The Deception At Lyme

Fifteen

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 Times?”

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 Baronetage pages.”

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 charming that he has entirely forgotten the purpose of our visit.”

“Alas, I have indeed.” He produced a sealed note addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Esq., and Miss Darcy. “We are come to personally deliver this invitation to Alfred’s christening.”

“We do hope you can attend,” Miss Elliot said.

“It will be the social affair of the season,” Sir Walter declared. “The Lyme season, at any rate. We have hired out the Assembly Rooms for a grand celebration following the ceremony at St. Michael’s.”

“The christening will be celebrated in Lyme, then—not at Kellynch, where Lady Elliot was buried?”

“Though I would prefer that my son be baptized in the same church as myself and generations of Elliots before him, my physician advises against risking his health by subjecting so small an infant to the ardors of travel. Alfred therefore will be christened in the parish of his birth. Do not fear, however, that this is an inferior alternative. The vicar assures me the rite will reflect all the ceremony due the heir of an ancient and dignified family. The church is named for an archangel, not some obscure saint nobody has ever heard of, and the baptistry dates to Norman times.”

Were it not for the Elliots’ attire, one would never know they were in mourning as they described plans for the event and boasted of names on the guest list. “Everybody of significance” in Lyme had been invited, as well as notable personages from Bath and London whose names and importance Elizabeth was apparently supposed to recognize but did not.

“Our cousins, Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Carteret, are traveling all the way from Bath,” Miss Elliot said.

Sir Walter’s chest puffed with pride. “Her ladyship has graciously consented to stand as godmother to Alfred.”

“Who is to be his godfather?” Elizabeth half expected to hear they had solicited the Prince Regent himself.

“Sir Basil Morley. Lady Russell, who is godmother to my daughters, will also stand for Alfred, so he shall have three titled godparents. I have also asked my daughter Anne and her husband, so Alfred will have five godparents in total—more than even the Prince Regent.”

Elizabeth silently congratulated Sir Walter on having managed to enter the prince’s name into the conversation after all.