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

  After ten minutes of laboured conversation, however, Elizabeth had a fair idea. When her father came into the room, she rose immediately.

  Mr. Rushworth also got to his feet, though not very gracefully. Elizabeth could not help but notice the cascade of cake crumbs … and his crestfallen expression.

  ~ ~ ~

  Her father remarked on this as soon as they were out of the salon.

  “Father, really,” she said. “Where do you get these ideas?”

  “Ah, but young Rushworth was the picture of disappointment. You have quite broken the lad’s heart.”

  “I expect he simply wanted a second piece of cake.”

  There was a tall looking glass in the entrance hall; Sir Walter caught sight of his reflection. He turned this way and that. “I do not know,” he said. “This waistcoat—”

  “It looks very well, Father.”

  “But the colour! Puce is all the crack, and yet—” He frowned. “I daresay it is a bit too bright for early spring. But the pattern of this neckcloth is very nice. And Roberts achieved a tolerable arrangement for my hair. He had a new man in to cut it yesterday. I feared the worst.”

  At last Sir Walter took his hat from the Leighton’s butler and settled it tenderly on his head. When he was convinced all was in order, he offered his arm to Elizabeth. Together they went out the main door and descended the wide steps to the street.

  “A pity about young Rushworth’s figure,” said Sir Walter, “for the Rushworth name and fortune make him acceptable anywhere.”

  “Not to mention his soon-to-be granted divorce,” said Elizabeth. “Really, Father. He is hardly fit to be a suitor, even if he were the proper age!” To change the subject she said, “Did you examine Mr. Leighton’s gun collection?”

  “I was shown something better: his collection of Chinese antiquities. Quite an assortment of baubles, if one goes in for such things. Mr. Leighton is, apparently, an enthusiast.” Sir Walter glanced at the fog-shrouded sky. “We should present the Leightons with an invitation to our card party.”

  “I suppose,” said Elizabeth. The card party had been his idea. Although the guest list was hers to assemble, he could never resist making suggestions.

  “Sir Henry Farley would be another excellent addition,” he said, “but I daresay you have already thought of that.”

  Elizabeth had indeed thought of that, and had discarded his name from the list. Unfortunately, a man of Sir Henry’s consequence could not be ignored, especially since she and her father had ambitions to get on in Bath. Elderly, urbane gentlemen were known to be outrageous flirts. His sallies and winks, though uncomfortable, probably meant nothing.

  “We should send an invitation to our cousin as well.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Do you mean Lady Dalrymple?”

  “No, no. Mr. Elliot is the man I mean.”

  Elizabeth compressed her lips. If she never saw William Elliot again it would be too soon! Why must her father always bring him up? “We’ve seen nothing of Mr. Elliot since Anne’s engagement was announced. I daresay he has left Bath for good.”

  Sir Walter sighed. “More’s the pity. To see you and William Elliot wed and settled at Kellynch Hall was the dearest wish of my heart.”

  “I thank you, sir, for the reminder!”

  “Why, I meant no offence. When Mr. Elliot met you for the first time, he was smitten. Definitely smitten.”

  “That,” said Elizabeth, “is ancient history.”

  “Is it?” Sir Walter applied himself to thinking. “Let me see. You were introduced after your mother passed on; you were just sixteen, were you not?” He counted on gloved fingers. “Why,” he said slowly, “that must mean …” He slewed round, his eyes wide. “My dear,” he cried, “are you now thirty?”

  With difficulty, Elizabeth found her voice. “Not until June!”

  “Saints preserve us,” he said at last. Elizabeth trod beside him, the chill air pinching at her face.

  “Where, oh where has the time gone?” he said.

  “Where indeed?” echoed Elizabeth. At last they turned the corner onto Camden Place. The columned façade that was Camden Crescent appeared through the mist. Sir Walter halted. “The hand of fate is cruel,” he said. “Kellynch Hall is nobler than the sum of all of these. Yet it is let to strangers while we, the rightful inhabitants, must live in a corner.”

  What new mood was this? Was he sorry to be in Bath?

  “It’s quite an elegant corner, if a corner it is,” Elizabeth said bracingly. “Kellynch Hall is the ideal gentlemen’s residence, of course, but you must admit, it is rather remote. And so cold during winter! Do you recall how the dining room chimney smokes? The Crofts pay handsomely to live there. I wish them joy of it!”

  Sir Walter looked pained, but he said nothing.

  Their butler had the door open immediately. Sir Walter waited while Wilson removed his coat; Elizabeth seized the opening to change the subject. “Father,” she said, “are we engaged Thursday evening? I would very much like to attend the assembly.”

  “The assembly in the upper rooms? Certainly not. We have better things to do with our time.”

  Elizabeth gave her cloak and hat to Wilson and ascended the stairs, followed by Sir Walter. The foot-boy opened the drawing room door, and they went in. “I would like to attend just the same,” said Elizabeth. “What can be your objection? Everyone attends the assembly, even Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, upon occasion.”

  “That is exactly my objection,” said Sir Walter. “Everyone attends.” He wrinkled his nose. “Tradesmen, Elizabeth. Solicitors and military men. I prefer small, select gatherings. We do not attend a public ball.”

  “But—” Elizabeth hesitated. If she handled this poorly he would become even more stubborn. “My new ball gown,” she said, allowing disappointment to creep into her voice. “I long to wear it with the diamonds, as I had it made especially to–”

  Sir Walter lifted a hand. “No, no,” he said. “Impossible. The diamonds have gone to the jeweler’s for cleaning. And speaking of jewellery …” He held out his hand. “Come,” he prompted.

  “Now?” Elizabeth dropped her gloves onto the table, and worked at the clasp of her necklace. Lately, he insisted on locking up the jewels the instant she arrived home. “Are you having every piece cleaned, then?” she asked, passing the ruby pendant with its chain. “What is left for me to wear to the concert?”

  “What is left? A fine way to speak to your father!”

  With effort Elizabeth kept her temper in check. “I need to know what you have sent for cleaning and what you have not. The rubies are here, but what of the others?”

  Sir Walter’s cheeks flushed. “You may wear the emerald set,” he said, “but not the rubies. And not for the assembly. We do not attend the assembly.”

  “But Miss Carteret—”

  “The Honourable Miss Carteret is a sensible young woman who will do as her mother bids,” said Sir Walter. “Lady Dalrymple has as much aversion to public spectacles as I.”

  Elizabeth almost laughed. Of all of his stories, this surely was the worst! “Lady Dalrymple enjoys her position in Bath, Father,” she said, “and she takes every opportunity of making a display of herself!” As do you, she added silently.

  “But not at a public assembly.”

  “I know assemblies are crowded with inferior persons, and I am quite aware that the atmosphere in the ballroom is wretchedly stifling! I wish to practice my dance steps.”

  “Then hire a dancing master!”

  “But why should I when you subscribe to the assembly?”

  “I subscribe to show my public spirit, Elizabeth.”

  Wilson came into the drawing room, forcing Elizabeth to bite back her reply. “A person by the name of Cripplegate is in the book room, sir,” said Wilson. “He claims to have an appointment.”

  Sir Walter gave a start. “Already?” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Fifteen minutes early, imagine that.” He put the jewel
lery pieces on the table and examined them. “Bracelet,” he murmured, “two earrings, pendant. But how is this? Where is the ring?” He turned to Elizabeth. “A valuable piece, missing! How many times must I tell you that Bath servants are not to be trusted?”

  Elizabeth twisted the ring from her finger. “Here it is,” she said. “What is the point in having jewels if we must always be locking them up?”

  “My dear girl,” said Sir Walter, “one can never be too careful.” He collected the jewellery and went out. Elizabeth flung over to the window. As usual, her father thought only of himself.

  ~ ~ ~

  Penelope Clay, who had not been invited to Mrs. Leighton’s, spent her morning in the back sitting room. As soon as she heard voices, she made her way to the drawing room, bringing with her an enormous bouquet of roses. She could scarcely conceal her triumph; what would the fine Elizabeth say to this? She paused outside the door; the voices within were sharp. Penelope withdrew a pace. Her father had called the Elliot’s move to Bath a retrenchment, but Penelope was not taken in. As always, her father must be cautious. Sir Walter and his daughters lived in a style far above anyone else she knew. No doubt Elizabeth had overspent her allowance again.

  Sir Walter left the drawing room and, without noticing her, descended to his book room. Penelope watched him go and then slipped inside. Of course, Elizabeth noticed the flowers. She smiled broadly and held out her hands—did she think they had come for her? How delightful to be able to set her straight!

  “A gentleman has sent these, Miss Elliot,” said Penelope. “To me.”

  Elizabeth’s brows went up. “Indeed? Is there a card?”

  “Not a card, but a letter. It is unsigned.”

  Penelope felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “These are hothouse roses, are they not?” she said.

  “They are. So you have an admirer. And what does he say to you?” Elizabeth held out her hand.

  Penelope knew it was useless to object. Slowly she drew the folded paper from the bosom of her gown. Elizabeth unfolded the sheet and read:

  My dear Penelope,

  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

  Thou art more lovely and more temperate …

  “That is a very generous sentiment,” said Elizabeth. “How kind to apply it to you. I wonder who sent it.”

  The note was from Sir Walter, Penelope just knew it. Still, she wished to be certain. “Miss Elliot, I hesitate to ask, but your acquaintance in Bath is now so extensive. Do you recognize the handwriting? It looks familiar, somehow.”

  Elizabeth gave the page a quick glance. “No, I have never seen it before. Do you know, I am rather hungry. I couldn’t eat a thing at Mrs. Leighton’s. Ring for Wilson, won’t you?”

  Penelope did as she was bid, smiling as always. Miss Elliot never allowed her to forget that she was only a paid companion. But, the note and the flowers were from Sir Walter all the same. The fine Miss Elliot would sing a different tune when she became mistress of the house!

  Sometime later, Sir Walter came in. Immediately, he noticed the flowers. Penelope lowered her head, wishing she did not blush so hotly.

  “Elizabeth?” said Sir Walter. “What is this? A gift from young Rushworth already?”

  “The flowers are Penelope’s, Father. A gentleman sent them.”

  “For Mrs. Clay? Why would a gentleman send flowers to Mrs. Clay?”

  “Why, because he thinks she is lovely, Father! What other reason is there?”

  Sir Walter puffed out his cheeks. “I don’t see what one has to do with the other.” He found the tray with the post and began sorting through the letters.

  “We think she has a secret admirer. How amusing it will be to guess his identity!”

  Sir Walter looked up. “It’s no one we know, surely. He must be someone she’s met in a shop or on the street.”

  Penelope’s heart was hammering. How clever Sir Walter was! How well he disguised his intentions!

  Sir Walter held up a square white envelope. “This looks promising!” he said, smiling. He broke the seal, pulled out the card, squinted at it—and felt for a chair. When at last he spoke, Sir Walter’s voice was reverent. “My word! Chalfort House.”

  Elizabeth put aside her cup and saucer. “Father?”

  “It seems,” said Sir Walter, “that we have been invited to a house party at Chalfort House, Lord and Lady Claverling’s estate in Richmond.” He studied the card more closely. “Gracious, but we’ve not much time to prepare. We have the shiftless mail service to thank for that!”

  Elizabeth and Penelope crowded around his chair. “My new clothes …” said Elizabeth, and she gave her father a nudge. “And all you could do was to complain about the expense. Now what do you say?”

  “I have never been to Richmond,” offered Penelope. “Shall I like it, sir?”

  Sir Walter’s smile fell a little. “I believe everyone likes Richmond.” He passed the invitation to Elizabeth. “Do you know, perhaps this would be a good time for you to visit your family in Crewkherne, Mrs. Clay.”

  “Visit Crewkherne?” she faltered. “Oh sir, do you think so?”

  “Surely you miss seeing your children, Penelope,” said Elizabeth. “After your holiday, you must return so that we may enjoy the remainder of the season together.”

  Penelope spoke slowly. “Oh. Yes. That would be very well, I suppose.”

  “You must write to your father straightway,” said Sir Walter. “We shall leave for Richmond at the end of the week. You must do the same.”

  Penelope did not trust herself to speak. If Sir Walter had sent the flowers, why was he now sending her away? He and Elizabeth resumed discussing the party heartlessly, with no regard for her feelings. Indeed, to them she had ceased to exist! She excused herself and fled to her bedchamber.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Oh dear,” said Elizabeth, as the door closed behind Penelope. “That was rather awkward.”

  “But what was I to do? Mrs. Clay’s name was not on the invitation! Even Anne was not invited.” Sir Walter took another look at the card. “‘Sir Walter Elliot and Miss Elliot,’ it says. Of course, this must refer to you, for by Saturday next there will be no other Miss Elliot.”

  “Father!”

  “Why my dear, there is no need to take that tone! So long as you marry, all will be well. Even if you are at your last prayers, this invitation is clearly the hand of Providence! Which reminds me …” He brought out a velvet-covered box. “Here is the emerald set, nicely cleaned.” He passed it to Elizabeth. “Open it. I want to see what you think.”

  Elizabeth did so. There was nothing remarkable about the emeralds. She removed the pendant with its chain, as she lacked a necklace. “Do you see how the stone sparkles?” said Sir Walter. “Mr. Cripplegate is a genius; a master craftsman.”

  Elizabeth returned the box. “Perhaps you’d prefer to keep the others until I dress for the concert?” She could not resist adding, “Since the Bath servants are such thieves?”

  “I no longer have any worries on that score.” Sir Walter pocketed the box. “And now, I have a bit of business which needs my attention.”

  “Business?” said Elizabeth. “You?” Her father never conducted business on his own!

  Sir Walter waved aside her questions and went out, humming a snatch of a tune. Elizabeth sank onto the sofa, the emerald pendant in hand. What luck that the emeralds had been cleaned; she would certainly wear them at Chalfort House. Idly she studied the stone, watching the light play across its surface. Her father was right, it sparkled beautifully.

  Too beautifully, in fact.

  Elizabeth sat up. Something about the stone was different, but what?

  Dissatisfied, she went to the window for a better look. Large emeralds like this one should display an inner light of vivid green. Emeralds were never transparent; there were inclusions called jardin. Today, however, the stone was a darker green, rather like an apothecary bottle. The jardin were nowhere to be seen.

  Elizabet
h went immediately to the landing. “Wilson!” she called.

  The butler came to the base of the stairs. “Yes, miss?”

  “Has my—” Speaking was difficult; she began again. “Has my father left the house?”

  “He has, miss. Shall I send the boy after him?”

  “No. Thank you, Wilson.” Elizabeth returned to the drawing room, biting her lips. There was a mistake, she was sure of it. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her. And yet, how could that be? She hunted in the drawer of the escritoire. Her father had a pair of spectacles; where did he keep them?

  The book room. He used them in the book room, not here in the drawing room where he would be seen. Elizabeth glanced at the clock. If she worked quickly there would be time.

  ~ ~ ~

  Penelope did not see the letter at first, for as soon as she entered her bedchamber, she flung herself headlong on the bed. It waited on her dressing table, well-sealed, with her name clearly written. The message was short and to the point:

  My Dear P,

  I know you are engaged to attend the concert tonight. Stay behind. Join me for dinner instead. I’ll have my carriage waiting near the corner at nine.

  W.E.

  Penelope studied the signature. W.E. must refer to William Elliot, but how could that be? She’d heard he’d left Bath days ago. And how had this come? Had he bribed the maid to deliver it? Penelope read the words again. Wasn’t he the most presuming man! He did not ask her leave; he simply ordered her to dinner. She folded the paper in half. Just because she was in Elizabeth’s employ did not mean she was at William Elliot’s beck and call!

  There was only one thing to be done with this note—burn it. Or else tear it to shreds. Both would be delightful! But then she thought of something. Out came the secret admirer’s note. What was this? The handwriting matched exactly. And here was something more—Mr. Elliot had written not on plain paper, as before, but on stationery bearing the Elliot crest. Penelope bit a fingernail, thinking. Sir Walter had not sent the flowers, Mr. Elliot had. Mr. Elliot, Sir Walter’s heir.