A Mr. (save, perhaps, some half-dozen in the nation) always needs a note of explanation.
It was with heavy steps and a heavier heart that Elizabeth climbed the sharp incline of Lyme’s main thoroughfare. The strain of the morning’s events made it hard for her to believe that it was now only early afternoon. After powerlessly witnessing Mrs. Clay’s death in childbirth, she wanted nothing more than to return to her own lodgings and hold her own child. However, Mrs. Clay’s next of kin must be notified without delay, and provisions made for the care of the new son she left behind.
Broad Street, she and Darcy learned from the Harvilles, held multiple inns. As Mr. Elliot had not specified which one enjoyed his patronage, Mrs. Harville suggested the Darcys seek him at the Lion or the Three Cups, two of Lyme’s finer establishments. They went first to the Three Cups, where the innkeeper confirmed that he had a guest by the name of Elliot.
They were directed to a room on the second floor. The manservant who answered the door did his professional best to conceal his appraisal of their appearance. Though Elizabeth had changed back into her own gown and Darcy’s coat had dried, they both had a rather sodden, weary look about them. When Darcy gave their names and asked for Mr. Elliot, the servant stiffly replied that he would see whether the baronet was at home, and left them standing in the hall while he disappeared into the apartment.
Of course, the servant knew whether his master was within; “at home” was a tacit code in better society for “receiving visitors”—or, depending upon the particular visitors, “receiving you.” What puzzled Elizabeth was not the possibility that Mr. Elliot had somehow become lost in a small inn chamber, but the manner in which the servant had referred to his employer.
“You did not tell me that Elliot is a baronet,” she said to Darcy.
“He did not tell me,” Darcy replied. “I wonder that he did not introduce himself properly.”
From within, they heard a lofty male voice. “Mr. Darcy? Who is this Mister Darcy? Is he a gentleman?”
The voice was unfamiliar. Darcy glanced at Elizabeth. “I fear we have disturbed the wrong Elliot.”
Though it seemed their luck could not turn any worse this day, Elizabeth harbored hope. “Perhaps he is a relation of our Mr. Elliot?”
A moment later the servant returned. “Sir Walter is not at home.”
As the servant began to close the door, Elizabeth said quickly, “Pray, advise Sir Walter that we have news regarding Mrs. Clay.”
“Mrs. Clay?” said the voice within.
Mention of the unfortunate woman won them entrée. Elizabeth and Darcy found themselves in a small but superiorly appointed sitting room, being assessed by a gentleman who indeed bore resemblance to the Mr. Elliot they had met earlier. This man, however, was older, of their parents’ generation, but more fashionably dressed than many gentlemen half his age. He was a fine-looking man, well preserved, with a complexion any woman would envy and not a hair astray on his powdered head. Soft white hands with neatly trimmed fingernails rested on crossed forearms as he studied Elizabeth and Darcy.
A younger woman was also present. Elizabeth guessed her to be at most thirty, but yet quite handsome—and she held herself with the air of a lady who knows she is handsome. She did not rise, but remained seated stiffly. Her impassive gaze took Elizabeth’s measure. After a minute, a slight nod of greeting indicated that she had tentatively judged Mrs. Darcy acceptable.
“You seem a decent fellow, by the look of you,” Sir Walter pronounced. “Mr. Darcy, is it? One meets all manner of individuals in a watering-place, Mr. Darcy. Where is your home?”
“Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”
“Derbyshire! How unfortunate. I hear it is ghastly cold in the Peaks during winter. Frigid air is brutal on one’s complexion—though yours seems to be holding up. You must spend your winters in town.”
“Occasionally,” Darcy said. “In truth, however, I prefer to spend them at home.”
The gentleman regarded Darcy as if he were addled. “Well,” he said finally, “I suppose there must be some appeal in Derbyshire, if only that the Duke of Devonshire resides there. I do not suppose you are acquainted with him?”
“Devonshire is one of my closest neighbors. We dine at Chatsworth regularly when he is at home.”
“Do you?” This connexion to one of England’s most influential peers—a personal friend of the Prince Regent—appeared to considerably raise Darcy in Sir Walter’s estimation. The fact that it did, lowered Sir Walter in Elizabeth’s.
“Yes, and His Grace dines with us at Pemberley,” Elizabeth said. She turned to Darcy. “When was the last time we had him to dinner? Was it when your cousin, the Earl of Southwell, came to visit?”
Neither Elizabeth nor Darcy were given to boasting of their titled acquaintances; indeed, they loathed the practice in others. She wanted to determine just how important their connexions were to the Elliots.
“I believe it was,” Darcy said. She could read in the expression of his eyes that he understood what she was about.
At this admission, the lady in the armchair took far more interest in both Darcys. “The Earl of Southwell!” A meaningful look passed between her and Sir Walter.
“Forgive me,” Sir Walter said. “I have just realized that I neglected to introduce you to my daughter, Miss Elliot.”
Miss Elliot was now all graciousness. “If the earl is your cousin, then I believe another relation of yours is our neighbor in Bath. Our house in Camden Place adjoins the one Lady Catherine de Bourgh takes each autumn.”
“Lady Catherine is my aunt.”
Elizabeth attempted to imagine how Sir Walter and Lady Catherine got on as neighbors. Were the pair attracted to each other’s pride, or did similarity breed contempt? Even the finest Bath town houses could contain only so much vanity.
The confirmation of Darcy’s possessing yet a third titled connexion sent the Elliots into raptures. “Do sit down,” Miss Elliot exhorted. “May we offer you tea?”
Elizabeth wondered whether a quiz regarding her relations would follow. As much as she would take perverse pleasure in revealing her own grand connexions to a country attorney, a London merchant, and a ne’er-do-well militia officer, the day’s events had left her with neither inclination nor patience for idle conversation with strangers. She and Darcy had come on serious business, and they must return to it. “Perhaps another time.”
Sir Walter mistook their decline of hospitality for disdain. “With connexions such as yours, you are no doubt used to finer surroundings than these,” he said quickly. “I assure you, our occupancy of this inn is but temporary, until we secure more suitable lodgings. When my physician recommended seabathing, we traveled here directly to follow his advice. By this day week, we hope to be established in a style commensurate with that to which we are accustomed—not only at our house in Camden Place, but our family home, Kellynch Hall in Somersetshire.”
“Think nothing of it,” Darcy said. “We decline only because it seems we have intruded upon you accidentally. We seek a different Mr. Elliot whom we met earlier today, to deliver pressing news. We understood him to be staying at this inn. Is there another gentleman among your party?”
“No,” he said coldly. “If you mean Mr. William Elliot, my cousin is not part of our company. You will find him at the Lion. However, you told my servant that your news regarded Mrs. Clay. We are acquainted with that lady. What do you know of her?”
“We are sorry to bear unhappy news, but Mrs. Clay suffered an accident this morning.”
Sir Walter appeared confused by Darcy’s announcement. “An accident? Where?”
“On the Cobb,” Elizabeth said.
He looked at his daughter. “I thought she was in her room. Have you not checked on her today?”
“Have not you?”
Sir Walter scowled. “If this is how she intends to conduct herself—” He broke off, aware once more of his audience. “Well, I hope this incident has made her realize that she cannot gad about as she used to.”
“Sir Walter,” Elizabeth said calmly, trying to ease him into the news she was about to deliver, “Mrs. Clay fell and injured her head. The surgeon offered what treatment he could, but…” She paused, allowing Sir Walter and Miss Elliot a moment to fortify themselves. “Mrs. Clay did not survive.”
Sir Walter appeared stricken. He stared at Elizabeth, then looked to Darcy for confirmation. At Darcy’s nod, he turned away and uttered a soft oath.
Miss Elliot was emotionless. “I presume the child died, as well?”
“No, that is the good news—if anything good can be considered to have come out of this sad event. She lived long enough to deliver the child.”
Sir Walter recovered himself. “Is it a boy?”
“Yes. And healthy, as best one can determine.”
“A boy,” Sir Walter repeated.
“We must find your cousin,” Elizabeth said. “I expect he will want to know this news.”
Sir Walter stood. “The boy, and his mother’s death, are none of Mr. Elliot’s concern.”
“But we understood Mr. Elliot to be … well acquainted with Mrs. Clay.”
“Her name was no longer Mrs. Clay.” Sir Walter stepped to a small pier table, opened a silver snuffbox that had been lying atop it, and took a pinch. “She was Lady Elliot. My wife.”