Love Suffers Long and Is Kind, Volume II
(Chapter 1)
"Crayshaw, see Mrs Wentworth into the house and then come to fetch the trunk. Louisa, go on and I shall be in directly," he said as he helped her from the carriage.
"Certainly, Fredri. . . Captain. Please, don't be long, it is looking to be colder tonight," Louisa said softly. While she was concerned about him being out of doors in the damps, she was also nervous about what was to come. It was a relief that she would have time alone to bring some order to her thoughts. It would seem that the Captain also needed some time alone.
After Crayshaw had accomplished his tasks, Frederick motioned for the groom to take the carriage to the barn and put the horses away. Once he had learned Anne's need of the Musgrove's carriage, that she might immediately be returned to Bath, it was not long before a few pound notes in the proper hands had fetched for him a rented carriage from Crewekern. It had been a few hours before it had been put to use bringing the couple the short three miles from Uppercross to Kellynch Hall, but the Captain took comfort in knowing Charles would have seen Anne well cared for and taken back to Bath for a much needed rest.
Buttoning his greatcoat, Frederick took care finding the walkway in the dark. The winter night was quiet, no sound but the heels of his pumps crunching on the graveled walk. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he studied the sky. The stars had made their appearance and as he watched, he absently named them to himself. He thought about longitudes and latitudes. He thought about maps and in his mind, plotted his literal place in the world, thinking how in but a few weeks, that place would be hundreds of miles from Somerset
But as he stood in the garden of Kellynch Hall, he wondered just where was his figurative place. He was now married and endeavoring to work himself to go in and commence with his honeymoon. Most men would have no such struggle, laying with a lovely young woman such as Louisa would bring anticipation, not hesitation or reluctance. But as time went on, Frederick saw more and more that he was not most men.
Finding a stone bench facing a wide, treeless expanse, he sat. The moon, what there was of it, had risen and was now making its way across the sky. Frederick knew that he could not keep to the bench in the garden much longer, he had an obligation to his wife. But the honour which had obliged him to offer for Louisa's hand was at odds with the sensibilities which, over the years, had made him compare every woman to Anne Elliot. His honour cried out for him to do the right thing, while his passionate self desired more than an empty subjugation to duty. The past months had rekindled the thoughts of another woman, a woman small and dark and of an elegant mind. This was the woman he thought would always hold his heart and drive his passion. Now that was impossible, he had married another.
Standing and beginning to walk by the thin moonlight through the neatly planned walkways, Frederick thought about a face. It was the face behind the veil at the wedding. The ceremony itself had been a haze. Only Edward's nudges in the proper places had kept him looking reasonably attentive. As he had raised the lace for the kiss, he thought he had glanced away from Louisa's face, but now as he stood growing cold in the garden, he was able to remember what he had truly seen.
Louisa's eyes had been bright. The blue was light, but appealing. There had been some tears to add a sparkle and her lashes were dark from those same tears. There had been no need for paint to heighten the bloom of youth, as it had been heightened by the flush of her excitement. She had, no doubt, been biting her lips throughout the vows as they were a lovely high rose. As he had reluctantly moved to give the bride's kiss, he had seen the closing of her eyes and the tilt of her head; she had anticipated his kiss and was obviously desirous of his touch. The kiss had been as short as he could make it without seeming indifferent. The rest of the day had been spent in the well-wishing and festivities of the occasion. He now remembered that lovely face, it had been so completely trusting of him.
It was well after seven in the evening before the couple was able to leave Uppercross. Earlier in the day he had bid goodbye to his few supports; the Admiral and Sophy had left in late morning, hoping to make Bath by nightfall. Edward had begun his long journey back to Shropshire by staying with Dr. Shirley for the Sabbath rest. Harville and Benwick had left in the afternoon only having a three-hour ride home to Lyme. Kellynch would now be deserted except for the servants. Taking a deep breath, he made his way to the front door.
As he came into the front hall, the clock sounded nine. Giving over his coat and hat to Crayshaw, he asked where Mrs Wentworth had gone. Motioning to the sitting room, the man disappeared. Frederick walked to the doorway and looked in. Louisa sat on a sofa that faced the fire. Looking closer, he could see that she was resting her head on her arm, which she had rested on the sofa's arm. Coming closer, he found her asleep. In the midst of reaching out to awaken her so that they might go upstairs, he stopped himself.
He could not help noticing the pretty picture she made. She had changed her gown from that she had worn at the ceremony, but she had kept the flowers and ribbons that her hair had been dressed with and these had loosened as the day had progressed. As she lay there sleeping, he, for just a moment thought how she had the look of a sweet, tousled little girl. He noticed that her other hand rested on a book of engravings.
The book was Croft's and the pictures were of the ships which had triumphed at Trafalgar. It lay open to the print of the Naiad, the frigate on which George had served as the First to Captain Thomas Dundas. She had apparently been studying this one picture. A fine Naval fervour that girl, he thought.
Frederick observed her for a time and determined that perhaps her tiredness could be used to his advantage. He was disinclined to consummate their marriage, and she was obviously too exhausted . . . It would be unfeeling to try and carry this out, we both being so . . . overborne. Feeling guilty that his hesitation had nothing to do with Louisa's comfort, he decided nonetheless to take advantage of the situation as it was presented.
Leaning over, he whispered, "Louisa . . . Louisa. You must wake up now." Touching her arm brought no response and so he shook her just a little.
Her eyes slowly opened and she stared at him. He had seen people slow to awaken, but she was staring with no comprehension of anything. She did not look about, nor did she express any recognition of him. Slowly, a smile came to her lips and she said his name.
"Yes. It's Frederick. Are you all right? You seemed . . . lost." He worried that perhaps all the preparations for the wedding had brought on an exhaustion which had harmed her and that she was worsening.
Sitting up, she said sleepily, "Yes . . . I am fine. I have always taken a long time to wake, but since Lyme, . . . well it is more so. I am never quite sure where I am. But even before that . . . Charles has always said that if I was needed early in the morning, then I should be awakened the night before. I'm sorry that I fell asleep. The servants asked if we wanted anything, I said we did not, but if you would care for something I can ring . . ." She made a move to get up, but he stopped her.
"No, Louisa. I don't wish for anything. I think that I should take you upstairs and you can go to bed."
"Oh. Certainly. I . . . suppose we should retire now," she said slowly.
"Louisa . . . I think that . . . perhaps it would be wise that we not . . . you are excessively fatigued and I do not wish to . . . I think it would be best for us to wait . . . perhaps until tomorrow." He was not certain, but he thought he saw a hint of relief in her eyes.
Looking away, she said, "Yes . . . perhaps you are right . . . I am tired and . . . well . . ." Her voice trailed off. She was torn in her own heart. She wished to go on with their wedding night, but she was very nearly exhausted . . .
Seeing that she would acquiesce, he felt a stab of guilt that her weariness would serve his purposes so well. He stood back and offered her his hand. As she used the arm of the sofa to aid in her rising, a hardly discernible moan passed her. Looking at her face closely for the first time that evening, he was startled to see how pale she was and that there were dark circles under her eyes. The fatigue was palpable and he could not help feeling a twinge of compassion.
Why he offered what he did next, he did not know, but . . . "Let me carry you upstairs. It's that least that I can do . . . it was my doing that all this came about so quickly and that you are so tired."
Frowning, Louisa replied, "No! I do not wish to be carried like . . . like a child. I am a grown woman, I can walk up the stairs perfectly well."
"Some might think it rather romantic . . . you know . . .to be carried." He was surprised that his mind would betray him by even thinking such a thing.
"I suppose that some would, if they were not exhausted and going to go to bed . . . alone. I would prefer you offer me your arm and we shall go up that way." Her eyes betrayed her tiredness, but there was a slight smile in the curve of her lips.
Offering her his arm, he said, "Certainly, Madam. I would be pleased to give you my arm." As they walked through the hall and up the stairs, he realised how, other than the few weeks in November, he knew her very little, and how over the past few days he again had put forth no effort to know her. A silly girl would have taken great delight in being carried up the stairs, but it was clear that Louisa wished him to think of her as a woman, not a child. Taking sideways glances at her, he saw her stifle a yawn and smiled to himself. What a front she puts on. . . she is tired to the bone.
Coming to the door of the front apartment that Sophy had arranged they have, he turned to her. "This is where your trunk was taken, the maid should be waiting. I shall sleep in my old rooms . . . it is down the hall and to the left. I shall come in the morning and we can breakfast together, then to Church."
"All right. Thank you, Frederick. You are good not to press the matter. Things will be better tomorrow night. I promise." She gave him a weary smile that complimented the slight blush very nicely.
Hesitantly, she put her arms around his neck and rested her head against his chest. Returning her embrace, they stood quietly for a time. He was torn, much of him enjoyed the feel of her against him, but another part was loath that he could so easily be drawn in. After all, he did love another.
Speaking softly, he said, "I think you should be to bed now. It gets later the longer we stand here."
Looking up to his face, she replied, "Yes . . . I know. Good night then." She remained in his arms, she made no move away.
Knowing she wished more, he leant closer and kissed her. During, she gently caressed his neck and he could feel her responding to him and his touch. To his great consternation, he too was responding to hers. Gently pulling himself away, he sent her off to bed.
After undressing and getting settled for the night, he lay staring into the darkness. He was relieved that Louisa's tiredness had given them both an excuse to put off the wedding night. Turning over on his side, he chided himself for being nearly as quixotical as dewy-eyed James Benwick. I am far worse, for rather than throw over my pride and take for myself the perfect woman, I carried on stupidly and have had to marry for Îhonour' without giving proper thought to myself or Louisa's feelings. James would never allow himself to be so foolhardy.
Turning again, his mind wandered over the day and all that had gone on. As he felt sleep overtaking him, one of his last thoughts was Louisa. As she had gone into her room, she had given him one last look . . . and a smile as she had closed the door.
(Chapter 2)
Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. Anne shifted in her bed, pulling the blankets closer, trying to find a more comfortable position. She could not. It was of no use; sleep had fled and her mind was racing. She studied her moonlit room, remembering the dream. Just the thought of it made her cheeks grow hot again, yet she could think of nothing else.
She had been in this room, sitting up in this bed, reading by the light of a candle on the bedside table. Every so often she felt herself glance up, as if she were waiting for something. It was not long before soft footfalls sounded in the hall outside; they stopped, then the door began to open slowly, cautiously, as if someone wanted to be as quiet as possible. Whoever it was carried a candle; she could see its light advancing into the room. Anne felt herself lay down the book, a smile hovering on her lips.
It was a man who entered. He held the candle in his left hand; his right arm carried his greatcoat and hat. He turned his back toward the bed, as if using his body to shield the candlelight from her. Anne noticed he was wearing a naval officer's dress uniform. Strangely, she felt no apprehension that this man had just entered her bedchamber.
"Hello! You're in rather late. Did you enjoy your evening?" she heard herself ask.
"Anne! Have you been waiting up all this time, for me? I didn't mean to ... " He set down the candle, laid his greatcoat and hat on the chair, and began to shrug off his frock coat. "I'm sorry. It must be after three, at least." He turned towards her, smiling apologetically. It was then she saw his face. It was Captain James Benwick.
James Benwick! In my bedchamber! Anne was shocked. She heard her voice calmly saying, "I don't mind. I couldn't sleep and I have been enjoying my book."
He pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket and groaned. "I'm sorry it's so abominably late. In the first place, dinner was delayed -- not that it mattered to us -- and after that, well, you know how it is." He began unfastening his neckcloth. "Everyone had to tell their favorite story, and usually they're long and embellished with new," he raised his eyebrows, "and probably non-factual details, and sometimes we heard several versions of the same one ..." He stripped off the neckcloth, and his collar, and began to unbutton his waistcoat. "Then we argued and heckled the Îyarn-spinners' about which version was true ..." The waistcoat joined the pile on the chair.
"Let's see ... then several of the captains kept us in stitches with tales of their adventures in India and Portugal ... and later on one of the admirals prosed on and on about," he deepened his voice, " The French Menace. And after that we finally we got to discussing what Bonaparte may be up to, which," he grinned at her, "is what I really wanted to hear about in the first place." He walked around to her side of the bed and paused at her bedside table. She heard the him place his cufflinks in the small china bowl she kept there. He began unbuttoning his shirt.
Anne was horrified; he was actually undressing right in front of her!! She had never seen a man who was not fully clothed; even the laborers on her father's estate had kept themselves covered! But Benwick was treating the whole thing as very commonplace ... and so was she! Indeed, her only response was to close her book and put it on the table beside the china bowl.
"I'm glad to hear you've been enjoying your book," he continued. "When I left tonight you seemed rather low."
"Oh, no, not low, exactly ... really, I ..."
He paused, giving her a questioning look. "Hmmm?"
"Oh, well, it's just that ..." Now it was her turn to smile apologetically at him. "It's just that I hate all this dreary, endless ... rain."
Anne felt herself shrug and then she suffered yet another shock. Her hair! It was loose, tumbling down over her shoulders. Where was her cap? For that matter, where was her thick flannel nightdress?!! She was wearing, no, she couldn't be wearing ... Elizabeth's silk chemise, the one from Paris, the one that was thin and clinging ... and positively indecent!! Why didn't she seem to notice this? Didn't she care?
James sat on the bed next to her, smiling down at her in a most unsettling manner. "Poor Annie." His hand gently brushed a lock of stray hair from her eyes. "Shall we escape? How about Barcelona?"
"Barcelona?" she heard herself chuckle. " After all your stories of ..."
Now he was leaning over her, tenderly kissing her neck, then her chin, then her lips. "I promise" he murmured, " not to make you eat octopus ... or squid ... or ..."
"... James," she heard her voice whisper; her arms eagerly reached up to return his embrace, pulling him closer to her. She felt herself surrender to the pleasure of the feel of his lips on hers, to his caresses, to his gentle murmurings of pleasure ...
Anne had come fully awake at that, sitting bolt upright in bed. What in heaven's name was I doing??!! Kissing James Benwick, of all people!! Dressed like a ... well, never mind!! He was here, in this very room, sitting on my bed, half-undressed, smiling at me in that way ...
Anne covered her face with her hands, remembering. She gave herself a mental shake. This was a dream. It never, ever happened. And yet ... she sat up and reached over to the bedside table. How clearly she could recall the distinctive ringing sound made by Benwick's cufflinks as he placed them in the china bowl. Her fingers found the bowl in the darkness. She picked it up; the bowl was empty. Anne sank back on her pillow, relieved. Only a dream. Such a vivid, living dream.
The clock struck again; Anne groaned inwardly. I must sleep! She closed her eyes and hugged her pillow, willing herself to relax, but her thoughts rebelled. How many years have I hugged my pillow and dreamed of Frederick Wentworth?
Anne could not help but consider this. How many years, indeed? When she thought of sharing her bed, she had always expected that it would be with Frederick, or with someone very like him. Someone who was manly, and tall, and handsome ... and brave, and gallant, and strong. Someone heroic and romantic, not someone like James Benwick.
But I can no longer dream of Frederick now. Her throat tightened and another wave of embarrassment threatened to overcome her as she remembered that this was his wedding night. This very night he shared his bed with Louisa; even now she was sleeping beside him. It mattered not that Frederick had loved her all those years; he had taken another as his wife. Would he surrender to the enjoyment of Louisa's kisses as easily as she had to James Benwick's?
In a dream, she chided herself; only in that horrid dream! She put her hands up to her flaming cheeks. I must be sensible. There is a reason why I dreamed this. I must find it. Now think!
And so she lay there, searching her mind for an explanation, any explanation. She had spent hours in his company, it was true: sitting on his lap, weeping in his arms, walking by his side, laughing with him at the clever remarks they had bantered back and forth. To be perfectly honest, even the most impartial observer would have to conclude that they were lovers!
But we are not! Anne rolled over in bed, wanting to hide from her memories, from her shame, from her own self. Her most carefully guarded, most hidden secret had been revealed to this man, in every loathsome detail! The very man who would be able to recognise Frederick's handwriting ... and his identity! How could I have been such a fool?
And how could I have dreamed of him? She took a deep breath and began again to look for a reason. They had been at a wedding, would she not naturally dream of being a wife? That is, if I was his wife! Some of the men of the Navy had scandalous reputations where women were concerned ... but surely not James Benwick! And surely he would not be interested in me! Although he had made considerable progress, she knew he was continuing to nurse a broken heart for his beloved Fanny.
Fanny!! She practically gasped at the thought. That's it! Anne's tired brain was ready to snatch at anything, and it did. I was dreaming that I was Fanny Harville ... out of sympathy for him! He had not said, ÎPoor Annie' as I had supposed, he had said, ÎPoor Fanny'! This conclusion brought a tremendous sense of relief. As Fanny, of course she would have wanted him to kiss her. And it was rather pleasant, as Fanny, to kiss a man in that way, to wrap her arms around him and hold him close, to hear him murmur tender words of love for her, to know that he preferred her to every other woman. It had been a long time since Frederick had done that ... a very long time.
She had not realised how lonely she was, how much she missed being held by a man, being touched ... by anyone. For other than taking the proffered arm of a gentleman occasionally, or holding her young nephews, Anne had no physical contact with another. She thought about this, remembering how she had been nearly overcome last autumn, when Frederick had put her into the Croft's gig, gently lifting her with his own hands. To him, such a thing was probably unremarkable, but to me, it was so much! And yesterday ... to be held in such a comforting, secure way! It is no wonder, then, that I dreamed that I was Fanny. Yes, no wonder at all.
Anne lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes, sighing contentedly; at last she would be able to sleep. She had explained it; it was nothing. There was a perfectly reasonable, sensible answer to it all.
But just as sleep was beginning to steal over her, a renegade thought reared its head: Why would Fanny be wearing Elizabeth's silk nightdress ... and why would Fanny have my china bowl on her bedside table?
Anne wrenched herself over in bed and clamped her pillow over her head. She could barely hear the clock downstairs as it chimed four. Sleep would be long in coming after all.
(Chapter 3)
~~~ At Lady Russell's home on River Street ~~~
"Was there no other way the dress could be finished, my dear?" Lady Russell's brows rose in surprise. "My, my! I must say, I do not at all approve!"
In keeping with a little custom begun in Kellynch, Anne had come home with her after church; the two of them were enjoying a light collation in Lady Russell's lovely salon. This was her idea of Îquiet cheerfulness:' a simple, homely meal, served without pretense or ceremony in front of the fire. Today the fare had been Strasburg Pie, her French-trained cook's notion of Îhomely' cuisine.
"Anne, my love," Lady Russell continued, fussing a little over the serving cart at her side; "Mary simply must not be allowed to abuse your kind nature in such a way! You ought to give her a hint ... or perhaps I shall do so when I see her next."
"Oh, no! Truly, it was not as bad as it now sounds. It gave me something to occupy myself with during the visit ..."
"Yes, but Anne, consider!" She passed a serving dish containing sliced fruit to Anne. "How would it appear if all my acquaintance in Bath knew you were working away at, oh ... hemming my new draperies whenever you came to see me? It does not become your position as Mary's sister ... nor would it as my very good friend, dear ... to be doing the work of a paid companion!"
"No, Amanda, I suppose not. But it was so very satisfying to see how well the dress came out. I took much greater pleasure than I ever thought I would in simply watching Mary wear it to the wedding yesterday." The bright sections of orange and the halved strawberries looked very colorful and appealing in the cut crystal bowl. Although no longer very hungry, Anne put a second helping of the fruit onto her plate. "I wonder ... do you suppose my dressmaker has felt the same?"
"No, probably not. Mrs. Minkton has no proper feelings at all. But, my dear," Lady Russell smiled encouragingly as Anne returned the bowl; " have you a dressmaker here in Bath?" She was hoping to learn that Anne had ordered some new clothing.
"No, not at present, but Elizabeth does. And I must say that her creations are absolutely stunning. Elizabeth does them justice, of course." Anne set her plate on the small table at her side and took up her teacup. "I had never thought of it before," she said, taking a sip, "but I suppose she must be a help in bringing Madame Beauvallet new business, for every woman would wish to look like Elizabeth."
"Well, that is debatable." Lady Russell did not wish to give Elizabeth more countenance than she deserved, even if she were not present in the room. "What did you wear to the wedding, Anne?"
"Oh, my pink silk. But it looked quite well," she quickly added. Lady Russell knew how old that particular dress was; she had assisted in its choosing it four years ago. "Mary helped me style my hair very nicely, with satin flowers and a gardenia. I felt ... pretty."
"I am sure you were lovely, dear one. Pink is a very becoming colour for you. Would you like some more tea?" She continued conversing pleasantly as she refilled both cups. "Tell me, how did Louisa Musgrove appear? Excuse me, Mrs. Wen ... ah, the bride, I should say. What was her dress like?"
Anne blanched at the question, for she did not know. "It was of lilac silk, I believe," she replied, a little reluctantly. What had Louisa's gown looked like? She had avoided the wedding party so completely that she had never noticed Louisa or what she was wearing.
"Lilac! That is a rather odd colour for Louisa Musgrove to choose. And what was the style of it? I mean, did the dress have any particular detailing that was pretty?"
Anne stared at the teacup in her hands, trying to think of something to say about Louisa's gown. Did it have long sleeves or short? What type of neckline? Had Louisa worn a hat? She did not want to lie to Lady Russell; instead she merely smiled. "I am sorry, I cannot recall. There were such a throng of guests at the breakfast!"
"Yes, of course. You do not need tell me that! Sadie Musgrove cannot give a party without inviting a crush of people; there are so many in that family! Well! I am sure it was a very nice gown ... for Louisa. And who else did you see of our acquaintance?"
"I did see Edward Wentworth." Anne replied, relieved to be rid of the subject of the dress. "Excuse me, I mean to say Reverend Wentworth, for he has his own parish in Shropshire now."
"So Mrs. Croft has told me," she smiled pleasantly. "And so, how is he? What has he been doing of late?"
"I, ah ... I only spoke to him for the barest moment, Amanda. I am afraid I do not know."
"Only spoke to ..." Lady Russell frowned in surprise. "Your very favorite curate? The one you used to spend so much time with, helping in that village school of his? You only spoke for a moment?" Lady Russell assumed a gently reproachful look. "I cannot believe it!"
"It was the crowd, Amanda! You know how stupid I am at big parties."
"No indeed! You are never so! I should rather say you were tired, dear, from all that work on Mary's gown, and from spending so much of your time with the children."
"Yes, I suppose that was it." And I am tired now, for I barely slept at all last night, Anne thought as she stirred her tea, hoping for a shift in the conversation. It did no good to try to change the subject; one had to answer Amanda Russell's questions as best one could until the subject was exhausted, for she would mulishly bring the conversation right back to the point which had puzzled her, until she was satisfied.
"Do you know, I am just a little curious! Was that Navy friend of Charles and Mary's there, the one they met in Lyme? I believe he was a friend of Louisa's new husband." Lady Russell was careful to avoid mentioning Frederick Wentworth by name.
Anne's eyes widened and she looked down at her teacup. Carefully she removed the teaspoon and placed it on the saucer as Lady Russell talked on. "I cannot recall his name! He is the man who reads poetry and philosophical books; Charles Musgrove thought he admired you very much!"
Anne looked up, rather hesitantly. "Do you mean ... Captain Benwick?"
"Ah! That is the one! Did you see him there?"
"Yes ... at Barcelona."
She gasped. What am I saying? "I mean ... yes! He was there! And we ... had a nice ... conversation." Anne felt herself go red in the face, and she looked down into her teacup once again. Barcelona! Vividly she could recall the sensation of James Benwick's lips on hers and his tender, unhurried kisses ... Anne squirmed in her chair, acutely aware of Lady Russell's eyes upon her. That wretched dream! Her heart was racing. It was a dream! It was! He did not actually ...
"Anne?" Lady Russell was smiling. "I believe you enjoyed your conversation!" She gave her young friend an arch look. "Did you not?"
"Yes ... No! I mean, which one?" Anne looked up and smiled weakly at her friend. "We had several."
"Oh? Well then! You must tell me about each of them! Is this why you spoke with no one else at the party?"
"We ... ah, talked of ... nothing in particular!" This was not precisely accurate; conscience-stricken, Anne struggled to correct herself. "I mean, nothing which would ... be of particular interest to you! We spoke of ... Lyme, ah ... our friends, Kellynch Hall ... he was staying there ... a guest of the Crofts." Anne stammered a little as she answered, for Lady Russell's question came quite close to the truth. Setting her cup and saucer down on the small table at her side, she boldly made a bid to turn the conversation. "But Amanda, you were saying ... something earlier about ... Mr. Elliot and a gift. I wish you will tell me more about it, instead."
Amanda Russell's face flushed with pleasure. "William Elliot? Oh! Why yes! Let me show you what I found. Now where have I put that paper?" She had been very circumspect in her references to Mr. Elliot, for in the past Anne had expressed an aversion to conversing about him. But today! She got up at once and began to hunt through her newspapers to find the item about the mysterious ÎMr. E.'
ÎWhich one' ... how stupid can I be? Anne silently berated herself as she waited for Lady Russell to return to her seat. ÎAt ... Barcelona'! She picked up her fork and speared a piece of fruit on her plate. I think I truly abominate James Benwick!
Amanda Russell came rustling back across the room, newspaper in hand. "Here it is, dear. An interesting reference in the society page last week about someone I believe we both know. Now where are my ... ah!" She took up her spectacles from their place on her writing desk, rejoined Anne, and proceeded to read the sentences in question.
Mr E, a gentleman of some reputation and fortune, here she paused to smile significantly at Anne, has made a very generous, anonymous contribution to the Orphean Operatic & Theatrical Society of Bath. This gift, sorely needed by the struggling company, enables it to proceed with the sponsorship of the concert of Italian music as scheduled.
Lady Russell looked over the top of her spectacles. "Is this not the musical society that Lady Dalrymple patronises? I seem to recall her mentioning a concert."
Anne hastily swallowed the bite of fruit before she answered. "Yes, I believe it is. Father has procured tickets for us; we will be joining Lady Dalrymple's party that evening."
"How excellent of him! I am pleased that you shall have an opportunity to enjoy yourself, Anne. Your cousin must also have a keen interest in music, to have given such a gift. Shall he be attending with you?"
"I am not certain." Anne took up the newspaper herself, frowning a little as she read the piece about Mr. E. "And I know nothing of a contribution. But I have been gone for almost a fortnight. I shall ask him about it, if you like." She returned the paper to Lady Russell. "But we cannot expect him to own it, as it was an anonymous gift."
"Yes, of course. Do you ... expect to see him soon, Anne?" Lady Russell was unable to hide her curiosity.
"Yes, he has been invited to join us for dinner tonight," Anne replied, taking care to appear disinterested. "He has been coming to call nearly every evening ... or such was his habit before I left for Mary's. I believe he is fond of Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth? I ... well!" She smiled kindly at Anne, " It seems to me that he may have someone else in mind, which pleases me greatly. As much as I care about Elizabeth, I ... but we must be patient, dear. It is early days yet, for him."
Anne rose, made her way over to the serving cart beside Lady Russell, and began busying herself with pouring out another cup of tea. She murmured an indistinct reply.
Lady Russell pursed her lips, debating within herself as she watched her young friend replace the teapot and return to her seat. There were risks involved with speaking forthrightly on this subject, and yet ... the consequences of allowing her goddaughter to miss such an advantageous opportunity to fix her cousin's affections were such that drastic action might be necessary. Anne had made her opinion quite clear at the beginning of February, but the month was nearly gone, and Lady Russell was unwilling to dismiss the matter entirely. She took another sip of her tea, as if to fortify herself, and began again.
"Do you know, Anne," she said kindly, " we have conversed about this before, and I realise that it is not a subject exactly to your liking, but there are some particulars which I wonder if you have considered regarding your cousin ..." She saw Anne unconsciously stiffen, but Amanda Russell was made of sterner stuff than her gentle tone of voice implied. A strong sense of duty, as well as a genuine love for Anne's mother forced her to speak. "It never does to be caught unawares, dear, where a gentleman's affections are concerned. There is much to be done, much to be decided, even before he even realises the extent of his ..."
"Amanda, if you are speaking of Mr. Elliot, I have said before that much as I respect and admire him, I believe we should not suit."
"Perhaps not, Anne." Lady Russell spoke tenderly, choosing her words very carefully now. It would cost her pride a little, this conversation, but if Anne could be persuaded to follow her advice, it would be more than worth the sacrifice. "But perhaps you are mistaken, somewhat, in your opinion. Or it may be that you are a little too ... nice ... in your preferences, dear one. I must admit," she paused to adjust the position of her cup and saucer on the table beside her, "he is nothing in comparison to your handsome sea captain. But ..." her eyes met Anne's directly, "any hope of him renewing his addresses is past. You must consider your future now."
Anne's whole body went rigid with shame. She felt hot and cold all at once; she bent her eyes away from Lady Russell's to stare blankly at the windows facing the back garden. The sun shining cheerily in through the sparkling glass panes seemed to mock at the bleak, dead feeling in her heart.
"In a way, it is a great pity that he did not do so," Lady Russell remarked candidly. Anne turned her eyes to stare incredulously at her friend. "He was, after all, quite a charming, personable young man. Very ... witty, as I recall! You do realise," Lady Russell had dropped her eyes to study her own wedding ring, turning it round her finger as she spoke, "I only opposed the match because of your age ... and the uncertain state of his career." She raised her eyes to meet Anne's. "I am ... I regret the necessity of having to give the advice I did, Anne. Under more advantageous circumstances, I am sure you would have been toler ... ahem! ... quite happy."
Anne was bereft of speech. Was Lady Russell actually apologizing for the past?
"But be that as it may, please hear me now." Lady Russell fixed her gaze on Anne, her eyes were full of compassion. "I do understand what you are feeling, Anne, although I am sure you think that I do not! But these ... passionate feelings, these ... romantic notions ... do not always ..." Lady Russell's voice wavered a little; she appeared to be struggling under the weight of strong emotion. Anne had never seen her quite this way before; she leaned forward in her chair, her face full of concern.
Lady Russell took a deep breath and regained control of herself. "Ah me! Well ... at this point, we must be realistic." She hesitated for a moment, as if deliberating about what she should say, as if she were about to share a confidence.
"My dear, please do not make the mistake of mourning for a love which is not returned. Not at your time of life, Anne. It is too easy to do, to waste years, so many years, waiting for your beloved one's heart to turn, only to be ... disappointed." Lady Russell's face had a sorrowful, wistful look. "And so much time has been lost for you!" Again she began to turn her wedding ring.
"I do not mean to criticise your dear father in all of this, for he believes he was doing right in expending so much time and effort to secure an excellent marriage partner for Elizabeth first. But ..." Lady Russell's eyes met Anne's in a sympathetic gaze. "You have been buried too long in the limited society of Kellynch, and that during the most crucial years of your young womanhood! And now." Lady Russell sighed heavily. "Well. I believe in facing the facts, and the fact is ... Oh, dear one ... your twenty-ninth birthday will be upon us in August. And your prospects ... for marrying a man who has never been married before are considerably ... diminished."
"Indeed, Amanda, I have no desire to marry," Anne found her voice, with difficulty.
"But you cannot remain as you are!" Lady Russell's voice was full of concern. "I had so wished for you to avoid a life of degrading dependence, which is why I disapproved of your engagement to that ... first young man. But you are living such a life now, you are continuing to languish in Elizabeth's shadow! It quite breaks my heart!"
Anne looked up and saw the unthinkable: Lady Russell's eyes had tears in them. "If only your sister had not been so ... so overly particular during her seasons in London," she said bitterly, "perhaps she would have married ... and you would have had your chance!"
"I think it was rather that Father was extremely particular in his requirements, Amanda," Anne said quietly. Over the years she had overheard snatches of impassioned arguments on this subject; Elizabeth pleading, her father steadfastly refusing to hear anything she had to say. It did not surprise her that her very lovely sister would make more than a few conquests; nor did it surprise her that her father would consider all but the very foremost men of the ton eligible.
"Oh no, dear! We mustn't criticise him, for he was only doing the duty that every father of a very beautiful girl must, that is, to see to it that she makes the very best alliance possible. No, he has told me quite plainly that Elizabeth is at fault, and I can well believe it!"
Anne swallowed her reply and looked down at her cup and saucer; by now the tea was cold and undrinkable. This was a most unusual conversation, it brought about the oddest feelings: hopelessness and at the same time, a strange sensation of detachment. By this reckoning, Lady Russell was right, many years had been wasted and her prospects were indeed limited. Wasted like this tea, Anne thought, which has sat in the cup too long.
"I am sorry, Anne, to plague you with my opinion of Mr. Elliot. But he is the first truly suitable gentleman to come your way in quite some time and I have been quite carried away by it all."
Anne sighed. "I know so little about him, Amanda," she confessed, rather touched by her friend's sincerity.
"So ... you must take the time to learn more, dear! Goodness," she smiled, "did you think I was asking you to decide right away? Nothing could be further from the truth! Indeed," Lady Russell lowered her voice confidingly; "a wise woman carefully studies the man she has in mind and makes her decision independently. It is very foolish to wait to make up one's mind until the moment he proposes, for in the awkwardness of the moment one might be tempted to consent simply to avoid hurting his feelings ... and that would never do!"
Anne thought about this and took another sip of tea, forgetting that it was cold. She is advising me to observe and evaluate William Elliot. It is not an unreasonable request. And it is wise to come to a decision beforehand. All too well she remembered her complete surprise at Charles Musgrove's impulsive, heartfelt proposal. Fortunately she had known her own mind well enough to refuse him at once. But Lady Russell was right, the look of pained disappointment on his face very nearly caused her to change her mind. No, she had not loved Charles, not in the way she had loved Frederick Wentworth. And at that time she had cherished a hope that Frederick would someday return for her.
But now, more than six years later, she had sometimes wondered whether she had been too precipitate in turning down such a kind and good-hearted man as Charles. Perhaps ... she mused, perhaps Mr. Elliot has changed from the foolish, headstrong man he was in his younger years. Perhaps he regrets his past mistakes. I may have been too hasty in forming an opinion about him. She took another sip from her cup; the cold tea was not nearly as bad as she had thought.
"You said earlier that there were some particulars I should consider about my cousin. What were they, ah, specifically?"
"Well," Lady Russell leaned forward in her seat, "you know about his fortune, and his expectations, so we won't go into that. (As if you would marry for those reasons!) And you may see for yourself how distinguished he is in his appearance, and in his opinions and manners, and how generally agreeable he is in company." Anne nodded very slightly, trying not to betray the interest as she was feeling.
"But it occurs to me, that a very important consideration in evaluating a man, any man, not just William Elliot, is the fact that he has no children from his previous marriage. Only just this week," Lady Russell sighed, shaking her head sadly; "I have heard from a longtime friend, who was the second wife of a prominent gentleman in Kent. This husband has recently passed on, and you may guess the rest of the story. The bulk of his estate, as well as the manor house, and all its furnishings and appointments, went to his son by his first marriage and I do not need to tell you that her style of life has altered drastically. I have written to her, suggesting that she come to reside in Bath, among all the other Îmerry widows' like me," she smiled at Anne in her pleasant way, "and I hope she shall do so! And perchance, in time, she may find a pleasant gentleman to marry."
The mention of Îtime' brought Anne's thoughts back to the present abruptly. "Oh dear! What is the ..." She looked over her shoulder at the clock on the mantelpiece. "Ah, I am sorry, Amanda! I do not mean to be ... impolite ... but I must leave right away! I should not have stayed so late!"
"But of course, dear one." Lady Russell rose gracefully from her seat with a smile of understanding. "You have an important dinner engagement this evening. I do not wish to detain you from anything you need to do by way of preparation. Indeed, I am sorry to have kept you so long, listening to me gabble on." She walked over to the bell pull and gave it a tug. "It is a pleasure to have you back, Anne," she said kindly, "I have missed you very much. Longwell will arrange to have the carriage brought to take you home."
On any other day, Anne would have preferred to walk, for there was much to think over in what her friend had said. But tonight she was to entertain William Elliot, and while there was much to think on, there was also much to be done.
I am a little tired of languishing in Elizabeth's shadow,, she thought, as Longwell handed her into Lady Russell's carriage a little later. Perhaps I have been too hasty in forming an opinion about my cousin.
(Chapter 4)
Dinner at the Elliot residence on Sunday evening was unexceptionable, save for the little matter of the awkward number of guests at table: there were five. Sir Walter had been nonplused by Anne's unexpected arrival; he could not withdraw his invitation to their cousin, nor could he change the seating arrangements, for what other gentleman could be included, at such late notice, to make up the proper number? The answer, of course, was no one, and Sir Walter had to admit that nothing could be done. He made a mental note to cultivate an acquaintance with several of the more eligible, well-looking widowers in Bath for use as occasional dinner partners for Anne.
However, no one else in the group noticed Sir Water's consternation, or cared much about it if they did. William Elliot was a charming dinner guest, amusing and pleasingly conversant on a wide variety of subjects, a welcome change from their usual fare, and the dinner came off without a hitch. After the meal had concluded, the others followed Sir Walter into the drawing room, as was his preference for small, intimate dinners such as this one. But Mr. Elliot stayed behind to have a little quiet conversation of his own choosing.
"... and although you made a fifth at dinner tonight, I am very glad to have you home again, Miss Anne!" Mr. Elliot's words were accompanied by his most charming smile. Anne was still seated at table; after the others had left the room, he had moved to the chair beside hers and had taken a seat. "There has been such a lack of rational, intelligent conversation in your absence, Cousin," he confided, leaning toward her a little. "I have missed you very much."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Elliot!" Anne was surprised by the compliment and the winsome smile. She had occupied herself with quietly observing her cousin throughout the course of the evening ... and this had not escaped his notice.
"Please understand, I enjoy the company of all of the members of your family. However, your sister is quite taken with the acquisition of her wardrobe for the spring season and talks of little else. I must confess that am a little weary of hearing of it! But, Miss Anne," he remarked, frowning a little; "I notice that you do not make mention of having anything new!"
"No, I have decided not to place an order at the present time." She spoke quietly. "I did not think it wise, as we are retrenching."
Mr. Elliot appeared overcome by this remark. "My dear Cousin! How very right you are, and how noble!" He lowered his voice. "And how kind, to consider my plight! I salute you!"
She was a little taken aback by this. "Your plight, Mr. Elliot?"
"Yes, Cousin Anne, my plight. As your father's heir," he spoke seriously, in a muted tone, "I shall be required to settle his debts, as a matter of honor, should he be unable to do so during his lifetime." He fell silent a moment; Sir Walter's voice could be heard droning on in the drawing room. "And while he may not be able to recognise and appreciate the sacrifices you have so kindly made, I most certainly do." He smiled, looking directly into her eyes. "I thank you, dear Cousin, from the bottom of my heart."
"I ... did not do so for your benefit, but ... you are welcome, Mr. Elliot. I am glad it eases your burden."
"Miss Anne, since we are speaking privately, may I make a small request? I would so like it if you would call me Cousin William, instead of that stiff ÎMister Elliot.'"
"But that is your name!"
"Yes, and it was also my father's! To my ears, it sounds so distant and formal! And to hear it being said by you, a member of own family ... why, it reminds me of the rift that has existed between your father and myself, the rift I so much regret and would like to heal!"
Anne raised her eyebrows. "Elliot is also my name, sir, and it does not make me uncomfortable to hear it."
"Ah!" He gave himself a mental kick for making such a gaffe and covered his eyes with his hand for a moment. He had forgotten Anne's strict sense of propriety. "You are quite right, quite right! Please forgive me, Miss Anne, it was not my intention to offend." He lowered his hand and smiled disarmingly. "I only wish ... that you would call me Cousin William, that is all. And that ...someday ... you might call me ..." Mr. Elliot choked a little as he caught himself. "But I am not at liberty to say! I beg your pardon."
Anne smiled weakly and stood, in an effort to retreat from such an intimate conversation. "I ... should join the others in the drawing room, Mr. Elliot."
"Yes, that is wise." He rose to assist her with her chair and watched her go out of the dining room door. When he followed her a few minutes later, he was pleasantly surprised to find Elizabeth in the hallway outside. He called out to her.
"Cousin Elizabeth!" She stopped, without turning around. He came up behind her, speaking in a low tone. "Have I yet told you how charmingly you look in this lovely gown? Is it new?"
"Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Elliot. Yes it is. Now if you will excuse me, it is necessary for me to be present in the ..."
"Elizabeth." Mr. Elliot stepped in front of her, blocking her way. "Have you not a moment to speak with your poor cousin?" he murmured, smilingly. "And I wish you will call me Cousin William when we are speaking privately like this. ÎMister Elliot' is so stiff! We are family, after all."
"Very well, Cousin William! And I wish you will allow me to proceed into the drawing room, for I am ..."
"Yes ... but first," he laid his hand on her arm, "will you not tell me why you are looking so very angry?"
She lifted her chin. "I am not angry. What makes you think so?"
"Your eyes, Cousin." He smiled. "They look daggers at me! If you were a man, I should be laying slain on the floor!" He moved closer. "Tell me, Elizabeth. Have I been so very bad? What have I done to earn your scorn?"
She pursed her lips, and then spoke in an annoyed tone of voice. "Was it necessary, Cousin, to engage Anne in conversation during so much of the dinner, as you did?"
"But of course, my dear!" he murmured.
"And why is that?" Elizabeth asked, rather tartly. "And do not call me dear!"
"Ah, you are right! I may not now call any woman Îdear'! I had forgotten; please forgive me." His eyes sparkled. "And surely you can see that your sister needs me to speak with her."
"No indeed! Pray enlighten me!"
"Elizabeth, your sister must practise conversing with a gentleman," he replied smoothly "She is such a shy, timid little mouse. She will not make a very good wife if she remains so!"
"And why are you so interested in Anne becoming someone's wife? For yourself, Cousin?"
"Elizabeth, please! You are so very beautiful when you are furious, but there is no need! Kindly recollect that I cannot take anyone to wife at present. But certainly you must see that Anne needs a husband."
"No, I cannot."
"Cousin, when I step into your father's position as head of the family, if she is not married and provided for, I shall be required to do it. She will become my pensioner, which I shall not like at all, both in terms of expense and reputation." He wrinkled his nose distastefully. "She would have to set up an establishment similar to that of the widowed friend she visits at the Westgate Buildings, and that will not be a credit to the family."
Elizabeth eyed him impatiently. "So ..."
"So ... I have several eligible matches in mind for Anne, but she must be brought out of herself a little, to become comfortable in the presence of a gentleman."
"You have taken on quite a task for yourself, Cousin William," she smiled.
"Oh, Anne is very well-mannered and kind ... and quite biddable, always a winsome characteristic in a wife. And also," he watched Elizabeth carefully, "I find that she is rather pretty. I do not think I shall have any trouble finding a husband for her. I know several who would be quite gratified to have a connection with the Elliot family."
"How noble of you." Elizabeth was still scornful, but only a little. "And what about me, Cousin? For I am yet unmarried, and need to be provided for!" She raised her chin defiantly. "And you shall have to do better than the Westgate Buildings, William!"
"Ah, yes ... but of course! But you need not repine, my dear. I have several schemes in mind for you as well."
"Do you? Pray tell me what they are!"
"But Cousin, you forget ... I am not at liberty to speak on the subject of matrimony to any woman ... even to you!" He smiled at her astonishment and murmured, "We should join the others, you know. Our absence will be remarked."
Elizabeth turned on her heel and flounced into the drawing room, closing the door behind her with a snap. Mr. Elliot watched her go, smiling to himself. A few minutes later he entered and took a seat near Penelope Clay, who was sitting a little apart from the rest of the group.
Mrs. Clay was occupied with knitting some lace as she listened to the conversation around her. Quite by accident, she dropped her ball of twine and it happened to roll under Mr. Elliot's chair. He graciously knelt to retrieve it for her, and returned it, placing the ball of twine in her hand, but making no move to return to his chair. He looked over his shoulder at Sir Walter, who was sitting in front of the fire, conversing with Elizabeth. "It will never work, my dear," he murmured to Mrs. Clay, as he slid into the seat next to hers. "Surely you must see that!"
"Why, what do you mean, Mr. Elliot?"
"This scheme of yours." Mr. Elliot hastily threw up his hand, lowering his voice even further. "Not that I see anything to criticize, my dear Mrs. Clay! You are quite a charming, agreeable companion ... and very lovely too. But ..." he glanced in Sir Walter's direction again; "he shall never take any woman to wife! He is not lonely, he has no need for love from anyone else! Your beauty would be quite wasted on him. He has no appreciation of your ... many charms."
Mrs. Clay did not know where to look. "I ... why, Mr. Elliot!" she whispered. "How can you say such outrageous things? I have no scheme ..."
"And I wish you will call me William, when we are talking privately like this, instead of that stiff "Mister Elliot! I grow weary in hearing the Elliot name as much as you grow weary in saying it! William is so much friendlier, do you not agree?"
Her eyes traveled up, reluctantly, to meet his; he smiled charmingly. "It is always such a pleasure to speak with you, Penelope, for I may be quite at ease with you." Once again Mr. Elliot looked around the room, his conversation with Mrs. Clay was yet unnoticed. He continued, speaking in a voice that was barely audible. "There is no need to court your favor, as I must do with some. Indeed, I think it must be quite unbearable for me here, without knowing that you sympathise with my plight."
Mrs. Clay regarded him in astonishment ... and pleasure.
"Your position here is not an easy one." He gave her a knowing look. "I have experience in abasing myself in order to court another's good opinion, as you must do, my dear. And I quite understand! This is your only opportunity and I respect you for taking it. I should say, this is your only opportunity at present ... I am not at liberty to say more!" He smiled at her blush. "I should return to my conversation with Sir Walter, you know. But perhaps," he leaned closer, "we may continue ours later? In the park tomorrow ... as last week?" He smiled in an unmistakably intimate way as he moved off to rejoin his cousins by the fire.
Several hours later Mr. Elliot stood in the entry hall, musing to himself as Burton assisted him into his greatcoat. He had just taken leave of his fair cousins ... the ladies and Sir Walter, whom he thought was looking to be quite the fairest of them all in his brocaded frock coat and breeches. Good lord! He is the most tiresome, womanish bon ton I have ever met! But his daughters are delightful. Mr. Elliot smiled a little as he regarded his reflection in the mirror, carefully adjusting the tilt of his elegant beaver hat, the one with the black crepe wound around its crown. Perfect. He gave the hat another tap to bring it to the precise angle. Yes.
He drew on his gloves and picked up his silver-handled walking stick. How very perfect, indeed. Propriety certainly has its uses, if one only knows how to take advantage of the situation. And who would have thought that Sukey can still be of use to me, in addition to her financial ... endowment? For there is plenty of time before I can be considered as available, plenty of time to consider my options. He glanced into the mirror one last time, checking the set of his overcoat across his shoulders. Yes. Mrs. William Elliot will always be a woman who is of use to me ... whoever she may turn out to be. He nodded to Burton, who opened the door. I wonder ... the spirited beauty? Or the good-hearted, sweet little mouse? Or ... Penelope, who is ripe for ... Yes. Plenty of time. Very pleased with his work of an evening, Mr. Elliot strode out into the cold February night.
(Chapter 5, Part 1)
Doesn't it just figure, Captain Timothy Harville grumbled to himself as he walked home from church Sunday morning with his family. This is the first chance I've had to talk to Elsa alone, but ... He glanced over at his wife, I'll be d-mned if I tell her this news in the middle of the street! He sighed and watched the vapour made by his breath dissipate in the frosty air. ÎDon't wait,' I told Frederick yesterday. ÎTell your wife at the soonest opportunity!' ... ÎThere is no good time to tell this.' Lord, what a coil this is turning out to be! I had meant to tell her last night, but ... Harville rolled his eyes as he thought about the previous evening.
He and Benwick had arrived just after dark and found, much to their surprise, a houseful of people; not quite the equal of a Musgrove gathering, but when one took into consideration the smallness of the house, the effect had nearly been the same! Everyone talking at once, glass after glass of beer poured, his wife bringing out platters of food, children scampering everywhere ... and all poor Harville had wanted was a quiet evening alone with his little family!
The good weather had probably been responsible for bringing out the travellers: his wife's aunt and uncle (together with their two grandchildren)had come to Lyme Friday morning and had decided to stay on, having found a local inn to their liking, but taking all of their meals with Elsa and the family. In addition, some of Harville's old shipmates had dropped in on Saturday afternoon -- Lieutenants Bellamy and ÎTally-Ho' Thedford ... also passing through, and who had also decided to stay! Mrs. Harville knew her duty, one always offered to feed and house brother officers. The two men had been delighted to spend the time waiting for their old friend the Captain, merrily eating me out of house and home in the process, Harville grumbled to himself. The crowd would be back again today for a midday meal ... which would probably stretch well into the evening.
And then there's Benwick. Harville shot a disgruntled look at his friend, who was walking a little to the rear of the family, as was his custom. His hands were clasped behind his back holding his Bible and book of prayer, he appeared to be studying the paving stones. What am I going to do with him! He gave me the most roundabout, shambling answers to my questions last night! Said he was sorry to be so Îuncommunicative', but he was distracted by having to pay so much attention to the driving. Of all the boneheaded excuses! Benwick looked to be just the same today, preoccupied with thinking about something or other as he walked along. Tommy and Ellie skipped and danced around him as they made their way toward home, but he paid them no mind.
Well, and I wasn't such good company last night, either, Harville admitted to himself. His thoughts had been taken up by the news he had to tell his wife, about his having to be in Plymouth as soon as next week. She surely would not like hearing that! He had also been faced with the problem of what to say to Benwick about the upcoming sail. Harville had planned to point out to him that from a clearly practical point of view, it would certainly do his career no good, having to step down in rank two notches. But he feared that it nevertheless might hurt his friend deeply not to be included. He was brought back to the present by a comment from his wife, which he had not heard. "Eh? I'm sorry, dear. What was that?"
"I said," Mrs. Harville smiled at her husband's abstraction, "I thought you said last night that he did quite well at the wedding. Benwick, I mean."
"He did ... very well, I thought. No mournful sighs, no sign of That Look that I could see." He glanced back at his friend for a moment. "Did I tell you how we even laughed and joked a bit?" Harville found himself smiling a little. "You would be shocked at how foolishly we behaved! Like a couple of middies! But that was mostly Charles Musgrove's fault; what a card he is! And also," he made a face, "a little too much port, which was flowing very freely!" He rolled his eyes at the memory, still smiling. "I laughed as I haven't since Fan ... ah, well." Harville lapsed into silence.
"No, my dear, I would not be shocked! I know you too well! And I do remember Charles Musgrove. I was hoping you would enjoy yourself." She smiled pleasantly, then gave a small sigh. "But why do I have this feeling that all is not ... settled ... with poor Benwick?"
"I don't know, Elsa. He is cheerful enough, but I feel as though he has gone to that unreachable place again. But it is not a place of grief anymore. It is ... I don't know."
"So, aside from joking and laughing, was there anything unusual in his behavior?"
"Not really. He dodged the formal events as much as he could; that I expected. Well, to be honest, I had expected him to decline to go to Uppercross at all! Poor James, he put on a fairly brave face at the wedding, although he was not at the breakfast very long. I don't blame him for that; he had that perplexed, thinking look of his all that morning. He told me he spent much time walking out of doors yesterday."
"And did he spend much time poring over his books?"
"No, not that I could tell ... except ..." Harville grimaced a little. "I caught him reading once, and he was not alone." He looked significantly at his wife.
She raised her eyebrows at that. "Oh? You ... caught him?"
"Do you remember Miss Anne Elliot, Mary Musgrove's sister? He was reading with her ... alone." The more Harville thought about this, the more it bothered him, although he had thought nothing of it at the time.
"Oh." Mrs. Harville said, in a small voice. He sounded irritated, which surprised her a little. " As I recall, she does like to read ... the same types of books that he does," she said helpfully. "And she drew him out and made him to talk to her when she was here in November. It did him much good." But Captain Harville only muttered something about Benwick being quite cozy and friendly, and not wasting any time and frowned even more.
Mrs. Harville was perplexed by his response. "She seemed a to be a kind-hearted, helpful young woman. I liked her very well, Timothy, and so did you, I thought." As this remark was met with a rather clipped "Yes ... and so did Benwick!" she let the subject drop. Captain Harville's scowl deepened as he thought about that last curious conversation he had overheard between Benwick and Charles Musgrove ... which had been all about Miss Elliot.
Elsa walked alongside her husband silently for the next half-block or so, wondering about his ill-humoured mood, for it was not at all like him to be grumpy. She decided that a change in conversation was in order. "That was a rather good message this morning, Timothy, don't you think? About Lazarus?" She readjusted her hold on the baby as she walked along.
Harville grunted in assent.
"I mean, it was very encouraging," Elsa looked over at him rather searchingly; "about resurrection and eternal life and all." Even more than she worried about Benwick, she worried about her husband. He had buried his grief over Fanny in his concern for his friend. Benwick had cried openly and would heal, whereas Timothy ...
Harville fell silent again for a few minutes, pondering her statement. "Did it ever occur to you," he said at last, "that that Lazarus chap died ... again? A second time? I mean, years after he came out of that tomb? No one lives forever, Elsa." He swatted his cane at nothing in particular. "No one. You have not seen death as I have."
"No, I suppose not." Her face clouded at this response. She had seen her share of death, not as he, certainly, but it was no stranger to her. Their third baby ... and her parents, each of whom had died while he was at sea ... and Fanny. "But, Timothy, isn't that where faith comes in? I mean ..." her voice trailed off.
"Perhaps."
"But Fanny believed ..."
"Fanny was one of the sweetest, noblest, best women who ever lived, Elsa! And yet she died ... so young! And just as all her hopes and dreams were beginning to come true! She waited so patiently! And she died. I have seen pox-riddled, evil, hateful old scum live on and on, while those who believe, as Fanny did, die! Early, tragic deaths! It is not fair; it is not right!"
Elsa swallowed her comments and said nothing more. He had been wounded by the same words that had encouraged her. When would he begin to heal?
James Benwick shut the door to his room and put his books back in their place on the shelf. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up his Bible and tossed it onto the small table he used for a desk. He removed his frock coat and hung it carefully on the back of the chair. The room was tiny, barely able to accommodate his bed, shelf, and Îdesk,' but it had a little window which looked out at the undergirding of the old pier. He stood by it now, gazing out, as he had done so many times before. Over the months, it had made him feel like a prisoner, a prisoner of his own heart, of his love and grief. He had escaped this feeling at the wedding, somehow. Now here it was, threatening to overcome him once again. He sighed wearily and sat down.
Elsa Harville would have been disappointed to learn that Captain Benwick had not listened to much of the sermon, either. Instead his mind had been caught up with part of the scripture reading for that morning. He found the reference and sat staring at the words on the page.
Jesus said unto her, ÎI am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Believest thou this?'
"Do I believe this?" He repeated the question to himself. This would be the sum and substance of the whole thing, the keystone to the arch, the sine qua non. Fanny believed it ... and I say I do ... he drummed his fingers on the table as he thought ... and if this is true ... then there are some important ramifications ... for both of us. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracing along the now-familiar patterns made by small cracks in the whitewashed walls and ceiling. He had been mulling over this concept for months now, and once again it had come to the forefront of his mind, not to be ignored.
If this is true ... then Fanny has gone on, into eternity. She is not gone forever, she is gone into ... forever. She is alive and well. He heaved himself up out of the chair and walked back over to the small window. I am left behind, and I cannot follow her ... not yet. I must continue on alone. But she is well, that is the important thing.
Benwick leaned against the casement, looking out at the foundation of the pier, thinking about another friend who must continue on alone: Anne Elliot. He shook his head, remembering. I can even now see her sad face as she struggled to let go of the man she had loved with all her heart. My struggle is much easier, for Fanny has no power to wound me, except with regret. And she would not wish it so. But then, neither does Frederick ... what an awful tragedy! He sighed in sympathy. But Miss Anne must go on ... and so must I. Yes.
He picked up the Bible, shut it resolutely, and put it back in its place on the shelf. He had thought it all out during the drive home yesterday evening and he had not changed his mind. It was time. I will need to speak to Timothy alone, after the guests leave this tonight.
But now, he took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, I need to answer Milton. What a chore! He located his box of writing supplies and placed them on the table. His elder brother had written such a letter! Alternately scolding, cajoling, whining, and pleading with James to take action -- now! The work, while not urgent, was important and needed to be done eventually. Benwick rolled his eyes a little as he recalled some of Milton's words. He wants me to handle everything myself! How typical! He removed the stopper from the bottle of ink carefully. Well, I shall go, brother, because I have quite another piece of Îbusiness' to transact at the same time, not because you are such a nag! He drew out a sheet of paper and took up his pen, deciding to answer him in kind.
Well Milton,
I suppose you are right. This business is in a hopeless tangle and a search must be made. Either you or I must do it, as Executors, and as you so kindly pointed out, I am the most logical one, having quite an unrestricted schedule, unlike you, the Slave of the School Calendar!
Therefore, please be advised that if all goes according to plan, I should arrive in London sometime early this week. I'll look in at Ben and Daniel's for a few days, then I'll be off to Aunt Agatha's to begin working. I am expecting to find the old place to be perfectly clean -- and in a shambles of clutter. Poor Mrs. Yee has no authority to deal with it, of course, and simply dusts and scrubs around it! What a bear pit! You may well take Îpity' on me, Milton, when you stop laughing at my poor plight! I should wait until the summer holidays, when you are free to join me! However, I am now as anxious as you are to conclude this matter in a timely way, and am happy to be of service.
So you say the solicitors in the London office have uncovered nothing? That would be typical! I'll have a word with them about that while I'm there. But a document of that sort simply does not walk away and I am betting it is in that fellow's strongbox -- Mr. Bekington, is it? --locked up tight until he returns next month.
However, to placate my poor, pinched, and whining brother (you), as well as Daniel and Ben, I shall certainly expend heroic and selfless effort in sifting through (and organising) every scrap of paper at Aunt Agatha's, having, as you so succinctly pointed out, nothing better to do with my time.
I shall write again after I arrive to appraise you of the situation. Give my love to Estella and the children.
Your devoted (and no longer idle) brother,
Lyme, February __, 1815
James
As he sealed the letter and wrote the direction, he heard the telltale signs of the guests arriving, apparently both parties at once. He listened carefully. Harville's jovial voice reverberated throughout the tiny house, cheerful and welcoming, and a trifle forced, Benwick thought, as he replaced the stationery in his writing case.. Poor Harville, he's worn to the bone from the wedding, but never will he say a word, always the gracious host. He's probably wishing all of us at Jericho!
He got up and began to pull on his frock coat, preparing himself (a little reluctantly) to enter the fray and ease some of his friend's burden. Harville's former officers would regale the company with tales of their exploits and adventures; Mrs. Harville's uncle had been a most enthusiastic listener the night before, eager to hear any stories of the Navy, most particularly the firsthand details of the sea battles of the Napoleonic War. So I've an afternoon and evening of swash, grog, and gore, with guns and cannons blazing, Benwick mused as he opened the door. How different it all sounds when we tell it over beer, in front of a fire!
He paused for a moment in the open doorway, looking back. Tomorrow his packing would begin in earnest; this room would never look the same again. And I suppose I will not have many more evenings with Timothy, either. He knew he would miss Harville and his little family; now he was beginning to realise how much. Well, this is the least I can do for him. Besides, I must become used to society again, to speaking cordially with strangers ... a thing I loathe. He would have many such encounters to engage in, if he were to pursue the campaign he had in mind. Squaring his shoulders and preparing himself to be pleased with whatever the rest of that day held, James Benwick walked out of his little room.
************
Continued in Part 2
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