Elizabeth Elliot Seeks a Husband Part I

I first posted this story four years ago and I thought it was worth putting out there once again. I almost exclusively write Pride & Prejudice variations, but I had wanted to stretch myself a bit and decided to explore a character from my second favourite Austen novel, Persuasion. Even more of a challenge—trying to make Elizabeth Elliot a sympathetic character!

There are three parts to the story, and I will be posting them once a week. I hope you enjoy my wee tale!

Part I: August (After the Wedding)

Everyone claimed it was the perfect day for a wedding, but Miss Elizabeth Elliot did not see what was particularly wonderful about it. So what if the sky remained cloudless and the temperature was neither too warm nor too hot? What did it matter that Bath had never looked so lovely with an abundance of flowers blossoming wherever one looked, the mix of pinks, purples, yellows, and whites gently waving in such a cheerful manner and the sweet scent perfuming the air? It did not signify that the streets were clean and the window displays along Milsom Street were more interesting than she had ever seen them. She did not care about any of it. If anything, the third of August would forever be Elizabeth’s least favourite day of the year.

Although Anne and Captain Frederick Wentworth had announced their betrothal at the beginning of March, the wedding had been delayed due to a minor ailment, really it sounded remarkably trifling, his brother suffered in the spring. That meant that for five months Elizabeth had to listen to conversations about Anne’s wedding, help with preparation for the wedding breakfast, or attend Anne when she went shopping. It was intolerable.

When at last the wedding day arrived, Elizabeth had smiled and inclined her head with every ounce of politeness she could muster throughout the ceremony. She did not falter even when she overheard a whispered conversation between two young ladies she had previously thought of as friends.

“Miss Anne does look lovely,” Miss Davies said.

Miss Evans giggled. “That shall be the last time you call her ‘Miss Anne’! It will be Mrs Wentworth in a few minutes. She must be relieved to have made such an eligible match at her age.”

“I would die if I were unmarried and so close to thirty!”

“You mean, like Miss Elliot is? No one will want her now. She might as well accept her spinsterhood and start wearing a cap.”

“It would flatter her more than how she usually styles her hair!”

Both girls laughed.

Miss Evans sighed. “Miss Anne does look lovely. Her gown is perfection.”

Elizabeth Elliot coughed and jerked her head in the direction of the pair, which succeeded in making them hold their tongues. She supposed Anne did look well—for Anne. Miss Evans is not wrong about Anne’s dress. It is a lovely shade of yellow, the palest of creams, so light and—Well, it does not matter. The gown may be beautiful, but it would look better on me, because Anne is plain and I am not. Elizabeth grimaced as she admitted to herself that Anne did not look particularly plain today. The snow white, lace-trimmed veil she wore and colourful bouquet she held almost made her pretty. The broad grin she wore as she gazed at Captan Wentworth—handsome in his uniform—and the sparkle in her eyes added to her charms.

Not that I begrudge her a naval officer for a husband. She has thrown herself away, just as our sister did.

The wedding breakfast was its own trial. Must every guest congratulate her? Why were there so many people in attendance?

“Such a happy day for your family!” Lady Sophia Chapman exclaimed. “It is quite the romantic tale, is it not? Separated for so many years, only to be reunited when the captain’s sister and her husband let your father’s estate. But, Miss Elliot, I am worried you will feel the loss of Mrs Wentworth’s company.”

“I assure you, I shall manage perfectly well without her,” Elizabeth had responded with all of her dignity. Regret the loss of Anne’s company? Never! It would be a relief to have the wedding over and to never have to speak about it again.

After the wedding breakfast was done, the last guest gone, and the newlyweds departed to spend a fortnight by the sea before retiring to their new estate in Somerset, Elizabeth Elliot at last was alone. She went to her room, fashionably decorated with floral wallpaper and mahogany furniture, and sat at her dressing table.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she scowled. She was tired of seeing her younger sisters married, sick of hearing them called Mrs while she remained Miss. How insupportable it would be to remain always her father’s daughter! With each week of Anne’s betrothal, Sir Walter’s silliness and conceit became ever more apparent. Practically fawning over Captain Wentworth just because some people in Bath consider him worth knowing! Congratulating himself for Anne’s match? His manner towards Admiral Croft is almost as bad. I care not what other people say. I have never seen anything to admire in him. She giggled at her little pun. Her father’s expectation that she would be his constant companion was becoming a heavy weight around her neck. If it went on much longer, she would be stooped down like an old woman.

I want a home of my own and a family.

The words she had overheard at the church came back to her. Miss Davies and Miss Evans were not wrong. At nine-and-twenty, Elizabeth had little time remaining before she was on the shelf. A spinster! Me! Miss Elizabeth Elliot, eldest daughter of Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch! With nothing to look forward to other than playing sycophant to people like Lady Dalrymple and her daughter and caring for my father as he declines with age? Never!

She considered her visage as she removed her jewellery and pulled pins from her hair. No one had commented on herlooks during that long, interminable day even though she wore a new gown. It was pink, had two rows of ruffles at the bottom of the skirt, and was very pretty. There is nothing wrong with how I dress my hair, either, and I wore the striped bonnet with the ribbons and feathers. It becomes me perfectly; the girl in the shop agreed. But no, it was Anne this and Anne that all day long.

“Anne, a beauty?” she scoffed. “Her wedding day or not, I have never heard anything so stupid. I would as soon call my sister Mary a wit or Papa a financial genius!” Her thoughts tasted bitter, but her dissatisfaction was justified.

How miserable the last five months had been. Anne’s betrothal to the handsome, eligible captain who, somehow, still loved her despite the eight years they had been separated was bad enough. The betrayal of Mr Elliot and Mrs Clay was at least as horrible. Mrs Clay whom she had befriended! Mrs Clay who was determined to become Lady Elliot. Well, she deserved to be abandoned by my cousin. No respectable person will ever receive her again. As for him—” She huffed. “It was bad enough that he preferred Anne to me, but to know that his only true interest was to prevent my father’s remarriage!”

Anger and humiliation made her stomach roil and blood heat. When her maid stuck her head into the room, Elizabeth waved her away. She remained sitting at her dressing table for long minutes before rational thought returned.

She would find a husband. She must find a husband. Any respectable man of sufficient income would do. Summer or not, there were a sufficient number of gentleman in Bath to provide her with her choice of husband. I do not require a title. All I want is a good match. If she made the greater portion of single ladies in Bath envious with her marriage, all the better.

And once I am married, I shall throw every pretty young thing I meet into my father’s path. I will coax him into marriage, even trick him into it if necessary. If she has a fortune, all the better. Papa is not too old to sire an heir, and oh, how I would rejoice to know Mr Elliot’s wish to be a baronet was thwarted.

First, she would attend to her own future. I will be the most active lady, the most gracious guest, and generous hostess. Whatever it took, she would succeed.

***

Elizabeth’s first opportunity to enact her scheme arose the next week when she joined a party of friends at a concert. Her gown was in the latest style, and its Pomona green and primrose yellow suited her perfectly. She wore her mother’s emeralds and scolded her maid until the stupid girl had arranged her hair properly with just the one curl hanging down and the noble shape of her face properly displayed. Elizabeth defied any gentleman to resist her.

The performance could not hold her attention, and she spent the greater part of the evening subtly surveying the eligible gentlemen.

He is too old. Not him, either; I will not marry a poor man. Good heavens, no! I am not so desperate.

Having started to her left, she was three-quarters of the way around the hall when she saw a gentleman watching her. He was perhaps five and thirty, not particularly handsome, and in desperate need of a better valet. Who is he, and why is he staring at me? He could not be anyone of significance; if he were, she would know his name.

She dismissed him and resumed her search. When she had almost given up, her eyes landed on a suitable target. Sir Richard Strachan! He shall do admirably. Sir Richard was two and thirty and had recently come into his father’s estate in Yorkshire. Elizabeth would not like to live so far north, but she supposed they would spend most of the year in London or Bath, so having to go to Yorkshire now and again would be tolerable.

Once the concert was finally finished, she told one of her friends that she had seen another of their acquaintances near where Sir Richard’s party stood. Elizabeth claimed a desperate need to talk to the young lady, who may or may not have been in attendance. Instead, Elizabeth managed to accidentally bumped into Sir Richard.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, sir,” she cried. Looking up, she feigned surprise. “Sir Richard! I had no notion it was you I so unceremoniously ran into. It is so crowded, is it not? Please do relieve my mortification and say you will forgive me.” She dipped her chin and looked up at him as she blinked several times. She understood gentlemen found such things alluring for some reason. It did nothing but make her feel off-balance, and she came near to clutching his arm lest she fall and make a fool of herself. She smiled and with great care rested a hand on his forearm, as she waited for him to speak.

“I dare say— Oh, Miss Elliot, it is you. Well, of course, of course. Crowded, ain’t it?”

‘Ain’t it?’ And he calls himself a gentleman? For five or six thousand a year, a very fine estate, and no parents or unmarried siblings, I can forgive such dreadful language, I suppose. She giggled. “It is. Did you enjoy the music? I adore Pelham Pepusch*.” She gave his arm a little squeeze which must have surprised him as it jerked, and he lowered his eyes to her hand. When he looked at her, she gave him a shy smile.

Why is he looking at me like that? His brows were pulled together, and he pulled his head back on his neck which made him look like he had an additional chin.

“Er, do you? Can’t say I—”.

“Oh? Which composers do you like? I am sure you know ever so much more than I do about music. I would love to discuss it with you, Sir Richard, or anything else that interests you.”

She closed her eye ever so slightly—not enough to call it a wink, but too much for it to be unnoticed—and pressed his arm again.

His upper lip curled, and he stepped backwards. “I say, Miss Elliot, are you quite well? There appears to be something amiss with your left eye.” He turned to his friend, who most definitely had not spoken, and said, “What’s that, Franks? Right, right. I am at your disposal. Off we go.”

With a perfunctory bow, he turned on his heel and walked away. Elizabeth’s hand dropped to her side, and she watched as Sir Richard said something to Mr and Mrs Franks. Mrs Frank looked back at Elizabeth, and her lips quivered in amusement, while Mr Franks guffawed.

Standing across from her, not twenty feet away, was the strange man she had noticed during the performance. He caught her eye, smirked, and winked.

Elizabeth’s cheeks burned, and she made her escape as quickly as possible.

*To my knowledge, no composer named Pelham Pepusch ever existed. The name is a composite of two English Baroque composers.

We’ll find out who the mystery gentleman is next week. Thanks for reading!