‘And you? Are you proud of your heritage?’ I asked her.
‘Proud of it, yes, but not blinded to the worth of everything beyond it. There are other things in life beyond the baronetcy, and other men of value beyond those listed there.’
‘But you do not doubt he will give his consent?’
She hesitated, then said, ‘No. No, I am sure he will give it. He might make matters uncomfortable for you, however.’
I laughed at the notion, for if I could withstand the might of the French Navy, I was sure I could withstand a cold look from Sir Walter. But I laughed inwardly, for I had no wish to wound Anne’s feelings.
My brother was not so sanguine as I joined him for luncheon a few hours later.
‘And have you thought that Sir Walter might say no?’ he asked.
‘Why should I?’
‘Because that will probably be his answer.’
‘It is a good thing my heart is not as faint as yours, for I am certain he will say yes,’ I returned.
‘You have no title, no fortune, no estate, nothing to offer his daughter beyond your youth and person.’
‘So you said last week.’
‘I am saying it again. It is as well to be prepared for whatever he might say.’
‘There is something in that. But no, I will not think of it. He will give his consent, and Anne and I will be married. I am sure of it.’
Saturday 6 September
I could eat very little, and this morning I set off for Kellynch Hall. I was far too early, but I could wait no longer. I paced the lane until my watch told me I could proceed. I went up to the door. I asked to see Sir Walter. I was made to wait. I paced the hall. I was shown in. And there was Sir Walter, magnificently attired, with his hair arranged in the latest style, reading the Baronetage.
To begin with, he ignored me, as though he could not tear his eyes away from the book.
‘Sir Walter,’ I began.
He looked up slowly, but did not close the book.
It was not a propitious start.
‘You wished to see me?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I did. I do. On a matter of importance. I would like your permission to marry your daughter, Anne.’
‘Marry Anne?’ he asked, in a tone of disbelief. ‘You have not yet asked me if you might pay her your addresses. It is far too soon to be speaking of anything else.’
I was nonplussed, but came about.
‘My affections have developed swiftly—’
‘They have indeed. You have only been in Somerset a few months.’
‘But that is long enough for me to know that I am in love with Anne. Although they have developed swiftly—’
‘And will disappear as swiftly, no doubt,’ he interrupted.
‘That they will not,’ I said. ‘I know my own mind. I am in love with Anne, and I wish to make her my wife. She wishes it, too.’
He looked at me with haughty dislike.
‘You have spoken to her already?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Without consulting me?’
I hesitated, then said, ‘There would have been no point in my bothering you if Anne had made it clear to me she would not have me, and besides, I could not help myself.’
‘Indeed,’ he remarked. ‘And are you always so rash?’
‘Once my mind is made up, I act on it. I am a man of decision.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ he asked. ‘I call it irresponsible and hotheaded.’
I smarted at his words, and was tempted to reply in kind, but I knew it would do my suit no good, and so I replied mildly.
‘Do I have your permission, Sir?’
‘You say that you have already asked Anne?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘And she wishes to accept your offer?’
‘She does,’ I assured him, heartened by the memory.
‘How very extraordinary. I cannot think why,’ he said. ‘She has been brought up to know her own place in the world, and to value it accordingly. Her name is in the Baronetage.’ He took up his book and began to read it to me, in slow and measured stately tones. ’ "Elliot of Kellynch Hall”.’ He paused dramatically. ’ "Walter Elliot, born 1 March 1760, married 15 July 1784, Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq., of South Park, in the county of Gloucester; by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born 1 June 1785; Anne, born 9 August 1787 ...”’ He broke off and turned the book towards me. ‘Anne,’ he said, pointing to her name. ‘The daughter of a baronet. There she is, my daughter, surrounded by her illustrious family. Can you offer her a similar ancestry?’
‘No, I cannot,’ I said boldly, looking him in the eye, ‘but Anne places love above rank, as I do.’
‘Indeed?’ he said.
‘Well, sir, do I have your permission?’ I asked him, wanting the matter closed.
He appeared to weigh the matter.
‘Anne is not her sister,’ he said. ‘She does not have Elizabeth’s style or manners, nor does she have Elizabeth’s beauty. But still, she is Miss Anne Elliot, and can look higher than a sailor for a husband. The alliance would be degrading . . .’
I contained my temper with difficulty.
‘. . . and if she disgraces her name by marrying so far beneath her, I will do nothing for her,’ he went on. ‘She will have no fortune. It would be better for you to give her up, for you will make nothing from your connection to her, not a penny.’
I was inwardly seething, but replied, ‘I want nothing, only Anne.’
‘And can you support her?’ he enquired with disdain.
‘I can.’
‘You have a fortune, then?’
‘Not yet, but I have been lucky in my profession, and I will soon be rich.’
‘Indeed? You have a very sanguine view of the matter.’
‘Am I to understand that you are refusing me permission?’ I asked, in no mood for more of his insults.
He paused, then sighed, and said, ‘Ah, well, if you had asked for Elizabeth, I would have sent you about your business, but as it is only Anne . . .’
I had to control my temper again. Only Anne, indeed! Only Anne.
‘Yes, all right, very well, you may have my permission,’ he said wearily. He rang the bell. ‘Commander Wentworth is leaving,’ he told the servant.
I was angry; but anger soon gave way before the happy prospect that stretched out before me, so I thanked him, and went to find Anne, to tell her that her father had given his consent.
I came upon her in the garden. She turned her face to mine anxiously, but as she saw my smile, her own face relaxed, and she ran towards me. I ran, too, and embraced her.
‘Your father has agreed to the match! We need keep our feelings a secret no longer. I want to tell all the world of it! I am the happiest man alive.’
She smiled, and said, ‘And I am the happiest woman. I am as eager to tell my friends as you are, but I ask only one thing: you must let me tell Lady Russell of it first. She has been like a mother to me for many years, and I want her to hear it from my own lips, before she hears of it from anyone else. We are dining with her on Tuesday evening at her house. It is to be a small party, only Lady Russell, my father, my sister and myself, and I will tell her then. Then we may tell the rest of our friends.’
‘Very well. I have already told my brother—not of your father’s consent, of course, but I told him I meant to ask you to marry me, and I told him that you had said yes. I am looking forward to telling him that our wedding can go ahead. I would like him to conduct the service. Should you have any objections?’
‘None at all. I think it an excellent idea, if Mr Gossington does not object. I would like nothing better.’
‘If Gossington conducted marriages as a general rule, he might wish to perform the office himself, but since he customarily leaves such things to my brother, I see no reason why he should object on this occasion. I will write to my sister tomorrow. I would like her to attend the wedding, and, if she is on s
hore at the time, I know she and Benjamin will want to come.’
We talked more of the wedding, of Anne being attended by her sisters, and of my plans to ask Harville to stand up with me, and so engrossed were we that we lost all track of time, and Anne’s maid had to come and warn her that it was time for her to dress.
We parted reluctantly, and I returned to my brother’s house. I could not rest, however. I longed for Edward’s company, so that I would have someone to talk to, but he had been called away to visit one of his elderly parishioners, and was not likely to return all night. The evening dragged on interminably, but tomorrow, everything will be different.
Wednesday 10 September
I cannot believe it. My heart is heavy as I write. Not long ago, Anne accepted my hand, her father gave his consent and we were the two happiest people alive. Yesterday evening, Anne told Lady Russell the news, and this morning Anne told me the marriage could not go ahead.
How can life change so suddenly? It does not seem real. Nothing has seemed real since I met her by the river this morning. The air was warm, the birds were in full voice—a perfect morning, with no hint of the thunderbolt that was about to smite me.
Then Anne appeared. I noticed at once that her step was slow, but I thought she was tired, or that she had not seen me. As she drew closer, however, I could see that her shoulders were bowed.
She looked up and saw me. Her expression was hesitant, and her step faltered.
‘What is it?’ I asked her, covering the last few yards between us in two strides. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing, only . . . I have to speak to you.’
Then she said something I had never expected to hear: that she had reconsidered; that we were too young; that long engagements were never a good thing; that it would be unfair of her to burden me with an engagement when I still had my way to make in the world; that we must be grateful we had told no one of our engagement, for there would be no embarrassment in breaking it; and that it would be best if we forgot it had ever taken place.
I was dumbfounded. But I soon came about. Her objections were easy to do away with, and I reassured her that we were not too young, and that our engagement would not be a long one, for I would soon have enough for us to marry on.
‘And then, Anne, our adventures will begin.’
She shook her head sadly.
‘Ah, I see. You have changed your mind about going to sea,’ I said, thinking this was what lay behind it. Although I was sorry, I was not downhearted. ‘You have never been aboard ship, and, now that it comes to it, you are frightened,’ I said gently, taking her hands. ‘The thought of it is too much for you. I understand. But fear not. If you do not feel you can leave your home and family, your friends and neighbours, and above all, dry land, then I will not hold you to it. But that is no reason to break our engagement.’
She drew her hands from mine and said, ‘No, Frederick, I cannot.’
‘Cannot? Why not?’ I asked, seeking to understand.
‘Everyone around me is counselling me against it—’
‘So that is it. They have bullied you into submission,’ I said.
‘No, they have not bullied me,’ she said.
But, despite her loyalty to her family, it was clear that that was what had happened.
‘I knew how it would be,’ I said. ‘Your father was condescending when I spoke to him yesterday, and he has told you I am not good enough for you, and you, Anne, my dear, gentle Anne, do not have the courage to stand up to him.’ I was conscious of feeling disappointment as I said it, for I had thought she was stronger than that, but I quickly rallied. ‘Take my strength, for I have strength enough for two.’
‘It is not just my father,’ she said in distress. ‘Lady Russell thinks it would be a mistake, too. The anxieties of your profession, the inevitable delays. I am only nineteen—’
‘That did not trouble you yesterday.’
‘No. But I have seen so little of life . . . I must be guided by those who have seen more, and listen when they tell me it is impossible.’
‘Impossible? To buy ourselves a snug little cottage as soon as I have captured another ship, and then, when I have enough prize money to buy something better, the estate we have talked about?’
‘Lady Russell says it will never be. She says you will have other calls on your purse at this time of life.’
‘I assure you I have a far greater knowledge of the calls on my purse than Lady Russell can have.’
‘And you will be worrying about me whilst you are away. Lady Russell says—’
‘Lady Russell!’ I exclaimed impatiently. ‘Always Lady Russell! Have you no heart and no mind of your own?’
She broke away from me, taking two steps back.
‘She was my mother’s best friend, and I am used to relying on her judgement, and she has always guided me well.’
I reassured her; she was resolute. I argued; she was firm. Back and forth we went, neither one of us giving ground.
‘It will be to your ruin. I cannot marry you,’ she said. ‘I could not forgive myself if I stood in your way, and prevented you from advancing as your deserve. With a fiancée, you would be cautious. You would lack the reckless spirit a man needs to advance. You would not achieve your ambitions, held back by me.’
I could not believe what I was hearing. I refused to take it in, but as last I could argue with her no longer.
‘You cannot mean to break faith with me?’ I asked her, my courage faltering. ‘Say it is not so?’
’Frederick ...’
‘I thought you loved me.’
The words were wrung out of me.
‘I do,’ she declared passionately. ‘I love you, but—’
‘But not enough,’ I said.
I could not keep the grief out of my voice.
‘It is not that.’
‘It is exactly that. You do not love me enough to go against family and friends, to follow your heart wherever it leads, even if it leads to the ends of the earth.’
‘Frederick—’
‘Enough,’ I said, hurt as I had never been before, not even when I had been injured in battle. ‘You have made your feelings clear. You cannot marry me. Very well. I will not hold you to your promise. I will have no unwilling bride. Our engagement is at an end.’
I made her a bow and then I hastened away, for I could not bear it, to have happiness so close, and yet so far.
I left Elliot land, and walked back towards the village.
I was just turning into the lane when fate threw in my way the one person I did not wish to see, the very woman who had caused all my misery: Lady Russell.
She coloured when she saw me, and faltered, as well she might.
I was in no mood to mince my words.
‘Ay, madam, well might you look so,’ I said. ‘You have done me a terrible disservice. You have taken from me the woman I love, and caused a great deal of unhappiness where there was nothing but happiness before. It is a bad day’s work.’