‘I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind,’ I said. ‘I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but Benwick is something more. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation! With a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny Harville was a very superior creature,’ I said, looking at Anne, and hoping to convey with my eyes that I found her a very superior creature, ‘and his attachment to her was indeed attachment.’ Again, I looked at Anne, and sought to convey that my attachment to her was indeed attachment. ‘A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman!’ I said. ‘He ought not; he does not,’ I finished.
If ever a man could speak of love with his eyes, I spoke of my love then. I waited breathlessly for Anne’s reply, but she said nothing. I wondered if I had gone too far, and said too much? And then I wondered if she had understood me, or if she had really thought I was speaking of Benwick, and Benwick alone. She did not seem to know what to think, or what to say.
At last she spoke.
‘I should very much like to see Lyme again.’
I was astonished.
‘Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.’
‘The last few hours were certainly very painful,’ she admitted, ‘but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short,’ she blushed slightly, ‘altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable.’
I felt my emotions pulled in two directions. Were her recollections of it agreeable because of me? If so, what happiness! Or were they agreeable because of her seeing Mr Elliot for the first time there? If so, what misery!
I longed to ask, to find out, but at that moment there was a stir in the room. It had become fuller and fuller whilst I had been speaking to Anne, and it was now energized by the entrance of Lady Dalrymple. Anne moved away to greet her, and I was left alone, to wonder whether Anne’s eagerness to greet her was caused by the fact that she was attended by Mr Elliot.
They formed a happy group: Lady Dalrymple enjoyed the fawning of all about her; Sir Walter and Miss Elliot basked in the honour of her acquaintance; Mr Elliot was much taken with Anne; and Anne . . . Anne seemed to welcome him. My heart ached and, unable to bear it, I left the room.
When I was at last sensible of my surroundings again, I found myself in the Concert Room. Mrs Lytham soon found me and began talking about the music that was to come. I was incapable of rational speech, but fortunately she was very fond of music, and talked enough for both of us.
‘Lady Dalrymple is here, I see,’ said Mrs Lytham.
I looked round—I could hardly help it, as Lady Dalrymple’s party entered with a bustle that was designed to catch every eye. I turned away, but not before I had seen Anne— radiant Anne, whose eyes were bright and whose cheeks were glowing with a light that came from within—sit on one of the foremost benches, next to Mr Elliot.
I took myself off to the farthest side of the room, so that I would not have to see them together, but I could not take my eyes away from her. I kept glimpsing her through the sea of feathered headdresses, her face close to Mr Elliot’s, and in the interval succeeding an Italian song, I had the mortification of seeing her speak to him in a low voice, intimately, to the exclusion of all others, with their heads almost touching.
There was a break in the performance, and I was hailed by Cranfield. He and a group of other men were discussing music and politics, and I was forced to join in. I could barely keep my mind on the conversation, however, and my gaze kept returning to Anne. She was still with Mr Elliot; still talking to him; still enjoying his company.
I heard my name, and realized that Sir Walter and Lady Dalrymple were speaking of me. I could not hear their conversation, but I imagined Sir Walter saying, Captain Wentworth once had pretensions of winning my daughter, but, as you can see, she has made a better choice, and means to marry the next baronet. He had never liked me, and he must rejoice in my total rout.
The room began to fill again in preparation for the second act, and I noticed that Mr Elliot did not return to his place by Anne. Despite my fears, I made the most of my opportunity and stepped forward with a view to sitting next to her, but others were quicker, and her bench soon filled up. I watched it; I could not help myself; and to my great good fortune, they soon tired of the music and left the room. There was a space next to Anne. I hesitated, tormented by doubt once more. Should I go to her, and discover once and forever that she regarded me as nothing more than an acquaintance from the past? Or to do nothing, and perhaps miss my opportunity with her?
I took my courage in both hands and went over to her.
‘I hope you are enjoying the concert. I expected to like it more,’ I said, thinking that, if Mr Elliot had not been present, I should certainly have been better pleased.
‘The singing is not of the first quality, it is true, but there are some fine voices, and the orchestra is good,’ she said.
I was heartened by the fact that she was disposed to talk to me, and that she did not appear to look round for Mr Elliot whilst we spoke. I was just beginning to enjoy our conversation, and was about to take my seat in the vacant space next to her, when Mr Elliot tapped her on the shoulder.
‘I beg your pardon, but your assistance is needed,’ he said to Anne. ‘Miss Carteret is very anxious to have a general idea of what is next to be sung, and she desires you to translate the Italian.’
There was something so intimate in his gesture of touching her, and something so confiding in his manner of speech, that all the joy drained out of me. I could not sit there and listen to song after song of the agonizingly beautiful music, with its romantic Italian lyrics, whilst Mr Elliot was behind us, ready to touch her shoulder again at any moment with the air of an acknowledged lover, and to bend his head close to hers, and talk to her in a low voice, their thoughts as one. I could not bear it. I knew I had to leave before the second act began, before I found myself trapped in the acutest misery. I excused myself hurriedly, saying, ‘I must wish you good night; I am going.’
‘Is not this song worth staying for?’ she asked in surprise.
‘No! there is nothing worth my staying for,’ I said bitterly.
And with this, I hurried out of the room.
I arrived back at Sophia’s house in time for supper, but I could not pay attention to her. Declaring myself exhausted, I retired to my room, where I thought of nothing but Anne and Mr Elliot, Mr Elliot and Anne.
Wednesday 22 February
I awoke to find the winter sun shining through my curtains, but the brightness, which would usually have cheered me, could not restore me to happiness, for the memory of the concert was too clearly etched on my mind.
Friday 24 February
I went out for a walk after breakfast and, to my surprise the first person I met when I set foot out of the door was Charles Musgrove! There was a start on both sides, and then a smile of recognition, which was quickly followed by a moment of awkwardness on Charles’s part. I could tell that he was thinking of Louisa, and wondering if I had been wounded by the news of her engagement.
I hastened to put his mind at ease.
‘I am delighted to see you, Musgrove,’ I greeted him warmly. ‘We have not seen each other since Lyme. Who would have thought that the incidents there would have had such a welcome outcome? I was so pleased to hear of your sister’s engagement. Such a beautiful and courageous young woman deserves every happiness in life, and I believe Benwick is just the man to give it to her. He is an excellent fellow, with a steady character, and I am heartily glad for them both.’
‘It is good of you to say so, Wentworth,’ he said, shaking me warmly by the hand, as a look of relief spread across his face. ‘I thought . . . but there now, that is all in the past, and I know my sister will be pleased to learn that you wish her well.’
‘I do, with all my heart,’ I assured him.
Having established matters satisfactorily between us in this respect, we fell into step, and I asked him what he was doing in Bath.
‘I am here with my family. My mother is here, and Mary of course, and the Harvilles are with us. I do not know if you are aware of the fact, but my mother invited the Harvilles to Uppercross when Louisa was well enough to come home. My mother wanted to thank them for all they had done for Louisa. I believe I may say they have enjoyed their visit, and their children have enjoyed playing with my younger brothers and sisters. It was Harville who gave us the idea of visiting Bath, for he needed to come on business, and I decided to come with him, for the country is very dull at this time of year. Then Mary decided she could not bear to be left behind, and my mother declared that she would like to visit some friends here, and Henrietta thought it an excellent opportunity to buy her wedding clothes. So here we are, all six of us, ready to enjoy ourselves in our various ways.’
‘A splendid idea. I am glad that Henrietta and Hayter have decided not to wait before getting married. Long delays are an evil, in my opinion. If two people love each other, they should formalize their affections straight away.’
As I spoke, I thought of myself and Anne. If only we had had a chance to formalize our affections in the year six!
‘I suppose so, though I do not believe they would have gone ahead if not for a great piece of luck,’ said Musgrove. ‘What do you think, Wentworth? Hayter has acquired a living.’
‘Indeed? I am very happy for him. Where is it?’
‘Only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, in Dorsetshire. It is not his forever; he holds it for a youth who is at present too young to take it up; but it will be his for many years, and by the time the boy is old enough, Hayter is sure to have found something else.’
‘It seems eminently suitable.’
‘Yes, I am happy for them.’ Then, turning to matters nearer to hand, he said, ‘I have just secured a box at the theatre for tomorrow night. I hope you will join us?’
I expressed myself delighted.
Harville joined us at this point, having undertaken a commission for one of the ladies, and we went on, all three of us together.
‘You will come and pay your respects to my mother?’ asked Musgrove, as we approached the White Hart.
‘With the greatest of pleasure.’
We went into the inn. As we did so, Musgrove went on ahead, and I was left to walk behind with Harville. It seemed a long time since we had been in the Navy together. Life at sea had its problems, but I found myself thinking that it was a great deal more straightforward than life on land.
‘Tell me about Louisa Musgrove,’ I said. ‘Has she completely recovered?’
‘She is well, but not as lively as formerly, or so I understand,’ he said. ‘Of course, I did not know her before the accident, but her family has often mentioned that she was always singing or dancing or running about.’
‘Yes, she was,’ I said.
‘Whether her languor will pass, I do not know. Perhaps, as she continues to improve, her vigour will return.’
‘It was good of you and Harriet to look after her.’
‘We were only too happy to do it. Any friend of yours, Wentworth . . . I did think, at one time, that you intended to marry her. It appears I was wrong.’
‘I was a friend of the family, but nothing more,’ I said. ‘I am pleased that she and Benwick are happy.’
He was silent.
‘You do not like the engagement?’ I asked.
He hesitated.
‘I do, of course. James is a good man, and she seems a delightful girl. Only . . . it is selfish of me, I know, but I do not like the idea of him forgetting Fanny. They were engaged for years, Wentworth, and she has only been dead for seven months.’
‘She was a wonderful girl, superior in every way,’ I said gently.
‘Yes, she was. I am partial, of course, because she was my sister, but I truly think she was special. And James thought so, too. But now . . . I miss Fanny,’ he said with a sigh.
I spoke of her beauty and her good nature, recalling the times we had all three spent together, and Harville was cheered.
‘You are right, of course. James has a right to happiness, and I am pleased he has found it. It just seemed too soon . . . but better too soon than too late. I am glad for him. Yes, I am.’
We went up to Mrs Musgrove’s rooms, and as soon as I walked in, I saw Anne!
I was taken aback, and yet I should have expected it, for this arrival of the Musgroves would inevitably bring us together at some point. She was connected with them, being their friend, and so was I. Nevertheless, I could not trust myself to do more than greet her politely. She looked as though she would like me to draw close and I wondered, fleetingly, if I could be mistaken in thinking there was something between her and Mr Elliot, after all.
My hopes were dashed before they had time to take root, however, for Mary, standing at the window, called our attention to a gentleman standing below.
‘Anne, there is Mrs Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now. They seem deep in talk. Who is it? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot himself.’
‘No, it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till tomorrow,’ said Anne.
So she was aware of all his comings and goings! I thought, turning my eyes towards her.
‘I am certain it is him,’ said Mary, adding, affronted, ‘I am sure I may be expected to know my own cousin. He has the family features; he is the same man we saw in Lyme. Only come to the window, Anne, and take a look!’
Anne appeared embarrassed, and I was not surprised, for all eyes had turned to her, but as she said nothing, the room fell silent.
It was an uncomfortable pause.
‘Do come, Anne,’ urged Mary, ‘come and look yourself. You will be too late if you do not make haste. They are parting; they are shaking hands. He is turning away. Not know Mr. Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all about Lyme.’
At last, Anne moved to the window. What did her hesitation mean? That she did not want to see him? Or that she did not want to appear to be eager to see him? I wished I could read her thoughts.
‘Yes, it is Mr. Elliot, certainly,’ said Anne calmly. ‘He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may have been mistaken.’
This spelled hope. If she was mistaken, then she could not have been attending to him when he told her of his plans.
What torture it was to examine every sentence, to see if it proved a love affair between them, or the reverse!
‘Well, Mother,’ said Musgrove, when Mrs Clay and Mr Elliot had disappeared from view, ‘I have done something for you that you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for tomorrow night. I know you love a play, and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play.’