Chapter 34
A Charitable Call
… but internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt …
Jane Austen, Persuasion
“Are you going out then, miss?” asked Laurel.
Elizabeth paused, caught in the act of pulling on the black gloves she had finally found after several minutes scrabbling through her dressing table.
“Yes,” she said. She hoped she sounded brisk rather than angry, or frightened. “I find I very much need some fresh air. Will you tell Clara if she asks?” She picked up her rather battered and out of date black poke bonnet from the chair where she’d left it. “Help me with this, would you?”
“Certainly, miss.” Laurel came forward at once to straighten the bonnet and tie the black grosgrain ribbon. “Only—”
Elizabeth sighed sharply. “What is it?”
“It looks to be turning rainy, miss. You don’t want to risk a cold.”
“No. I won’t be long, I promise.”
Seeing that there was no dissuading her, the maid turned practical. “Well, then, you’ll want your half boots, I daresay. And an umbrella.”
Although she wanted to scream at the delay, Elizabeth realized she had no choice but to submit to her maid’s ministrations. Going out at this hour was strange enough. To show signs of undue hurry would draw even more attention to herself.
Elizabeth realized she’d gotten careless. Since they’d come to Bath, she’d been used to a staff that simply didn’t care what the family did. They stuck to their own work, or at least that part of their work they chose to do.
She had not fully appreciated how much easier it had made the entire situation.
Because now Cook wanted to know why she needed bread and cheese from the pantry.
Mrs. Kendricks, who should have been thoroughly absorbed by the business of helping Thrush put the house into mourning, seemed to be everywhere she was not wanted, especially when Elizabeth was going into rooms that were not hers.
And now Laurel insisted on knowing the details of her outing so that she could be properly attired, and did miss intend to be back for supper?
Worse, as Laurel handed Elizabeth the umbrella, she surely noticed the basket with its gingham cover.
“Is it a charitable call, miss?” Laurel asked.
Brazen it out. Remind yourself you’re doing nothing wrong.
The irony was that this very sound advice had come from Mrs. Lynn.
“A sick friend,” replied Elizabeth. “And yes, I will be back for supper.”
Elizabeth felt her mouth tighten as she hurried out the front door and plunged into the busyness of Bath. She wanted to be fully out of sight of the house before she tried to hail a cab.
No one wants to lie to their family, continued Mrs. Lynn’s voice from memory. But sometimes our families leave us no choice.
Elizabeth remembered what a relief it had been to hear that said out loud.
She’d tried so hard for so long to be the good daughter—to be the prop and support their father needed once Mother died.
She’d worked every day to keep him safe from himself, as Mother had begged them all to do.
But then she watched as first Cynthia, and then Clara, began to turn from Mother’s memory and the duty they owed her, and each other.
Her sisters didn’t think twice about leaving her with the mess that was Father and his rudderless pride while they chased their own dreams. They insisted she keep all their secrets—that she help them gain what they most wanted—but neither of them would lift a finger to help her.
She’d poured out all this, and much more, to Mrs. Lynn within a few days of meeting her. Why? Elizabeth found she couldn’t remember. But she did remember Mrs. Lynn pressing the handkerchief into her hand.
Well, my dear, she’d said. I’m here now, and I think perhaps you and I might be able to help each other.
But she hadn’t meant it. Sylvia Lynn was as bad as Clara and Cynthia with her smiles and her sympathy and her lies. She meant only to help herself.
Well, my dear, it’s now time for me to help myself. The thought burned through Elizabeth like a swallow of illicit brandy.
She alighted from her hired cab while she was still a street over from the King’s Swan. She put up her umbrella and walked quickly, dodging puddles and pedestrians. It was high summer, but the low clouds had brought evening on early. Despite her gloves and stout boots, Elizabeth shivered.
The pub was crowded. No one paid any attention to the unaccompanied woman who came into the common room from the side entrance. The constable who was sitting on a stool at the bottom of the stairs only looked up at her once she came to stand directly in front of him.
“I’ve a few things for Mrs. Lynn,” Elizabeth told him, indicating her basket.
“And who are you?” His voice was nasal, and hostile. Clearly, he resented the interruption.
“Bessie,” she answered. Another day, she never would have been believable as a serving woman of any sort, but mourning had come to her rescue. The black dress she wore now was relentlessly plain, and several years behind the fashion, as were her black shawl and bonnet. “I know her from back home.”
The trick to a good lie, Mrs. Lynn always said, was to avoid specifics as long as possible. Let them fill in the gaps on their own.
The constable lifted the cloth on her basket and gave the contents a cursory rummage. Elizabeth prayed she looked bored. The truth was that her heart was hammering and she felt certain he would send her away.
And what do I tell Nathanial then?
But the constable just straightened up, and sighed. “All right. Come along.”
Elizabeth followed the lanky man up the stairs and waited while he turned the key in the first door on the left.
Mrs. Lynn rose to her feet as they entered. She saw Elizabeth, but the only sign of recognition she gave was to widen her eyes ever so slightly.
“And here’s Bessie for you, Mrs. Lynn.” Elizabeth bustled forward in what she hoped was a decent imitation of an efficient maid servant. “Poor thing! I’ve brought you a few necessaries.” She held up the basket and the portmanteau.
“Oh, how very good of you, Bessie!” exclaimed Mrs. Lynn. “I am very much in need of fresh linen.” She paused, and looked at the constable. “Would you excuse us a minute, please, Constable?”
“All right, but don’t take all day over it.”
The constable went out and closed the door. Elizabeth tried not to wince as she heard the key turning in the lock.
The room was narrow and cramped. The ceiling sloped so sharply that it would be impossible to stand up at the far end. A narrow bed and a chair were the only furnishings. There was no window.
“I cannot tell you how glad I am you’re here.” Mrs. Lynn grasped Elizabeth’s hands eagerly. Elizabeth tried not to flinch. “What did you tell your sisters about where you had gone?”
“I didn’t tell them. I haven’t long.” She slipped the basket off her arm and held it out.
“Well, that’s for the best.” Mrs. Lynn took the basket she offered and set it on the bed. “Tell me,” she said, without turning around. “How are matters … outside?”
“Very bad, I’m afraid,” Elizabeth said. “What have you been told about how you came to be arrested?”
It can’t have been much or you would not be so happy to see me now.
“I have been assuming it was because I was a fool and ran when I should have stayed put.” Mrs. Lynn sat down on the bed. “Is there more?”
“There is. The coroner has a sworn statement that you were heard arguing with Father in his room just before he fell to his death.”
Mrs. Lynn had been about to reach into the basket. Now she lowered her hands and rested them both on its braided handle. “I see. And who swore to this?”
“I did,” said Elizabeth.
“Ah.”
She had hoped for a stronger reaction. She had wanted Mrs. Lynn to turn pale, to sway a bit on her feet. To show some sign, any sign, that she understood Elizabeth now had the upper hand between them.
This cool acceptance stabbed hard at what little confidence she had left.
“But it’s not just my word,” Elizabeth told her. “Cynthia is prepared to confirm my story in every particular.”
Now Mrs. Lynn did turn pale. She did not sway on her feet, but her pretty hands clenched around the basket’s handle.
“So,” she said, and there was just the tiniest tremble in her voice. “The pair of you have decided to hang me.”
“Not quite yet,” said Elizabeth. “I can still retract my statement. I can say I was mistaken and Cynthia can swear to that just as easily.”
“How very accommodating of her.” Mrs. Lynn looked down at her fists where they curled around the basket handle. She loosened them. She turned, and Elizabeth saw the effort it took for her to raise her eyes.
“May I ask what will convince you to convince her to testify that you were mistaken?”
It was a tiny victory, but there was pleasure in it. There was also the uneasy awareness that it was a very tainted victory indeed.
Brazen it out.
“Where’s the money?” asked Elizabeth.
“Ah,” said Mrs. Lynn again. “I thought that might be it.”
“It is …”
Now Mrs. Lynn was staring at her. “That’s what this is about? That was part of the plan. You know that was part of the plan.”
“That was our plan. Your plan was to leave one step ahead of us, with your Mr. Wallace and all the money we’ve been collecting these past months.”
“Who told you that?” demanded Mrs. Lynn.
“It’s enough that I know it,” Elizabeth shot back. “And it’s enough for you to know that if you don’t want to die, you’ll tell me where the money is. When I have recovered it, I’ll retract my statement. There will be no witness against you and you will be set free.”
“And how do I know you’ll do as you say?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“No, I think I will not.”
“You’ll be hanged, you and your confederates,” Elizabeth reminded her. “Or transported, if you’re very lucky.”
Mrs. Lynn threw back her head and laughed. She sat there, locked in a room awaiting the inquest and her trial, and she laughed.
“Oh, my dear! You will need to do better than this.”
Elizabeth drew back. For one moment, she wondered if Mrs. Lynn was becoming hysterical.
But in the next breath, she realized that would have been preferable, because now she saw that Mrs. Lynn truly was laughing at her—laughing her bright, brilliant laugh, as if they sat at the dinner table and she had made some particularly clever remark, rather than just explained a plan to condemn her to death.
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Lynn gasped and dabbed at her eyes.
“You must excuse me. It has been a trying day.” She cleared her throat.
“Because we have been friends, I will offer you some advice, Elizabeth. Before you make threats, you should always consider carefully what you will do when those threats do not succeed. And you should be very conscious of what those threats might expose you to.”
Understanding settled slowly into Elizabeth’s mind. “You are planning to inform against me now.”
“It crossed my mind,” replied Mrs. Lynn.
“It will do you no good. I am respectable, you are not.”
“We are both women, my dear.” Her smile was bright, and so very, very condescending. “Your reputation tarnishes just as easily as mine.”
Elizabeth got to her feet. “Clearly it was a mistake for me to come here.”
“Clearly.”
“If you change your mind …”
“I will not,” replied Mrs. Lynn. She sounded exactly as she did in the salon—cheerful, cool, and utterly unperturbed by anything.
It was too much. Fury and shame burned in Elizabeth, but she could not look at that unruffled countenance. She whisked around and banged on the door.
“Think over what I said,” she hissed.
“Oh, I shall, believe me,” replied Mrs. Lynn. “Thank you for the basket. Bessie,” she added.
The key scraped in the lock, and the door opened. Elizabeth pushed past the constable. She felt Mrs. Lynn’s gaze on her the entire time, even when she descended the stairs.
It was still raining outside and Elizabeth realized she’d left her umbrella behind, but she could not stand the thought of going back for it. Instead, she turned up the collar of her coat and ran across the cobbles.
She did not look back to see Laurel, with her market basket on her arm and her own umbrella in her hand, slip out of the pub and hurry after her.