech. You might like to know that no one has addressed me as Your Serene Highness … yet.” Sir Walter’s chin quivered; he began to giggle.

  “I should hope not!” cried Lady Russell. She looked at him narrowly. Had he been drinking? Having descended into the Lower Orders, was he now consoling himself with cheap gin?

  Presently Sir Walter got hold of himself. “Ah me, the enduring quality of noblesse,” he said. “Is it not a natural phenomenon, like cream rising?”

  Lady Russell did not know how to answer this. She brought out her packet of papers and opened it.

  Still smiling, Sir Walter reached out to touch her sleeve. “I wonder, dear Lady Russell, if Longwell could procure another meal for this evening? Beef en daub or perhaps blanquette de veau?”

  “Sir Walter, really. We have serious matters to discuss.”

  “But this is serious,” he insisted. “I must eat. As soon as possible, in fact. I am famished.”

  Lady Russell selected a page from her pile. “Surely you’ve just had your breakfast.”

  He heaved a great sigh. “Breakfast was served—at the ungodly hour of eight—but alas, it was inedible.”

  “Was it indeed.”

  Sir Walter made a face. “It was porridge, Amanda. As you know, I do not eat porridge.”

  Lady Russell turned over a page. “Porridge is a nourishing, healthful food,” she said, “enjoyed by thousands throughout the Empire every day. I am surprised at you.”

  “I do not eat porridge any more than I eat cabbage.” Sir Walter gave a perfectly genuine shudder. “It is simply not the thing.”

  Lady Russell brought out a box and removed a pen and a bottle of ink. “Once we finish here, we shall see about procuring a meal.”

  “Excellent! If you would kindly deliver the box with today’s clothing, I shall be most grateful.”

  “I have not brought your clothing.”

  “But Longwell said—”

  “I know what Longwell said. After we are finished here, you may choose for yourself what to wear.” Lady Russell leaned forward to deliver her point. “We shall now discuss how you are to leave this place.”

  He smiled. “Why, in your carriage, of course.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But first we must satisfy the legal obligations.”

  Sir Walter’s fingertips danced on the tabletop. “You’ve brought the two hundred fifty pounds?”

  The eager note in his voice was matched by the brightness of his eyes. This was rather startling. “Yes,” Lady Russell said slowly. “I have the money with me.”

  “May I, er, have it, please?”

  “In a moment. First we must review the events which have brought you to this unfortunate juncture.”

  “Mr. Savoy’s charges,” he said promptly, “and various tradesmen’s bills. Yes, yes, we know all that.”

  Lady Russell drew a long breath. “You have other outstanding obligations, have you not? In addition to the two hundred fifty pounds? May I have the sum of them, please?”

  Sir Walter’s gaze shifted to the floor. He scratched his head and then studied the ceiling and sighed some more—all without producing a total.

  Lady Russell got down to business. “The bailiff tells me that there is a second warrant for your arrest that will be issued shortly. It would be helpful to know what that amount is now, so that we may make arrangements to pay it. Otherwise, if you are going to be arrested again, I have a better use for my money.”

  “I … er … why … I …”

  It was painful to see him flounder, but this was the best way to drive home her point. At last she said, more gently, “You do not k
now the amount of your indebtedness, do you?”

  Sir Walter’s gaze remained focused on the tabletop.

  Lady Russell steepled her fingertips. “What you want, Sir Walter, is a manager.”

  He looked up.

  “Not a solicitor like John Shepherd,” she said. “That will never do. You have proven that it is too difficult for a gentleman of your rank to submit to a lesser man. No, you need a real manager—like the arrangement you had with dear Elizabeth.”

  Sir Walter wrinkled his nose. “I don’t see what Elizabeth has to do with anything,” he objected. “She is set to marry Rushworth, and—” He sucked in his breath. “The express, Lady Russell! Did you send the request to Rushworth?”

  “I did not. And it is a very good thing, for Elizabeth refuses to marry him.”

  Sir Walter’s face paled. “What?” he whispered.

  “But we digress. I was speaking of Elizabeth your wife, not Elizabeth your daughter. You lived very nicely under dear Lady Elliot’s management. You did not overspend your income then.”

  “But it was not nearly so amus—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “I imagine not. And yet you lived as a gentleman.” Lady Russell put up her chin. “Walter Elliot,” she announced, “what you need is a wife.”

  “A … wife?” When at last he spoke, his voice squeaked. “What odd notions you have, my dear. I cannot think of anyone whom I …”

  He laughed a little. “I mean, what woman—of proper birth and independence—would wish to undertake such a thing? No, Lady Russell, you put it out of your head. I appreciate your concern, but no.”

  “I am one such person,” she told him. “And I am willing to pay your debts, provided you agree to certain conditions.”

  Sir Walter’s eyes grew even rounder. “Eh, well now, Lady Russell,” he said, tugging at his collar. “While yours is a most unusual idea, we needn’t be hasty. A wise man takes time to consider his options. Plenty of time. The more time, the better.”