The Deception At Lyme

Four

Elizabeth helped Mrs. Harville and the maid exchange the patient’s wet dress for a dry bed gown, then followed the servant upstairs to another small bedchamber where she changed into dry clothing herself. Afterward, Mrs. Harville deployed the maid to fetch smelling salts while she herself prepared a plaister for their patient’s head. Elizabeth was assigned to watch over the patient while Caleb was enlisted to light the fire in the hearth. From the efficiency with which the naval captain’s wife took charge, one might have thought it was she who regularly commanded a warship and its crew.

Left alone with the unconscious woman once the fire was lit, Elizabeth covered her with a blanket. “You are in good hands,” she said, hoping that the sound of her voice might penetrate the unnatural slumber. “Mrs. Harville seems to know what she is about.” Elizabeth could barely bring herself to look at the head contusion, which was turning a hideous shade of purple. The swelling at her temple had doubled since she and Darcy first came upon her.

In the relative privacy of the moment, she felt the woman’s abdomen again to check on the dependent being within. It was alarmingly still. But then … a faint kick. Weak, but perceptible. As if to confirm that it had not been merely an illusion of her hopeful imagination, she felt a second movement.

“The surgeon is coming,” she said, unsure whether she spoke the words aloud to reassure the baby, its mother, or herself.

The maid returned with the salts, then went to check on the children. Elizabeth passed the vial of hartshorn beneath the woman’s nose, holding her own breath as she did so. The powerful odor always brought tears to her eyes, and reminded her of her mother’s nervous fits.

The woman’s countenance tightened. With what appeared great effort, her eyelids fluttered, but her gaze appeared unfocused.

Encouraged by this sign of consciousness, Elizabeth leaned closer. “Can you hear me, ma’am? You have suffered a fall.”

“No…” The woman winced.

“I am afraid so—a bad fall, ma’am.”

“Ell—” Her eyes drifted closed, as if she had not sufficient strength to at once hold them open and speak. “Elliot…”

“Is that your name? Elliot?”

She did not respond. Mrs. Elliot—if that were indeed her name—had drifted back out of consciousness. Elizabeth attempted the hartshorn again, but without success.

Mr. Sawyer at last arrived, so familiar with the route to the Harvilles’ home that there had been no need for the officer who had summoned the surgeon to accompany him. Elizabeth somewhat guiltily recalled that Sir Laurence was also to have sent a surgeon, and hoped the second medical man was not wandering the Cobb in the storm wondering where his would-be patient had disappeared to. She supposed that if there were any survivors of the ship explosion, his services would be needed there more than here anyway, now that Mr. Sawyer had come.

He immediately set about examining the patient, assisted by Mrs. Harville. Their communication betokened familiarity, and references to “last time” and “Miss Musgrove” implied that Mrs. Harville’s nursing experience had proved indispensable to him in the past.

Elizabeth described the state in which she and Darcy had found the woman, and the baby kick she had just felt. “She regained consciousness briefly,” Elizabeth finished. “That is a good sign, is it not?”

The surgeon nodded absently as he felt the woman’s ribs and took her pulse. “Unfortunately, she shows other signs that are not as encouraging. Was she able to speak?”

“She was very disoriented, and said only the name ‘Elliot.’”

“Elliot?” Mrs. Harville glanced up from her ministrations. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yes. I assumed that to be her name, though she lost consciousness again before I could confirm it.”

Mrs. Harville returned her attention to the patient. “I wonder whether she is connected to the Elliots of Kellynch Hall. The two younger daughters of that family are well known to us. Mr. Sawyer, you will recall them from Miss Musgrove’s accident.” She smoothed the woman’s hair away from the plaister she had applied. “Mary is wife to Miss Musgrove’s eldest brother, and Anne recently wed Captain Wentworth.” She looked at the patient’s rounded abdomen. “This cannot be the eldest sister, however, for Miss Elliot is a spinster.”

Mr. Sawyer determined that leeches must be used to reduce the head swelling. As he prepared for the bloodletting, the maid entered to inform them that Darcy had returned. Elizabeth left the patient with the surgeon and Mrs. Harville, and entered the main room to find a rather wet Darcy with an even more soaked gentleman. He introduced his companion as Mr. Elliot.

“Mr. Elliot! Thank goodness my husband found you. The surgeon is with your wife now.”

An odd expression passed over his countenance. “My wife passed away little more than a year ago.” Despite his rumpled appearance, he stood stiffly.

Elizabeth flushed with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon. I assumed—”

“I believe, however, that I am acquainted with the woman Mr. Darcy described to me. Might I see her?”

“Of course.”

She led him into the bedroom, where Mr. Sawyer was applying leeches to the woman’s temple. Mr. Elliot looked at her face, then averted his gaze from the business under way.

“I do know her. This woman is Mrs. Clay.”

Elizabeth was relieved to at last have a name with which to address their patient. “Where might we locate Mr. Clay?”

“Penelope is widowed.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth was not certain who engaged her pity more—the mother left to raise her child alone, or the child who would never know its father. “She is fortunate to have friends at such a time. She asked for you.”

Mr. Elliot started. “She is awake?”

“Not at present, but she woke briefly.”

“What did she say?”

“Only your name: Elliot.”

His features relaxed. “Yes, well … she has been under my protection for the past several months.”

A moan from Mrs. Clay drew the attention of all in the room.

“Does she waken again?” Mr. Elliot asked.

Mrs. Harville called Mrs. Clay by name several times, but received no response. “Poor dear. I wonder whether she feels the leeches.” She adjusted the blanket, which had become rumpled during Mr. Sawyer’s examination. As she smoothed it over Mrs. Clay’s abdomen, the patient released another soft moan.

Mrs. Harville stopped mid-motion and frowned. Pushing aside the blanket, she placed her hand firmly on Mrs. Clay’s belly. Her expression of concentration alarmed Elizabeth, who crossed and placed her own hand beside Mrs. Harville’s.

Time seemed to creep as she waited for the baby to signal her again, but in fact little more than a minute passed. This time, however, she did not feel a kick, but a hard tightening. She met Mrs. Harville’s gaze, and saw that she had recognized it, also.

“Is she—”

Mrs. Harville nodded. “Mr. Sawyer, I believe Mrs. Clay has begun to labor.”