ELIZABETH'S LONG PLAN
Miss Elizabeth Elliott laid the fabric down with a sigh. The peach watered silk was in the end, absolutely too expensive. Miss Elizabeth Elliott knew exactly the size of her personal bank account in 1815, as well as 1835, 1855, 1875 and all the way until August 1945. At this moment it was the smallest it would ever be, now, the February of 1815. Soon some of her investments would start paying off as an anonymous investor in the newly developing technology of steam engines and trains and her secret investments in French vin yards.
She'd only been able to invest a tiny amount, but it would accrue with time. Thank god for her grandmother's diamond ring, secretly slipped into her hand by her Nan upon her death bed. Upon that she would build an empire. It was just very hard, in this present, when women could not own things nor have bank accounts.
Thank god for masquerading as a man, a certain "Elliot Sheppard".
So, no watered peach silk for Anne and Frederick's little naval get together later in the week. A light, almost shear, cream muslin again. She smiled cooly at Marie-Berte, her modiste, and pointed at a particular plate. The woman's eyes rose and she smiled wickedly at Elizabeth. The dress would be very daring and use very little fabric, – admit it, and to use that not quite yet common term – it would be a drop-dead sexy creation. Word would get out, other woman of more substance would grace the little French woman's shop, wanting the same little dress that turned men's heads.
With a nod, she left the shop, hurried up the busy street past shops and cafes, bookstores, print shops. It started raining. Bath meant rain. Elizabeth realized she needed to pee. She scowled.
It was 1815, no public toilets, no toilets at all were near. "Damn" she hissed.
Why was she here, now, in Bath of 1815? Anne didn't need her any longer– she had her arrogant knight-errant, slobbering puppy dog now to watch over her, to take care of her. And of course, there was Charles Musgrove too. That one would never let any harm come to Anne. Little sister Mary did not need her either. Their father – he just needed someone to worship him. That new footman, a young man maybe a bit too pretty, would do very well, thank you very much.
1815, England, blah! Miss Elizabeth Elliott did not need to stay here in stinking, damp Bath, waiting for Napoleon to fall and that stupid sword of Mia's to go where it needed to go. She could just decamp for sunny Paris, the summer of 1927, or New York City. How about 1932? Watch the World Series again, Babe Ruth at bat. She could play softball in Central Park with the girls -now women - her friends, the one's she'd worked with as nurses on the battlefields of France from 1916 to 1918. They could smoke cigarettes, and swear like sailors, then head up Fifth Avenue to drink tea and shop. It would be warm, and the sky blue. She could wear loose pants.
She did not need to be walking the drizzly streets of Bath, headed to the Pump Room, angry at the world, bored and broke, a women without any meaning nor consequence in Bath except to capture a husband and sip the fetid waters of Bath. She stopped at a bookstore window, hoping to see a magazine - something like a Vogue, Nash's or a McClures. She sighed. Nothing but her reflection and beyond it a copy of "Mansfield Park" with that horrid, bloodless, whiney Fanny Price gracing the pages.
Turning she walked along the windy misty street, nodded coldly at Mrs. Bingley walking with her sister-in-law, Caroline Bingley. Couldn't stand either of them. The oh, so filthy rich Mrs. Jane Bingley, who was so sickeningly sweet, angelic and perfect, and so utterly vapid, ditzy, and always so most easily shocked. Elizabeth Elliott's cigarillo and her need to discuss politics over tea had sent Mrs. Bingley into vapours, the silly woman saying she "Absolutely needed to meet her sister Lizzie." With an evil smile, one evening, she'd even thought of introducing the pretty woman to opium or lanandum. But Jane Bingley, compared to her sister-in-law Caroline, was truly was a sweety and a good soul, a woman with a truly kind heart. Elizabeth simply could not stand the shallow and slightly stupid Miss Caroline Bingley. That one was always pretty, fashionable, mercenary and snobby. She was money wanting more money.
Elizabeth ignored Mrs. Bingley's "Hello Miss Elliott, would you…"and the offered space under her umbrella. With a quite cool nod she walked quickly past the two elegant women, as if she had an appointment to keep. Despite it, she could feel Mrs. Bingley's honest hurt and Miss Bingley's anger at being snubbed by just "a poor baronet's daughter".
But then, she saw him. Her heart caught in her throat.
Blood rose in her veins, pumping hard, heat flared in her belly, the sound of the traffic around her went silent.
Did he see her?
No, he was talking with several other sailors, his face almost in profile. He was taller, his shoulders wider than the others, he was so more dashing, so more manly than any other man in wore his simple blue jacket, a muffler around his neck for the cold wind, a hat pulled low, the wind catching some rebel strand of hair. Even from here she could see his eyes creased deeply in laughter, his skin still weather darkened. Watching the hurrying crowd, she realized he drew people's eyes, his bearing, his look, his spirit. He was handsome, he was strong, he was a leader.
She hadn't realized that she had come to a stop until a couple bumped into her. She went and stood against the wall, not hidden, but unseen by him, just watching him.
He threw back his head and laughed, and a sun beam broke from the dark sky, leapt out and caught his face as he did so, as if he were a minor god, and the sun would and should smile upon him. His teeth flashed white against his sea darkened skin. His friend laughed with him, then they all turned and headed down the street talking animatedly. With a sudden sadness she knew he'd not seen her standing across the street, like a deer startled by a hunter.
She let out a shuddering sigh, confused again of what she felt when she saw him. It was so like what she had felt the first time she'd ever seen him, standing staring at her with that teasing, arrogant smile on his face. That flare of emotion, of familiarity and warmth in her heart, her soul leaping forward and shouting, "Here, here is the beloved." Her heart and belly must be wrong. He was not an earl.
It just had to be his... physical attraction. He was... the term would not be in fashion until the roaring '20s... hot. But... but there was something else. What was this she was feeling, if she were honest to herself? Yes there was hunger in her body for him, but there… was something more. Something beyond want, more than yes… but that feeling, what word encompassed it?
She realized she wanted him to see her, to simply see her. She wanted him to smile at her like he had smiled at those friends.
The clouds closed again, the sky suddenly seemed more threatening. Rain started to fall.
"Miss Elizabeth, are you ok?" The gentleness of the voice behind her startled her.
Elizabeth jerked straight, spun, dropping a cold, disdain filled look on her face before she turned to glance up at Captain Frederick Wentworth. Damn the man, she thought. She hoped to god he'd not caught anything, not a single thing, on her face as she watched Croft's bosun, Long, walk away.
Gently he said, "You are getting wet, sister." He held out an umbrella, despite the water glistening on his jacket. Did this nobody always have to always play the noble gentleman? Admiral McGillvary and that most capital of asses, John Broyle - the future Viscomt Randall, were with him.
"Well obviously we have no need for umbrella's if yours is not up." She snapped at him, tossing an icy look at Broyle. Wentworth's face went cold and bland, he nodded brusquely at her and pulled Broyle past.
"Miss E, you never could raise a mast." Broyle muttered as he walked by, unheard by the others. "Despite your obvious delights."
She hissed.
McGillvary stopped, leant over. "You seem a bit over-excited, Miss Elliott," the handsome young admiral observed dryly. He glanced down the road at the disappearing band of common sailors, then smiled as he stepped by her, "They're good for a romp but not a single one of those will ever pay any your bills."
"Tapette!" She spat after him as he hurried to join the two others, doubting any of them spoke street French. He flipped her a bird, behind his back. She scowled. Only the Navy set would ignore that one's Greek sins. Spinning she stalked off in the direction Wentworth hadn't.
She refused Lady Russell's offer for a ride to her father's, not wanting to be lectured at, and instead stood shivering, trying to decide where to go as the rain fell harder and the wind started to gust. Croft's house drew her, but it would be best to go home, change into dry clothes.
As she hurried along, getting wetter, she wondered why hadn't she taken the old bat's offer. Her boots were wet, her hat dripping, and she couldn't magick herself dry in public. She now even regretted not taking Wentworth's offered umbrella, and walked with her head down, rain pouring off of her wilted hat.
Suddenly a deep voice, surprisingly concerned, exorted "Miss E. You're wet!"
She spun, and Long stood there, staring at her surprised, a hard to read look on his face.
"Let me call you a chair." His voice was kind, concerned. When he saw her consternation, he said with a gentle smile, "Don't worry, my gift. My coin's good for it."
"No, Mr. Long. Thank you."
He smiled at her faux pas.
Damn, had she just called an ex-bosun mister? Had she just raised him from just a lowly not to be bothered with "just Long" to a "Mr. Long"? Raised him to almost a gentleman?
"No, Long, I'm quite fine. I am headed home…" She tried recamp, to sound normal, not let the confusion his eyes threw her into fall into her voice.
He smiled, a true and warm smile that rose into face, flashed in his eyes. No, their sparkling brightness - it was a smile that started in his eyes. No, it started maybe in his heart, and then curled his lips. His lips…
"If so, Miss E, you are headed to your father's home that is the wrong way. That direction surely is Admiral Crofts." His smile was kind, his voice teasing. He used that oh so elevated accent he'd mimic every now and then, as if he felt his betters could not understand the servants used.
"What ever!" She tried to sound commanding and collected. "I am, after all, allowed to to see my always absent sister, am I not?"
He smiled tenderly. "Of course, miss. And you just go only to see Miss Anne. And of course to discuss the weather with the captain. You never go to see anyone else?"
Yes, it was true. She had been at Crofts quite a bit recently, maybe too much, but there was the seeing to of that child wizard, visiting with Anne, sparring with that dog her sister would lower herself severely to marry. She really needed to act as a duenna between the two. Sipping Long's mixed alcohols was just part of it. She really was needed, going to see those others to make sure her sister was not compromising her honour.
But of course Anne never would. She was an upright, uptight prig.
Long always just happened to be there - all the time. Of course, he should be. Long was not a gentleman. Long worked there.
Elizabeth started as she looked in his eyes. What were they really saying? Was there something in his eye?
A sudden gust and wind hit them hard, rain hammered down. He pulled her against the meagre shelter of a building wall.
"Miss E - Let me help you!" He spun off his jacket, held it over both their heads, pushing her tighter against the building as the heavy rain fell black and cold around them, his body, his jacket protecting her from the cold rain. In the small protection of his body and wall she whispered "Dry", and "No rain" in the language her mothers' had spoken since time immemorial. The stood crammed in that tiny sheltering square, bodies almost pressed together, the scent of him enveloping her.
She was startled by the funny look on his handsome face as he stared in her eyes.
Would anyone see just who a common sailor had pressed against this wall? Would they see only "some skirt", her too thin fabric whipping in the wind, just a common drab pressed against a wall? Would they see who he bent over, pretending to shelter from the rain? Could anyone see her face, raw and startled by his eyes, her emotions unschooled?
His eyes were younger, he was younger then she'd thought at first. His face was weathered, even battered, by fists, waves and wind; it was true, just as her father said, all sailors faces were old before their time. It was beaten, honed by the sea and sun, yet handsome. He was maybe of her own age, a touch older. Which was quite young, thank you kindly. It was a face filled with experience, life. Humour, keen intelligence, discernment played in his eyes, and every now and then she had caught a flash of joy or a thing soft and so gentle playing in there when he would look at her in the elegant rooms of Sophia Croft.
Did she hear whispered in the wind "Quid hoc est?". But a common sailor would not whisper to the rain in Latin. How long did they stand there eyes caught in their private space?
When did her lips find his? She knew it was she who stepped closer to him, moved her face upwards towards his, close, then closer. Finally, brushing hers on his. She felt him shiver like a horse.
But he only stood there, his eye filled with marvel and startlement. His lips tasted of mint tea, and his kiss flared of life and joy and growing things. She suddenly thought of the streams of Kellynch and the mosses and forest where she had been so safe. She fell -or maybe pressed -deeper into that kiss. Her hands went his chest, such a hard chest, muscled and firm. His lips were hungry, but he never pressed back, just accepted her kisses with a warm joy, and his arms never lowered the sheltering jacket above them. She was the one to pull him close, her arms slipping under his jacket, drawing him to her. The heat of his body startled her, she wanted to curl tighter against it.
The soft gentleness, joy, and even want in his eyes was suddenly replaced by concern, worry. "Miss E – we need to get you home. This is not quite proper! Can't compromise your… on doit... Now, ma'amselle."
Did the man speak French on top of Latin?
Not asking, hidden by the black, cold, driving rain, he herded her with his body, the jacket over her head always as he trotted her towards the Croft's, their legs in a quick unison, as if they'd always walked together at the same beat. The rain poured down heavier, colder. They dashed faster. A particularly strong gust slammed her, drove her stumbling into him. Her breath caught as their bodies tangled. A firm arm righted her, but didn't let go as they sprinted the last little bit towards the house, he half carrying, half dragging her while she almost dragged him through the cold black February rain.
Coming to the house she stumbled to a stop suddenly in horror. Lady Russell's carriage was pulled up in cold realization she saw Wentworth's face at the window looking out at the rain, notice them with surprise; but then the man spun away, turning to say something to someone in the room as and whipped the curtain shut behind him.
Long half pulling her, half carrying her, she half dragging him, they ran up the steps to the main door as the rain slammed them again.
He pushed her through the door, alone, turned, was gone.
At least the man knew the proper door to go through, despite how impertinent he was. Elizabeth glanced at the door behind her, hearing his feet descend the stairs, a quick thought, How much does a major-domo make working for an admiral? Can he afford a carriage?