Miss Blachford is married, but I have never seen it in the Papers. And one may as well be single if the Wedding is not to be in print.
Elizabeth struggled to overcome her astonishment. If Mrs. Clay was in fact Lady Elliot, why had the other Mr. Elliot—Mr. William Elliot—not referred to her by her proper name, nor directed them to Sir Walter the moment he learned of the accident? And why had Mr. Elliot said she was under his protection, when she had a husband?
“Allow us to extend our condolences, sir,” Elizabeth stammered, “and pray forgive our ignorance. We understood Mrs. Clay—pardon me, Lady Elliot—to be a widow.”
“We are but recently wed—last night, in fact.” Sir Walter set the snuffbox back on the pier table and assessed his appearance in the glass that hung above it. “By special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, of course.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth echoed. Because special licenses required a fee and were issued only to persons of a certain station, they were sometimes obtained even if the couple did not need the dispensations they granted to perform the marriage ceremony wherever and whenever convenient, without the necessity of crying banns or marrying in either party’s home parish. It was not unheard of to secure a special license merely to show that one had the money and connexions to do so.
Sir Walter smoothed his velvet lapels. “I must order mourning clothes posthaste,” he said more to himself than to anyone in particular. “A pity—my tailor just finished this coat.” He summoned his servant, directed him to find a reliable local tailor, then turned back to the Darcys. “Now, where can the new Elliot heir be found?”
“He is at the home of Captain and Mrs. Harville, who took in Lady Elliot after her accident while the surgeon attended her.”
“Naval people.” Sir Walter sighed. “One cannot go anywhere in Lyme without encountering them. At least this Harville fellow is a captain. Where is the house? Uptown, I hope?”
“No, on the waterfront, in Cobb Hamlet.” At Sir Walter’s horrified expression, Elizabeth hastily added, “They appear a perfectly respectable family. I believe Mrs. Harville mentioned an acquaintance with two of your daughters.”
“Naturally, they would boast of the connexion. My daughter Anne married a naval captain, Frederick Wentworth. He did well for himself during the war, and has friends among the Admiralty. His brother-in-law is an admiral—Admiral Croft.” The baronet sighed again. “If a naval person must enter the family, one connected to an admiral is tolerable. Fortunately, Captain Wentworth is a decent-looking man, as far as sailors go. The elements have not completely destroyed his complexion, though he does look more roughened than he once did.” He turned to his daughter. “Are Anne and her husband still guests of the Crofts?”
“No, they have taken a house here in Lyme. That widow friend of hers, Mrs. Smith, is staying with them, so I have not yet advised Anne of our being in town—we would not want to give the mistaken impression of bestowing notice on Mrs. Smith.”
Elizabeth wondered that Sir Walter wanted to discuss his son-in-law’s complexion and living arrangements immediately after receiving news of his wife’s death, but she supposed the shock of bereavement scattered his attention. She tried to redirect him to the duties now at hand. “We would be happy to accompany you to the Harvilles’ home.”
“I would never visit such a house. My servant can collect the child.”
After he collected the tailor? Were she Sir Walter, or even Miss Elliot, Elizabeth would not lose a moment retrieving that baby herself, no matter where he was. And what about poor Lady Elliot? “I thought you might wish to see your late wife or meet the people who cared for her in her final hours.”
“Also,” Darcy added, “arrangements must be made.”
“Financial arrangements? The surgeon can direct his bill to my attorney, Mr. Shepherd. He is presently in Lyme, having come to handle matters related to the marriage.”
“I meant funeral arrangements.”
“Of course—an undertaker. There must be someone local who can handle the necessities.”
“Perhaps the surgeon or the Harvilles can offer a recommendation.”
“Life at sea so ages one that I expect these Harville people have acquaintances expiring all the time. I defy you to show me any sea officer who does not look at least twice his age, and I would wager this Captain Harville is no exception. I suppose they also expect some consideration for their trouble?”
“I do not believe so,” Elizabeth said. “They acted out of kindness.” She thought of the modest house, barely large enough to contain the Harvilles’ three young boys, and of the captain’s limp. The new peace had put many naval officers out of work; she doubted an injured one was still drawing full pay. “Though an expression of gratitude might not be unwelcome, were you so moved.”
“I shall consult Mr. Shepherd on the matter. Claiming my son is the first order of business.”
“When we left them, Mrs. Harville was making enquiries toward procuring a wet nurse.”
“My daughter will see to that.”
Miss Elliot started in surprise. “What do I know of wet nurses?” Her expression could not have been more appalled had her father suggested she nurse the infant herself. Elizabeth doubted the hard-edged spinster possessed a single maternal instinct.
“Engaging a nurse cannot far differ from hiring any other type of servant,” Sir Walter said, “and I know you will ensure we retain a woman of proper character.”
“Given the urgent nature of your search, you will be fortunate to find any wet nurse available with no notice,” Elizabeth said. “You might reconsider availing yourself of Mrs. Harville’s experience and local connexions.”
“Nursing the Elliot heir is a privilege. We shall have no shortage of applicants.”
Privilege or no, hiring a wet nurse was a challenging business even under the best of circumstances; the most reliable ones were engaged well in advance, timing the weaning of one charge with the birth of the next. Given the urgency of Sir Walter’s situation, he would be fortunate to locate one at all. Elizabeth, however, did not think it her place to explain the nuances of the process to Sir Walter, nor did she harbor great expectations of any such attempt penetrating his vain mind.
She made one last, valiant effort to guide him, not for his own benefit, but that of the helpless infant now entirely dependent upon his judgment. “Boarding the child out would likely increase the pool of candidates.”
“We most certainly will,” declared Miss Elliot.
“We most certainly will not,” said Sir Walter.
Though Miss Elliot’s vexation with her father was apparent, her tone was restrained. “We do not have space for an infant and nurse here, nor at our lodgings in Bath when we return.”
“The Elliot heir will not spend the first year of his life living with a family of such ignoble origins that they make ends meet by the wife’s nursing a passel of other people’s children like a common dairy cow. He will have his own nurse, in his own home, as did you and your sisters.”
Miss Elliot gestured about her. “Where is the nursery to be? This is not Kellynch Hall.”
Sir Walter sighed heavily. “I must speak to Mr. Shepherd about this alteration in circumstances. It was all very well for us to reside in Bath this past year, but now that I have a son, we should return to the ancestral Elliot home.”
Elizabeth hoped for everyone’s sake—most particularly the child’s—that Mrs. Harville’s efforts had proved successful, and that by the time Sir Walter’s servant collected the celebrated “Elliot heir,” the matter of hiring a wet nurse would be a fait accompli.
She had experienced enough of Sir Walter and his daughter; she wanted nothing more than to complete their melancholy errands and end this wretched day. Sensing that Darcy was of similar mind, she tactfully brought the meeting to an end. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot escorted them to the door, full of expressions of pleasure in having made their acquaintance.
And not at all overcome by grief.
Once on the street, Darcy offered his arm, which Elizabeth accepted as they continued up the hill. “That was certainly not the meeting I anticipated,” he said.
“That was not even the person we anticipated meeting.”
“I cannot say I feel improved by the acquaintance.”
“Nor I,” she replied. “I had pitied Lady Elliot for having drawn her last breath among strangers, but now I believe she found more sympathy in Mrs. Harville’s home than she would have known in her own husband’s. When I die, I hope you take more interest in the event itself than in the modifications it will impose upon your attire.”
“It does appear that the Elliots’ marriage was not a match of affection.”
“How could it be, with Sir Walter already deeply in love with himself?” Elizabeth knew that many people married for reasons other than romantic attachment—her friend Charlotte Collins offered a prime example. But even Mr. Collins would pause to mourn his wife’s passing before hastening to Rosings with the news.
“Did you notice that Sir Walter did not enquire into any particulars of his wife’s death?” she asked. “Whether her last moments were peaceful? Whether she died knowing that she had given him the son he so obviously wanted? His thoughts and words focused entirely on his connexions, his social status, his heir—as if the child had been created in a fine London shop and delivered by coach, not by a woman who died in the process.” She released a sound of disgust. “Sir Walter and his daughter seemed no more affected by Lady Elliot’s death than they would have been by a housemaid who quit her post after completing the day’s dusting.”
“Mr. Elliot might take the news more gravely.”
“Though Sir Walter does not wish for us to communicate any news to his cousin, I do feel that Mr. Elliot ought to be informed. Yet even Mr. Elliot—whatever his relationship was to the former Mrs. Clay, and for all his professions of concern—could not trouble himself to remain at the Harvilles’ during her travail, and gave us vague directions by which to find him. Do you truly think he will be any more moved by Lady Elliot’s death than Sir Walter was?”
Darcy stopped in front of the Lion. “Let us find out.”
Although a bored attendant at the Lion confirmed that Mr. William Elliot numbered among the inn’s guests, the gentleman was not at home—truly not at home—when Elizabeth and Darcy called. By this point nearly to their own cottage, they went home to check on Lily-Anne and Georgiana before making any additional attempt to locate the elusive Mr. Elliot.
Thankfully, they found all well with Georgiana and their daughter. Georgiana described how they and Sir Laurence had reached Broad Street and sent a surgeon back to the Cobb before the rain increased to an intensity that prevented them from continuing up the steep hill home. Their small party had taken refuge in a pastry shop, where they warmed themselves over tea and cake until the rain ceased and they could resume the walk to the cottage.
“As distressing as the circumstances were,” Georgiana said, “Sir Laurence was a reassuring presence. He knew just where to go and what to do, and took very good care of us. He was exceedingly attentive to both me and Lily-Anne, and our conversation in the pastry shop was so diverting that I felt guilty whenever I recalled that the two of you were dealing with such a dreadful situation while I enjoyed his company.”
“Pray, do not feel guilty any longer,” Elizabeth said. “I am glad one of us had a day that was not miserable.”
“Two of us,” Georgiana corrected. “Lily-Anne found Sir Laurence delightful, once she warmed up to him. He was so good with her, Elizabeth—it was charming to watch them together at the pastry shop. I think my niece is quite smitten.”
The animation in Georgiana’s eyes as she spoke of Sir Laurence made Elizabeth long to ask whether Lily-Anne’s aunt was smitten, as well, but she forbore. Georgiana’s regard for the baronet was evident; it was too early to quiz or tease her about its developing into something more.
Besides, Elizabeth was not in playful humor. Though happy that Georgiana and Lily-Anne had escaped the worst of the day’s events, she yet felt the weight of Lady Elliot’s untimely demise. Women died in childbed with tragic regularity, but Elizabeth could not help wondering whether she might have survived had she not also suffered a serious accident.
The company of her own child, however, helped lift Elizabeth’s mood. So, too, did a bath and fresh clothing. As her maid completed a simple arrangement of her hair, Elizabeth watched Lily-Anne play on the floor with her two favorite dolls. When the servant left the bedchamber, Elizabeth called Lily-Anne to her. Lily approached the dressing table, set her dolls upon it, and climbed into her mother’s lap. Elizabeth embraced her, saying not a word.
Lily asked to go for a walk. Elizabeth wished she could indulge her daughter immediately, but she and Darcy had agreed to make one more attempt to call upon Mr. Elliot. They also felt they ought to return to the Harvilles’ home. Upon reaching their lodgings, Darcy had sent a note advising them to expect Sir Walter or his emissary to call for the infant, but both he and Elizabeth wanted to take more formal leave of the generous couple as they ended their involvement in this whole unfortunate event.
“I am afraid a walk with me will have to wait, Lily. Do you want to play with Betsy and Maggie a while longer?”
Lily-Anne scooted off Elizabeth’s lap and reached for the pair of dolls on the dressing table. They were cloth dolls, gifts from Elizabeth’s sister Jane, and their appearance was proof that they were well loved. Privately, Elizabeth and Lily-Anne’s nurse referred to the dolls as Bald Betsy and Mangled Maggie. Once upon a time, Betsy had possessed red hair fashioned from yarn, but as Lily liked to carry her by it, most of the strands had disappeared. Maggie owed the preservation of her own hair to a sewn-on cap that matched her dress. However, Lily had decided that gumming Maggie’s stuffed legs was her preferred remedy for teething pain. After six teeth, the doll looked like the victim of a horrible carriage accident.
As Elizabeth tied the laces of her half-boots, Betsy and Maggie stood on the edge of the dressing table and engaged in a lively dialogue intelligible only to Lily-Anne, who performed it with great spirit. Unfortunately, the conversation took a hostile turn when the dolls shouted “no-no-no” at each other and Maggie knocked Betsy to the floor.
“Lily-Anne Darcy! That is not a nice way to play with your dolls. Pick up Betsy and treat her gently. Maggie should apologize.”
After Maggie delivered the apology, Lily-Anne turned to her mother. “Walk now?”
“Not yet, sweetheart—”
Elizabeth reconsidered. The rain had ceased some time ago; Lily-Anne could come with them to call upon the Harvilles. Surely they would not mind. They had children of their own, after all, and Lily might enjoy meeting the youngest boy. As for their stop at Mr. Elliot’s, Lily-Anne’s presence would provide the perfect excuse to keep the call brief—if they even found him at all.
“Yes, Lily. Let us take that walk now.”