Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

Aha.

She recognized what Miss Elliot was about, but could do nothing for Georgiana at the moment. She needed to give Mrs. Smith her full concentration.

“Yes, my husband and Mr. Elliot traveled to Jamaica together,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Mr. Smith was not in heart or mind a man of business, and lived too long under the notion that money came as easily as it was spent. Though he never said as much to me, I suspect the financial difficulties that now sequester the plantation had already begun, and Mr. Elliot accompanied him as an advisor. Mr. Elliot studied law at Oxford, and my husband was often guided by him—to our misfortune, as Mr. Elliot encouraged us to live as extravagantly as he. Mr. Clay, too, followed Mr. Elliot’s lead. I believe he possessed even less business acumen than my husband did.”

“Is the West Indian property a sugar plantation?”

“It is, indeed, and it produces the finest sugar you can imagine. Oh, how spoiled I was! We had a French pastry cook who made the most exquisite cakes and confections—our dinner parties were worth attending for the dessert alone. Now I consider it a luxury to have sugar in my tea.”

Elizabeth gave up trying to subdue her excitement. She instead gave it full rein. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s diary had said that Captain Tourner had frequently entertained three gentlemen passengers from the Montego. “Did Mr. Clay, by chance, also accompany your husband to Jamaica?”

“No—he had no reason to go, and every reason to stay. Someone needed to keep an eye on his wife.” Mrs. Smith cast a glance at Mrs. Wentworth, who was almost upon them, and lowered her voice. “Perhaps it is in poor taste to speak ill of the dead so soon after they have departed this world, but Mrs. Clay was not a faithful spouse. The only thing modest about her life was the size of Mr. Clay’s fortune, which she considered too small. She coveted finer things, and solicited the attention of men who would give them to her. She had a particular fondness for naval officers flush with newly won prize money. They would spend it on her, then sail off to their next port, leaving her to enjoy their gifts with no obligation or troublesome entanglements.”

“Poor Mr. Clay,” Elizabeth said. “Did he know?”

“You have a kind heart, Mrs. Darcy. Do not, however, waste too much of your pity on Mr. Clay. He himself died in flagrante delicto. And not with his wife—with Mr. Elliot’s.”

Darcy had not been long in conversation with Captain Wentworth when Mr. Elliot interrupted them.

“Mr. Darcy—a word, if you will?”

“Certainly.” Darcy’s conversations and conjectures with Elizabeth regarding Mrs. Clay had left him wanting to speak with Mr. Elliot again, and he was glad for the opportunity to do so at the other gentleman’s initiative.

“Shall I withdraw?” Wentworth asked.

“No, my good captain,” Mr. Elliot said. “Do stay. I am merely wondering how little Master Elliot gets on, and you might be as well able as Mr. Darcy to satisfy my curiosity.”

Probably better, if either Darcy or Captain Wentworth were inclined to divulge any information about the infant to Mr. Elliot—which Darcy was not. Nor was Wentworth, judging from the coolness that overtook his demeanor at Elliot’s address.

“He appears to thrive.” Darcy offered nothing more.

“I am glad to hear it. I have been concerned for his welfare—poor, motherless child—and Sir Walter has not been forthcoming in response to my notes of enquiry. I was relieved to receive an invitation to this celebration, where I could observe him directly.”

“Does your concern derive from a particular cause?” Captain Wentworth asked.

“Not beyond Sir Walter’s general state of affairs, with which I am sure you are well acquainted, now that you have joined the family.”

Captain Wentworth did not respond, only regarded Mr. Elliot with an expression that Darcy imagined could wordlessly bring an entire ship’s crew into line.

Mr. Elliot, however, proceeded undaunted. “I am afraid Sir Walter’s heir will inherit nothing but a title, as the present baronet has spent the estate nearly into bankruptcy. That Kellynch Hall is being leased out while Sir Walter retrenches in Bath is an embarrassment to the Elliot name, even if his tenant does happen to be Admiral Croft. At one time I had hoped to exert the influence of a son-in-law to bring what remained of his fortune under better regulation and preserve something of it for future generations, but now that you have taken on that role—not to mention that of godfather to the heir—I wish you luck. You will need it.”

“How very magnanimous of you. Perhaps now that Sir Walter’s fortune no longer need absorb your attention, you could turn it toward Mrs. Smith’s.” He gestured in the widow’s direction.

“Is that she?” Mr. Elliot peered toward the corner for a long minute, studying the woman in tête-à-tête with Elizabeth. “I must say, she has not aged well. She appears much older than thirty—in fact, she hardly looks herself.”

“Is that she ?” Captain Wentworth repeated incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me that in three years, you have not once called upon her in person to discuss her husband’s estate?”

“I see no purpose in such a discussion.”

“Fortunately for her, she now has a friend who does,” Wentworth said, “and since you have not been forthcoming in response to my notes of enquiry regarding Mr. Smith’s West Indian property, I have dispatched letters to both London and Spanish Town. Your cooperation, however, could save us all considerable time and trouble, and expedite the settlement of his estate—a matter too long unresolved. That poor good lady—”

“That ‘good lady’ is a harpy who cannot accept the fact that her husband mismanaged their affairs,” he said sharply. “She must blame someone, and so she blames me. I was Smith’s friend, not his solicitor nor his steward. I offered him counsel when he asked for it, but he was a grown man responsible for his own choices. He spent beyond their income and jeopardized his estate as a result—a sad truth, but London’s clubs are filled with gentlemen who have done so. Your wife has certainly borne witness to the tragedy of a prosperous estate gradually squandered to ruin.”

“I take this to mean that I should not expect any information from you regarding the present legal status of the property?”

“There is nothing to be said about it. There is nothing to be done about it—by me, by you, by anybody. If you truly wish to act as a friend to Mrs. Smith, leave the matter rest. Your time and effort are better spent encouraging her to look ahead, not back, and in devising some other provision for her maintenance rather than allowing her to continue to pin her hopes on recovering foreign income that will never materialize.”

“Thank you for your counsel, Mr. Elliot.” Despite the closeness of the room, the air immediately surrounding Captain Wentworth held a chill. “Depend upon it, I shall act in Mrs. Smith’s best interest.”

Distress shadowed Georgiana’s face as she and the Ashfords talked with Sir Walter and Miss Elliot.

Rather, Sir Walter and his daughter talked, commandeering the conversation away from Georgiana and directing it almost exclusively toward Sir Laurence. Miss Ashford was granted the indulgence of an occasional interjection.

“… three godparents of name—the same number as the Prince Regent—and five in all,” Sir Walter said.

The older baronet’s painfully evident attempt to impress received polite acknowledgment from the bemused Sir Laurence. “Doubtless, Alfred will benefit from such ample sponsorship.”