‘I am very much obliged to you, but the rain will come to nothing, I am sure,’ she said.
I was about to offer her my arm as well as my umbrella and walk her home, thanking Providence for the opportunity that had been thrown in my way, when she dashed my hopes by saying that she was waiting for her cousin, Mr Elliot, who had just gone on an errand and would be returning at any minute.
So Elliot was in Bath, and she preferred walking with him to walking with me. I was downcast. What had he been saying to her whilst they had been in Bath? Had he been making love to her? Winning her affections?
At that moment, I saw him walking down the street, and I felt my spirits sink. He would not have any difficulty in winning her family’s approval, if he wanted her for his wife. Her sister might be jealous, it was true, and this might distress Anne for a while. But other than that, in age, appearance, birth and fortune he was an excellent match.
Was that how she would see it? I asked myself, glancing at her profile. I could not believe it. No, not Anne, who had a heart as deep as mine, and who would not marry without love, I was sure.
But perhaps she loved him. Perhaps she could see in him everything she had seen in me eight years before.
At that moment, Elliot walked in. I recollected him perfectly. There was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she passed, except in his air, because, whereas before he had looked at her as an admiring stranger, now he looked at her in the manner of a privileged friend. He appeared to see and think only of her, apologized for his stay, and was grieved to have kept her waiting. He was anxious to get her away without further loss of time, and before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off together, her arm under his, saying only a ‘Good morning to you!’ before they left.
As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies in my own party began talking of them, saying that Mr Elliot appeared to like Miss Anne very much. Mrs Lytham said that her friend Mrs Veer had told her that Mr Elliot was always with her family, and that it was easy to see how it would end.
I was devastated. To lose Anne to a man like Elliot, when I had been so close to speaking to her myself!
‘She is pretty, I think, Anne Elliot; very pretty when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister,’ said Mrs Lytham.
‘Oh! so do I,’ replied Miss Stanhope.
‘And so do I,’ replied another. ‘No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them. What do you think, Captain Wentworth? Do you not think her the handsomer of the two?’
I was about to reply truthfully, and to say that indeed I did, when I recollected my manners and said that I thought both ladies extremely beautiful.
‘Very politic!’ said Lytham with a laugh.
‘Ay,’ said Mr Runcorne. ‘Never be drawn on the relative beauty of ladies, for you may be sure it will come to their ears, and though you will have the smiles of one for ever more, you will have the other’s frowns.’
The men laughed heartily, and the women continued to talk of Anne.
‘A pretty woman, and not as proud as her father and sister,’ said Miss Stanhope. ‘She has an old school friend, a Mrs Smith, you know, who lives in poverty in Westgate Buildings. Many people would drop such an acquaintance, for it is not a nice neighbourhood, but Miss Anne visits her friend assiduously.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Mrs Lytham.
‘I am, for I have seen her there myself as my carriage was driving through the neighbourhood.’
‘Then that is another thing in her favour. Mr Elliot will be getting a good, as well as a pretty, wife,’ said Lytham.
‘A spring wedding, I think,’ said Mrs Lytham.
A spring wedding! I could not bear to think of it! To lose Anne, so soon, to another man?
‘Impossible!’ I broke out.
The whole party looked at me, startled, and I felt myself redden with embarrassment. I sought around for an explanation for my outburst, and luckily, one was to hand.
‘He was wearing crêpe around his hat. He is in mourning,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes, very true. A summer wedding, then,’ said Mrs Lytham.
‘He might not care to marry again,’ I said, more to convince myself than Mrs Lytham.
‘He does not seem to be inconsolable,’ she remarked. ‘Quite the reverse. He seems very interested in Miss Anne. What kind of woman was his wife?’
‘Not a woman of any birth, but intelligent, accomplished and an heiress, by all accounts,’ said Miss Stanhope.
‘Ah.’
‘She fell in love with him—’
‘I am not surprised, for he is a fine-looking man.’
‘—and she was determined to have him.’
‘Really? I heard it was he who pursued her,’ said Lytham.
‘Not a bit of it. He was destined for Miss Elliot,’ said Miss Stanhope.
‘Then Miss Elliot should have fixed him when she had the chance,’ said Mrs Lytham.
‘She tried, on more than one occasion. She and her father sought him out in London some ten years ago. They made much of him, and invited him back to Kellynch Hall, but he was a young man at the time, I might even say a very young man, and country relatives were not to his taste, so that he slipped the net.’
‘My dear, where did you hear all this?’
‘At the Pump Rooms, where else?’ said Miss Stanhope.
‘Ah, of course.’
‘And, now that he is a widower, it appears he prefers Miss Anne,’ Miss Stanhope finished.
‘She will be the future Lady Elliot, then, and mistress of Kellynch,’ said Mrs Lytham. ‘That will be hard for her sister to bear. But I am glad of it. I like her. She will fill the role very well.’ She turned to me. ‘Your brother has rented the Elliot’s house, I believe, Captain Wentworth?’
‘That is so. He took it at Michaelmas.’
‘A good time of year for a remove. Does he mean to stay there?’
‘For the time being, yes.’
‘Then he had better hope that Sir Walter does not meet with an accident, or Sir Walter’s heir will be wanting it back again!’
‘Is his fortune very large?’ asked Lytham.
‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Runcorne. ‘He is now a man of means, and lives with liberality—my cousin was acquainted with him in town.’
They began to ask me about Kellynch Hall. I did not want to speak of it; it held too many memories; but the ladies would not be satisfied without a minute description of the principal rooms.
To my relief, that seemed to satisfy them, for the conversation then turned away from Anne and moved on to their other acquaintance.
I dreaded the topic returning, however, for I could not trust myself to be silent if Mr Elliot was mentioned again, and so I took my leave.
I was engaged to dine with Sophia and Benjamin, but I found it difficult to keep my mind on the conversation at dinner. I found myself trying to decide what I would say to Anne when I saw her, but I could think of nothing that satisfied me. I decided to rely on the genius of the moment, and I only hope my wits do not desert me.
Friday 17 February
I set out for Camden Place but, as was the case yesterday, I saw Anne quite by chance, this time whilst walking down Pulteney Street. To my dismay, I saw that Lady Russell was with her. To my further dismay, I saw that, as soon as Anne saw me, she looked immediately at her companion.
Is she, then, still swayed by Lady Russell? I asked myself.
I did not know, but if she was, I feared my hopes would soon be dashed, for I had no reason to suppose that Lady Russell liked me any more than she had done eight years before. I might have made my fortune but Lady Russell, once she had made up her mind, was unlikely to change it.
Lady Russell looked in my direction but our eyes did not meet. I tried to catch Anne’s eye, but she had cast her gaze down, and would not look at me. I wanted to cross the r
oad and speak to her, but the presence of Lady Russell, and Anne’s own downcast gaze, deterred me. I strengthened my resolve . . . but the moment had passed.
I cursed myself inwardly, wondering when and where I had become such a coward. I had never been frightened when taking a ship into battle; but talking to Anne, finding out whether or not she still loved me . . . that terrified me.
Saturday 18 February
I was persuaded to go to the theatre tonight by a party of friends. The play was very good but I did not enjoy it because Anne was not there, and if Anne was not there, I could see no reason for being there myself.
I was invited to a concert on Tuesday evening and, unable to think of any reason to refuse, I was forced to accept.
I hope I will have an opportunity to speak to Anne before then. I might see her at church tomorrow, or I might see her in the Pump Rooms. If not, I will have to call in Camden Place, welcome or not, and pay my respects to Sir Walter.
Sunday 19 February
I hoped I might see Anne at church this morning, but she and her family must frequent a different church, for I saw nothing of her.
Tuesday 21 February
I spent a fruitless day hoping to see Anne in the public buildings, and returned to my sister’s for an early dinner.
‘Have you called on Sir Walter yet?’ I asked her.
‘No, not yet,’ came the reply.
‘I think I will call tomorrow. I feel I should pay my respects.’
‘A good idea. I will go with you,’ she said, ‘and I will persuade Benjamin to come, too.’
Having arranged matters to my satisfaction, I felt more able to relax, and, after dinner, I went out to the concert in a happier mood. I arrived early, and decided to wait for the rest of my party inside. I went into the Octagon Room . . . and I was astonished to see Anne. She was with her father, sister and Mrs Clay. I received a cold look from her father, and so I made up my mind to bow and pass on, hoping to speak to Anne later in the evening when her father and sister were not nearby. But Anne stepped forward and said, ‘How do you do?’
With those simple words my spirits lifted, for she had made an effort to speak to me, and perhaps all was not lost.
I stopped next to her, and enquired after her health, and the health of her family and friends. I heard a whispering between her father and sister, and then, to my surprise, Sir Walter acknowledged me. More slowly, and more grudgingly, Miss Elliot did the same. I made them a slight bow in return— slight, because their own acknowledgement had been slight— and then gave my attention back to Anne.
‘You did not get wet, I hope, the other day when you walked home in the rain?’ I asked her.
‘No, not at all.’
There was a silence and I felt I should move on, but I could not do so.
‘Perhaps I was a little wet,’ she said.
‘It must have been uncomfortable for you.’
‘Oh, no, not really.’
We fell silent again, and I searched my mind desperately for something else to say, for I did not want to leave her, nor did she seem to want to leave me.
‘Are you enjoying your visit to Bath?’ I asked.
‘Yes, it is most agreeable, thank you.’
I had so much I wanted to say to her I hardly knew where to begin, but I could not say anything of importance in the Octagon Rooms, in full view of her father and sister, with other people liable to enter at any moment. I wished I was at Kellynch Hall, walking by the river, with Anne by my side, so that I could say everything that was in my heart. But instead, I had to content myself with trivialities.
‘The Rooms are very fine,’ I said.
‘Indeed they are,’ she said, greeting my words with more warmth than they deserved.
I took courage from it, for she was not disgusted by my banalities. However, I could not think of anything else to say. I cursed myself inwardly for my stupidity.
‘The fire is hot,’ she said, rescuing us both from silence.
‘You are standing too near,’ I said, immediately solicitous. ‘Pray let us move aside.’
‘No, I am not too hot at all, it is just . . . the fire is a little warm,’ she ended lamely.
We fell silent again. She would not meet my eye but looked past my shoulder, and I could not complain for, having managed one glance at her, I found myself looking at the ceiling.
What did it mean? I asked myself. She was embarrassed, that much I could tell, but why? Was she longing to open her heart to me and tell me that she had missed me? It seemed too much to hope for. Perhaps she was ashamed of her father and sister for not taking proper notice of me, and wanted to make it up to me by taking notice of me herself. Or perhaps she was ashamed of Lady Russell, who had walked past me in the street without saying a word. Perhaps she was trying to smooth over our past differences, so that we could meet in the future without embarrassment. Or perhaps . . . my spirits quailed . . . perhaps she was trying to find the words to let me know that she and Mr Elliot were betrothed.
I knew I must give her an opening to speak, and I thought I could do so by raising the subject of Lyme, for it was at Lyme she had first seen Mr Elliot.
‘I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme,’ I said. ‘I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more so from its not overpowering you at the time.’
‘No, I assure you, I was not overcome. I was only glad to be of service to Louisa and Henrietta.’
‘It was a frightful hour,’ I said, remembering it in all its detail: Louisa’s fall, my guilt and remorse, the fear I had felt when I thought she was dead. But things had turned out far better than I had, at one time, thought possible, and, smiling again, I said, ‘The day has produced some effects, however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery.’
She agreed, but said she thought it would be a happy match, for they both had good principles and good temper.
‘With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it,’ I said, and my words were heartfelt.
But as I spoke of the Musgroves, and their true parental hearts that were anxious to promote their daughter’s comfort, I found myself gradually losing sight of Louisa and James, and thinking more of myself and Anne, for Anne had had no such parental goodwill.
I stopped as I realized where my words were tending. I glanced towards Anne and saw that her thoughts had been following mine, for she was blushing. Moreover, she had fixed her eyes on the ground and would not look at me. I remembered how it had been for us: many difficulties to contend with, opposition, caprice—everything Benwick would not have to endure.
Searching around for another subject I found I could no longer bear idle talk, I had to give her an intimation of my thoughts. I had to let her know they were unchanged, for perhaps—perhaps, if she was not irrevocably settled on Mr Elliot—she could still love me. I cleared my throat and went on, although I spoke haltingly, not sure what to say, afraid of saying too little, or too much.