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Susan Kaye |
Thursday
I had never really taken a close study of her before. She stood before me, a card in hand. As I looked down upon her, I considered the features closely. Beneath the bonnet, deep reddish-brown hair, swept into a becoming style. A lone tendril of chestnut, resting itself engagingly along her neck. I mused as to whether or not it had escaped her notice or was artfully placed. Her skin was like the bloom of the porcelain flower of India, creamy white and translucent in nature. The full redness of her mouth revealed perfect white teeth. She was dressed, impeccably in a russet pelisse with a matching hat and bag. She was indeed, a nearly flawless woman.
My look had traveled back to her face, her eyes in particular. They were hazel, but deeper than most, with flecks of gold more brilliant that normal. But there was more to them than that. Looking deeply, one could see into her soul. To look inside her was to see cool calculation and a nearly barbarous refinement. This was a woman who was aware of what she needed and wanted, and that day, it seemed she wanted me at her evening party.
As I studied her more closely, I knew that the look she gave me was one of invitation. It jarred me to think that if I had desired it, something quite permanent could most likely have been arranged. While I had never spent great amounts of time pondering my own countenance, I was aware that I was well-looking enough to bring glances from women. And today, Miss Elizabeth Elliot, seemed to be one of them.
The memory of the afternoon had intruded again. I was in the process of writing to Edward. I had begun several times, with each attempt being more serious in tone than the last. This was a puzzle to me, as I felt in my heart, that there was more reason for hope than I had ever possessed. The events of the afternoon, while not in any way absolute, were more than enough for me to completely throw aside the rumours of an intimate connexion to Mr. Elliot. Her determined apathy about him and his comings and goings, her emphasised lack of regard paid to his movements. All these things made me hope that perhaps I had touched Anne's heart in a way which had not been lost over the years. My seriousness came, not from a lack of hope, but from the realisation of my own guilt in having left her, all those years ago, to a family lacking heart and soul.
Edward,I received your letter yesterday--Thursday--and was glad to hear that all is well in Crown Hill. I had grand plans to jest with you about the horse, but I find that I have taken an odd, philosophical turn in humour tonight and need to ponder, on paper, some things. Perhaps you will be so good as to listen to the ramblings and aid in untangling the web. The purpose of coming to Bath was, of course to see Anne and regain her affections if possible. While I have seen her several times to speak to, of her affections I am not positive. Though today makes me feel a hope I had not held before. There are particulars too numerous to name which have had bearing on things, but most of which, today, have gone by the wayside. Suffice to say, I feel in a fair way to being closer than ever. My ponderings have more to do with Anne herself and her family. When I was in Somerset those years ago, I only knew of her family by reputation and seeing them at the few assemblies that the summer afforded. I never saw them privately together, and certainly not at home. Mary Elliot was at school of course and part of the time, the Baronet and Miss Elliot were gone to ____. Then too, I only had eyes for Anne. You were gracious to act as the chaperone when possible and other times were mere walks or a chaise ride or two. Knowing Anne's temperament, I thought that most surely her family could not be so bad as the market gossip painted. Today I was confronted with the glaring wrongness of that presumption. In way of background, I must tell you that Mrs Musgrove, Senior is here with several of her children and they have brought Captain Harville, who is on an errand for a mutual friend. Today, I was invited by Charles Musgrove to pay a call on them at the inn where they are lodged and Anne was in their company . We had conversed very little when she was called upon to leave with one of the Musgroves. As all were preparing to depart, the Baronet and Miss Elliot came to extend invitations for an evening party tomorrow night. To my surprise and chagrin, I was particularly invited by Miss Elizabeth Elliot. The maddening reality is, she smiled and simpered not an arm's length from Anne's face. Edward, she knew what Anne and I were to one another. It was certainly a time ago, but wouldn't familial love preclude publicly flaunting designs on a man once attached to your sister? The behavior of the Baronet was little better. He entered the room and smiled and smirked, nodded and bobbed, but spoke nothing. No acknowledgment to Mrs Musgrove as a lady, nor Charles as a gentleman and his own son-in-law, is due. He did not give a single greeting to either of his other daughters. I was nodded to, which is more than I suppose I had a right to in his mind. It brought to remembrance, that huge green book you used to teach me history from. There was a plate with a feudal lord having bread passed to the peasants on a holy day. His look was of self-satisfaction and complete revulsion, much the same as the look of the Baronet. I knew him be overbearing from our one, unfortunate meeting, but he has grown worse over the time. Good God! Edward, how has she survived all these years with these people? I marvel that I have found a woman not gone the way of the younger sister, selfish and petty. Or that of the older, cold and consumed by self-importance. Anne has remained of gentle and sweet inclination. How that can be is beyond my grasp. I suppose that I have no claim to anger in this, I did leave her to it eight years and a half ago. That is a guilt that I shall carry forever, but one that I hope to begin amending soon. The entire affair made me know that if I am blessed in this venture, I will spend the rest of my life standing between Anne and these vulgarians. I think I have presumed on your charity enough. I know you are not disinterested in all this, but as I have no real news I will end here. Continue in your prayers, I fear that without them, I shall be left quite on my own. I know I will be in her presence tomorrow and am determined to make her know my mind. I walked away from her all those years ago, I must come towards her now. Give my love to my sister and greetings to the Junkins family.
Frederick
I sealed the letter and laid it out for the post. Coming back to my room, I pondered just how I might make my desires in this known and whether or not they could be returned.
Chapter 13, Friday
F. Wentworth ____Gay Street" . . . so the portrait and new framework will be sent directly to you in Uppercross. I have taken care of the cost and wish this to be a gift to you and Miss Musgrove. I give you and Miss Musgrove joy."
"Yes, dear ma'am, or an uncertain engagement; an engagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such time there will be means of marrying I hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what, I think, all parents should prevent as far as they can."
Where were you nine years ago, my dear sister? I wonder that Anne might be listening? Quite intently. Mm . . . I have to make her know my mind. Ah . . . what a dolt . . . I hold a pen and have enough paper here to choke a bullock and I sit wondering what to do. Now, what to say . . .
"I can listen no longer in silence, I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it eight years and a half ago..."
"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved."
"Do you claim that for your sex?"
"Yes. We certainly do not forget you, so soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps our fate rather than our merit. . ."
"Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death."
"We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions."
Continue, Harville. Give me time. I must have time.
"No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a . . ."
"I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan.--Have you not seen this?"
" . . . exposed to every hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be too hard indeed if woman's feelings were to be added to all this."
"Can you fail to have understood my wishes?--I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine...."
If my hands do not cease to shake, no one's feelings will matter for she will be unable to read this childish scrawl. Blast, I cannot keep the pen to my hand. Calm yourself, Frederick.
"I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me...."
"Have you finished your letter?"
"Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes."
"There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are.--I am in very good anchorage here, well supplied and want for nothing.--No hurry for a signal at all.--Well, Miss Elliot...."
I can barely hear them now, the fate of the listener is to go deaf endeavoring to hear . . . "
" . . . have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove any thing."
"You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others. . ."
" . . . God knows if we will ever meet again!" And then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a twelvemonth's absence perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, "They cannot be here till such a day," but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do for the sake of these treasures of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men who have hearts!"
"Oh! I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures. I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by women. No, I believe you capable of every thing great and good in your . . . "
"Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating in
F. W.
I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."
Finished! Hopefully, she will be able to bring order to this rambling mess. My hands have never shaken so, put it down and fold it, dolt! There, M-i-s-s-A.-E.
"Yes, very true; here we separate, but Harville and I will soon be after you, that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute."
Leave the gloves. Did she say something?
"Good morning, God bless you, Miss Anne."
"Harville, I have forgotten my gloves at the desk, I will fetch them and be up with you momentarily.
"How were you ever left in command of a ship with a leaky mind such as yours, Frederick? Frederick. Such a mood today . . . mm."
"Pardon me, Mrs Musgrove, I have forgotten my gloves. Here they are . . ." Well, here it is, my girl. Heart, blood and soul. If this is not enough, I will find another way. I looked to her with as much pleading these eyes could muster.
"Good day, to you both," I said and quickly left the room
After having left the Musgroves' room and hopefully, having left Anne with no doubt about the letter's being for her, I had come down to the street. Having assured Harville that I would deliver the portrait and instructions for the framers, we planned to meet in the late afternoon at a house called The Headwaters. My hope was, by that time, I would have certain knowledge of Anne's feelings. Earlier, he had found a curious shop with odd tools used in the wood workers trade and was determined to take a browse; asking if I cared to come with him, I declined. While he was anxious to explore, I was anxious for him to be off.
I stood, leaning against a colonnade, near the front entry to the White Hart. The foot traffic on the street was heavy that day and the White Hart was especially so. I heard a distinctive Somerset accent; it was Charles. As Harville and I had settled upon our meeting, I had seen Musgrove and his wife and sister return from their errands. The voice with him was not that of his wife, perhaps . . . It was Anne.
I allowed them a few strides ahead and then began to follow. I was certain I would find an opportunity to join them. I kept back for a time and then decided to join. Having come up even with them, I dared to look to Anne. She smiled faintly and was flushed; that was more than enough. I fell into her step and went along.
"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay-street, or further up the town?" Charles asked me.
"I hardly know," I told him, for I had no idea where I was going. I knew that would be determined by Anne.
"Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden-place? Because if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help. And I ought to be at that fellow's in the market-place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second-sized double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day, round Winthrop."
"I would be pleased to escort Miss Anne to her father's door, Charles. Go and have no fear, we shall find the way."
"You say that strangely. No matter. Thank you, Captain. Anne, until tonight."
"Thank you, Charles."
Musgrove hurried to his gunsmith and I, for the first time in nearly nine years, offered Anne my arm. It was if the years had never gone by; the feel of being arm-in-arm with her was as easy as it had been when we were young. Even our strides gradually matched themselves.
"Let us turn here, Bath-street is busier than I care to be."
"Certainly, as Charles said, I am rather done for the morning," she said with a playful smile.
Anne always had a wry sense of humor, though most failed to see it. I was heartened to note it still in place. But mostly, to see those eyes and that smile, and to know they were for me alone . . . "I meant every word of it, you know. The letter I mean." It would have been too easy to leave such things unsaid. That could not be allowed any longer.
"I know. And for my part, those feelings have not changed. They never left," she said, softly.
"There is nothing I wish to amend; I wish us back to where we were before I left you in Somerset. I wish us to be married, not anything less," I held my breath. This would be the moment of truth.
Without hesitation, she said, "I wish nothing less, either."
Relief flooded me and I began to breathe again. I had much I wanted her to know and the words came in a torrent, words that even I had not had an idea were in my heart. "I have never loved any other woman. I wanted to forget you, I wanted to love someone else and leave you quite behind, but that was not possible. Any woman who had a modicum of attraction was too like you to try with and any other was plain hopeless. Very shortly after leaving you, I plain gave up all attempts. Though, I cannot be too harsh about it, it kept me constant to you, unconsciously, nay unintentionally. I thought I had put you quite aside when I returned to Somerset. I thought, until seeing you that morning at the Cottage. I knew myself to be danger! From then on, all I could do was remind myself of how ill-used I was, try to stay angry with you; it was the only thing that would keep me breathing in your presence. But then the truth crept in and I could no longer think evil of you. Then in Lyme, I was unable to hold myself off. It crashed in on me how deeply I felt about you." I remembered the scene which had turned the tide most decisively. I could not help but laugh a bit at myself.
Anne asked, "What is so amusing?"
I continued on, "You actually owe your cousin, Mr Elliot a note of thanks."
"Why in heavens should I thank my cousin?" Her tone was one of great perplexity.
"Because, my dear. It was his pointed look of admiration which bludgeoned me to my senses. I looked at you and for the first time in weeks, I could see what he and no doubt others saw." The memory of her on the shore was too lovely not to think on. "A young woman, too pretty not to be admired." I looked at her and saw a deep blush come to her. I thought that well, it was time I paid the regard that was due her. "Then after Louisa's fall, all your exertions and presence of mind, all that you did at Harville's to put us in some sort of order; that made me know there was not another woman who could be compared with you and have a favorable report. Wait, stay here one moment."
We were passing a confectionary and I was determined to show out a bit.
I returned to her with a paper of candied walnuts. They had been a favorite of hers and I hoped with all my being that her taste in candy, like her taste in cards, had remained the same. "Do you still like these?" I asked.
"Of course! I have not had them in ages. Perhaps you remember me better than I do myself." She took the first from the paper and looked about the near deserted street, she offered it to me. I was reaching for it when she whispered, "No, no. Open." I bent forward and she placed the candy in my mouth, as she drew her hand away, her gloved fingers brushed my cheek. I reddened and she said briskly, "Now, the rest are mine and pray, continue with what you were saying."
I pretended to chew the walnut for a time. I was flustered by her gesture, captivated by it, but flustered nonetheless. Having gathered my thoughts as best I could, I continued, "After you were back at Uppercross, I had much time to think about all that had passed over the month. I realised that my trying to become attached to Louisa was an impossibly stupid thing for me to do. Not that doing impossibly stupid things are unknown to me." I looked in her direction and saw that she was watching me with a smile. I took it to be her agreement in the previous statement
"So, there I was. Knowing you were quite superior to Louisa, that I was still as much your captive as I had been nearly nine years ago and the worst was the knowledge that I had thrown away any chance I had to recover your affections because of my boorish behavior all those weeks. So, after Louisa's accident, which I felt completely responsible for, I wandered about the counrtyside, allowing nature and time to help lessen my guilt. Things began to come back on an even keel when I found that I was considered by Harville an engaged man! That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual attachment. I was startled and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others might have felt the same - her own family, nay, perhaps herself - I was no longer at my own disposal. I was hers in honour if she wished it. I had been unguarded. I had not thought seriously on this subject before. I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be trying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill effects. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences."
I watched Anne as we walked along. The look on her face was unreadable. She had "Mmed," in the proper places and nodded now and then. I saw a bit of sympathy now and again, but not much. But that was about all I deserved.
"So, there I was, completely entangled in a web of my own weaving. Just as I had determined I had no care for Miss Musgrove, I found I had bound myself to her. I thought it best to try and dilute the feelings by taking myself elsewhere for her recovery. I went to my brother, Edward's for a few weeks. I intended to return to Kellynch when the time was right, to act as was necessary. I was six weeks with Edward and saw him happy. I could have no other pleasure. I deserved none. He enquired after you very particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter."
At this, I noticed a curious smile upon her face. I wondered what blunder I had made. I decided it best not to ask, I had made so many over the past months that one more could hardly make a difference. And she was smiling, hardly the sign of a huge gaff. I continued with my tale of woe. "I stayed with him and his new wife, Catherine. They were wonderful to endue the moods and fits of pique. I spent quite a lot of time berating myself for all that I had caused. Then, God smiled upon this poor transgressor and I received word of Louisa's engagement to Captain Benwick! Here ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least put myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do something. But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had been dreadful. Within the first five minutes I said, `I will be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope? You were single. It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine. I could never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, `Was this for me?''
We looked at one another for a moment and it was clear that her refusal had, indeed, been for me. It was as if all the days and months of recent time were blown away and even the years of pain and anger were stripped from our hearts. There were no recriminations or accusations to be found. Only joy in the newness of the revelation. We walked on, quiet for a time, reveling in the togetherness, the touch and the feel of being in concert. It had been so long, but it had lost none of its delight. As we went our way, I noticed that Anne would stroke my arm occasionally, to be followed by drawing closer and holding tighter.
"I'll not disappear, you know."
"What? Of course not, why would you say that?"
"Well, you seem to think me a phantasm. Do you stoke my arm to reassure yourself? Either that, or over the years you have taken a great liking to worsted wool and have quite a fancy for my coat." I was delighted that our ease of the past was already in evidence. She would respond well.
She rolled her eyes and smiled, "I had forgotten how awful and teazing you can be!"
"I will have you know, that is called brilliance and wit. Awful and teazing, indeed," I tsked and acted mightily offended. It was wonderful to be falling back into old ways that were comfortable and known. Placing my hand upon hers, I gave it the same squeeze that had been my custom all those years ago. When accomplished in public, it meant, "I love you a hold's worth." That had been my blathering attempt at romantic voice when we had first known one another in Somerset. I had blurted it out in a fit of youthful passion on a quiet Saturday afternoon. It had hung in the air with all the gentility of old fish. But Anne's loving nature would not allow for the gaff to remain as such. She had said, 'As I do you,' thus saving my precious dignity. Things had evolved over time to include it as a hidden signal, used when we were in the company of those not suspecting our relationship.
"As do I you," she said, leaning into my arm. "You remember quite a lot for a man determined to forget."
"That is what has made all these years so difficult and the past months so lamentable, I did not forget. Try as I might, it could not be done."
I lead us down street after street, with no heed as to direction. There was too much to say and too many things to share before I could let her go. She must have noticed, as now and then she herself would point out a street or walkway which took us more away from Camden-place than towards. Without a word, we had begun to follow the same plan.
We began to discuss our few meetings over the last ten days and how our impressions had sometimes been right and how at times, mine had been monstrously wrong.
"I had seen you pass by the window at Molland's and was shocked beyond reason. I had thought that you might come to Bath, to see your sister perhaps; I knew of Captain Benwick's engagement and knew you were no longer obliged to Miss Musgrove, but to see you so soon . . . As I said, I was shocked. But very pleasantly so, I must say," she smiled so sweetly to me.
"Oh! what a mortifying day! I had no expectation of seeing you and then I come into the shop and there you were. I was so confounded. That is why I turned from you and made that order at the counter. When I took all those sweets home to my sister, she thought me mad! Then, brilliant wit that I am, all I could talk of was the weather! You must have thought me quite sad."
"The only thing I thought sad, was having to be taken home. I had already accepted my cousin's escort and could not properly turn him away. I had hoped you could see that."
"All I could see was him whisking you away from me. Then at the concert, all I could see was his accepting your attention and smiles --"
"No, no! The smiles were not for him! He was annoying and childish that night. He was nearly as bad as Mary's children for pestering! I was greatly relieved when he went for tea. And as for you, I was smiling because I had learned more in our few moments of conversation than I had known in months! I nearly made a spectacle of myself manoeuvering to the end of my bench at the interval in hopes that you would come and take the seat beside me, but you did not," she said, frowning.
"I am sorry, but you must realise that I had been gaped at by your father and the Viscountess; Lady Russell had been giving me daggers and, as you were talking to Miss Carteret, your cousin was making his position quite clear to me also. I would not have been fit company had I sat with you. To see you, in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match! To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared? How could I look on without agony? Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had once done - was it not all against me?"
"You should have distinguished," replied Anne. "You should not have suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different. I have grown much more mature over the years, you know." She smiled at that and then went on with her thought. "If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated."
"Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," I replied, "but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year. As unfair and wrong as it was, I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me. I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had no reason to believe her of less authority now. The force of habit was to be added. I have found that there are times as we grow older that it makes life simpler to acquiesce than to try and put ourselves forward."
"I should have thought," said Anne, "that my manner to yourself might have spared you much or all of this." "No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to another man would give. I left you in this belief; and yet, I was determined to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here. I went with a friend to the country on Thursday, not knowing what I might find upon returning, but I had some sort of unreasonable hope in my heart and I was positive that I would see you again. I had no plans of what I would say or do, I would just see you."
"And you did. The very next day. Did you understand me then?"
"Very much. I finally was able to read your meanings. Your pointed disinterest in Mr Elliot being directly across the street when you thought him gone from town. The energy you used in saying you had not paid attention to his telling you his plans. I understood them perfectly." I looked at her and hoped that any talk about the rest of the day would be avoided. I did not wish to bring her sister and father into our time. We were spared that; somehow, we had found our way to Camden-place.
"Well, we have found our way, as you told Charles we would," she said, with a hint of resignation in her voice. "You will be here tonight?" Her tone was anxious.
I reached into my breast pocket and drew out the card. Showing it to her, I said, "This is my ticket to a wonderful evening, I shall not miss it." Having replaced it, I took her hand and brought it to my lips. "Until this evening, m'lady."
She gave me a smile that was worth all the fear and nerves of the past few days. "This will be the very best evening party I have ever attended." She turned to enter the house, then turned back to me, "By-the-bye, I love you, Frederick."
"As I do you, Anne. As I do you."
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