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“I have sometimes wondered how the wives of sailors and soldiers bear the long absences and uncertainty,” Elizabeth admitted. “My younger sisters, before they were married, would have said that the uniforms make up for it.” Kitty, now wed to a clergyman, had developed more maturity, but the ever-flighty Lydia likely still held that opinion. Elizabeth hoped for her youngest sister’s sake that something made marriage to her untrustworthy militia officer tolerable.
“I think it takes more than a uniform,” Georgiana said. “Though … Lieutenant St. Clair did look terribly handsome the other night, did he not?”
“He did indeed—second only to your brother, of course. If Darcy had first appeared to me with a gold epaulette, I might have been utterly lost.”
The climb up Broad Street toward their lodgings seemed steeper following their exertions in the sea. Elizabeth and Georgiana paused to catch their breaths before continuing, and found themselves in front of a fossil shop that they had passed numerous times since their arrival in Lyme but had never entered.
“Sir Laurence says that Lyme is becoming as famous for its fossils as for its seabathing,” Georgiana said.
“Indeed?” In the reflection of the shop window, Elizabeth regarded her with an arch look. “What else does Sir Laurence say?”
“That the region’s landslips uncover extraordinary specimens that attract collectors. He owns several himself.”
“Sir Laurence is a fossil collector?”
“Not specifically—he collects all ma
Elizabeth read the esteem in Georgiana’s eyes and doubted they glowed for Lord Elgin. “Does Sir Laurence admire anybody else?” she asked softly.
Georgiana turned away from the shop window to look directly at Elizabeth. “He says he would like to show me his collection one day.”
“And would you like to see it?”
She smiled.
Elizabeth was tempted to ask whether a title enhanced a gentleman’s appearance to the same extent as did an officer’s uniform, but forbore, not wanting to chance Georgiana’s misconstruing her gentle teasing. Whatever feelings about a certain baronet might be developing in Georgiana’s heart, Elizabeth left it to her sister-in-law to confide them to her when and if she chose.
Their tête-à-tête was interrupted by the emergence of one of the shop’s customers, a spectacled man in his middle thirties whose clothing boasted an extraordinary number of pockets. A man whose countenance lit with delight upon recognizing Elizabeth.
“Why, Mrs. Darcy!”
“Professor Randolph!” Elizabeth’s pleasure matched that of her friend; she and Darcy had not seen Julian Randolph in two years. They spent more time at Pemberley than in London, and even when they were in the city, the professor’s work as resident archaeologist of the British Museum often took him away from it.
“And Miss Darcy,” he continued. “Imagine, meeting you here in Lyme. This is the very best of surprises.”
“Indeed, it is,” Elizabeth said, “though I ca
A specialty in New World artifacts—Professor Randolph was American by birth—had earned him the attention of the museum, but a scientific passion that comprehended artifacts of all cultures and eras had taken him around the world. His eclectic knowledge had proved critical in assisting Elizabeth and Darcy in two adventures early in their marriage.
“I am here at the invitation of the Philpot sisters—have you met them?”
“I have not had the pleasure.”
“Lovely ladies, all three—prodigious fossil-hunters. Their collection is considered one of the best, and includes several discoveries that are the first of their kind. Lord Chatfield introduced me to Miss Elizabeth Philpot at one of his di
“We are all well, thank you. Lily-A
“I should enjoy that above all things. I am engaged this evening—the Philpots have invited some promising local young people for a scientific salon—but I am otherwise at your disposal.”
“Tomorrow evening, then, at six?” Lyme, she had found, did not keep London hours.
“I look forward to it already.”
Fourteen
“You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always laboring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own.”
Darcy’s pace slowed as he reached the end of the Walk and neared the harborside pub. He was yet uncertain of what he hoped to learn from this meeting with Lieutenant St. Clair, a meeting arranged at Darcy’s initiative. He was therefore even more uncertain how to direct their conversation. It is difficult, after all, to set a course without knowing one’s destination. And Lieutenant St. Clair struck Darcy as a shrewd enough sea officer to detect any sign of foundering.
What Darcy did know, was that since reading Gerard’s diary, he remained troubled by the unfinished business his cousin had left behind. What had happened to the idols Gerard found? Had St. Clair ever determined their ownership? Had he even attempted to?
And now, years later, did it matter?
The tavern sat in a narrow street in Cobb Hamlet. Darcy passed the Harvilles’ cottage and continued a few more doors to the Sheet Anchor. Though the meeting had been Darcy’s suggestion, the venue had been St. Clair’s.
Sailors and dockmen crowded its tables, some eating di
Darcy spied St. Clair in the back of the tavern, where the lieutenant sat with another gentleman at a table abutting one wall. The two were engaged in close conversation, necessitated by the volume of the ballad being sung two tables away by half a dozen seamen deep in their cups. Fortunately (for Darcy, if not the song’s hero), the betrayed cabin boy was cast overboard and the Golden Vanity sailed off upon the lowland sea just as Darcy reached St. Clair.
“Mr. Darcy! I did not hear you approach.” He gestured toward his companion, a weathered, gouty man who could have been any age from forty to sixty. He had a round face, a rounder gut, and a nose that pointed toward intemperance, but his well-made clothes indicated that he had not abandoned all consciousness of his appearance. “Allow me to introduce Captain Tourner, under whom your cousin and I served aboard the Magna Carta.” St. Clair turned to the captain. “Mr. Darcy’s cousin was Lieutenant Fitzwilliam.”
“Fitzwilliam?”
“Gerard Fitzwilliam.”
“Of course—the Dangereuse,” he said. “Do you think I could forget that day?” Darcy could not tell whether his disdain was directed toward St. Clair for his implied suggestion that Tourner had forgotten his fallen lieutenant, or toward the French ship that had been the cause of his death. The captain glanced up at Darcy. “Lieutenant Fitzwilliam was a promising young man. His death was a loss for the navy as well as his family.”