Connivance

By Helen Baker

Miss Austen finished Persuasion with an enigma. Was the deceitful widow Mrs Clay so lost to all honour, decency and - yes - self-interest as to live installed in town under the capricious protection of that equal dissembler Mr Elliot Or was the lady, as Lady Russell proclaimed her, a very dangerous companion Was she indeed capable, with neither money nor family connexions to sustain her, of 'wheedling and caressing' her profligate lord into making her his wife and thus, the future Lady Elliot Without descending into the realms of vice and depravity, the authoress hopes to resolve this puzzle. A recent reader said 'I thoroughly enjoyed your latest - fabulous and the twist in the end was brilliant !!look forward to your next.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781447561903

Helen Baker

Helen Baker is a licensed Australian financial adviser with a Masters in Financial Planning. She is the founder of On Your Own Two Feet and the author of two books: On Your Own Two Feet – Steady Steps to Women's Financial Independence and On Your Own Two Feet Divorce – Your Survive and Thrive Financial Guide.  

Book preview

Chapter One

Crutched Friars, London July 3

"My dear Miss Elizabeth,

I hope that I may still call you that, after the insupportable rumour which has reached me. It appears that some ill-intentioned persons are saying that, when I left Sir Walter’s roof in Camden Place, I fled to -. No, my pen refuses to write such a calumny.

Excuse me please, my dear friend, the truth must be told. I must gather my courage. As you know, it was only the direst necessity which obliged me to desert you so abruptly back in March.

I have explained in subsequent letters how Sophie, my youngest sister, suffering herself and with all her young family afflicted by the measles, called upon my immediate assistance. You can be sure that no circumstances less urgent would have dragged me from your side. It was the merest coincidence that your cousin Mr Elliot should have quitted Bath for London a fortnight before.

However, my father informs me that gossips are claiming that I removed to town and have since lived - under his protection! I am sick with vexation when I think how this reflects upon yourself and on dear kind Sir Walter. To have been so duped that, while Mr Elliot appeared in public on the friendliest terms with his uncle, with yourself and your sweet sister Anne, he was really planning the seduction and ruin of your chosen companion. For you now to be exposed to the ridicule of the populace for blindness and false family feeling. No, it is really too cruel.

These are the facts, which I can call upon more than one impeachable witness to verify. My father’s profession guarantees that he will endeavour to protect my reputation with the full vigour of the law. My brother-in-law, with whom I was residing until late April, is a city lawyer, so equally engaged in my defence. I pray therefore, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that you will remind any acquaintance who should condescendingly endeavour to apprise you of the scandal, of the severe penalties attached to libel.

Excuse me, my natural feelings as your friend (and as a mother) overpower me. Especially when I remember the many and repeated kindnesses I have daily enjoyed at your liberal hands.

To resume, I left your Bath establishment on the fourteenth of March and proceeded directly to my sister’s house in town. I found the family in severe difficulties - three dangerously sick infants, their suffering mother, a distraught father - that I barely left one sickroom for more than a few hours to repose myself before returning to another. The notion of dalliance is simply an insult.

I thank divine Providence that everyone survived and without permanent disfigurement. As you know, I myself contracted the disease as a child. Sir Walter himself has been kind enough to say that my complexion received no permanent damage, nothing that Gowland cannot remedy.

When the household was declared out of danger, we naturally wished to attend divine service and give thanks for our deliverance. It was at church that I encountered Mr Elliot. You may imagine my surprise. My sister’s parish church is a particularly fine one and a rarity in that it was not destroyed by the Great Fire. It was for this reason that your cousin had journeyed from his, more fashionable, part of London, in order to experience morning service in such gothic surroundings.

Mr Elliot recognised me and approached, full of compliments for your family although wondering at my presence there. Learning of my situation, he declared that nothing would be more beneficial to the young invalids than a ride in his carriage. I could hardly deny it. The air in that modest part of London is impure when compared to Bath. Compared to your dear ancestral Kellynch, it is pestilential.

Their parents’ assent being obtained for such outings, Mr Elliot called more than once. My sister, still weak after her ordeal, was grateful to have the house quietly to herself for a few hours.

So the curious could certainly have seen Mr Elliot in London, driving a carriage containing myself. It may well be that the small convalescents and the maid, escaped their notice, hidden by the high sides of the carriage. I believe that that is the origin of the gossip.

Naturally, the gentleman drove to public places like the Tower, the Abbey, the Queen’s House and diverse grand palaces in hopes of a view of the King or the Prince Regent. (In which we were very fortunate, I must add.)

I assume that persons who had seen us both in Bath society, noticed Mr Elliot driving by. Certainly, no carriage or rider ever acknowledged or approached us, that I was aware of.

This is the full extent of my intercourse with Mr Elliot and I hope you will consider it blameless. I am well aware, none better, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that he has not behaved well by you. His attentions were so marked during the winter months. However, he is your cousin and Sir Walter’s heir and has been your constant visitor at Camden Place. I could hardly refuse his kind, most disinterested offer without insulting your family.

I was further dismayed at having to refuse your kind offer to return to Bath and renew my visit in April. I know from my father’s letters that you invited your relative, the Hon. Miss Carteret to stay, when her mama, the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple returned to Ireland. I learnt from your one letter to me, received late in April, that her visit was not a success. Also, that she had now returned to Ireland so that my presence would be most acceptable to you.

What would I not have given to be able to send a favourable reply? Already, I had suffered from missing the wedding of your sweet sister Anne and her gallant Captain Wentworth. I longed to support you under the ordeal, which must have fallen upon you, of organising it.

Alas, this momentous year has wreaked havoc and upset so many plans throughout the nation. Who was not aware that the Corsican ogre had escaped from Elba? That he had rallied the entire perfidious French nation? That war was inevitable and every Englishman who could wield a sword was hurrying over the Channel to confront the little upstart?

As I explained in my letter - which I hope reached you, as I have received no reply and only hope that my refusal did not irrevocably offend you - my second sister in London is wife to an officer in the regulars. Poor Molly, she has had her share of alarums in the twelve years since her nuptials.

Now, she found herself in lodgings, far advanced in an interesting condition, while her husband decamped, eager for glory, and worse - taking her eldest son with him. An infant of eleven, yet as keen for battle as ever his father was. Both declared themselves equally determined to put down the French monster, once and for all. Imagine a mother’s state of mind. Molly could neither care for the rest of her brood herself nor sensibly instruct the servants to do so. My presence was vital. I would not have refused for any lesser reason. Naturally, I yearned to oblige you and dear kind Sir Walter. It was out of my power.

Now, at last, I have time to draw breathe. My sister is safely delivered of a son. Another little soldier, no doubt, when his country needs him. My brother-in-law and little nephew are believed to be both safe, the former suffering no more than a touch, after the glorious victory in Belgium last month. Molly, of course, cannot be quite satisfied until she has seen them both. I am therefore encouraging her to take the packet as soon as she feels strong enough and have arranged for my remaining sister to travel up from Somerset, to take my place in her absence.

As for Mr Elliot, Molly is lodging right in the centre of this maze of narrow streets, within the shadow of the Tower. These have been the haunt of traders and merchants for centuries. It could hardly be more different from the new district of Mayfair where your cousin has his town house, so I believe. So, if our paths have crossed since my arrival here some two months ago, it is merely because he visited the spice market nearby from natural curiosity. Then again, while he waited for his particular blend of snuff to be prepared for him, we walked the length of two streets together, while he kindly sheltered me under his umbrella from a sudden deluge.

I sincerely trust, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that this explanation fully acquits me in your eyes, and those of dear kind Sir Walter too, naturally. Nothing would restore your reputation as sound judges of character more readily than if I resumed my visit to you at once. This is, of course, entirely at your discretion. I can only add that I long to see you again and resume the comfortable intimacy which, I flatter myself, we all enjoyed for so many months.

With all good wishes for your health and happiness, coupled with that of Sir Walter, I beg to remain,

your devoted servant,

Penelope Clay."

As she finished reading this aloud and reached for a glass of water to ease her voice, Mrs Clay looked across at the gentleman with whom she was sitting.

Do you think that is sufficiently persuasive, Mr Elliot?

He smiled appreciatively and nodded.

Very good. Very good indeed. For a first draft. But I think, between us, we can do better. If you will permit me and he held out his hand for the closely-written sheets. It must be shorter. An epistle of this length will tax the patience of both Miss and Sir Walter. We must certainly avoid that.

Mrs Clay laughed her pleasant, musical laugh. However, she was in deadly earnest because her whole future depended on this letter. So a note of strain made the sound emerge louder than intended.

Mr Elliot made a shushing noise, darting his eyes meaningfully to a corner of the room, where the nursemaid rocked the cradle of a restless infant. Then he turned his attention to the draft in his hand.

Chapter Two

So it was that the letter finally handed to Elizabeth Elliot by her father’s agent, Shepherd, in one of the drawing rooms in Camden Place on the eighteenth of July, was considerably abbreviated. This final version laid great stress on the public humiliation and ridicule which must necessarily attach in Bath to father and daughter should the rumour not be scotched. A mother’s feelings were no longer dwelt on. Nor were all the meetings between Mrs Clay and Mr Elliot enumerated in detail. The menace of legal proceedings was omitted. The letter emphasised every person’s patriotic duty at a time of national peril. This was safe ground. Sir Walter was devoted to the country which had made his ancestor a baronet. Besides, patriotism was extremely fashionable that year. The fair writer dwelt on her gratitude and affection for her benefactress, as well she might. She repeated her offer to be of immediate service, should she be called upon.

Elizabeth had been sitting alone, engaged upon a piece of embroidery which seemed rarely to advance but served as a cover for idleness. She heard her father’s voice beyond the folding doors, engaged upon some disagreeable business concerning Kellynch Hall and its estate. It could not fail to be disagreeable because Sir Walter’s had suffered from a shortage of funds for some time now.

It was for this reason that they currently resided in inexpensive Bath rather than in their country seat in Somersetshire. Kellynch had been let to Admiral Croft since Michaelmas. That this expedient had not provided the hoped-for remedy was evident from Shepherd’s unexpected visit and strained manner upon arrival. Of course, as the maligned Mrs Clay’s father, he found himself in an awkward, nay untenable, position, should the accounts of her conduct in town with Mr Elliot proved well-founded.

Elizabeth had smarted under insolent smiles ever since Mr Elliot had withdrawn to London in March. The departure of her confidante Penelope, only two weeks later, had caused further annoyance. Elizabeth had grown so comfortable with Mrs Clay at her elbow. Anne’s marriage, although a modest, economical affair, at the wish of all parties, not least Shepherd, still required more unsupported exertion on Miss Elliot’s part than she was accustomed to.

Elizabeth had thought herself astute when she had suggested to her father to invite her cousin, Maria Carteret, the Honourable Maria Carteret, to stay with them and fill Mrs Clay’s place.

He had reacted coldly, reluctant hourly to encounter such an unpleasing face at every turn. He could make allowances for her deplorable shuffle and lack of conversation when, under the shield of her mother, he could bask, in a public place, in the reflected glory of such elevated relations. The confined space of Camden Place - which, in itself, was beginning to irk - was another affair.

However, Sir Walter acquiesced and Maria, bag and baggage, arrived. Her maid outshone Elizabeth’s. Her footman proved a garrulous Irishman which no frown could silence. Her pug snapped indiscriminately and her Blackamoor sulked. Besides, Miss Elliot found it less agreeable to parade in public in company with a young women who, while she possessed neither her air nor her beauty, was still clearly out and yet ten years her junior.

When Maria was summoned back to Ireland at the end of April, it was to the relief of the entire household. Elizabeth did not need her father’s repeated prompting to write to invite back her former companion. Accustomed to smiling compliance, she was astounded by a refusal, even one couched around with so many compliments and regrets. She could not privately admit the strong family ties which required Mrs Clay’s extended departure. After all, her own two children had been abandoned to the care of Shepherd and his wife, for months at a time whenever she stayed with the Elliots. Elizabeth rarely heard her mention son or daughter with regret.

Worse, Elizabeth was frustrated. She could hardly complain publicly of ill-usage as a result of that Corsican’s escape. Not when the rest of the nation was in tumult and every acquaintance, it seemed, in anxious suspense over the fate of some fighting relative or other.

As a result, she and Sir Walter had passed a solitary and irritable May and still Mrs Clay could not return. Both appreciated, although neither would admit it, that her soothing, tactful presence, calmed relations between two individuals so similar and so selfish as Elizabeth and her father.

June began with pitying looks and interrupted conversations which neither could, at first, understand. Whatever was this secret, known to the entire fashionable Bath world, from which they alone appeared excluded? Both endured insolent smiles, barbed remarks and even witticisms which made no sense. Finally, the whispered words Mr Elliot and Mrs Clay.

Naturally, a Miss Elliot could not openly pursue such an indelicate subject. So she privately pressed her astounded father to seek for more details. In exclusively masculine company, they were soon forthcoming from all quarters. Then, suitably modified, relayed to his daughter.

Could it be true? Of course not. Sir Walter’s heir! The only man she had ever seriously and repeatedly tried to captivate. The only one for whom she would willingly exchange her present rank for an equal one. A gentleman, moreover, who since before Christmas and right up to his sudden departure in March, had paid her and her father the most marked attentions. How many times had Mrs Clay herself hinted at a future match? She seemed to regard it as certain. Could her closest confidante really have betrayed her so perfidiously? Impossible. An intrigue carried on under her very eyes, yet neither she nor Sir Walter once suspect? Unthinkable.

Time, reflection and repetition caused her to doubt. Then, blushing, to realize just what ludicrous figures she and her father must appear, if the rumours proved founded. Angry pride came to her rescue and she could now reject even open assertions.

However, in private, she urged her father to take her away for a while. Anywhere. Clifton perhaps, to try the waters. Not that she enjoyed any but the most robust of health, fortunately. It was her spirits which were affected. Elizabeth even offered to endure the dull company of Lady Russell at Kellynch Lodge. Or Mary’s tedious offspring at Uppercross Cottage. She had never visited, after all, and the vaunted renovations must divert her. To date, he remained deaf to her entreaties. He pleaded straitened circumstances, which his regular gaming had yet to rectify.

Elizabeth lifted her eyes as her father entered the room, closely followed by Shepherd.

Well, that is all settled, Sir Walter began in an unconvincing manner. Elizabeth rose to acknowledge the departure of a man who had been, since her childhood, the faithful manager of their estate and one of the few who could persuade Sir Walter without creating ill-will. Instead of eclipsing himself on a bow, the lawyer produced, from inside his jacket, a letter addressed to Miss Elliott and requested her to have the great goodness to peruse it.

Her mind still running on Kellynch and its domestic concerns, Elizabeth did not consider who the author might be. If she had, she would have cast the missive from her with disgust. As it was, one brief paragraph revealed the truth. By then, it was too late. Just as Mrs Clay, Mr Elliot and Mr Shepherd had hoped.

Her brow might cloud, her lips might set, she might cast a doubtful glance at the impassive face of the lawyer, but Elizabeth must continue to read. She absorbed the explanations, acknowledged the exceptional circumstances, admitted the compliments. The friendly concern and warm affection breathed throughout was balm to her wounded feelings. Although her expression did not relax with the concluding lines, already she wanted to believe.

If Anne Elliot (now Mrs Captain Wentworth, of course) or the long-standing family friend Lady Russell had been offered the perusal of the document, they would have been less sanguine. Either, astute as they were, might have raised an eyebrow at a missive which seemed more chagrined by the annoyance suffered by the Elliots than by the irrevocable destruction of all honour and good character to the fair writer. However, neither was present. Nor was Elizabeth in the habit of considering their disinterested and mildly-offered advice.

Instead, she approached her father. He, relieved at the end of a long interview where his most trifling expenditure had been called into question, had removed to the far end of the drawing-room. There, Sir Walter remained intent on adjusting his time-piece to the clock on the mantle-piece.

This is from Penelope, from Mrs Clay, Sir. She offers a full explanation of recent events. I think you should read it too.

What? From Mrs Clay indeed. I must certainly read her version. In our own justification. I always said we were very put-upon. Very ill-used indeed. From the other side of the room, Shepherd gave a muffled sigh of relief.

By the time the epistle had received a second, then a third reading, both father and daughter were declaiming against the vicious nature of Bath society. How even the actions of the most respectable people, and their companions, were subject to mis-interpretation, then to scandal or derision. How the very air had become corrupted and contaminated.

She says that she is now free to return to us, pointed out Elizabeth. I must admit that I long for her society again.

So do I, replied her father, with a surprising warmth. Bath is full of dowdies these days. It will be a pleasure to see Penelope’s blooming face again. Especially now that Dowland has cured those few freckles. Write to her at once, my dear. Hmm, this letter is dated nearly two weeks ago. Is she still with her sister in London, Shepherd? I wonder she did not write to us directly.

Penelope returned home to me a few days ago, Sir Walter. She was so upset about the difficulties into which she, quite unknowingly, plunged you and Miss Elliot that she asked me to deliver the letter personally. At the same time, she maintains great faith in your continued friendship and protection. She is waiting in the carriage downstairs. Shall I ask her to step up?

The lawyer walked to the door with the gait of a man ten year’s younger. The patient footman was the only one to wonder at his relieved expression.

Chapter Three

The reader can readily imagine the scene that followed. The exclamations. The joy. The discreet application to a moist eye of one corner of a dainty cambric handkerchief (Sir Walter did not approve of weepers. He found even tears of joy too disfiguring.) Within a very short space, Mrs Clay was installed in her usual chamber. Her modest baggage had been removed from her father’s conveyance