Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

The servants were summoned, but unable to provide any further intelligence. The housekeeper had returned from the market just after Mrs. Logan, and the others, going about their own duties elsewhere in the house, with no reason to enter the nursery, had not observed anything unusual.

Alfred was too small to have wandered off on his own, and a baby was not something one was likely to misplace. Yet they searched the house and garden anyway. He was nowhere on the premises.

They reconvened in the sitting room. Captain Wentworth, his own worry evident, reassured his wife that they would find Alfred. “Do not panic yet. Sir Walter has not seen his son since the christening—perhaps he or your sister retrieved the boy for a visit. It would be very like them not to think to inform us.” Wentworth himself did not sound convinced of this possibility.

“My father would have sent a servant to collect him. And even if he had come himself, he would not have entered our house, gone upstairs to the nursery, taken Alfred from his cradle, and departed without a word to anybody.”

No, Darcy thought, but another Elliot might. He met Captain Wentworth’s eyes. “Do you think perhaps Mr. Elliot—”

“I can name no one else more probable,” he replied.

Mrs. Wentworth glanced toward the entry hall. “He must have come after Mrs. Smith departed for the Cobb, or surely she would have alerted us.”

“Unless he used the rear door and stairs,” Captain Wentworth said. “Someone planning to steal a child would hardly want to make an obvious entrance.”

“I am reluctant to voice this thought,” St. Clair said, “but if Mr. Elliot did encounter Mrs. Smith, she would not have presented a very imposing obstacle. He could easily overpower a crippled woman, particularly if he had someone else with him. Lyme is full of his fellow conspirators—the crew of the Black Cormorant alone must number at least two hundred. Any one of them could have accompanied him.”

“Mrs. Smith is the only one of his past associates still alive to incriminate him,” Elizabeth added, “and he knows she bears him ill will.”

“Good heavens, Frederick—he might have taken Mrs. Smith, too.” Mrs. Wentworth sank into a chair. “If only Nurse Rooke had been here with her and not in Bath.”

Captain Wentworth took her hand. “Let us not allow our conjecture to run wild,” he said. “Mrs. Smith could very well be sitting on her bench at the harbor, perfectly safe and utterly oblivious to our alarm. In fact, someone ought to see whether she is indeed there, for if so, she may be able to tell us something that could lead us to Alfred. I would do so myself, but I am going to the Lion this moment to determine whether Mr. Elliot is there with the child.”

“I will accompany you,” Darcy said. “If Mr. Elliot does have Alfred, there is no predicting what he might do.” Or what he might have already done.

Darcy left that last thought unspoken—Mrs. Wentworth was worried enough—but he could see in her husband’s countenance that Captain Wentworth realized the truth. If Mr. Elliot, or someone acting on his behalf, had taken Alfred with the intention of harming him, the deed had likely already been accomplished—or was taking place now—and in a place more remote than his rooms at the Lion.

Wentworth nodded. “Let us go at once.”

“I will come, as well.” St. Clair’s manner indicated that he, too, recognized the reality of Alfred’s plight.

“You cannot, Captain,” Wentworth said. “You are under the admiral’s orders to stay here.”

“If Mr. Elliot is guilty of the child’s disappearance, I can aid you. I have been watching the gentleman closely—”

“So have I.” Captain Wentworth looked at his wife. “For some time. I know what he is.” He paused, then looked back at St. Clair. “Besides, what possible pretext could you give for showing up at Mr. Elliot’s door? He has surely been in communication with Sir Laurence and knows about your arrest. He thinks you are in a brig. What explanation could you offer that would not raise his guard about all three of us?”

The gentlemen moved out of the room and into the hall.

“You are right,” St. Clair conceded. “My appearance would sabotage not only the smuggling investigation, but also the very rescue I was trying to assist.” He released a frustrated sigh. “And yet I feel I must do something.”

Darcy looked past him, through the doorway, to where the ladies yet clustered in the sitting room. Elizabeth had moved closer to Mrs. Wentworth and was offering words of comfort. Georgiana stood a little apart, appearing, to Darcy’s eye, more vulnerable than she had an hour ago. Alfred’s kidnapping made him all the more apprehensive about Mr. Elliot’s fellow conspirator. He did not think Sir Laurence would try to harm Georgiana, but he did not want her former suitor to even attempt to speak to her again. Until Sir Laurence was arrested, Darcy could not be easy about letting Georgiana out of his sight.

He turned to the man who mere days ago he had been determined to keep at a distance from his sister. “Captain St. Clair, only the urgency of Alfred’s disappearance impels me to leave Miss Darcy anywhere but under my direct watch while Sir Laurence remains at liberty, lest he try to contact her. If you would undertake her protection in my absence, I would consider it a great service.”

“Of course.” In those two simple words, an understanding passed between them. Darcy knew he need not have even voiced the request, and St. Clair recognized the trust it represented.

St. Clair walked them to the front entry, offering whatever random points of information he could quickly call to mind about Mr. Elliot and his habits. As they reached the door, where they were entirely safe from the ladies’ hearing, he detained them a moment longer.

“If Mr. Elliot is not at the Lion with Alfred and Mrs. Smith, he may have gone to his property near Sidmouth. There are old quarry caves on the grounds, perfect for hiding smuggled goods.” He paused. “Or…”

The two captains’ eyes met.

“I understand,” Wentworth said.

Captain St. Clair returned to the sitting room to find Georgiana alone. She stood near the window, watching Mr. Darcy and Captain Wentworth recede down the street. The housekeeper had set out tea. No one had touched it.

“Where have Mrs. Darcy and Mrs. Wentworth gone?” he asked.

“Up to the nursery. Mrs. Wentworth is terribly distressed, as one might expect, and wanted to wait in there until Captain Wentworth comes back. She wishes she could have gone with him.”

“So do I. It is harder to wait than to act. Why did you not go upstairs with them?”

She took a seat, but perched on the edge of the chair. Except for the briefest of glances, she had not looked at him—not directly—since he reentered the room. “I do not know Mrs. Wentworth as well as Mrs. Darcy does. I felt my presence would be an intrusion at a time when Mrs. Wentworth needs whatever peace she can find.”

She studied her hands, dropped them back in her lap, smoothed a wrinkle from her skirt. At last she rose from the chair but yet maintained her distance, going to the table and bringing a teacup to the pot. She poured, but stopped when the cup was but half full. She set down the pot and simply stared at it.

He took a few steps toward her, but halted when the sound of his approach appeared to distress her. “Are you all right, Miss Darcy?”

“Everybody keeps asking me that.”

“It must be difficult to have had Sir Laurence’s true character revealed to you so suddenly—perhaps the more so for having heard it from me.”

She looked at him then. Her eyes were troubled, but it was not resentment that filled them. “You have been rescuing me since the moment we met. By now you must regret ever catching me on the Walk.”