‘Well,’ he said, when at last I had done. ‘You always liked action, Frederick, and it seems you have managed to find it here as well as at sea.’
I shook my head.
‘That poor girl,’ I said.
‘You cannot blame yourself. She wanted to jump, you tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen. It is not your fault. Besides, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it would not have led to any great ill. You would have caught her anyway; or she would have fallen and sprained her ankle, and nothing more. It was unfortunate she hurt herself so badly, but it was not something you could have foreseen.’
‘No,’ I admitted, feeling much better than I had done for a long while, for although Edward had always been quick to deflate me when I was full of conceit, now that I needed solace he gave it in full measure.
‘Still, I cannot acquit myself of ungentlemanly behaviour,’ I said.
‘You were wrong to encourage the attentions of the young ladies, certainly, and it was even worse of you to encourage them through pride, but you did not wilfully mislead them, for you did not understand your own feelings at the time. You will have to abide by the consequences, and may yet have to pay for your folly, but do not despair; everything may turn out for the best. Louisa is only nineteen. She is at an age when her feelings are changing rapidly. She may not have regarded herself as engaged to you, and even if she did, she may yet see a man she likes better. You look surprised!’ he said mockingly. ‘Yet you are not the only man in the world. There are others younger, richer, handsomer, more courteous and more gentlemanly—there is no need to look at me so. I love you very well, and I think any woman would be sensible who did likewise, but you are not the embodiment of every virtue.’
I was forced to smile, and say ruefully, ‘True enough.’
‘Now, enough of Louisa. Tell me about Anne. Is she much altered?’
‘She looks the same as she ever did,’ I said, as I recalled the brightness of her eye and the freshness of her complexion on the Cobb.
And then my spirits fell, and I told him of her coldness, and of how she avoided me. And then they rose as I told him that she had turned down Charles Musgrove, at which point he said, ‘Ah,’ thoughtfully. And then I told him how I had admitted to myself that she was the only woman I could ever wish to marry.
‘Brooding will not help matters. You must fill your time here, so that you do not have time to think. We will keep you busy with visits and parties. Never fear, you will come about.’
The opportunity to unburden myself had done me good, and his common sense had further heartened me, so that it was with tolerable spirits that I left the table with him and joined Eleanor in the drawing-room. She played the harp and sang to us, and the evening was more enjoyable than I had any right to expect.
Sunday 25 December
It was a bright, sunny morning, and every one of Edward’s parishioners turned out for church. The sermon was affecting and the singing was uplifting. Afterwards, I had a chance to talk to Edward’s neighbours, and then we went home to a hearty meal.
I wondered how Anne was spending her Christmas, and whether she was happy.
Wednesday 28 December
Edward had a letter from Sophia this morning. He gave it to me to read. She talked of their Christmas celebrations, and of Benjamin’s bad toe, which she hopes will soon be better, but fears may be gout. She mentioned that they might go to Bath for the waters, and said that Lady Russell and Anne were already there.
I frowned.
‘You are reading the part about Lady Russell,’ said Edward, reading my frown correctly. ‘You still have not forgiven her for the part she played in separating you and Anne?’
‘No, I have not. It was a bad day’s work. I am surprised that Sophia likes her,’ I remarked.
‘But I am not. They are both of them sensible women.’
‘Hah!’ I replied. ‘Poor Anne! To be once more with her father and sister, who will slight her as much as ever, and in Bath, a place she has never liked. If only I was free, I could go to her,’ I said.
‘Perhaps her father and sister treat her better now,’ said my brother, taking the letter back from me when I had done.
‘Perhaps. But I do not believe it. I am sure they are just as bad as they ever were.’
A letter from Harville told me that Louisa was now so much better that she was able to rise every day, and that, although she was quiet, for her nerves were still delicate, she was almost fully recovered, and would soon be returning home to Uppercross.
The time is soon approaching, then, when my fate will be decided forever.
1815
JANUARY
Sunday 1 January
And so, it is here, the New Year, but whether it will be a year of good or ill, who can say?
Wednesday 4 January
I went round the parish with my brother today. It is a pretty place, and his parishioners are good people. It is no wonder he is so happy. A refined couple by the name of Darnley told us they were making up a party to go for a drive next week, and asked us to join them. We agreed with pleasure. The weather is mild for the time of year, and it is pleasant to be out of doors.
Tuesday 10 January
‘You seem very cheerful today,’ remarked Edward, as we rode out with the Darnleys’ party.
‘Perhaps,’ I said cautiously.
We had fallen a little way behind the others, and were free to talk, though I did not know whether it was a good thing or a bad.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’
‘I have had another letter from Harville,’ I said. ‘He writes to me from time to time.’
‘He is well?’
‘Yes, he and his family are thriving.’
‘And?’
‘And, after he had spoken of his family, he mentioned that Louisa and Benwick seem much taken with each other, and that they spend all day reading poetry together. He made some veiled comments about men protecting their treasures lest they should be stolen, and then he asked me when I would be returning to Lyme.’
‘Ah, I see. He thinks you might be displaced in Louisa’s affections.’
‘Yes.’
‘No wonder you are so cheerful.’
‘And yet I cannot believe it,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘Benwick lost his fiancée less than a year ago, and she was a very superior young woman.’
‘A man does not always want a superior young woman for a wife. Sometimes he wants a sweet disposition and an affectionate nature.’
‘Very true.’
‘And will you be going to Lyme?’
‘No. I have written to Harville and told him that I will not be able to return. I remarked that I was delighted that Louisa was making such good progress, and I was also delighted that Benwick was more cheerful. I went so far as to say it sounded as though they were doing each other good, and that this must surely be something that would please all their friends.’
‘That seems very plain.’
‘As plain as I dared make it, at any rate.’
One of our party turning round and calling to us that moment, we put our horses into a trot and rejoined the main group.
The visit was very enjoyable. The house was fine, the gardens better, and the weather was kind. We have arranged to take another outing in two weeks’ time, and I find I am looking forward to it. It seems that I might soon be free of my restraints and able to live again.
Tuesday 31 January
Sophia and Benjamin have determined to go to Bath, for it is almost certain that he is gouty.
‘I told him he should not drink so much port, but he would not listen,’ said Edward.
‘I would like to see Bath,’ said Eleanor. ‘I have never been.’
‘Then we will go later in the year,’ Edward promised her.
We whiled away the rest of the evening by talking of the gaieties to be had in Bath, and the society to be met with. Edward and I recalled everything we could from our rar
e visits there, and we entertained Eleanor with talk of the baths, the concerts and the assembly rooms until it was time to retire.
FEBRUARY
Monday 13 February
A smile broke out on my face this morning as I read my letters.
‘What happiness!’ I said. ‘Louisa is to marry Captain Benwick! They fell in love during her convalescence. It is all here, in this letter from Harville. Splendid fellow! He wrote to me as soon as he heard the news.’
‘Captain Benwick is a friend of yours, I collect?’ said Eleanor.
‘Yes, he is indeed.’
‘And Louisa? Was she not the girl who had the accident at Lyme?’
‘Yes, she was.’
‘Then it is a very happy outcome to a sad event,’ said Eleanor approvingly.
‘And so it is!’ I cried.
I was glad that I had ordered my horse before opening my letters, for within half an hour I was able to leave the house and ride out in the frosty morning, with my breath clouding the air in front of me. When I had ridden far enough, and was out of sight and sound of any house, I reined in my horse and shouted, ‘Free!’ at the top of my voice. ‘Free! I am free!’
I laughed with the joy of it. After all these weeks of anguish, I was free at last to go to Bath! Free to find Anne! Free to marry her, if she would have me.
Doubts assailed me. I patted my horse’s neck and rode on, trying not to listen to them, but they would not be denied. She might not have me. She might refuse me. But despite my fears, there was room for hope. She had turned down at least one man of better pretensions than myself, when she refused Charles Musgrove, and over and over I had asked myself, Was it for me? I knew there was only one way to be sure. I must go to Bath at once and then I would know, once and for all.
Over luncheon, I told Eleanor and Edward of my intentions. Eleanor was not surprised, assuming I was going to see Sophia, but Edward guessed my true reason. He spoke to me about it after dinner when Eleanor had withdrawn.
‘You are going to see Anne?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘Then I wish you luck.’
‘Thank you. I will need it. I scarcely dare see her, for in her looks, her words, will be comprised my future happiness.’
‘You have never lacked courage, Frederick. You will bear it, whatever the answer is, but I hope for your sake it is a happy one,’ he said.
I thanked him for his good wishes, and told him that I meant to set out first thing tomorrow morning.
I spent the rest of the day thinking of what I would say to her when I saw her again.
Wednesday 15 February
And so here I am, in Bath, ready to face the future.
Thursday 16 February
I called on Sophia and Benjamin this morning. They were surprised to see me, but made me very welcome, and insisted I remove from the inn where I had taken a room, saying I must stay with them. I could not stand out against such kindness and I did as they suggested. I was pleased to find that their house was comfortable, and in a good part of town.
After giving them Edward’s compliments, I asked them, casually, if they had seen the Elliots.
‘No, we have not yet found out where they are living, but as soon as we discover their address we mean to call on them,’ said Sophia.
I could not rest, and making business my excuse, I left the house soon afterwards with the intention of discovering where Anne was living for myself. I had not gone far before I fell in with another party of my acquaintance just before Milsom Street. They suggested we should walk on together and I agreed.
‘My brother is renting the estate of Sir Walter Elliot,’ I said. ‘He is in Bath at present. Do you happen to know him?’
‘Yes, we have been introduced. He is here with his daughter, Miss Elliot,’ said Mr Lytham.
‘His other daughter is here as well. She has newly joined them. A Miss Anne Elliot,’ remarked Mrs Lytham.
I asked if they knew where Sir Walter was living, and, as we turned into Milsom Street, Mrs Lytham informed me that the Elliots were renting a house in Camden Place.
It began to rain, and I was glad of the umbrella I had purchased. I was about to open it to shelter the ladies when Mrs Lytham remarked that she would like to buy some ribbon. We agreed to go to the shop together, in an effort to avoid the rain. We had only just entered when I saw . . . Anne, right there in front of me!
I started, and felt the colour flood my face. After rehearsing our first meeting so many times, I had never imagined it like this, for I had not foreseen an unexpected encounter. All my practised speeches went out of my head and I could do nothing but stand and stare at her, as a range of emotions flooded over me: surprise on seeing her, relief that I had found her, pleasure on seeing her and chagrin that she was not alone.
She, on the other hand, seemed perfectly composed. Was I nothing to her, then, that she could see me unexpectedly with such equanimity? Had she forgotten me, and forgotten what we once were to each other? Had those feelings died in her breast? Had she come to regard me as nothing more than an old acquaintance?
I had thought . . . hoped . . . that her rejection of Charles Musgrove meant that there was a chance for me, but what if it meant only that she did not like him, or that she did not think him good enough, or that, as Miss Musgrove suspected, Lady Russell had not liked him?
‘Miss Anne,’ I said, embarrassed, and suddenly tongue-tied. ‘It is an honour and a pleasure to see you again.’
She smiled and made me a curtsey.
The smile gave me hope that my presence was not entirely unwelcome, and I wanted to say more, but as one of my party happened to speak to me at that moment, I had to go to the counter. As soon as I was free, however, I approached Anne and spoke again, scarcely knowing what I said, but determined to say something. I asked her about her father, I believe, and spoke about the weather, but I was not comfortable, I was not easy, I could not assume that manner which we had had before, of perfect understanding, because there was not a perfect understanding between us.
I saw her sister; her sister saw me; I was ready to speak; but Miss Elliot turned away. So different from Anne!
‘Where is the carriage?’ Miss Elliot asked. ‘Lady Dalrymple’s carriage should be here by now. Mrs Clay, go to the window and see if you can see it.’
I recognized in Mrs Clay, the daughter of Mr Shepherd, now married and widowed, as I had heard. She went over to the window as commanded, and I was seized with a fear that Anne was about to leave. I turned to speak to her, eager to make the most of my opportunity, but I was too late! Lady Dalrymple’s carriage was announced. Miss Elliot and Mrs Clay immediately made for the door, and I took what opportunity I could, by offering my arm to Anne. I hoped that we might be able to continue our conversation as I escorted her to the carriage.
‘I am much obliged to you, but I am not going with them,’ she said. ‘The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer walking.’
‘But it rains,’ I said.
‘Oh! very little. Nothing that I regard,’ she returned.
An inspiration hit me, and I offered her my umbrella. Then I thought of a better suggestion, and begged to be allowed to get her a chair.