Miss Elliot was now all graciousness. “If the earl is your cousin, then I believe another relation of yours is our neighbor in Bath. Our house in Camden Place adjoins the one Lady Catherine de Bourgh takes each autumn.”
“Lady Catherine is my aunt.”
Elizabeth attempted to imagine how Sir Walter and Lady Catherine got on as neighbors. Were the pair attracted to each other’s pride, or did similarity breed contempt? Even the finest Bath town houses could contain only so much vanity.
The confirmation of Darcy’s possessing yet a third titled connexion sent the Elliots into raptures. “Do sit down,” Miss Elliot exhorted. “May we offer you tea?”
Elizabeth wondered whether a quiz regarding her relations would follow. As much as she would take perverse pleasure in revealing her own grand connexions to a country attorney, a London merchant, and a ne’er-do-well militia officer, the day’s events had left her with neither inclination nor patience for idle conversation with strangers. She and Darcy had come on serious business, and they must return to it. “Perhaps another time.”
Sir Walter mistook their decline of hospitality for disdain. “With connexions such as yours, you are no doubt used to finer surroundings than these,” he said quickly. “I assure you, our occupancy of this inn is but temporary, until we secure more suitable lodgings. When my physician recommended seabathing, we traveled here directly to follow his advice. By this day week, we hope to be established in a style commensurate with that to which we are accustomed—not only at our house in Camden Place, but our family home, Kellynch Hall in Somersetshire.”
“Think nothing of it,” Darcy said. “We decline only because it seems we have intruded upon you accidentally. We seek a different Mr. Elliot whom we met earlier today, to deliver pressing news. We understood him to be staying at this inn. Is there another gentleman among your party?”
“No,” he said coldly. “If you mean Mr. William Elliot, my cousin is not part of our company. You will find him at the Lion. However, you told my servant that your news regarded Mrs. Clay. We are acquainted with that lady. What do you know of her?”
“We are sorry to bear unhappy news, but Mrs. Clay suffered an accident this morning.”
Sir Walter appeared confused by Darcy’s announcement. “An accident? Where?”
“On the Cobb,” Elizabeth said.
He looked at his daughter. “I thought she was in her room. Have you not checked on her today?”
“Have not you?”
Sir Walter scowled. “If this is how she intends to conduct herself—” He broke off, aware once more of his audience. “Well, I hope this incident has made her realize that she cannot gad about as she used to.”
“Sir Walter,” Elizabeth said calmly, trying to ease him into the news she was about to deliver, “Mrs. Clay fell and injured her head. The surgeon offered what treatment he could, but…” She paused, allowing Sir Walter and Miss Elliot a moment to fortify themselves. “Mrs. Clay did not survive.”
Sir Walter appeared stricken. He stared at Elizabeth, then looked to Darcy for confirmation. At Darcy’s nod, he turned away and uttered a soft oath.
Miss Elliot was emotionless. “I presume the child died, as well?”
“No, that is the good news—if anything good can be considered to have come out of this sad event. She lived long enough to deliver the child.”
Sir Walter recovered himself. “Is it a boy?”
“Yes. And healthy, as best one can determine.”
“A boy,” Sir Walter repeated.
“We must find your cousin,” Elizabeth said. “I expect he will want to know this news.”
Sir Walter stood. “The boy, and his mother’s death, are none of Mr. Elliot’s concern.”
“But we understood Mr. Elliot to be … well acquainted with Mrs. Clay.”
“Her name was no longer Mrs. Clay.” Sir Walter stepped to a small pier table, opened a silver snuffbox that had been lying atop it, and took a pinch. “She was Lady Elliot. My wife.”
Seven
Miss Blachford is married, but I have never seen it in the Papers. And one may as well be single if the Wedding is not to be in print.
Elizabeth struggled to overcome her astonishment. If Mrs. Clay was in fact Lady Elliot, why had the other Mr. Elliot—Mr. William Elliot—not referred to her by her proper name, nor directed them to Sir Walter the moment he learned of the accident? And why had Mr. Elliot said she was under his protection, when she had a husband?
“Allow us to extend our condolences, sir,” Elizabeth stammered, “and pray forgive our ignorance. We understood Mrs. Clay—pardon me, Lady Elliot—to be a widow.”
“We are but recently wed—last night, in fact.” Sir Walter set the snuffbox back on the pier table and assessed his appearance in the glass that hung above it. “By special license from the Archbishop of Canterbury, of course.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth echoed. Because special licenses required a fee and were issued only to persons of a certain station, they were sometimes obtained even if the couple did not need the dispensations they granted to perform the marriage ceremony wherever and whenever convenient, without the necessity of crying banns or marrying in either party’s home parish. It was not unheard of to secure a special license merely to show that one had the money and connexions to do so.
Sir Walter smoothed his velvet lapels. “I must order mourning clothes posthaste,” he said more to himself than to anyone in particular. “A pity—my tailor just finished this coat.” He summoned his servant, directed him to find a reliable local tailor, then turned back to the Darcys. “Now, where can the new Elliot heir be found?”
“He is at the home of Captain and Mrs. Harville, who took in Lady Elliot after her accident while the surgeon attended her.”
“Naval people.” Sir Walter sighed. “One cannot go anywhere in Lyme without encountering them. At least this Harville fellow is a captain. Where is the house? Uptown, I hope?”
“No, on the waterfront, in Cobb Hamlet.” At Sir Walter’s horrified expression, Elizabeth hastily added, “They appear a perfectly respectable family. I believe Mrs. Harville mentioned an acquaintance with two of your daughters.”
“Naturally, they would boast of the connexion. My daughter Anne married a naval captain, Frederick Wentworth. He did well for himself during the war, and has friends among the Admiralty. His brother-in-law is an admiral—Admiral Croft.” The baronet sighed again. “If a naval person must enter the family, one connected to an admiral is tolerable. Fortunately, Captain Wentworth is a decent-looking man, as far as sailors go. The elements have not completely destroyed his complexion, though he does look more roughened than he once did.” He turned to his daughter. “Are Anne and her husband still guests of the Crofts?”
“No, they have taken a house here in Lyme. That widow friend of hers, Mrs. Smith, is staying with them, so I have not yet advised Anne of our being in town—we would not want to give the mistaken impression of bestowing notice on Mrs. Smith.”
Elizabeth wondered that Sir Walter wanted to discuss his son-in-law’s complexion and living arrangements immediately after receiving news of his wife’s death, but she supposed the shock of bereavement scattered his attention. She tried to redirect him to the duties now at hand. “We would be happy to accompany you to the Harvilles’ home.”
“I would never visit such a house. My servant can collect the child.”
After he collected the tailor? Were she Sir Walter, or even Miss Elliot, Elizabeth would not lose a moment retrieving that baby herself, no matter where he was. And what about poor Lady Elliot? “I thought you might wish to see your late wife or meet the people who cared for her in her final hours.”
“Also,” Darcy added, “arrangements must be made.”
“Financial arrangements? The surgeon can direct his bill to my attorney, Mr. Shepherd. He is presently in Lyme, having come to handle matters related to the marriage.”
