Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

“The christening will be celebrated in Lyme, then—not at Kellynch, where Lady Elliot was buried?”

“Though I would prefer that my son be baptized in the same church as myself and generations of Elliots before him, my physician advises against risking his health by subjecting so small an infant to the ardors of travel. Alfred therefore will be christened in the parish of his birth. Do not fear, however, that this is an inferior alternative. The vicar assures me the rite will reflect all the ceremony due the heir of an ancient and dignified family. The church is named for an archangel, not some obscure saint nobody has ever heard of, and the baptistry dates to Norman times.”

Were it not for the Elliots’ attire, one would never know they were in mourning as they described plans for the event and boasted of names on the guest list. “Everybody of significance” in Lyme had been invited, as well as notable personages from Bath and London whose names and importance Elizabeth was apparently supposed to recognize but did not.

“Our cousins, Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Carteret, are traveling all the way from Bath,” Miss Elliot said.

Sir Walter’s chest puffed with pride. “Her ladyship has graciously consented to stand as godmother to Alfred.”

“Who is to be his godfather?” Elizabeth half expected to hear they had solicited the Prince Regent himself.

“Sir Basil Morley. Lady Russell, who is godmother to my daughters, will also stand for Alfred, so he shall have three titled godparents. I have also asked my daughter Anne and her husband, so Alfred will have five godparents in total—more than even the Prince Regent.”

Elizabeth silently congratulated Sir Walter on having managed to enter the prince’s name into the conversation after all.

The Sheet Anchor had two doors; one fronted the street, the other, the shore. As St. Clair exited through the street door, Darcy quit the tavern harborside, intending to circle round and note the direction in which St. Clair headed to his engagement. For a man at liberty until his next ship posting, the lieutenant certainly had a full schedule.

The door deposited Darcy very near the start of the Cobb. The tide was in, raising the water in the harbor several feet higher than when it was out, and liberating the fishing boats and other vessels that spent low tide grounded in their moorings. With those craft out to sea, the result was a relatively empty harbor that granted Darcy a clear view across to the far curve of the Cobb. He could see nearly the full length of the seawall, excepting the most extreme segment. That section remained obscured by the quay warehouses, beside which two gentlemen engaged in conversation and a few workers went about their business in comparative quiet.

It was not the men, however, who caught Darcy’s notice. It was a boy, a very young boy, who toddled along the rough stones of the lower seawall by himself, too close to the harbor’s edge for any witness’s comfort. A boy who, even from this distance, Darcy recognized.

Ben Harville.

The two-year-old was about halfway along the seawall. There was no one anywhere near him, no one paying heed to that side of the Cobb, no one to act on a shouted warning. Something in the harbor caught Ben’s interest, and he moved even closer to the water.

Darcy hurried toward the child, accelerating into a run. If his sudden sprint attracted the notice of anyone near the tavern entrance, he did not know, for his vision focused on the small figure he wished would retreat from the wall’s edge. Ben, however, leaned toward the water for a better view of whatever will-o’-the-wisp distracted him.

The sound of Darcy’s footfalls striking the hard pavement did command the attention of the gentlemen near the warehouses on the quay. One of them, identifying the danger and realizing Darcy’s purpose, himself broke into a run. From opposite ends of the Cobb they neared the toddler, their swift advances at last penetrating Ben’s awareness. The sudden sight of two men descending upon him startled the child. As the gap between them closed, the boy jerked involuntarily, upsetting his equilibrium.

Ben teetered over the water at an angle impossible for the child to correct on his own. Darcy reached for him, but his grasp was two strides shy. The other gentleman, however, was just close enough to extend his arm and push the boy toward Darcy, sacrificing his own balance—and tumbling into the water himself.

The resulting splash sprayed Darcy and Ben as Darcy scooped up the child. Ben’s rescuer quickly surfaced. Though the water would have been well over Ben’s head, the gentleman could stand.

“Is the boy all right?”

“Yes,” Darcy said. “Give me a moment to set him down safely, and I will help you out of the water.”

“No need.” The gentleman retrieved his floating hat, an act that put Darcy in mind of his own hat, which had flown from his head somewhere during his sprint. He would find it later. The stranger then began sloshing toward a set of stone steps that emerged from the water to the quay, doubtless employed more commonly at low tide to load and unload boats.

The splash had drawn the attention of several dockworkers who, seeing that nobody was injured, offered a few comments Darcy could not distinguish, and a few chortles he could, before they headed back to the duty of unloading cargo from a small cutter, the only ship presently anchored in the harbor. Meanwhile, the man to whom the wet gentleman had been speaking before the accident was making his way toward Darcy with as much haste as a person with a bad leg could manage. It was Captain Harville; distance had prevented Darcy from identifying him earlier.

Darcy carried Ben round the walkway and met Captain Harville near Granny’s Teeth, at the landing of the steps to which his companion was swimming. His face bore the expression Darcy expected his own would had he just witnessed a similar incident involving Lily-Anne.

“Mr. Darcy, how can I ever express my gratitude? I had no idea—Ben must have followed me out here when I left the house with Wentworth—” The bewildered child lunged toward his father’s arms. The captain took him from Darcy. “Ben, do you not know better?” Though his words expressed admonishment, they were gently delivered. He glanced back to Darcy. “I saw you running toward him but I—damn this leg! Damn the French, I should say, and their grapeshot. Were it not for you and Wentworth—”

“Think nothing of it,” Darcy assured him.

“I cannot help but think upon it, and offer you my thanks.”

The swimmer—Wentworth, he presumed—having reached the steps, Darcy extended his hand to help him up the slippery stones. Wentworth accepted, and soon stood dripping on the quay. Rivulets of water ran into his eyes from his hair, his soaked, tight-fitting coat looked a straitjacket, and he would be very fortunate if his boots were not ruined.

Darcy was a little embarrassed that he himself had emerged from the incident dry save for the effects of Wentworth’s splash. “If you must thank somebody,” he said to Captain Harville, “thank your friend. It is he who met with greater inconvenience.”

Wentworth laughed and pushed his hair back from his forehead. “This old sailor is quite used to getting wet, I assure you.” He now extended his hand to Darcy. “Captain Frederick Wentworth.”

Darcy would hardly describe Captain Wentworth as old. The man before him could not possess many more years than thirty, and, despite Sir Walter’s oration on the detrimental effects of life at sea, looked the model of health and vigor. Even dripping water from his coat sleeves, he bore himself with dignity Sir Walter could not touch. Darcy could easily imagine this man leading a full ship’s complement to victory.