Mercy's Embrace_Elizabeth Elliot's Story [Book 1] Read online




  Mercy’s Embrace

  Elizabeth Elliot’s Story

  A NOVEL IN THREE PARTS

  Book 1

  So Rough a Course

  Laura Hile

  Copyright © 2009 by Laura Hile.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the publisher at the address below.

  www.LauraHile.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  The characters Patrick McGillvary, Cleora and Claire McGillvary, the butler, Longwell, and Miss Lytton, are creations of Susan Kaye and are used with permission.

  Book Layout ©2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover Design by Damonza

  Mercy’s Embrace: So Rough a Course: Elizabeth Elliot’s Story Book 1/ Laura Hile. – 3rd ed

  ASIN: B07815SDQX

  Table of Chapters

  Prologue

  1 Distressing Developments

  2 Better Than Wine

  3 Saltash Luck

  4 It’s Always Something

  5 Saltash Luck

  6 Much to Bear

  7 That’s What Friends Are For

  8 Keeping Poise

  9 An Unjust Recompense

  10 ’Til The Storm Be Overblown

  11 A Doubtful Point

  12 The King’s Hard Bargain

  13 Touch and Go

  14 The Coxscomb And The Coxswain

  15 A Tangled Web

  16 Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

  About Laura Hile

  This book is dedicated

  With grateful thanks to

  Susan Kaye and Pamela Aidan,

  who gave me the courage to write

  and the vision to succeed

  Prologue

  William Elliot drew a cigar from its case and lit it, thankful for an excuse to escape the drawing room. So, Anne was engaged to the sailor. Engaged! At the concert, her countenance had betrayed nothing—she’d been willing enough to receive his addresses then. Mr. Elliot blew a stream of smoke into the night air. He’d been prepared to exert himself for Anne. For her, he would really have given up anything. But tonight, as Sir Walter made the announcement, his plans for the future had fallen to pieces. There had been tenderness in Anne’s face when she gazed at Captain Wentworth, a thing he’d not seen before. Mr. Elliot’s lips grew taut as he flicked ashes onto the pavement. Anne would never be his wife.

  Presently the door opened and a couple came into the courtyard; Mr. Elliot stepped away from the light.

  “My dear sir, did you hear something?” Penelope Clay’s musical voice carried clearly in the night air.

  A man answered. “Perchance we have surprised a cat, my dear.” It was Sir Walter. Mr. Elliot retreated into the shadows. He had no wish to converse with his fool of a cousin.

  Mrs. Clay gave her trilling laugh. “Of course, you are right, sir, as always. What a goose I am! And dear me, how tightly I am holding to your arm. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all, my dear Mrs. Clay, for this is not my satin coat. I shall protect you from the cat. Shall we continue with our little stroll?”

  William Elliot extinguished the cigar by grinding it under his heel. Here was the heart of the problem: Penelope Clay, Elizabeth’s companion—a lowborn solicitor’s daughter. His future as Sir William, master of the Kellynch estate, stood in peril because of this scheming woman! But if Mrs. Clay thought to entrap Sir Walter into marriage, she had another thing coming.

  So it must be Elizabeth after all. Mr. Elliot had courted Sir Walter’s eldest daughter when he first came to Bath, once he saw how it was with Mrs. Clay. Sir Walter was thrilled with the idea—and so were the gossips. But that was before Anne arrived in Bath, before he’d been fool enough to lose his heart. How he was to repair his suit with Elizabeth he did not know, for she now held him in contempt.

  At one time he’d thought her contempt amusing, but not anymore. Nevertheless, Elizabeth was desperate, a situation very much to his advantage. Mr. Elliot knew well the power of desperation—and the lure of rank and privilege. His late wife had been caught by the siren song of the promised title; Elizabeth would be no different. They would marry, Mrs. Clay would return to obscurity in Crewkherne, and he would await Sir Walter Elliot’s demise.

  The couple now stood near the lantern at the door, giving him a clear view of their silhouettes. And then, perhaps because of the stillness of the night air or the echo of the courtyard, Mr. Elliot heard Mrs. Clay give a delicious giggle. The gap of light between them closed.

  Was Sir Walter kissing her?

  William Elliot thought he had experienced every emotion possible this night, but he now discovered he was wrong. Nausea was added to the rest.

  Having completed their kiss, the pair went indoors while Mr. Elliot remained in the shadows. So this was the new game. She’d baited the matrimonial trap, and Sir Walter had fallen into it. And if she produced a male heir? He must get Penelope Clay away from Sir Walter—immediately!

  1 Distressing Developments

  Elizabeth Elliot bit her lip and looked away; it would never do to laugh! But when Mrs. Leighton reached for her teacup, the bare skin beneath her arm swung to and fro like a pendulum! Her gown was just as bad. Why, she looked like a walrus wrapped in muslin!

  “Have you no tea, Miss Elliot?” Mrs. Leighton signed for the footman to correct the oversight. However, nothing in her manner suggested an apology. Though she smiled, her eyes were hard and bright. She was, Elizabeth realized, more formidable than she appeared.

  “Do I have this right, Miss Elliot? Your father has left his estate in Somerset to reside among us? Exactly how long ago was that?”

  Elizabeth’s stomach tightened into a knot. Was she to be peppered with questions? “My father and I took up residence at the end of September, ma’am,” she said.

  “And has your father come to Bath for any particular reason?” There was significance in Mrs. Leighton’s tone.

  Elizabeth’s chin came up. Gossip was a favourite pastime in Bath. Was her own discomfort meant to provide the morning’s entertainment?

  The footman approached. With a fluid movement, Elizabeth took the cup and saucer. Not for nothing had she practiced this, hour after hour, all those years ago. The slightest rattle of china would betray nervousness, giving Mrs. Leighton an advantage. This was something Elizabeth refused to allow.

  “We came to Bath on account of my father’s health, ma’am,” she said. This was a safe, conventional answer. It was also distinctly untrue.

  “Father will never admit to such a thing, of course,” Elizabeth continued. “If you ask him, I daresay he will give a very different answer.” She accepted a serving of cake, mindful not to shift the position of the silver fork. “Men are very private about their health, are they not? But Father had the oddest symptoms.”

  “Symptoms?” someone said.

  What a very good idea! Old ladies loved hearing about symptoms. Since coming to Bath, Elizabeth had been in the company of enough of them to know! She gazed at Mrs. Leighton with what she hoped was a soulful
expression. “It was not a sickness we could name,” she said. “He had difficulty breathing. At times he was pale and weak. And his heart, Mrs. Leighton, his heart!” Elizabeth brought a hand to her breast. “I was so dreadfully frightened.”

  Mrs. Leighton’s brows lifted. “Dear me,” she said.

  Elizabeth bit back a smile. Truth to tell, her father’s frightening symptoms appeared only when he was forced to acknowledge the enormity of his debts! “But now that we are come to Bath,” she continued, “Father is very much better. So we shall not be returning to our estate in Somerset at all.” This was perfectly true. It would be here, in Bath, that Elizabeth would make something of her life. For too many years she’d lived buried in the country.

  Mrs. Leighton speared a morsel of cake; while she chewed no one said a word. Presently she said, with emphasis, “I did hear that your father has been in financial distress.”

  Elizabeth fought to keep her countenance. What nerve this woman had! And yet, she also knew there was no evading the enquiry. “My father has had some small degree of difficulty,” she admitted. “But then, who has not? These are uncertain times.”

  “Not for all of us, Miss Elliot,” said Mrs. Leighton.

  To buy time, Elizabeth took a sip of tea. The way to deal with gossip was to admit a small portion of the truth and disguise the rest. But this woman and her friends were connoisseurs of gossip; they would not be easily satisfied. Then it occurred to her that Anne had once answered a similar question quite gracefully and with that air of gentle humility that Anne was so good at wearing. Anne, with her piety and lessons of economy and thrift—was there ever a drearier sister? But perhaps Anne could be of use. Elizabeth settled her cup in its saucer. She would give Anne’s answer … with a few amendments of her own.

  “Does it not seem to you, ma’am,” she said, “that when it comes to financial matters, we women have the upper hand? Oh, the gentlemen are more knowledgeable, certainly, but it is we who are the better managers of money?”

  A pleasant clucking among the ladies told Elizabeth she had hit her mark. She folded her hands demurely, as she had seen Anne do, and launched into her version of Anne’s answer. “So it was with my mother and father. She was the practical one. When she died, he was lost!” Elizabeth looked at each woman’s face in turn. How fortunate that so many of them were widows! “Father,” she said, “has been so very lonely.”

  “Poor Sir Walter,” someone murmured.

  Elizabeth nearly laughed out loud. How fortunate that her father was so handsome! “I daresay,” she continued, “that each of you understands the depths of his despair better than I. As a result, some of his expenditures have not been very wise.”

  Elizabeth’s voice was unsteady now but not because of grief. She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “How true it is,” she said soulfully, “that the accumulation of worldly goods can never compensate for the loss of a beloved spouse!”

  The ladies gave a collective sigh.

  From beneath her lashes, Elizabeth stole another look at Mrs. Leighton. The woman’s expression had softened. “I did hear that Sir Walter has taken a tenant at your ancestral estate. I must own, I was surprised.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our tenant is a distinguished gentleman of the navy, a Rear-Admiral of the White. It pained my father greatly to leave Kellynch Hall but …”

  Elizabeth paused. She feared to say too much and yet, to have the rapt attention of these ladies, all so well placed in Bath society, was too delicious. “May I be honest with you, for I feel that I am among friends here?” Elizabeth’s voice took on a confiding tone. “It was my wish that we leave Kellynch Hall, not his. My father was only growing worse there, and I have always enjoyed Bath. My godmother, Lady Russell, spends the winters here; perhaps you are acquainted?”

  “Well!” she continued, “life in Bath agrees with us; Father has become so robust! I was soon convinced that if we were to let the estate to a tenant, he would reduce his debt more quickly. It seemed a sensible thing to do, since we are never to live there again.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward to deliver her final point. “But it is my hope,” she said, speaking clearly so that every one of the ladies could hear, “that perhaps here in Bath, at long last, Father will find the desire of his heart: a loving wife. And so, he will no longer be cast adrift, alone.”

  The sighs among the ladies were audible.

  “A wealthy wife, Miss Elliot?” asked Mrs. Leighton.

  “Well yes,” Elizabeth admitted, returning the smile. “That would be most convenient. But I would much prefer that he find a woman with something more. That is to say, an intelligent woman of proper connections, who has a loving heart and who knows how to care for him. That would be the very best.”

  This caused quite a flutter. “But of course,” said Mrs. Leighton. “My dear Miss Elliot, I believe your tea has grown cold. Allow Henry to refresh your cup.”

  Elizabeth kept her gaze lowered as she passed the cup; she dared not show her triumph, not yet. But she had done it. She had held her own against the very worst of the Bath gossips—and prevailed!

  No matter that she had told lies. The events were true, more or less; although, her father had never been ill, and in spite of the nasty things Anne said about Penelope Clay, not once had he expressed an iota of interest in taking another wife!

  She glanced at the drawing room door. If only he would return from wherever Mr. Leighton had taken him, she could make a graceful exit. And leave she must, for every moment she lingered invited fresh disaster! But the drawing room door remained closed and the women continued to talk.

  “‘Hail wedded love, mysterious Law …’” A slightly built lady in grey now spoke in quavering, reverent tones. Mrs. Morton, Elizabeth thought her name was. Apparently she was reciting some poetical text. Was this in reference to Sir Walter?

  “‘True source of human offspring, sole propriety in Paradise, of all things common else.’” Mrs. Morton ended with a sigh. “Milton.”

  Lady Jessup laid down her fork. “I don’t see that at all, Fanny,” she said. “If Sir Walter wishes to marry, well and good; but there will be no offspring, not at his age. Unless he is snared by that tart of a companion.” Lady Jessup looked pointedly to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth caught her breath. What was this? The ladies were looking at her expectantly. Did they expect her to say something about her father and Penelope Clay?

  Before she could answer, the drawing room door opened. All heads turned, but it was only James Rushworth. He stood there blinking, a flush mounting his doughy cheeks.

  “Hallo, Mrs. Leighton,” he said, making a difficult bow. He turned. “Mama, you told me three o’clock. And here I am, just as I promised, to see you home.”

  Mrs. Rushworth, who was as stout as her son, sighed heavily. “In a moment, dear,” she said. She turned to Mrs. Leighton. “Beryl, might James have a slice of your delicious cake?”

  At the word cake, Mr. Rushworth brightened.

  “But of course.” Mrs. Leighton gestured to the vacant seat beside Elizabeth. “Miss Elliot, I trust you are acquainted with Mr. Rushworth?”

  Mr. Rushworth’s head whipped round; his gasp was audible. “Miss Elliot!” he cried. With care, he lowered himself onto the sofa which creaked unappreciatively.

  A generous slice of cake was presented, and Mr. Rushworth fell to the business of eating, casting an occasional glance at Elizabeth. She paid no attention to this. For her, admiration from younger gentlemen was simply a matter of course.

  “Now, about Miss Anne Elliot,” said Lady Pembridge, leaning forward. “I simply must hear about this engagement. A patched-up affair, was it?”

  “A disappointment for the cousin, to be sure,” said someone else.

  The mention of Mr. Elliot nearly threw Elizabeth off her guard. At all costs she must turn the conversation! “Anne and Captain Wentworth were acquainted years ago,” she said. “So when they met again in Bath, why, it was like something out of a
fairy tale. My father calls it a touching romance.” Her own opinion of Captain Wentworth Elizabeth did not share.

  “Such a fine-looking man,” said Mrs. Leighton. “He has a definite air about him, yes.”

  Elizabeth became occupied with stirring her tea. Frederick Wentworth was opinionated, self-assured, and brash. He was utterly unworthy to become allied with the Elliot family, even if he was marrying only Anne.

  “A bosom friend of Admiral McGillvary’s, in fact,” said Lady Jessup. “He’s hosting a dinner for them. Sparing no expense, apparently.”

  Elizabeth nearly rolled her eyes. This dinner was nothing out of the ordinary. She’d never met the host, but it made no difference. He was probably a loud, common sort of man with the blustering manners of the lowborn. Her father’s tenant, Admiral Croft, was such a man. The guests would be naval officers and their wives—if such men had wives. Elizabeth was determined not to attend.

  Still, she knew her duty. “I trust my sister will be happy in the life she’s chosen,” she said. “However, in times such as these, I would be reluctant to marry a man of the navy.”

  “Hear, hear!” It was Mr. Rushworth who spoke. “Too many sailors in Bath nowadays,” he explained.

  The conversation veered to a more general topic; Elizabeth was left with Mr. Rushworth. She had no desire to converse with him, but politeness demanded it. “Have you lived long in Bath, Mr. Rushworth?” she asked.

  He swallowed and blotted his lips with the napkin. “Mama lives here,” he said. “After Maria and I were married, she—that is—” Mr. Rushworth’s cheeks flushed scarlet; he pinched his lips together. Eventually he was able to continue. “After my—marriage—Mama left Sotherton and removed to Bath. I am come for a visit.”

  Elizabeth had heard the gossip, of course. Mr. Rushworth’s beautiful young wife left him for another man not a year after the wedding; he was now near the end of a lengthy divorce. Such a thing was beyond Elizabeth’s comprehension. Mr. Rushworth might be a fool—he certainly looked like one—but he had inherited a large fortune and an extensive estate. Why would any woman abandon such a handsome independence?