“Let me plead for my—present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr. Elliot.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth completed the walk to Cobb Hamlet in as much haste as possible without drawing undue attention to themselves. It seemed every elderly, infirm, fat, idle, or just plain slow person in Lyme had turned out on market day for a leisurely stroll, determined to put themselves in the two ladies’ path and wander oblivious to the fact that anybody might want to pass them. In truth, however, this was only their perception, distorted by the urgency of their errand. Nor was the number of boats that obscured their view across the harbor once they reached the shore any greater than what it ought to have been.
The fog, however, was a different matter. The sun had declined to show itself this morning, instead allowing the mist to linger in patches that shrouded sections of the seawall, including the one most of interest to them. They could see figures near the bench—a woman seated, a man standing.
Despite the gloomy atmosphere, Elizabeth observed the woman hopefully. “Is that Mrs. Smith? I cannot tell.”
“Nor can I,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “We shall have to move closer.”
They walked along the lower wall, forcing themselves to proceed slowly so as not to catch the figures’ notice. The angle from which they viewed the couple altered as they progressed along the curve. The gentleman, his back to them, now blocked their view of the woman. When Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth were nearly as far as the gin shop, however, he glanced toward the beach, momentarily offering them his profile. Then he put one hand on the wall and leaned against it, shifting just enough to open up their line of sight to the bench.
The woman was indeed Mrs. Smith.
Anne gasped and grabbed Elizabeth’s arm. In her lap was Alfred.
And the gentleman to whom she was speaking, ever so collectedly, was Mr. Elliot.
“What do we do to help her?” Mrs. Wentworth whispered.
Elizabeth took in the pair—Mrs. Smith’s cool manner of address, Mr. Elliot’s casual stance. As he tossed back his head and issued a laugh that carried to Elizabeth’s ears, an unsettling thought overtook her.
Perhaps Mrs. Smith did not want their help.
She and Mr. Elliot were, after all, old acquaintances whose years of friendship outnumbered their years of estrangement. Mrs. Smith had shared a great many of Mr. Elliot’s secrets—how many of hers did he know? And was the greatest one of all, that they were even now in league with each other?
Was that the reason Mrs. Smith was the only one of Mr. Elliot’s former set still alive?
So many questions entered Elizabeth’s thoughts at once that she could not contemplate them all. Was Mrs. Smith as poor as she claimed? Did she know about the smuggling? Did she know more about Mrs. Clay’s death than she had let on? And Alfred—what in heaven’s name was she doing sitting so nonchalantly on the Cobb with the Wentworths’ missing child on her lap? Had she helped Mr. Elliot steal the baby? Had she let him in the house?
Or was an endangered Mrs. Smith calmly trying to negotiate for her and Alfred’s lives with a devil so cold-blooded that he could laugh as he bargained? If only she could hear what they were saying.
Then she recalled that she could.
She turned to Mrs. Wentworth, whom she had kept in suspense while these thoughts had been flying through her mind. “I know that you trust Mrs. Smith, but at this moment, I am not sure I do. Let us listen to them a while—and pray they remain so absorbed in their conversation that they do not notice us through the fog.”
Mrs. Wentworth regarded her with doubt, but nodded.
Elizabeth took Mrs. Wentworth’s arm and led her forward. “After we pass the gin shop, we should be able to hear them. Stand as Mr. Elliot does—close to the wall, with your back to them, blocking me from view. Be sure to remain silent yourself.”
They passed the wooden doors, walked several yards farther, and drew near the wall.
“… and all of this has led you to the conclusion that, your own husband’s fortune having been exhausted, you somehow possess a claim upon mine.” Mr. Elliot laughed again, an eerie, hollow sound in the mist. “My dear Mrs. Smith, what elixirs has your doctor been prescribing that induce such imagination? Smuggling, and gold, and—are there pirates, too, perchance? You could support yourself as a novelist—this is better than Robinson Crusoe.”
“Do not mock me. I know what I heard.”
“And just whom did you hear this from?”
“Mrs. Clay. In this very spot. The morning she died.”
“Impossible. She never would have confided in you. She did not even know you were in Lyme—you are so much altered that I myself did not recognize you until I saw you at Alfred’s christening with Anne Wentworth.”
Elizabeth had seen Mrs. Smith in that “very spot”—on her bench—on that unforgettable morning. It was her customary place, where she sat each day, almost invisible in her familiarity, watching other people.
And, Elizabeth now realized, listening to them.
In all her hours on that bench, week upon week, Mrs. Smith must have discovered the Cobb’s acoustical phenomenon. She was perfectly positioned to overhear all sorts of conversations—including one of Mrs. Clay’s.
“I heard it from both Mrs. Clay and from you,” Mrs. Smith continued. “She took great pleasure in telling you that she had returned to Sir Walter. She did not reveal that she had just married him, only that when she left you the night before, she had put into action a plan that she had initiated after learning of his being in Lyme and of your betrayal. You had been lying to her, but she was again under Sir Walter’s protection, and she wanted her share of the gold now that she was no longer under yours.”
That, Elizabeth at last understood, was why Mrs. Clay had been on the Cobb the morning after her wedding. She had met with Mr. Elliot to continue the discussion Elizabeth had overheard the night before. So long as you live under my protection, my assignations are my business. Her marriage to Sir Walter had freed her of dependence on Mr. Elliot, empowering her to force him into relinquishing the profits she believed rightfully hers.
Or so she had thought. Then she took a tumble off the Cobb—doubtless helped over its edge by Mr. Elliot.
“You have also been lying to me,” Mrs. Smith said, “and I want my share of the money my husband’s property has helped you acquire.”
“Indeed? And do you want Mrs. Clay’s share, too, now that she can no longer claim it for herself? Is that why you caused her accident?”
Silence followed. Elizabeth tried to look past Mrs. Wentworth to see Mrs. Smith’s reaction, but Mr. Elliot yet blocked her view.
“Ha! It was you,” Mr. Elliot continued. “I was guessing, but I can see from your expression that I am right. In the excitement of the ship’s explosion, you thought nobody saw you push her, did you not? But as I was leaving the Cobb, the sound of the blast caused me to turn around. I saw two women on the high wall—one of them falling, and the other with an arm extended toward her. I was too far away to see you clearly, so I did not know it was you until this moment. I still do not know how you reached the upper wall or got away in your pathetic, crippled state. But if you stopped me here this morning to threaten me with secrets, I suggest you consider the magnitude of this one before proceeding further.”
Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes were wide. Indeed, Elizabeth, for all her speculation on the subject of Mrs. Clay’s death, had never anticipated this.
In a moment, however, she realized that Mrs. Wentworth’s apprehensive expression was due only in part to Mr. Elliot’s revelation. The rest was caused by something behind Elizabeth.
She turned round to see Darcy and Captain Wentworth striding toward them. Unfortunately, she and Anne were not the only persons to notice their approach. Mr. Elliot also turned—spying both the gentlemen and their wives.
“Well. Look who is come.”
“I trust you will explain to me later how you came to be here.” Darcy’s heart had nearly stopped when he saw Elizabeth on the seawall in such proximity to Mr. Elliot. When he and Wentworth had failed to find Mr. Elliot at the Lion, they had decided to seek Mrs. Smith on the Cobb before making the fifteen-mile journey to Sidmouth. They had not expected to find their wives there.
Knowing Elizabeth, however, Darcy probably should have. “I cannot believe Captain St. Clair approved this scheme,” he added.
“Captain St. Clair does not know,” Elizabeth replied. They and the Wentworths had edged away from the face of the wall, to a distance where they could speak without danger of being overheard by Mrs. Smith and Mr. Elliot. “But we will have to share the details later, for at present I must tell you what we have just learned. Mrs. Smith pushed Mrs. Clay off the wall—at least, that is what Mr. Elliot has accused her of, and she did not deny it.”
“Mrs. Smith?” Darcy said. “How is that possible?”
“I do not know,” Elizabeth said. “We might have found out had you and Captain Wentworth not arrived when you did. They have noticed us now.” Both Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Smith were looking at their party.
“Her legs have been getting stronger,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “I have observed her moving into and out of chairs more easily, and walking short distances—a few steps—within the house, but I thought her still quite dependent upon her cane. How she managed the steps here on the Cobb—even I would not venture up Granny’s Teeth—”
“She might have used the other stairs just round the bend, behind the quay—the ones we came down after the ship exploded,” Elizabeth said. “They are not far, especially if her legs are stronger than she has led you to believe. If she took care, she could manage them the same way she managed the stairs this morning at your house. I wager it was she who went up to the nursery and took Alfred.”
“And it is I who will take him back.” Captain Wentworth began walking toward the pair. The others fell into step.
“When we reach them, there is no use pretending we did not hear their discussion—with Mrs. Smith, at any rate,” Elizabeth said. “Look where her bench is, Darcy—she is ideally situated to overhear conversations, and in fact heard one between Mrs. Clay and Mr. Elliot shortly before Mrs. Clay died. I do not know whether Mr. Elliot is aware of the phenomenon; I think perhaps not, for his speech to her was unguarded.” She paused. “For that matter, so was hers—I wonder whether she realizes the whispering effect works in both directions.”
“I cannot believe Mrs. Smith would act so falsely by us,” Mrs. Wentworth said, “or harm Mrs. Clay. She is my friend. We must give her an opportunity to explain.”
As they neared the bench, they were able to obtain a closer look at Alfred. The child was wrapped in a blanket and appeared to be sleeping. Mrs. Smith smiled at the Wentworths. “Why, good morning, Anne.” Mr. Elliot also offered a greeting, but without the smile. Caution pervaded his normally smooth manner.
“Good morning,” Anne stammered.
Captain Wentworth went straight to Mrs. Smith and took Alfred. “You have given us quite a fright, Mrs. Smith. We have been looking for Alfred.”
“Yes,” Anne added. “How did the two of you come to bring him here?”
“I had nothing to do with the child,” Mr. Elliot declared. “He was with Mrs. Smith when I happened upon them.” He glanced at the quay, where the Black Cormorant was docked. The merchantman had acquired her guns since Darcy had last seen her. Darcy wondered whether it was Mrs. Smith or the ship that had brought Mr. Elliot to the Cobb.
“I did not mean to alarm you,” Mrs. Smith said. “Did you not find my note?”
Captain Wentworth passed the sleeping baby to his wife, who held him tightly. As Alfred nestled against her—a welcome sign that he was sound—the anxiety in her face diminished but did not disappear. “No,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “There was no note.”
“I left it in—well, now, where did I leave it? All was such a bustle when we quit the house. The chair bearers were impatient. I had wanted to linger a few minutes more for Mrs. Logan to return, but they said they had other customers waiting. So I decided to bring Alfred with me.”
“Why did you not simply leave him sleeping in the nursery?” Captain Wentworth asked.
“I thought he might enjoy the outing, and the sea air has been so therapeutic for me that I believed he could benefit from it as well. Besides, he was not in the nursery when the chair arrived—he was already with me. I had heard him crying earlier, after Mrs. Logan went out. You were in the study with your guests—I did not think you wished to be disturbed. So I went to the nursery myself to quiet him. He would not settle down without being held, and the sedan chair was due to arrive, so I brought him downstairs with me so that I might watch for it.”
“How did you negotiate the stairs?” Mrs. Wentworth asked.
Mrs. Smith smiled brightly. “On my own legs, I am proud to say. I have been improving beyond your knowledge, Anne! The sea has done wonders for my health. You and Captain Wentworth have been so good to me that I wanted to surprise you some future morning by leaving behind my cane and walking with you all the way down to the Cobb on my own. I am not quite that strong yet—it is a long, steep walk, but I have been practicing by climbing and descending the stairs when you are not at home.”
Mrs. Wentworth regarded her in astonishment. It was not, however, the delighted amazement that Mrs. Smith had hoped to arouse in her friend. It was a sober, wary shock. Her gaze drifted from Mrs. Smith to the wall behind her, and up to the edge of the parapet from which Mrs. Clay had fallen. “And is that,” she said, her voice small, as if muting it would negate the possibility of what she was about to ask, “how you came to be standing on the upper Cobb the morning Mrs. Clay died?”
Mrs. Smith’s cheerful glow transformed into a panicked flush.
“I can explain.”
Admiral Croft returned to the Wentworths’ home in a great flurry. He entered the sitting room so intent upon his mission that he did not realize he interrupted two people who had been engaged for some time in private conversation.
“I have the warrants,” he announced. “The customs officers and our own forces stand ready. Here—I brought your sword. Where is Wentworth?”
“With Mr. Darcy.” Captain St. Clair rose from the sofa to accept the sword; Georgiana also stood. “They are tracking down Mr. Elliot.” He summarized Alfred’s disappearance.
Admiral Croft frowned. “This is most alarming. How is Mrs. Wentworth taking it?”
“Not well. She is upstairs in the nursery. Mrs. Darcy is with her.”
The admiral nodded. “We will not disturb them.” He looked at Georgiana. “Miss Darcy, please assure Mrs. Wentworth that Captain St. Clair and I have gone to apprehend Mr. Elliot. Sir Laurence, as well.”
“I will, sir. I am sure the news will relieve her.”
Admiral Croft bowed. “Let us make haste, Captain.” He quit the room.
Captain St. Clair put on his hat and girded his sword. From bicorne to boots, he looked every inch an officer prepared for battle.
“You do not expect to fight Sir Laurence, do you?” Georgiana asked.
“If the baronet is as intelligent as he thinks he is, he will surrender without resistance. But if not, I am prepared.” Her anxious expression gave him pause. “We intend to take him alive, if that is the source of your concern.”
“No, it is not.”
Hand on his sword hilt, he took a step toward her. “I had been wanting to warn you of him for some time, but feared you would interpret my words as—well, it does not matter now. When next you see me, Sir Laurence will no longer be a threat to anybody.”
He took leave of her, then went to meet the admiral in the hall. He had nearly quit the room when Georgiana’s voice stopped him.
“Captain—”
He turned round. “Yes, Miss Darcy?”
She advanced until she stood just before him. “Do take care.”
He regarded her a long moment, his eyes full of hopeful determination. “I shall.”
“Show a leg, Captain St. Clair,” called the admiral from the entry hall. “Sir Laurence and Mr. Elliot will not be kept waiting.”