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He could certainly match St. Clair, who in this conversation still had not alluded to, let alone explained the fate of, the figurines Gerard had brought to the senior lieutenant’s attention earlier that fateful day—and who had dissuaded Gerard from sharing the discovery with the captain. Had the first lieutenant ever seen fit to inform his commander? Perhaps Tourner was not the fleet’s best captain. Perhaps he was a drunk. But at the end of the day, he was responsible for every thing and every person on that ship. Darcy wondered whether the idols’ existence had ever become known to anyone beyond St. Clair, Gerard, and the cook.
The cook who had been killed in battle shortly after Gerard had spoken of the idols to St. Clair.
The cook who, like Gerard, had been told to keep the knowledge to himself.
The cook who had been shot in the back.
Startled by the wild course onto which his thoughts had veered, Darcy took up his rum. As the liquor dissolved the sudden thickness that had formed in his throat, he studied St. Clair, seeking in the lieutenant’s countenance some sign that the notion coalescing in Darcy’s mind was utterly outrageous—or horrifically plausible. St. Clair, however, declined to make such discernment easy for Darcy. He did not cackle maniacally or radiate a virtuous glow. He merely surveyed the room with his gaze—a sea officer ever on watch, or a guilty man always on guard?
“When you found my cousin, what was his condition?” Darcy asked. “Where did the bullet strike?”
St. Clair hesitated. “It struck his stomach.”
“How did he appear?”
His expression tightened. “The effects of lead balls and black powder on human flesh are never pretty, and stomach wounds are among the worst. Are you certain that you want to hear more?”
“I have seen fatal gunshot wounds and gruesome corpses before.” Though his statement occasioned mild surprise on St. Clair’s part, Darcy did not elaborate.
“Then I will not whitewash the details. Lieutenant Fitzwilliam was lying prone in a crumpled heap on the quarterdeck, sword still in hand. His knees were beneath him—it looked as if he might have tried to raise himself to standing after he went down, but had not the strength. The ball had passed through him, leaving holes in his abdomen and back that bled profusely. I spoke his name repeatedly and received no response, though he moaned and his face contorted as I rolled him onto his back.”
“You told my sister that his expression was peaceful.”
“I wanted to spare Miss Darcy the images I now relate to you. His countenance did relax at the end, though to describe it as peaceful was … generous.”
“When you moved him, did he utter any words?”
“No, he only moaned. I was at first buoyed by the sign of life, but quickly realized he was insensible to everything around him. A seaman helped me carry him below deck.”
“What did the surgeon do for him?”
“There was little he could do. Your cousin received immediate attention, but Mr. Phelps had scarcely cut away his uniform to examine the wounds when Lieutenant Fitzwilliam expired.” He paused. “I am sorry—I wish he had spoken final words that I could pass on to you, or left some other message that could now offer comfort.”
Gerard had indeed left a message; Darcy merely needed to determine what it meant. This he knew: it was not bringing him comfort. Suspicion. Apprehension. Distrust. But not comfort.
“I hope the items in his sea chest, at least, provide consolation,” St. Clair continued. “Did you find much of interest?”
If you only knew.
Or did he? Both today and the night he had delivered it, St. Clair had repeatedly brought the conversation round to the sea chest. Although having said himself that it likely contained the typical possessions of a sea officer, the lieutenant seemed preoccupied by its contents. Did he know about the diary? In their months of service together, St. Clair could very well have observed Gerard writing in it. Was he concerned about what the junior lieutenant might have privately recorded? Or did a different item altogether spur his fixation with Gerard’s effects?
“We indeed found much to occupy our attention.” Darcy regarded St. Clair closely as he spoke, hoping to provoke a telltale response.
“Any objects about which I might provide elucidation?”
“No,” Darcy replied. “I believe their significance is self-evident.”
Though St. Clair maintained his affable expression, its brightness diminished. “Well, my offer stands. If I can ever be of service to you or another member of Lieutenant Fitzwilliam’s family, you need only ask. You have my direction here in Lyme.” He consulted his pocket watch, a modest but handsome silver timepiece with an anchor engraved on its lid. “I am afraid another appointment commands my appearance now. Pray, give my compliments to your wife and Miss Darcy.”
Darcy would certainly remember the sea officer to Elizabeth at first opportunity. He was anxious to show her the diary and relate the conversation just passed, for he wanted her opinion on the speculations forming in his mind.
But tender Lieutenant St. Clair’s compliments to his sister?
Never.
Fifteen
At the bottom of Kingsdown Hill we met a Gentleman in a Buggy, who on minute examination, turned out to be Dr. Hall—& Dr. Hall in such very deep mourning that either his Mother, his Wife, or himself must be dead.
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 ma
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 a
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.”