Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

His answering gaze was earnest and unwavering. “Quite the opposite. You did, after all, save my investigation today.”

“If I have not cost you it.”

“Miss Darcy—” He took another step toward her.

“Lieuten— Captain. ” She swallowed. “I have not properly thanked you for—I have been trying to find the words—” She turned her head away, struggling to control a countenance that threatened to reveal more than she wanted it to. “The other day, in the water—I owe you such a debt, I cannot express—”

He closed the distance between them. “Miss Darcy.” He reached toward her, but withdrew his hand before touching her. “You owe me nothing,” he said gently. “Pray, do not let a sense of obligation to me cause you more distress.”

“I owe you my life.” She looked up at him. “When the boat capsized, and I was under the water—” Her voice broke, and she swallowed again. “I was never so frightened in all my days.”

“Nor was I.”

She studied his face, her own disbelieving. “That cannot be true,” she said. “You have been aboard embattled ships, with cannonballs flying and wounded comrades falling all around you.”

His expression was all seriousness; his voice, little more than a whisper.

“Yes, I have.”

She was the first to break their gaze, turning to busy herself with the tea things once more.

“I—my conduct toward you when we found Captain Tourner—” She picked up the half-full teacup but did not drink, in need not of refreshment, but something to do with her hands. “Forgive me. I did not know what to think.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You were in shock. And even were you not, the evidence was condemning, and I could not at that moment freely speak in my own defense.”

She added sugar to the tea, but the tea had gone cold, and the wet, brown lump sat undissolved in the cup. “I did not want to believe you capable of murder, but Sir Laurence was so persuasive.” She finally looked at him again. “And when my own brother helped take you away—”

“In point of fact, I was grateful for Mr. Darcy’s escort. I knew that once I was in the navy’s custody and had an opportunity to send word to the Admiralty, I would be safe, but Sir Laurence easily could have ensured I never reached the base.”

The teacup clattered in its saucer. “You thought he might make an attempt on your life?”

“You saw what he is capable of.” St. Clair took the teacup from her before she spilled it. “But Sir Laurence could not act with Mr. Darcy present. Here—” He poured her a fresh cup of tea. “Come sit down, and let us talk about something else.”

“It is kind of you to try to distract me, but I cannot imagine a subject exists that could divert my thoughts from Sir Laurence and the present crisis.”

“We shall do our best to find one,” he said, leading her to the sofa. “And should we fail, I believe I still owe you definitions of topsails and yardarms.”

Despite Mrs. Wentworth’s apparent calmness, Elizabeth could feel the anxiety radiating from her, and understood it as only another parent can. Lily-Anne had disappeared once—wandered out of sight one afternoon while they were picnicking beside the stream at Pemberley—and the minutes until she and Darcy found her were the most sickening of Elizabeth’s life. She had held herself together while they searched—then burst into sobs upon her daughter’s discovery.

Mrs. Wentworth ran her hand along the headboard of the empty cradle. “Frederick will find him,” she said in a voice that sounded more an attempt to convince herself than Elizabeth. “If Alfred can be found.”

“He has Mr. Darcy to help him,” Elizabeth said. “Darcy has found missing people before—my youngest sister, for one.” Lydia’s disappearance had been a voluntary elopement, but Elizabeth told herself that if Darcy could locate her wayward sister in all of London, he could find Alfred in Lyme.

“Alfred has become more than a brother to me. Though he has been with us but a short while, I have come to love him as a son. And Mrs. Smith—I fear for her, too. If only we knew whether she is on the Cobb or missing, as well.” She stepped away from the cradle and looked out the window toward the sea. “It is always women’s lot to wait.”

“Apparently we are all confined to quarters—and we are not the ones who have done anything wrong.”

“I am not under any orders from the admiral. And it feels unnatural—it feels wrong—to sit idle when one’s child is in danger. If Lily-Anne were missing, what would you do?”

Elizabeth knew exactly what she would do. All the Sir Laurences and Mr. Elliots in the world could not prevent her from taking some kind of action to find her daughter. Yet she did not want to lead Mrs. Wentworth astray. “I would go to the Cobb and ascertain whether Mrs. Smith is there. Captain Wentworth said somebody ought, and I agree. However, when he said that, I do not think you were the ‘somebody’ he had in mind, and I do not want to advise you to act against your husband’s wishes.”

“I was contemplating it before you said it aloud. Do you think I would be endangering myself? I do not want to add to Captain Wentworth’s trouble.”

“With Mr. Elliot’s whereabouts unknown, you should not go alone, but if we go together I believe we will be safe. If there is any sign of trouble, the Harvilles’ cottage is nearby, and there will be plenty of other people about.”

“What will Mr. Darcy say? I doubt he would want you to go, with Sir Laurence’s ship in the harbor.”

Mrs. Wentworth was correct about the likelihood of Darcy’s endorsing this plan. But Elizabeth hoped the intelligence their mission yielded would abate any displeasure at how it had been obtained. “As he is not here to voice an objection, I think Captain St. Clair will prove a greater obstacle.”

“Not if we use the back stairs.”

Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth completed the walk to Cobb Hamlet in as much haste as possible without drawing undue attention to themselves. It seemed every elderly, infirm, fat, idle, or just plain slow person in Lyme had turned out on market day for a leisurely stroll, determined to put themselves in the two ladies’ path and wander oblivious to the fact that anybody might want to pass them. In truth, however, this was only their perception, distorted by the urgency of their errand. Nor was the number of boats that obscured their view across the harbor once they reached the shore any greater than what it ought to have been.

The fog, however, was a different matter. The sun had declined to show itself this morning, instead allowing the mist to linger in patches that shrouded sections of the seawall, including the one most of interest to them. They could see figures near the bench—a woman seated, a man standing.

Despite the gloomy atmosphere, Elizabeth observed the woman hopefully. “Is that Mrs. Smith? I cannot tell.”

“Nor can I,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “We shall have to move closer.”

They walked along the lower wall, forcing themselves to proceed slowly so as not to catch the figures’ notice. The angle from which they viewed the couple altered as they progressed along the curve. The gentleman, his back to them, now blocked their view of the woman. When Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth were nearly as far as the gin shop, however, he glanced toward the beach, momentarily offering them his profile. Then he put one hand on the wall and leaned against it, shifting just enough to open up their line of sight to the bench.