Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

“Did you have a comfortable ride here?” Mrs. Wentworth asked Mrs. Smith.

“I did—quite smooth. Sometimes the chair men do not take as much care, and one gets jostled or slides forward going down the steep hills.”

“You have shown such steady improvement in the two months you have been with us in Lyme, that eventually I hope to see you walk anywhere you wish entirely under your own power, with no need of a chair to transport you.”

A smile spread across Mrs. Smith’s face. “I look forward to that day, as well.”

The receiving line once more drew Mrs. Wentworth’s attention. Alfred had recommenced crying, and though Mary appeared to have no patience for him, she rejected an apparent offer of assistance from Captain Wentworth. Mrs. Wentworth’s gaze shuttled between the baby and Mrs. Smith, and Elizabeth could read in her expression how divided was her sense of obligation. Even were Alfred in more sympathetic arms, Mrs. Wentworth nonetheless ought to return to her receiving line duties, and even were Mrs. Smith in perfect health, Anne’s already slighted friend ought not be abandoned.

“Mrs. Smith, would you care for some lemonade?” Elizabeth handed one glass to the widow and offered the other to Mrs. Wentworth.

“Oh,” Mrs. Smith said, “how very thoughtful! It is quite warm in here.”

Mrs. Wentworth looked at the glass as if she very much wanted to accept it, then glanced back at the receiving line. Alfred’s cries increased.

“Anne,” Mrs. Smith said, “if you need to return to your duties, I will be quite all right here.”

“Are you certain?”

“I have a comfortable chair and lemonade. Go attend your new godson.”

“She also has my company,” Elizabeth said. “I would enjoy the opportunity for us to become better acquainted.”

Elizabeth’s assurance decided Mrs. Wentworth. She returned to her place in the receiving line, where her sister Mary lost no time in delivering the fussing Alfred back to her. Captain Wentworth helped her adjust the child’s long christening robe, which had become twisted round his legs during the transfer. Before long, Mrs. Wentworth had soothed the baby back into silence.

Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Smith. “After we parted the other day, I realized that I might have seen you before—taking the air, as you said—on the Cobb.”

“It is one of my favorite spots,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Soon after arriving in Lyme, I expressed a desire to go out upon it—an idle desire, not one I imagined would be realized anytime soon. Due to my difficulties walking, I expected to enjoy the seawall for some while only as a sight from shore. Captain Wentworth, however, immediately ordered a chair to take me out on the lower wall. Once there, he borrowed a barrel from one of the quay warehouses so that I could leave the confining cabinet of the chair and sit in the open air. I cannot tell you how invigorating it was to feel the sea breeze upon me—it blows onshore, of course, but not like it does on the Cobb. When he saw the pleasure that first outing occasioned, and the strength it restored to my spirits, he engaged the chair to collect me daily, and secured the harbormaster’s permission for a bench to be left along the wall for me and Nurse Rooke to sit upon.”

“Indeed, then, I believe it was you I saw seated on the bench last week, the morning of the storm that caused the ship explosion.”

“What a dreadful morning that was, for so many people! The ship and its crew lost, not to mention poor Mrs. Clay’s accident.”

Elizabeth was pleased that Mrs. Smith had introduced the very subject she most wanted to discuss. “Did you witness her fall?” Perhaps the widow would be able to put her doubts to rest—or provide information to confirm them.

“We did not stay as long as usual that day,” Mrs. Smith replied. “We left when the atmosphere turned unpleasant. I understand from Anne, however, that you and your husband are the couple who found Mrs. Clay. You poor dear—what a start that must have given you, seeing her lying on the pavement like that! Did you witness her fall?”

“No, we came upon her afterward. We did not even know who she was until Mr. Elliot identified her later.”

“Ah, yes—Mr. Elliot.” Mrs. Smith cast a disdainful gaze across the room, to where Mr. Elliot engaged in conversation with Lieutenant St. Clair. “I should be amazed that he has the effrontery to show himself here today, having carried on such a public affair with Mrs. Clay. But I have known him so long that his behavior has lost the power to astonish me. So did hers.”

“You knew them both?” Although Elizabeth was disappointed by Mrs. Smith’s lack of information about the accident itself, the mention of Mr. Elliot gave Elizabeth hope that the widow might prove a source of intelligence after all.

“These twelve years. Mr. Elliot was a particular friend of my husband when we married, and he introduced us to Mr. and Mrs. Clay. When Mr. Elliot wed not long after, we three couples became intimate companions, as comfortable in each other’s houses as our own. Together we enjoyed all London had to offer the young, carefree, and affluent.” She sighed. “I have been none of those things since becoming widowed, and as a result have had little recent intercourse with Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” Elizabeth said. “It must have been painful to lose such close friends due to circumstances you could not control.”

“In ways you cannot guess. It is in fact Mr. Elliot who is responsible for a great many of my present difficulties. When my husband died, his affairs were out of order—a terribly complex business, property in the West Indies enmeshed in legal tangles—and Mr. Elliot, his designated executor, would not trouble himself to straighten out the matter. Fortunately, Captain Wentworth is now acting on my behalf. He has only just initiated his enquiries, but I trust that in time he will resolve everything. He is a veritable knight gallant.”

“How long ago did you lose your husband?”

“It is approaching three years. I have a miniature of him in this locket—would you like to see it?”

Elizabeth indulged her. Mr. Smith had been a pleasant-looking man, with a kind face, though his hair was rather red for Elizabeth’s taste. “He was very handsome.”

“His Jamaican plantation proved the death of him—he traveled there on business that he thought best handled in person, and returned so ill and weak that he died within a se’nnight of coming home. It is a source of deep regret to me that his last months were spent in the company of his erstwhile friend Mr. Elliot, and not the wife who doted on him till the end.”

“Your husband traveled to the West Indies?” Elizabeth repeated. “And Mr. Elliot accompanied him?” Elizabeth would not allow herself to become too hopeful about what she was hearing. Smith was a common name—as common as they came. Surely it was mere coincidence that this woman’s late husband shared that name with the plantation owner who had been a passenger on one of the merchant ships under escort by the Magna Carta.

The plantation owner who had been traveling with a future baronet.

She now wished she had not sent Darcy off, so that he could hear this intelligence himself. She looked for him in the room, and saw that the receiving line had finally dispersed. He was now in conversation with Captain Wentworth, while Mrs. Wentworth, Alfred still in arms, was headed back toward Elizabeth and Mrs. Smith. Apparently, neither Sir Walter nor any of the other dignitaries had demonstrated any interest in relieving Anne Wentworth of her tiny charge.

Sir Walter, in fact, along with Miss Elliot, was presently engaged in conversation with Georgiana and the Ashfords. Elizabeth could not imagine what had drawn such an unlikely party together, until she observed that Miss Elliot paid particular notice to Sir Laurence, attending the baronet’s discourse with keen interest, and smiling more than Elizabeth had witnessed in all the time spent in Miss Elliot’s company heretofore.