Mrs. Wentworth had but little time to enjoy the hard-won tranquility of a sleeping baby before Mary Musgrove appeared and sank into a chair beside her sister.

“Well, here you are, Anne—I had wondered where you were hiding yourself. I declare, I am exhausted— making conversation with all of these people, having to explain that I am only Alfred’s aunt, not one of his godmothers, since of course they assume I would have been asked. I would much prefer to sit here at leisure, like you, than perform the social duties incumbent upon us as Elliots.”

“I am happy to circulate among the guests if you would care to hold Alfred.”

“No, thank you. He might wake and start wailing again, and I have been suffering the headache all day. My headaches, you know, are always worse than anybody’s. It is all I can do just to sit here talking to you.”

“Perhaps you should try seabathing while you are in Lyme,” Mrs. Smith suggested. “I have found it beneficial.”

“I said that very thing to my husband, but he thinks seabathing ridiculous, with the machines and dippers and all. I went only the once, all the while we were here last November. I did not care for it, but I bathed in Charmouth, not Lyme. I quite imagine that the bathing in Lyme is superior to Charmouth. It must be pleasurable, for so many people go regularly. Even our father seabathes. Have you been, Mrs. Darcy?”

“I have.”

“See! Everybody here bathes—everybody except me! Why should I be deprived simply because my husband does not like it? This is always my lot! Whenever there is something desirable going on, I am sure to be excluded.”

“Our father goes only because Mr. Edwards urges him,” Anne said.

“I do not think I like this new physician of his. He has our father suddenly fearing that he is halfway to his grave. That is the only reason he married Mrs. Clay, you know.”

“Mary,” Anne said emphatically, casting a pointed look in Elizabeth’s direction. Elizabeth took a sip of lemonade and developed a sudden, intense interest in the pattern of the glass.

“Well, it was,” Mary continued. “The marriage was beneath him, but he was not going to leave this earth with Mr. Elliot as his heir.”

Wanting to relieve Mrs. Wentworth’s self-consciousness over Mary’s speaking so candidly about family matters in front of a slight acquaintance, Elizabeth rose and went to the window. It offered a lovely view of the beach and the sea, which was calm today, though the sun’s brightness through the glass was uncomfortable.

Anne shifted Alfred to her other shoulder. “Our father could not have known the child that Mrs. Clay carried was a boy.”

“Oh, he was certain—Mrs. Clay already had two sons, and kept bringing that fact to his attention the whole while she stayed with our father and sister in Bath. Do you not recall? I said once that I wished I had a daughter instead of only sons, because a daughter would surely be better behaved, and Mrs. Clay declared that she was delighted to be the mother of boys, and believed herself incapable of producing anything but sons. Delighted—ha! There she was, living a life of leisure and amusement in Bath, while her boys were back in Kellynch with Mr. Shepherd. So of course when Mrs. Clay came to our father in Lyme, he believed she carried a boy. And of course she convinced him that the child was his, despite her having run off with Mr. Elliot, because nobody was better at flattering our father than she was—how else could a freckled thing like her have seduced him, right under our noses last winter? And of course Mr. Shepherd was able to persuade him to marry her, because our father is used to following Mr. Shepherd’s advice.” She released a dramatic sigh. “And of course, while Mrs. Clay got everything she wanted, I still have all the care of my own two boisterous sons, with a mother-in-law who spoils them with too many sweets and then leaves me to contend with their misbehavior.”

“I would hardly say Mrs. Clay got everything she wanted,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “She is dead.”

Mary sighed again. “I suppose.” Having failed to gain her sister’s sympathy, she turned her attention to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy, do you have sons?”

Elizabeth was happy to come away from the heat of the window and sit down again. “No, only a daughter, Lily-Anne.”

“A daughter! How fortunate you are. I would do so much better with daughters. They are quiet and mindful, and one can dress them in such pretty clothes. Boys cannot wear clothes five minutes before something is dirty or torn. But husbands always want boys. Mrs. Smith, do you have daughters or sons?”

“I have no children.”

“None at all? How very sad. I do not know what I would do without the cheerful sounds of my darlings at play. I suppose your husband was disappointed to have no son.”

Mrs. Smith responded with a polite smile, but Elizabeth saw in her eyes that this was a painful subject to her.

Apparently, Mrs. Wentworth, too, sensed Mrs. Smith’s discomfort, for she quickly said, “Mary, I wonder if you might do me a favor and suggest to our father that Alfred’s nurse be summoned. He begins to stir—I suspect he will wake soon, and when he does, he will be hungry.”

Mary, looking rather put-upon, roused herself enough to cast her gaze about for the Elliot patriarch. With a relieved half-smile, she settled back against her chair. “You may offer the suggestion yourself. He comes this way.”

Sir Walter approached, trailing in the wake of Miss Elliot, who parted the crowded floor like a ship’s figurehead, with Sir Laurence and Miss Ashford in tow.

“Here you are, Anne. Are you monopolizing the guest of honor? Sir Laurence has expressed a desire to meet our little future baronet. Alfred was out of sorts when the Ashfords arrived, but I see he is in better temper now. You have been holding him some time—here, let me take him from you.”

“But he is sleeping.”

“I can see that.” Miss Elliot reached for him.

“Indeed, Miss Elliot, you need not disturb him,” Sir Laurence said.

“A sleeping baby is such a heart-moving image that I cannot resist.” Miss Elliot snatched Alfred from Anne, lifting him right out of the blanket that had been loosely gathered around him. Strategically positioning him over the stain the infant had previously made on her gown, she attempted to rest him against her shoulder as Anne had done. Hers, however, was an awkward, insecure hold, not at all convincing her audience of her potential as a mother to a different future baronet—which, given that this sudden display of interest in the baby took place before Sir Laurence, Elizabeth recognized as Miss Elliot’s true purpose.

“There—see how he snuggles against me? He is such a sweet little thing.”

Until that moment, Elizabeth would have wagered a year’s worth of pin money that the word “snuggle” was entirely absent from Miss Elliot’s vocabulary. As it was, Miss Elliot appeared oblivious to the fact that Alfred was instinctively seeking the soft shoulder from which he had been so abruptly torn, not snuggling into the bony one upon which he had just been thrust. He squirmed, fully wakening, and released a mew that quickly turned into a full, incessant cry.

“There, now … little … darling.” Miss Elliot’s steely voice jarred Elizabeth more than the baby’s cries. “Do not cry for your sister—”

Miss Elliot’s eyes suddenly widened, and her countenance went rigid. She pulled the mewling infant away from herself and thrust him toward Mary. A damp, uneven circle now darkened another portion of her gown; the lower half of Alfred’s sported a matching one. “Would you kindly take this child from me?” Her strained voice came through clenched teeth.

Elizabeth, happening to meet Sir Laurence’s gaze, saw that she was not alone in working to conceal amusement.

Sir Laurence coughed. “I should … go seek Mr. Darcy. My sister and I have not yet spoken with him today. Unless, Miss Elliot, I can be of use to you?”

“No,” she said tightly, a scarlet flush creeping across her cheeks faster than the stain on her dress. Alfred, still in her hands, increased both his agitation and his volume. Sir Laurence bowed and withdrew with Miss Ashford.

Miss Elliot looked at her sister sharply. “Mary—”

“Why must I take him? He has already ruined your gown. I should sacrifice mine?”

As the sisters quarreled, Alfred’s high-pitched protests continued. Elizabeth itched to take him from Miss Elliot and offer the neglected baby what comfort she could, but she would not insert herself in a family dispute.

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