to describe it as peaceful was … generous.”
“When you moved him, did he utter any words?”
“No, he only moaned. I was at first buoyed by the sign of life, but quickly realized he was insensible to everything around him. A seaman helped me carry him below deck.”
“What did the surgeon do for him?”
“There was little he could do. Your cousin received immediate attention, but Mr. Phelps had scarcely cut away his uniform to examine the wounds when Lieutenant Fitzwilliam expired.” He paused. “I am sorry—I wish he had spoken final words that I could pass on to you, or left some other message that could now offer comfort.”
Gerard had indeed left a message; Darcy merely needed to determine what it meant. This he knew: it was not bringing him comfort. Suspicion. Apprehension. Distrust. But not comfort.
“I hope the items in his sea chest, at least, provide consolation,” St. Clair continued. “Did you find much of interest?”
Or did he? Both today and the night he had delivered it, St. Clair had repeatedly brought the conversation round to the sea chest. Although having said himself that it likely contained the typical possessions of a sea officer, the lieutenant seemed preoccupied by its contents. Did he know about the diary? In their months of service together, St. Clair could very well have observed Gerard writing in it. Was he concerned about what the junior lieutenant might have privately recorded? Or did a different item altogether spur his fixation with Gerard’s effects?
“We indeed found much to occupy our attention.” Darcy regarded St. Clair closely as he spoke, hoping to provoke a telltale response.
“Any objects about which I might provide elucidation?”
“No,” Darcy replied. “I believe their significance is self-evident.”
Though St. Clair maintained his affable expression, its brightness diminished. “Well, my offer stands. If I can ever be of service to you or another member of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s family, you need only ask. You have my direction here in Lyme.” He consulted his pocket watch, a modest but handsome silver timepiece with an anchor engraved on its lid. “I am afraid another appointment commands my appearance now. Pray, give my compliments to your wife and Miss Darcy.”
Darcy would certainly remember the sea officer to Elizabeth at first opportunity. He was anxious to show her the diary and relate the conversation just passed, for he wanted her opinion on the speculations forming in his mind.
But tender Lieutenant St. Clair’s compliments to his sister?
Never.
Fifteen
At the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a Gentleman in a Buggy, who on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall—& Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that either his Mother, his Wife, or himself must be dead.
Elizabeth was not the only person issuing invitations that day. She and Georgiana returned from seabathing to a note from Miss Ashford soliciting Miss Darcy’s company for an afternoon walk with herself and Sir Laurence—an invitation Georgiana accepted with alacrity. As Darcy, too, had gone out, Elizabeth had no one with whom to share the joy of conversing with two of the most shallow people in all Lyme when Sir Walter and Miss Elliot paid an unexpected visit.
Sir Walter paraded into the sitting room in his mourning finery, confident in the belief that black showed his figure and complexion to best advantage. Miss Elliot seemed blissfully unaware that the somber shade drained her already pale skin of color, sharpening her unforgiving features even more than nature had. Although Elizabeth still could not cast off her misgivings about the cause of Lady Elliot’s death, the widower and his daughter had turned the tragedy into opportunity.
“There were ten carriages—eleven, counting my own,” Sir Walter said of Lady Elliot’s funeral, from which he had just returned to Lyme. The former Mrs. Clay had been buried at the ancestral Elliot estate in Kellynch, some twenty miles from Lyme, in a manner commensurate with her newly elevated station. “Not so many carriages as the first Lady Elliot’s cortege,” he continued, “but a respectable showing. Our cousin Lady Dalrymple sent her carriage from Bath, though the dowager viscountess could not herself attend. So did Lady Russell, one of our Kellynch neighbors. Eleven is an entirely respectable number, considering most of my acquaintance received word of the marriage and death in a single announcement. Did you see the notice in the
Elizabeth had indeed seen the notice, which had briefly mentioned Lady Elliot’s marriage and death before proclaiming at length the birth of Walter Alfred Henry Arthur Elliot. “I read it with great interest,” she said, “including the announcement of your new son’s name.”
Sir Walter appeared pleased. “He is named for myself, of course, and three of England’s greatest kings.”
“You named him for monarchs you admire?”
“I—no … well, yes. Monarchs of importance, of great reputation. The Elliot heir needs an impressive name, one worthy of inclusion in our
The poor child might very well inherit his baronetcy before he learned to spell a name that long and pretentious. “Will you call him ‘Walter’ at home?”
“Alfred, since his namesake was known as—”
“Alfred the Great,” Elizabeth finished.
“Precisely.”
For little Alfred’s sake, she hoped that, free of being called by his father’s name on a daily basis, the child might also escape his father’s obsessive self-consequence. “And how does Alfred do in his new home after such a dramatic entrance into the world?”
Miss Elliot rolled her eyes ceilingward. “We have not known a single peaceful night since he was born. I do not comprehend how a creature that size can produce so much noise, or what grievance could possibly justify it. I believe Mrs. Logan incompetent.”
Her criticism of the helpless child and his nurse moved Elizabeth to defend them. “Newborn babies cry—they have no other way to speak.”
“What reason has any child to ‘speak’ every two hours?”
“I am certain Mrs. Logan has matters well in hand.” She paused. “Nevertheless, perhaps I might call upon you and see the child? I have been thinking about him these several days.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Darcy,” Sir Walter replied with delight, “you are welcome any time. Except mornings, for that is when I endure my daily sea immersion—ghastly ordeal, seabathing, but my physician insists upon its health benefits. Indeed, that is the entire reason we came to Lyme. Mornings, however, are an uncivilized hour for calling, regardless. Evenings used to find us at the Assembly Rooms—now, only private card parties since entering mourning—and we generally promenade along the Walk or the Cobb in the afternoon. But otherwise—yes, do call upon us anytime.”
“Does your schedule never vary?”
“Only with the weather. We go nowhere near the sea if it rains, or if the sun shines brightly. The damp is bad for one’s lungs, and the sun harsh on one’s complexion.”
“Did Lady Elliot accompany you on walks along the Cobb?”
“I never visited Lyme whilst Lady Elliot was alive. Fifteen years ago it was not the resort that it is now.”
“I meant the second Lady Elliot—the former Mrs. Clay.”
“Oh! Of course you did. No, she did not.”
Miss Elliot cast a sharp glance at Sir Walter. “Mrs. Darcy, I believe my father finds your conversation so
