Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

Mrs. Wentworth sat down on the sofa beside Mrs. Smith. The widow temporarily ceased her knitting and leaned toward Anne to stroke one of Alfred’s palms. The baby grasped her finger in his tiny fist.

“He likes you,” Anne told her friend.

Mrs. Smith smiled. “The feeling is mutual.”

Mrs. Wentworth offered to let Elizabeth hold Alfred, a suggestion that Elizabeth was happy to accept. “Unless Mrs. Smith would like to hold him first?”

“Not yet,” Mrs. Smith said. “I do not want to risk these rheumatic hands dropping him.”

From the deftness with which the widow employed her needles, Elizabeth doubted this fear was valid. Her hands seemed as dexterous as Elizabeth’s own—and far more skilled at knitting. But Mrs. Smith resumed her work, leaving Elizabeth to indulge in the pleasure of holding a newborn. As she received the tiny boy in her arms, she wondered anew how anyone might wish harm on such a defenseless creature. “Mrs. Smith, you said earlier that Alfred is still in Mr. Elliot’s thoughts, and that the gentleman has a propensity for scheming … indeed, you have painted such a black picture of his character, that I am unsettled by it. You do not believe Mr. Elliot would go so far as to harm Alfred, do you?”

The needles stopped. “I believe him capable of anything.”

Mrs. Wentworth looked warily from Elizabeth to Mrs. Smith.

“I have been relating some of Mr. Elliot’s history to Mrs. Darcy—a few of the particulars regarding his connexion to Mrs. Clay,” Mrs. Smith explained. “There is bound to be gossip. As the person who discovered her, Mrs. Darcy should know the truth.”

“It is not a truth flattering to either Mrs. Clay or Mr. Elliot,” Mrs. Wentworth said.

“No, it is not,” Elizabeth admitted, “and I hope you will not resent my coming into knowledge of it. I am not interested in scandal, but in Alfred’s welfare, as I have been since discovering Mrs. Clay on the Cobb.”

She stroked the baby’s cheek, then handed him back to Mrs. Wentworth, who seemed anxious to have him returned to her now that the conversation had taken a darker turn. “When heard in context with details of Mrs. Clay’s death,” Elizabeth continued, “Mrs. Smith’s information supports misgivings I had already held regarding the accident. In fact, I believe it is possible that her fall was not an accident at all.”

Mrs. Smith gasped. Mrs. Wentworth instinctively drew Alfred closer to her.

“Good heavens!” Anne said. “You do not think Mrs. Clay was pushed?”

“I have no real proof—only my own instincts and a few utterances made by Mrs. Clay before she died.” Plus Bald Betsy’s flight across the room at Mangled Maggie’s hands, which Elizabeth decided not to mention. She was afraid her suggestion sounded preposterous enough. “But Miss Darcy saw Mr. Elliot on the Cobb that morning, not long before the accident, and for a man in no hurry to marry Mrs. Clay before her death, he moved swiftly in his attempt to obtain custody of Alfred afterward. After all that I have learned about him, I cannot help but speculate about his sudden interest in the child after the accident, and whether that interest took a more malicious form before it.”

Mrs. Smith, whose gentle features generally bore either a smile or the appearance of being close to breaking into one, now regarded Elizabeth with the most grave expression Elizabeth had yet seen on her. “I would not be at all surprised to learn that Mr. Elliot tried to harm Alfred before he was born. Nor that he still harbors designs on Sir Walter’s title.”

Mrs. Wentworth looked a little pale. “These are very serious suspicions.”

“I do not voice them lightly,” Elizabeth said. “Nor do I mean to alarm you. I only wish to share my concerns with you and Captain Wentworth, Alfred’s guardians, and leave you to make your own determination about whether additional vigilance regarding Mr. Elliot is warranted. You, after all, know the gentleman far better than I. Indeed, I hope my conjecture turns out to be entirely groundless.”

A verdict having been rendered on the monumental issue of how best to steady a wobbly chair, and the offending object having been removed for repair to another part of the house, Captain Wentworth turned, with some hesitancy, to Darcy.

“I suppose we ought to return to the sitting room.”

Darcy sincerely hoped the ladies’ conversation had not progressed to Alfred’s digestive functions. “I suppose we should.”

Neither man made the slightest motion toward the door.

“Perhaps after a glass of wine?”

“That is an excellent suggestion.”

Captain Wentworth went to a side table upon which rested a decanter. Above it hung a print of the Victory leading the British fleet at Trafalgar, its sails full and its course unwavering. On another wall hung two paintings of individual ships—a sleek frigate and an older sloop. Maps and nautical instruments also adorned the walls and shelves. Darcy recognized some items, such as a compass, but could not begin to guess the purpose of others. The entire chamber, with its oak paneling and solid furniture, created the impression of a captain’s cabin. Even the windows offered a view of the sea, and Darcy wondered whether Wentworth had chosen this room as his study for that reason.

“Do you miss the sea?” Darcy asked.

“I do.” Wentworth removed the stopper from the decanter. “However,” he said, with a grin, “I have found marriage a highly agreeable alternative to living on a warship full of men. And should I become too sentimental about nautical life, Alfred now wakes me during the night as regularly as a ship’s bell. Perhaps I should assign him the middle watch, so he can earn his keep.”

Darcy recalled how disruptive—though joyful—Lily-Anne’s arrival had been in their own household, despite their having had, like the Wentworths, the assistance of nurses, and despite, unlike the Wentworths, their having had months in which to prepare for their new condition as parents. “Alfred joined your household rather suddenly.”

The wine poured, Captain Wentworth replaced the decanter and picked up the two glasses. “Indeed, I thought Mrs. Wentworth and I would enjoy a little more time to ourselves before having a child to care for. I do not, however, regret our decision to take him.” He glanced at the print of Admiral Nelson’s flagship before turning and handing one of the glasses to Darcy. “‘England expects every man to do his duty,’” he said with a shrug. “Sometimes duty calls with a softer voice, and is performed in less dramatic ways.”

“Were you at Trafalgar?”

“No, though like nearly every sailor who served in the year five, I wish I could say I was. The biggest battle I saw was the action off San Domingo a few months later. That day made me a commander.” He gestured toward the painting of the sloop, and a nostalgic expression crossed his countenance. “My first ship was that little sloop—the Asp —and I was sent straight back to the West Indies in her.”

“My cousin served in the West Indies, aboard the Magna Carta .”

“Indeed? What is his name?”

“Gerard Fitzwilliam. He died in action about three years ago.”

“The war claimed the lives of many good men,” Captain Wentworth said. “I am sorry that your cousin was among them.”

“So am I. He had just been made lieutenant, and looked forward to a glorious career.” Darcy paused. “Actually, I wonder if I might ask your assistance in a matter pertaining to him.”

“What sort of assistance?”

“I have questions regarding the circumstances of his death. There seem to be … irregularities in written and oral accounts that I have been unable to reconcile. However, my own ignorance of naval protocol and routines might lead me to imagine improprieties where none exist.”