Carrie Bebris - The Deception At Lyme

Darcy thanked the workers who had identified the gentleman, then approached him.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I have urgent news for the family or friends of a woman whom, I have been given to understand, you might be able to identify.” Darcy spoke in a tone that barely rose above the noise of the warehouse activity. Depending upon the nature of this gentleman’s association with the woman, he might not be inclined to admit an acquaintance with her. “She is perhaps thirty years old, with dark blond hair and freckles. This morning she wears a white dress and long grey cape. Does that description sound familiar?”

The gentleman regarded Darcy warily. “What sort of news?”

“She has suffered an accident.”

“An accident? Here on the Cobb? Did she fall?”

“Indeed, she did.”

“Whatever was she thinking, walking upon the upper wall on a morning such as this? Rain and wind that could knock a man down.” He paused, his expression sobering as the situation settled more firmly upon his understanding. “Is she injured? She must be injured—you said the news was urgent. Where is she?”

“She has been taken to a nearby house. Come, I shall bring you to her.”

They reentered the elements, which had worsened while Darcy was inside the warehouse. The gentleman opened his umbrella and carried it between them, but the wind drove rain at them at such an angle that it provided little protection. Darcy put up the hood of Captain Harville’s oilskin, allowing the gentleman full use of the umbrella as they walked with all possible haste.

“Did you witness the accident?”

“No,” Darcy replied. “My wife and I came upon her afterward.”

“How badly is she injured?”

“A surgeon has been summoned.” Darcy searched for the proper words to convey the gravity of the situation to someone who must hear the news from a stranger. His hesitation must have said enough.

“I am sure you must have noticed her delicate condition,” the gentleman said. “Do you know whether the child survived the fall?”

“It was yet alive when we found her.”

“Did she tell you how the accident occurred?”

“She has not regained her senses since the fall.”

Thunder boomed. A powerful gust of wind caught the umbrella, forcing it inside out. The gentleman swore under his breath and paused to fix it, but the umbrella was beyond repair.

“Damn this deuced thing!” He flung the umbrella into the harbor, then apologized almost immediately. “Forgive me—I am not myself at the moment.”

They resumed walking. They had covered about half the distance to the Harvilles’ cottage, and now advanced with still more rapid strides.

“So she has not spoken?” the gentleman asked. “She cannot tell what happened?”

“I am afraid not. Though perhaps she has awakened in my absence.”

“Let us hope so. I appreciate your trouble on her behalf. Might I ask to whom I am obliged?”

Startled, Darcy realized that in the urgency of delivering his news and the fury of the weather, he had failed to introduce himself properly. “Fitzwilliam Darcy. My wife is with your friend now, along with Mrs. Harville, to whose house she was taken.”

“I am indebted to you all.”

They had reached the cottage, and Darcy stopped before its door. “Might I, in turn, ask your name?”

The gentleman offered his hand. “It is Elliot. William Elliot.”

Elizabeth helped Mrs. Harville and the maid exchange the patient’s wet dress for a dry bed gown, then followed the servant upstairs to another small bedchamber where she changed into dry clothing herself. Afterward, Mrs. Harville deployed the maid to fetch smelling salts while she herself prepared a plaister for their patient’s head. Elizabeth was assigned to watch over the patient while Caleb was enlisted to light the fire in the hearth. From the efficiency with which the naval captain’s wife took charge, one might have thought it was she who regularly commanded a warship and its crew.

Left alone with the unconscious woman once the fire was lit, Elizabeth covered her with a blanket. “You are in good hands,” she said, hoping that the sound of her voice might penetrate the unnatural slumber. “Mrs. Harville seems to know what she is about.” Elizabeth could barely bring herself to look at the head contusion, which was turning a hideous shade of purple. The swelling at her temple had doubled since she and Darcy first came upon her.

In the relative privacy of the moment, she felt the woman’s abdomen again to check on the dependent being within. It was alarmingly still. But then … a faint kick. Weak, but perceptible. As if to confirm that it had not been merely an illusion of her hopeful imagination, she felt a second movement.

“The surgeon is coming,” she said, unsure whether she spoke the words aloud to reassure the baby, its mother, or herself.

The maid returned with the salts, then went to check on the children. Elizabeth passed the vial of hartshorn beneath the woman’s nose, holding her own breath as she did so. The powerful odor always brought tears to her eyes, and reminded her of her mother’s nervous fits.

The woman’s countenance tightened. With what appeared great effort, her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze appeared unfocused.

Encouraged by this sign of consciousness, Elizabeth leaned closer. “Can you hear me, ma’am? You have suffered a fall.”

“No…” The woman winced.

“I am afraid so—a bad fall, ma’am.”

“Ell—” Her eyes drifted closed, as if she had not sufficient strength to at once hold them open and speak. “Elliot…”

“Is that your name? Elliot?”

She did not respond. Mrs. Elliot—if that were indeed her name—had drifted back out of consciousness. Elizabeth attempted the hartshorn again, but without success.

Mr. Sawyer at last arrived, so familiar with the route to the Harvilles’ home that there had been no need for the officer who had summoned the surgeon to accompany him. Elizabeth somewhat guiltily recalled that Sir Laurence was also to have sent a surgeon, and hoped the second medical man was not wandering the Cobb in the storm wondering where his would-be patient had disappeared to. She supposed that if there were any survivors of the ship explosion, his services would be needed there more than here anyway, now that Mr. Sawyer had come.

He immediately set about examining the patient, assisted by Mrs. Harville. Their communication betokened familiarity, and references to “last time” and “Miss Musgrove” implied that Mrs. Harville’s nursing experience had proved indispensable to him in the past.

Elizabeth described the state in which she and Darcy had found the woman, and the baby kick she had just felt. “She regained consciousness briefly,” Elizabeth finished. “That is a good sign, is it not?”

The surgeon nodded absently as he felt the woman’s ribs and took her pulse. “Unfortunately, she shows other signs that are not as encouraging. Was she able to speak?”

“She was very disoriented, and said only the name ‘Elliot.’”

“Elliot?” Mrs. Harville glanced up from her ministrations. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yes. I assumed that to be her name, though she lost consciousness again before I could confirm it.”

Mrs. Harville returned her attention to the patient. “I wonder whether she is connected to the Elliots of Kellynch Hall. The two younger daughters of that family are well known to us. Mr. Sawyer, you will recall them from Miss Musgrove’s accident.” She smoothed the woman’s hair away from the plaister she had applied. “Mary is wife to Miss Musgrove’s eldest brother, and Anne recently wed Captain Wentworth.” She looked at the patient’s rounded abdomen. “This cannot be the eldest sister, however, for Miss Elliot is a spinster.”