Mrs. Wentworth ran her hand along the headboard of the empty cradle. “Frederick will find him,” she said in a voice that sounded more an attempt to convince herself than Elizabeth. “If Alfred can be found.”
“He has Mr. Darcy to help him,” Elizabeth said. “Darcy has found missing people before—my youngest sister, for one.” Lydia’s disappearance had been a voluntary elopement, but Elizabeth told herself that if Darcy could locate her wayward sister in all of London, he could find Alfred in Lyme.
“Alfred has become more than a brother to me. Though he has been with us but a short while, I have come to love him as a son. And Mrs. Smith—I fear for her, too. If only we knew whether she is on the Cobb or missing, as well.” She stepped away from the cradle and looked out the window toward the sea. “It is always women’s lot to wait.”
“Apparently we are all confined to quarters—and we are not the ones who have done anything wrong.”
“I am not under any orders from the admiral. And it feels unnatural—it feels wrong—to sit idle when one’s child is in danger. If Lily-Anne were missing, what would you do?”
Elizabeth knew exactly what she would do. All the Sir Laurences and Mr. Elliots in the world could not prevent her from taking some kind of action to find her daughter. Yet she did not want to lead Mrs. Wentworth astray. “I would go to the Cobb and ascertain whether Mrs. Smith is there. Captain Wentworth said somebody ought, and I agree. However, when he said that, I do not think you were the ‘somebody’ he had in mind, and I do not want to advise you to act against your husband’s wishes.”
“I was contemplating it before you said it aloud. Do you think I would be endangering myself? I do not want to add to Captain Wentworth’s trouble.”
“With Mr. Elliot’s whereabouts unknown, you should not go alone, but if we go together I believe we will be safe. If there is any sign of trouble, the Harvilles’ cottage is nearby, and there will be plenty of other people about.”
“What will Mr. Darcy say? I doubt he would want you to go, with Sir Laurence’s ship in the harbor.”
Mrs. Wentworth was correct about the likelihood of Darcy’s endorsing this plan. But Elizabeth hoped the intelligence their mission yielded would abate any displeasure at how it had been obtained. “As he is not here to voice an objection, I think Captain St. Clair will prove a greater obstacle.”
“Not if we use the back stairs.”
Thirty-Five
“Let me plead for my—present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr. Elliot.”
Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth completed the walk to Cobb Hamlet in as much haste as possible without drawing undue attention to themselves. It seemed every elderly, infirm, fat, idle, or just plain slow person in Lyme had turned out on market day for a leisurely stroll, determined to put themselves in the two ladies’ path and wander oblivious to the fact that anybody might want to pass them. In truth, however, this was only their perception, distorted by the urgency of their errand. Nor was the number of boats that obscured their view across the harbor once they reached the shore any greater than what it ought to have been.
The fog, however, was a different matter. The sun had declined to show itself this morning, instead allowing the mist to linger in patches that shrouded sections of the seawall, including the one most of interest to them. They could see figures near the bench—a woman seated, a man standing.
Despite the gloomy atmosphere, Elizabeth observed the woman hopefully. “Is that Mrs. Smith? I cannot tell.”
“Nor can I,” said Mrs. Wentworth. “We shall have to move closer.”
They walked along the lower wall, forcing themselves to proceed slowly so as not to catch the figures’ notice. The angle from which they viewed the couple altered as they progressed along the curve. The gentleman, his back to them, now blocked their view of the woman. When Elizabeth and Mrs. Wentworth were nearly as far as the gin shop, however, he glanced toward the beach, momentarily offering them his profile. Then he put one hand on the wall and leaned against it, shifting just enough to open up their line of sight to the bench.
The woman was indeed Mrs. Smith.
Anne gasped and grabbed Elizabeth’s arm. In her lap was Alfred.
And the gentleman to whom she was speaking, ever so collectedly, was Mr. Elliot.
“What do we do to help her?” Mrs. Wentworth whispered.
Elizabeth took in the pair—Mrs. Smith’s cool manner of address, Mr. Elliot’s casual stance. As he tossed back his head and issued a laugh that carried to Elizabeth’s ears, an unsettling thought overtook her.
Perhaps Mrs. Smith did not want their help.
She and Mr. Elliot were, after all, old acquaintances whose years of friendship outnumbered their years of estrangement. Mrs. Smith had shared a great many of Mr. Elliot’s secrets—how many of hers did he know? And was the greatest one of all, that they were even now in league with each other?
Was that the reason Mrs. Smith was the only one of Mr. Elliot’s former set still alive?
So many questions entered Elizabeth’s thoughts at once that she could not contemplate them all. Was Mrs. Smith as poor as she claimed? Did she know about the smuggling? Did she know more about Mrs. Clay’s death than she had let on? And Alfred—what in heaven’s name was she doing sitting so nonchalantly on the Cobb with the Wentworths’ missing child on her lap? Had she helped Mr. Elliot steal the baby? Had she let him in the house?
Or was an endangered Mrs. Smith calmly trying to negotiate for her and Alfred’s lives with a devil so cold- blooded that he could laugh as he bargained? If only she could hear what they were saying.
Then she recalled that she could.
She turned to Mrs. Wentworth, whom she had kept in suspense while these thoughts had been flying through her mind. “I know that you trust Mrs. Smith, but at this moment, I am not sure I do. Let us listen to them a while —and pray they remain so absorbed in their conversation that they do not notice us through the fog.”
Mrs. Wentworth regarded her with doubt, but nodded.
Elizabeth took Mrs. Wentworth’s arm and led her forward. “After we pass the gin shop, we should be able to hear them. Stand as Mr. Elliot does—close to the wall, with your back to them, blocking me from view. Be sure to remain silent yourself.”
They passed the wooden doors, walked several yards farther, and drew near the wall.
“… and all of this has led you to the conclusion that, your own husband’s fortune having been exhausted, you somehow possess a claim upon mine.” Mr. Elliot laughed again, an eerie, hollow sound in the mist. “My dear Mrs. Smith, what elixirs has your doctor been prescribing that induce such imagination? Smuggling, and gold, and—are there pirates, too, perchance? You could support yourself as a novelist—this is better than
“Do not mock me. I know what I heard.”
“And just whom did you hear this from?”
“Mrs. Clay. In this very spot. The morning she died.”
“Impossible. She never would have confided in you. She did not even know you were in Lyme—you are so much altered that I myself did not recognize you until I saw you at Alfred’s christening with Anne Wentworth.”
Elizabeth had seen Mrs. Smith in that “very spot”—on her bench—on that unforgettable morning. It was her customary place, where she sat each day, almost invisible in her familiarity, watching other people.
And, Elizabeth now realized, listening to them.
In all her hours on that bench, week upon week, Mrs. Smith must have discovered the Cobb’s acoustical phenomenon. She was perfectly positioned to overhear all sorts of conversations—including one of Mrs. Clay’s.
“I heard it from both Mrs. Clay and from you,” Mrs. Smith continued. “She took great pleasure in telling you that she had returned to Sir Walter. She did not reveal that she had just married him, only that when she left you the night before, she had put into action a plan that she had initiated after learning of his being in Lyme and of your
