had soothed the baby back into silence.
Elizabeth turned to Mrs. Smith. “After we parted the other day, I realized that I might have seen you before —taking the air, as you said—on the Cobb.”
“It is one of my favorite spots,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Soon after arriving in Lyme, I expressed a desire to go out upon it—an idle desire, not one I imagined would be realized anytime soon. Due to my difficulties walking, I expected to enjoy the seawall for some while only as a sight from shore. Captain Wentworth, however, immediately ordered a chair to take me out on the lower wall. Once there, he borrowed a barrel from one of the quay warehouses so that I could leave the confining cabinet of the chair and sit in the open air. I cannot tell you how invigorating it was to feel the sea breeze upon me—it blows onshore, of course, but not like it does on the Cobb. When he saw the pleasure that first outing occasioned, and the strength it restored to my spirits, he engaged the chair to collect me daily, and secured the harbormaster’s permission for a bench to be left along the wall for me and Nurse Rooke to sit upon.”
“Indeed, then, I believe it was you I saw seated on the bench last week, the morning of the storm that caused the ship explosion.”
“What a dreadful morning that was, for so many people! The ship and its crew lost, not to mention poor Mrs. Clay’s accident.”
Elizabeth was pleased that Mrs. Smith had introduced the very subject she most wanted to discuss. “Did you witness her fall?” Perhaps the widow would be able to put her doubts to rest—or provide information to confirm them.
“We did not stay as long as usual that day,” Mrs. Smith replied. “We left when the atmosphere turned unpleasant. I understand from Anne, however, that you and your husband are the couple who found Mrs. Clay. You poor dear—what a start that must have given you, seeing her lying on the pavement like that! Did
“No, we came upon her afterward. We did not even know who she was until Mr. Elliot identified her later.”
“Ah, yes—Mr. Elliot.” Mrs. Smith cast a disdainful gaze across the room, to where Mr. Elliot engaged in conversation with Lieutenant St. Clair. “I should be amazed that he has the effrontery to show himself here today, having carried on such a public affair with Mrs. Clay. But I have known him so long that his behavior has lost the power to astonish me. So did hers.”
“You knew them both?” Although Elizabeth was disappointed by Mrs. Smith’s lack of information about the accident itself, the mention of Mr. Elliot gave Elizabeth hope that the widow might prove a source of intelligence after all.
“These twelve years. Mr. Elliot was a particular friend of my husband when we married, and he introduced us to Mr. and Mrs. Clay. When Mr. Elliot wed not long after, we three couples became intimate companions, as comfortable in each other’s houses as our own. Together we enjoyed all London had to offer the young, carefree, and affluent.” She sighed. “I have been none of those things since becoming widowed, and as a result have had little recent intercourse with Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Elizabeth said. “It must have been painful to lose such close friends due to circumstances you could not control.”
“In ways you cannot guess. It is in fact Mr. Elliot who is responsible for a great many of my present difficulties. When my husband died, his affairs were out of order—a terribly complex business, property in the West Indies enmeshed in legal tangles—and Mr. Elliot, his designated executor, would not trouble himself to straighten out the matter. Fortunately, Captain Wentworth is now acting on my behalf. He has only just initiated his enquiries, but I trust that in time he will resolve everything. He is a veritable knight gallant.”
“How long ago did you lose your husband?”
“It is approaching three years. I have a miniature of him in this locket—would you like to see it?”
Elizabeth indulged her. Mr. Smith had been a pleasant-looking man, with a kind face, though his hair was rather red for Elizabeth’s taste. “He was very handsome.”
“His Jamaican plantation proved the death of him—he traveled there on business that he thought best handled in person, and returned so ill and weak that he died within a se’nnight of coming home. It is a source of deep regret to me that his last months were spent in the company of his erstwhile friend Mr. Elliot, and not the wife who doted on him till the end.”
“Your husband traveled to the West Indies?” Elizabeth repeated. “And Mr. Elliot accompanied him?” Elizabeth would not allow herself to become too hopeful about what she was hearing. Smith was a common name—as common as they came. Surely it was mere coincidence that this woman’s late husband shared that name with the plantation owner who had been a passenger on one of the merchant ships under escort by the
The plantation owner who had been traveling with a future baronet.
She now wished she had not sent Darcy off, so that he could hear this intelligence himself. She looked for him in the room, and saw that the receiving line had finally dispersed. He was now in conversation with Captain Wentworth, while Mrs. Wentworth, Alfred still in arms, was headed back toward Elizabeth and Mrs. Smith. Apparently, neither Sir Walter nor any of the other dignitaries had demonstrated any interest in relieving Anne Wentworth of her tiny charge.
Sir Walter, in fact, along with Miss Elliot, was presently engaged in conversation with Georgiana and the Ashfords. Elizabeth could not imagine what had drawn such an unlikely party together, until she observed that Miss Elliot paid particular notice to Sir Laurence, attending the baronet’s discourse with keen interest, and smiling more than Elizabeth had witnessed in all the time spent in Miss Elliot’s company heretofore.
Aha.
She recognized what Miss Elliot was about, but could do nothing for Georgiana at the moment. She needed to give Mrs. Smith her full concentration.
“Yes, my husband and Mr. Elliot traveled to Jamaica together,” Mrs. Smith replied. “Mr. Smith was not in heart or mind a man of business, and lived too long under the notion that money came as easily as it was spent. Though he never said as much to me, I suspect the financial difficulties that now sequester the plantation had already begun, and Mr. Elliot accompanied him as an advisor. Mr. Elliot studied law at Oxford, and my husband was often guided by him—to our misfortune, as Mr. Elliot encouraged us to live as extravagantly as he. Mr. Clay, too, followed Mr. Elliot’s lead. I believe he possessed even less business acumen than my husband did.”
“Is the West Indian property a sugar plantation?”
“It is, indeed, and it produces the finest sugar you can imagine. Oh, how spoiled I was! We had a French pastry cook who made the most exquisite cakes and confections—our dinner parties were worth attending for the dessert alone. Now I consider it a luxury to have sugar in my tea.”
Elizabeth gave up trying to subdue her excitement. She instead gave it full rein. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s diary had said that Captain Tourner had frequently entertained three gentlemen passengers from the
“No—he had no reason to go, and every reason to stay. Someone needed to keep an eye on his wife.” Mrs. Smith cast a glance at Mrs. Wentworth, who was almost upon them, and lowered her voice. “Perhaps it is in poor taste to speak ill of the dead so soon after they have departed this world, but Mrs. Clay was not a faithful spouse. The only thing modest about her life was the size of Mr. Clay’s fortune, which she considered too small. She coveted finer things, and solicited the attention of men who would give them to her. She had a particular fondness for naval officers flush with newly won prize money. They would spend it on her, then sail off to their next port, leaving her to enjoy their gifts with no obligation or troublesome entanglements.”
“Poor Mr. Clay,” Elizabeth said. “Did he know?”
“You have a kind heart, Mrs. Darcy. Do not, however, waste too much of your pity on Mr. Clay. He himself died in flagrante delicto. And not with his wife—with Mr. Elliot’s.”
Twenty-One
