The Deception at Lyme: Or, the Peril of Persuasion (Mr. And Mrs. Darcy Mysteries) (22 page)

“You could not have realized. And I have had nineteen years to make my peace with it. Still, I often wonder how it would have been to grow up under her influence, to have her with me even now.”

“Have you spoken with your brother of these feelings?”

“We speak of our mother, but I do not speak of her loss. As much as I regret that I never knew her, he did, and I feel responsible for having taken her from him.”

His brows drew together. “Surely he does not blame you?”

“Oh, heavens no. I keep silent because he is such a conscientious brother that it would grieve him to know I have such thoughts.”

“It grieves me to know them, and I have only just met you.”

A flush crept into her cheeks as self-consciousness overtook her. “Forgive me for having burdened you with such a confidence. I—I do not know what possessed me to reveal it to so new an acquaintance.”

“I am not burdened,” he said in all sincerity. “And I assure you, Miss Darcy, it is safely entrusted.”

“Nevertheless—”

Lieutenant St. Clair’s gaze suddenly shifted to a spot behind her shoulder. Georgiana turned to see her brother approaching. He reached them in a few strides and looked from one to the other.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

St. Clair greeted Darcy amiably while Georgiana composed herself.

“I am glad to have spotted you over here,” Darcy said to his sister. “I lost sight of you for a while.” Again, he glanced between them, wondering what he had interrupted. Georgiana’s flustered demeanor suggested that the lieutenant had been speaking in an inappropriate manner. “Is all well?”

“Oh! Yes—quite,” Georgiana said. “The rest of my party abandoned me, but Lieutenant St. Clair has been so good as to ensure I was not left entirely alone.”

“We were just discussing the subject of godparents,” St. Clair said.

“I see.” Darcy, in fact, did not see at all how such an innocuous topic could unsettle his sister, and again presumed the lieutenant’s manner must be at fault. “Well, thank you, Lieutenant. I can attend my sister now.”

The sea officer knew a dismissal when he heard one. Lieutenant St. Clair looked at Georgiana once more. “I enjoyed our conversation, Miss Darcy.”

When the officer was out of hearing, Darcy turned to her. “Was he troubling you?”

She opened her fan. “Not at all. He was a perfect gentleman.”

“You appear upset.”

She watched St. Clair blend into the crowd and shook her head. “Only warm. It is too close in this room.” Her fan moved rapidly. “Come, let us find more lemonade.”

Twenty-two

“The manæuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me.”

—
Anne Elliot,
Persuasion

Mrs. Smith’s history of her acquaintance with Mrs. Clay was interrupted by the arrival of Anne Wentworth and Alfred. The exhausted heir had fallen asleep in Mrs. Wentworth’s arms, and now dozed peacefully. Elizabeth helped Anne settle into the chair she had been compelled to abandon earlier.

As the new godmother smoothed the infant’s robe, Mrs. Smith observed her with approval. “Look how content he is at last, Anne. You are a natural with him.”

“Do you truly think so?”

“He could be in no better arms. You are doing very well by him.”

For whatever her opinion was worth, Elizabeth agreed. Of all Alfred’s blood relations and godparents, the Wentworths seemed the most genuinely interested in his welfare, and Anne the most attuned to his needs.

Mrs. Wentworth had but little time to enjoy the hard-won tranquility of a sleeping baby before Mary Musgrove appeared and sank into a chair beside her sister.

“Well, here you are, Anne—I had wondered where you were hiding yourself. I declare, I am exhausted—making conversation with all of these people, having to explain that I am
only
Alfred’s aunt, not one of his godmothers, since of course they assume I would have been asked. I would much prefer to sit here at leisure, like you, than perform the social duties incumbent upon us as Elliots.”

“I am happy to circulate among the guests if you would care to hold Alfred.”

“No, thank you. He might wake and start wailing again, and I have been suffering the headache all day. My headaches, you know, are always worse than anybody’s. It is all I can do just to sit here talking to you.”

“Perhaps you should try seabathing while you are in Lyme,” Mrs. Smith suggested. “I have found it beneficial.”

“I said that very thing to my husband, but he thinks seabathing ridiculous, with the machines and dippers and all. I went only the once, all the while we were here last November. I did not care for it, but I bathed in Charmouth, not Lyme. I quite imagine that the bathing in Lyme is superior to Charmouth. It must be pleasurable, for so many people go regularly. Even our father seabathes. Have you been, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I have.”

“See! Everybody here bathes—everybody except me! Why should I be deprived simply because my husband does not like it? This is always my lot! Whenever there is something desirable going on, I am sure to be excluded.”

“Our father goes only because Mr. Edwards urges him,” Anne said.

“I do not think I like this new physician of his. He has our father suddenly fearing that he is halfway to his grave. That is the only reason he married Mrs. Clay, you know.”

“Mary,” Anne said emphatically, casting a pointed look in Elizabeth’s direction. Elizabeth took a sip of lemonade and developed a sudden, intense interest in the pattern of the glass.

“Well, it was,” Mary continued. “The marriage was beneath him, but he was not going to leave this earth with Mr. Elliot as his heir.”

Wanting to relieve Mrs. Wentworth’s self-consciousness over Mary’s speaking so candidly about family matters in front of a slight acquaintance, Elizabeth rose and went to the window. It offered a lovely view of the beach and the sea, which was calm today, though the sun’s brightness through the glass was uncomfortable.

Anne shifted Alfred to her other shoulder. “Our father could not have known the child that Mrs. Clay carried was a boy.”

“Oh, he was certain—Mrs. Clay already had two sons, and kept bringing that fact to his attention the whole while she stayed with our father and sister in Bath. Do you not recall? I said once that I wished I had a daughter instead of only sons, because a daughter would surely be better behaved, and Mrs. Clay declared that she was delighted to be the mother of boys, and believed herself incapable of producing anything but sons. Delighted—ha! There she was, living a life of leisure and amusement in Bath, while her boys were back in Kellynch with Mr. Shepherd. So of course when Mrs. Clay came to our father in Lyme, he believed she carried a boy. And of course she convinced him that the child was his, despite her having run off with Mr. Elliot, because nobody was better at flattering our father than she was—how else could a freckled thing like her have seduced him, right under our noses last winter? And of course Mr. Shepherd was able to persuade him to marry her, because our father is used to following Mr. Shepherd’s advice.” She released a dramatic sigh. “And of course, while Mrs. Clay got everything she wanted, I still have all the care of my own two boisterous sons, with a mother-in-law who spoils them with too many sweets and then leaves me to contend with their misbehavior.”

“I would hardly say Mrs. Clay got everything she wanted,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “She is dead.”

Mary sighed again. “I suppose.” Having failed to gain her sister’s sympathy, she turned her attention to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy, do you have sons?”

Elizabeth was happy to come away from the heat of the window and sit down again. “No, only a daughter, Lily-Anne.”

“A daughter! How fortunate you are. I would do so much better with daughters. They are quiet and mindful, and one can dress them in such pretty clothes. Boys cannot wear clothes five minutes before something is dirty or torn. But husbands always want boys. Mrs. Smith, do you have daughters or sons?”

“I have no children.”

“None at all? How very sad. I do not know what I would do without the cheerful sounds of my darlings at play. I suppose your husband was disappointed to have no son.”

Mrs. Smith responded with a polite smile, but Elizabeth saw in her eyes that this was a painful subject to her.

Apparently, Mrs. Wentworth, too, sensed Mrs. Smith’s discomfort, for she quickly said, “Mary, I wonder if you might do me a favor and suggest to our father that Alfred’s nurse be summoned. He begins to stir—I suspect he will wake soon, and when he does, he will be hungry.”

Mary, looking rather put-upon, roused herself enough to cast her gaze about for the Elliot patriarch. With a relieved half-smile, she settled back against her chair. “You may offer the suggestion yourself. He comes this way.”

Sir Walter approached, trailing in the wake of Miss Elliot, who parted the crowded floor like a ship’s figurehead, with Sir Laurence and Miss Ashford in tow.

“Here you are, Anne. Are you monopolizing the guest of honor? Sir Laurence has expressed a desire to meet our little future baronet. Alfred was out of sorts when the Ashfords arrived, but I see he is in better temper now. You have been holding him some time—here, let me take him from you.”

“But he is sleeping.”

“I can see that.” Miss Elliot reached for him.

“Indeed, Miss Elliot, you need not disturb him,” Sir Laurence said.

“A sleeping baby is such a heart-moving image that I cannot resist.” Miss Elliot snatched Alfred from Anne, lifting him right out of the blanket that had been loosely gathered around him. Strategically positioning him over the stain the infant had previously made on her gown, she attempted to rest him against her shoulder as Anne had done. Hers, however, was an awkward, insecure hold, not at all convincing her audience of her potential as a mother to a different future baronet—which, given that this sudden display of interest in the baby took place before Sir Laurence, Elizabeth recognized as Miss Elliot’s true purpose.

“There—see how he snuggles against me? He is such a sweet little thing.”

Until that moment, Elizabeth would have wagered a year’s worth of pin money that the word “snuggle” was entirely absent from Miss Elliot’s vocabulary. As it was, Miss Elliot appeared oblivious to the fact that Alfred was instinctively seeking the soft shoulder from which he had been so abruptly torn, not snuggling into the bony one upon which he had just been thrust. He squirmed, fully wakening, and released a mew that quickly turned into a full, incessant cry.

“There, now … little … darling.” Miss Elliot’s steely voice jarred Elizabeth more than the baby’s cries. “Do not cry for your sister—”

Miss Elliot’s eyes suddenly widened, and her countenance went rigid. She pulled the mewling infant away from herself and thrust him toward Mary. A damp, uneven circle now darkened another portion of her gown; the lower half of Alfred’s sported a matching one. “Would you kindly take this child from me?” Her strained voice came through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth, happening to meet Sir Laurence’s gaze, saw that she was not alone in working to conceal amusement.

Sir Laurence coughed. “I should … go seek Mr. Darcy. My sister and I have not yet spoken with him today. Unless, Miss Elliot, I can be of use to you?”

“No,” she said tightly, a scarlet flush creeping across her cheeks faster than the stain on her dress. Alfred, still in her hands, increased both his agitation and his volume. Sir Laurence bowed and withdrew with Miss Ashford.

Miss Elliot looked at her sister sharply. “Mary—”

“Why must I take him? He has already ruined your gown. I should sacrifice mine?”

As the sisters quarreled, Alfred’s high-pitched protests continued. Elizabeth itched to take him from Miss Elliot and offer the neglected baby what comfort she could, but she would not insert herself in a family dispute. Thankfully, Mrs. Wentworth stepped forward and reclaimed Alfred. She wrapped the blanket around him and held him close, murmuring soothing words, mindless of whatever indignity her own gown might suffer in consequence.

Miss Elliot looked down at the damp spot on her dress. The black fabric helped diminish its conspicuousness, but it was obvious nonetheless. “Where is Mrs. Logan? What sort of a nurse is she, who cannot even properly apply a napkin?”

“She is in our rooms at the Three Cups,” Sir Walter said. “Where else would she be—here, sipping lemonade with her betters? The inn is mere steps away; I told her I would send Alfred to her if she were needed.”

Anne’s face was incredulous. “Alfred has not fed nor had a fresh napkin since before church?”

“That was but a few hours ago,” Sir Walter said.

“It is little wonder he is so irritable.” Mary shook her head with an air of superiority. “Honestly,” she said to her eldest sister, “one would think you knew nothing about children.”

“That is because I do not have any. Yet somehow I have been saddled with responsibility for a small creature that does nothing but cry and ruin my clothes. Perhaps, Mary, since you possess so much more experience with children, you should take Alfred home to live with you.”

“At Uppercross Cottage? I am sure our father wants to keep his new heir closer to him than that.”

“As a matter of fact,” Sir Walter said, “that idea holds merit. We are quite cramped in our rooms here, and even when we return to Bath, a town house offers nothing compared to a country home in space for a growing boy.”

Mary suddenly had the look of a chased fox. “The cottage is already too small for our comfort—it is not as if we live in the Great House yet. Our own two boys—”

“Will be perfect companions for Alfred,” Miss Elliot said.

“… consume all my time as it is,” Mary finished. “You have
no
idea. I am a slave to their needs from sunrise till bedtime.”

“I thought you employ a nursery maid.”

“Of course we do.”