Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

The toddler erupted in tears.

Darcy picked up the child, who burrowed his sniffling nose into Darcy’s shoulder. Between the rain and the toddler, his new serge coat would never recover.

Thankfully, their father soon appeared. Captain Harville stood a few inches taller than Darcy, with dark hair and a face weathered by the sea. Despite his rough features, he had a kind face and genial manner. He walked with a slow limp.

The boys greeted their father with the exciting news that they once more had a lady with a head injury receiving treatment in their home. When they paused for breath, Darcy introduced himself. Captain Harville listened soberly as Darcy summarized Mrs. Clay’s accident on the Cobb, how he and Elizabeth had come to bring her to Harville’s cottage, and what he knew of Mrs. Clay’s present condition. He omitted the questionable nature of the woman’s connexion to Mr. Elliot.

“Mrs. Clay could ask for no better care than what she is receiving from Mrs. Harville and Mr. Sawyer,” the captain said.

A tiny cry from the next room announced that Mrs. Clay’s travail had ended. Darcy was heartened by the sound; the infant had survived its mother’s fall and its own birth. Captain Harville grinned. “What did I tell you? All is well.”

Several minutes later, Elizabeth emerged from the bedroom. Darcy expected her countenance to reflect relief and cheer, but her face was drawn, her manner grave. Her gaze swept the room—not a lengthy process in the confined space. Her resulting frown indicated she had not found what she sought. She crossed to Darcy, acknowledged Captain Harville, and enquired after Mr. Elliot.

“He is gone back to his lodgings and will return later,” Darcy said. “He did, however, leave his direction. Does Mrs. Clay ask for him?”

Elizabeth shook her head. In the bedroom, the newborn renewed its cry. The sound seemed to settle on Elizabeth’s shoulders like a heavy weight.

“Mrs. Clay is dead.”

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.”