Beginning, Section II, Next Section
Chapter IV
"Turn about," Elizabeth commanded her brother.
Walter sighed and turned about obediently. "I feel ridiculous."
Elizabeth looked him over with a practiced eye and reached out to pluck an imaginary bit of lint from his vestment. "Well, you look splendid." She turned him toward the looking-glass. "See for yourself."
The first thing he noticed--the first thing anyone would notice--was the elaborate embroidery worked on the vestments in gold and silver and coloured threads. Mrs. Musgrove had commissioned the vestments herself, insisting that Sir Walter Elliot's grandson and namesake would be properly turned out for his debut as rector. Walter had unthinkingly gone along with her plans, and when the vestments arrived, had gazed at them in utter horror. His own taste was rather spare and elegant; he was privately rather pleased that clergymen were expected to wear black at all times. There was no time to order new vestments before Charles and Anne's wedding, and as Anne had specifically requested that he perform the ceremony, he was forced to wear them.
However, as Walter became accustomed to his reflection, he realized that his sister was correct; he looked splendid. On a smaller, less handsome man, the vestments would have been ridiculous indeed, but on Walter they sat perfectly. Well, if this does not go off well, I cannot place the blame on Mamma, he thought wryly.
The previous weeks had been a whirlwind of activity at Uppercross. The Cottage had been turned inside out, painted and papered and scrubbed in preparation for its new tenants. Furniture arrived by the waggonload, including a pianoforte that the young squire had purchased as a wedding present for his bride. Charles himself was rarely at the Great House, dividing his time between the stables, the Cottage, and Oakmont Park.
Walter had experienced no less a whirlwind in his own affairs. He had gone to see Dr. Smythe two days after Elizabeth and James' wedding and told him that he was prepared to take orders.
Dr. Smythe, still shrewd despite his advanced years, looked at him keenly. "I must say that I am surprised by this sudden discovery of your vocation."
Walter confessed, "I am not entirely sure that I have a vocation, sir."
The older man laughed. "In my day it was not considered necessary for a clergyman to have a calling. That he was an educated and a gentleman was sufficient to recommend him to the Church. Your parents are of my generation; they have provided you with a way to make your living, but you have never seemed especially desirous of following the path they have laid out for you."
Walter squirmed a bit under the rector's keen gaze; he felt like he had as a boy, when he had run away and hidden in the woods rather than attend Sunday afternoon service. Dr. Smythe had questioned him just as closely on that occasion, but his kindness was always evident, and Walter had left the parsonage chastened and relieved that he had escaped eternal damnation. "I know that in the past I have not conducted myself as a clergyman should," he said softly. "But I am endeavouring to change my ways."
"Use not the Church as a crutch, son," said the rector kindly. "It is commendable that you wish to better yourself, but that is a matter between you and your conscience. You cannot hide behind your position as a priest. You will still be a man, fallible and open to temptation."
"I know that," he said. "But I would like to try."
The rector smiled at him. "Very well," he said. "I shall do what I can for you."
Bishop Prescott had been obstinate, insisting that Walter should spend a year as a deacon, as most young clergymen did, before taking the vows of priesthood. Dr. Smythe intervened; Walter well understood his new duties, he said, and the year of training would not be necessary. The bishop had at last grudgingly agreed, and when Walter tried to thank the rector, he had waved his hand dismissively.
"Ephraim Prescott and I have been adversaries these forty years," he laughed, "since we were boys at Oxford. He was a loud advocate of the Clapham sect and was furious every time I was able to refute his doctrinal arguments, which was nearly always. He has grown no less loud over the years, but you see it has not affected his career."
Walter smiled at the older man, who had been the rector of Uppercross for nearly twenty years, taking the position when Walter's uncle Charles Hayter had inherited Winthrop and given up the Church. "I am surprised that you have never received such a promotion, sir."
"Oh, I never aspired to anything greater than the living of Uppercross," smiled Dr. Smythe. "This is a delightful village; my family was happy here, both my late wife and my children. And your father manages his properties admirably." Walter knew that his father's involvement in the estate's management was minimal at best, but he remained quiet. "I've no taste for politics, son, be they secular or clerical. And now," he added, taking up a Greek text, "it is back to work for you. We must ready you for your examination."
A few very short days later, Walter went to Wells to be examined. Bishop Prescott, a burly man with a fringe of grizzled hair around his ears, regarded him scornfully. "I have no love for those who view the Lord's work as a sinecure. Caldwell Smythe can sing your praises for days, but I have seen your sort a thousand times. The Church needs good men, men who will work hard and glorify the Lord, not incompetent younger sons who will leave their duties to underpaid curates while they idle about in watering-places."
Walter could not help wondering why a man who could afford to idle about in watering-places would bother to take orders if he did not have a calling, but said only, "I assure you, your eminence, that I have given long thought to taking this step, and I feel that I am prepared to do so. I did not take orders when I was of age because I was not fit. I do not consider the position a sinecure, sir."
Bishop Prescott stared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. Walter gazed back at him steadily, not allowing his anxiety to show in his expression. Finally the older man looked away, then began firing questions at him in rapid succession. Walter answered every one, his confidence gaining with each correct answer.
One week later he was kneeling before the bishop in the cathedral. The older man's ham-like hands descended heavily upon Walter's head as he intoned, "Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in the Church of God, now committed unto thee by the imposition of our hands. Whose sins thou dost forgive, they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost retain, they are retained." And that quickly, Walter was a priest. Only a week, an hour, before he had been an ordinary country gentleman, known mostly as a decent rider, an excellent shot, and charming to the ladies, and now he had been given rights and powers that made his head swim. While at Cambridge he had read some of the writings of the Roman historian Tacitus, including reports of the rituals performed by the ancient Celtic druids; Walter could not help but think that the pagan priestmakings, with their pain and blood and sacrifice, had the advantage of making one feel as though one had truly earned the right to such power.
That had been only a little more than a week ago, and it was time now for Walter's first official act as rector: the marriage of Charles and Anne, a match which he had once attempted to promote and was now obliged to solemnize. Nothing could make him happier than to be the agent that brought together these two people whom he loved, and who belonged so indisputably together.
His thoughts flew back to the night of his sister's wedding, when he had walked out onto the Great House verandah for a bit of air--and perhaps to escape Gwendolyn's presence, which he could not ignore--and had stumbled upon Charles and Anne in a passionate embrace. He knew his brother well enough to understand that Charles would never take such a liberty unless he had spoken and been accepted; there was a second's stab of pain, of desperate and terrible envy of his brother's joy, which had immediately given way to sincere and abundant happiness. And then, when Anne had learned that Walter would be in orders before the date of the wedding, she had asked him to perform the ceremony. Charles had added his petition, and Walter had been unable to say no, truly touched and honoured by their request.
Elizabeth was still fussing with the back of the vestments, and finally Walter shook her off. "I do not want everyone saying that the priest's vanity held up the ceremony, Eliza. It is not my wedding, after all."
"No, but we can't have you disgracing the family, either." She gave one last tug and said, "Now you are perfect."
"Not quite," he said ruefully, grinning down at her.
"Well, as close as you shall ever get." She smiled up at him, her dimples deepening as her white teeth flashed.
Walter looked over his sister critically for the first time since she had arrived at Uppercross a few days earlier; he had been too overwhelmed by his own affairs to spend much time with her, although he was glad that she had volunteered to help him with his vestments before the wedding. She was wearing a sophisticated and expensive-looking gown, which he did not remember seeing amongst her wedding-clothes; James must have purchased it for her in London. She looked very much the wealthy young matron, a state that suited her well. "Marriage agrees with you, love. Are you happy with James?"
"Ecstatically so."
"Good. And now Charles and Anne! Who would have thought they would marry?" he could not resist adding, although he had long known of their mutual affection.
"I would," Elizabeth laughed. "Anne's been in love with Charles for ever so long! And he has always been mad for her. He just needed time to become accustomed to the idea, the way I needed time to become accustomed to the idea of being in love with James."
Walter stared at her. "You knew that they cared for each other, and you kept it to yourself?"
Elizabeth tilted her head to one side and said, still laughing, "Dearest, sooner or later you will begin to understand that I know everything that goes on in this family. Which reminds me," she added, "I am glad that you have thrown off that Gwendolyn Clay. She is not the woman for you. I shall keep my eye out for a proper girl, one who will take good care of my brother," brushing away a last wrinkle, "the rector of Uppercross." Walter could only stare at his sister in astonishment. He would never have imagined that Elizabeth, good-natured and warm-hearted and yet whimsical and frivolous, had such potential for perspicacity.
"Well, dearest, you are suitably magnificent and yet should not outshine the bride, which is the proper place of the clergyman at a wedding. I must find my seat or I shall miss Anne." She reached up and touched his cheek. "Be not anxious, brother. I know Anne and Charles are glad to have you lead them through their vows."
"Thank you, love," he whispered, pulling her into an embrace, clumsy in the swaths of his flowing garments. "I hereby apologize for every puddle I pushed you into and every time I pulled your hair or teased you."
"Apology accepted." She kissed his cheek and left him with a last squeeze of the hand.
As she exited the sacristy, Delbert Stock, the curate, entered. He already wore his vestments, although the faded and carefully-patched articles had nowhere near the magnificence of the pastor's. "It's time, sir," he said to Walter. "They're waiting for you." Walter took a deep breath, released it, and walked out, Delbert trailing closely behind, carrying the prayer book.
Walter felt as if every eye was riveted on him; he could only bring himself to look at Charles and Edward Wentworth, standing by the rail, both of whom were grinning widely.
"Lovely gown," whispered Edward as he arrived at the altar. "You must give me the name of your mantua-maker, cousin." Charles snickered, his head down, so that he would not burst into braying laughter at his own wedding. Delbert frowned at them, snorted, and lifted his chin haughtily.
Walter ignored them, although he was secretly rather entertained by Edward's teasing. His courage boosted by this impertinent greeting, he was able to finally look out at the assembly in the pews; all familiar faces, friends and family and neighbours. His mother and father, smiling proudly (his mother weeping prodigiously at the same time); his aunt Wentworth in the other forward pew, her eyes shining as she gazed upon her nephew, resplendent in his grand vestments.
And then the door to the tiny vestibule opened and Sophie Wentworth began to walk down the aisle, and all attention flew to the back of the church. A moment later Sir Frederick Wentworth entered, smiling broadly, his eldest daughter on his arm. Walter watched his brother's face, transformed with love and pride as he gazed at the woman who would soon be his wife.
Anne was beautiful indeed. She wore a wine-coloured silk gown highlighted with fringes of elaborate white lace and a long, gauzy veil, edged with more lace of the sort that Walter had learned from Gwendolyn was a product of the ingenious lace-makers of Brussels. A wreath of pink roses, so pale they were nearly white, rested on her head, anchoring the wispy white length to her hair. She carried a bouquet of the same roses, tied with a froth of ribbons and lace. When they reached the altar, her she smiled up at her father and slipped her arm from his, taking her place beside Charles. The bride and groom exchanged smiles full of love and anticipation. Walter felt his own heart ache for a moment; That I had someone to look at me so! He wrenched his attention back to the task at hand and turned to Delbert, who had the prayer book ready, opened to the proper page. He took a deep breath and spoke.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony..." He became more comfortable as he continued, even managing to smile at his brother as he said, "Charles, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"
Charles smiled down at Anne. "I will."
"Anne, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"
Anne's face was glowing, her smile reflecting her beloved's. "I will."
Walter continued, "Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?"
Sir Frederick stepped forward and placed Anne's hand in Walter's, who in turn placed it into Charles' hand. "Charles, please repeat your vows after me," he said softly. "I, Charles, take thee, Anne, to my wedded wife..."
Charles repeated the words, his baritone voice full of emotion that carried to every corner of the church, "...to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."
He kept grinning down at Anne until Walter hissed at him, "Release her hand, Charles." His brother jumped guiltily and did so, to some soft laughter from the assembled onlookers.
Anne took up Charles' hand in her turn and repeated her vows, her soft voice spreading warmly over the congregation: "I, Anne, take thee, Charles, to my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."
Walter nodded to Edward, who produced a thin gold band and placed it on the open prayer book. Walter handed the ring to Charles, who placed it on the third finger of Anne's left hand, repeating his brother's words: "With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."
The bride and groom knelt before Walter, and he prayed for them, and never had he uttered a more heartfelt petition; he wanted more than anything for these two people whom he loved so well to be happy together, and to have a long life full of blessings and love. He sincerely felt his good fortune at being the agent by which they were joined, and the happiest moment of his life was when he joined their hands with his own and said, "Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder. Forasmuch as Charles and Anne have consented together in holy wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." The joy in his brother's eyes, and in Anne's, now his sister, caused Walter to bow his head for a moment, too overcome by emotion to continue. But at last he lifted his head and finish the ceremony, and was sufficiently comfortable that he was even able to observe Edward exchange a smile with Miss Catherine Leigh. Perhaps my services will again be required before long, he thought in some amusement.
And then the service was completed, and they all signed the register, already filled out in Mr. Stock's painstakingly neat yet childish hand. Charles came to Walter while Anne was signing, and took his hand. "Thank you, brother," he said softly. "I shall remember this day always, and the part in it that you undertook so well."
"It was my privilege, and my pleasure," said Walter, shaking Charles' hand. "And now you had best see to your bride."
Charles grinned broadly and claimed Anne from Mr. Stock, who was making quite a fuss over her, and led her outside, where a chaise waited to carry them to Oakmont Park. Walter started for the vestry to change but was stopped by his still-weeping mother.
"Oh, Walter," she sniffed, "that was such a beautiful ceremony! I always knew you were meant for the Church. I am so proud--" she could not continue, but sobbed into her handkerchief.
"Goodness, Mamma," said Walter, embarrassed. "Do collect yourself."
After a few gulping breaths, Mrs. Musgrove was again able to speak. "You don't understand," she said in a little-girl voice. "Eliza left me, now Charles, and you will be moving into the parsonage. All my children are gone!"
Walter smiled to himself and folded her into an embrace. "We will still be very close by, Mamma," he said, patting her back soothingly. "Charles and Anne will be at the Cottage, and I will be just down the road at the parsonage. I remember when we lived at the Cottage you complained about how our aunts and uncles were always coming over from the Great House. And Eliza and James will visit often. I'm sure you will see us as much as you ever did."
"It will not be the same," she sobbed into his magnificent vestments, making a large damp spot that Walter regarded with some distaste. "The house will be so empty! I'm so used to you and your brother and your sister coming and going, running up and down the stairs, arguing and laughing and calling to one another. It just will not be the same."
"I promise to come over to the Great House every day to shout and stomp about," he said lightly. "Will that help, love?"
His mother looked up at him, caught the twinkle in his eye, and burst into rueful laughter. "I suppose I am being ridiculous. Forgive me, Walter."
"You, ridiculous, Mamma? Never." He kissed her and released her. "But I must change before you make these wonderful vestments unfit for use."
She was immediately concerned for the garments. "Oh, yes, do," she said. "Your father and I will hold the carriage until you are ready."
"Thank you," he said and hurried off to the vestry before she could detain him any longer.
Walter leaned back against the cushions of the large arm-chair and sighed contentedly. The wedding breakfast had been abundant, and he had found himself unusually ravenous and had partaken heartily. When they finished eating, the guests had retired into the large, elegant drawing room, where the unmarried young ladies present took turns at the pianoforte. Content to be passively entertained, Walter allowed his gaze to wander about until it was arrested by the sight of Sophie Wentworth surrounded by a group of young men, some in blue coats. Sophie seemed thoroughly delighted with her position; as Walter watched, one of the boys attempted to seize her hand, and she struck the offender's arm lightly with her folded fan. She did not seem put out at all by the boy's impertinence, but smiled coquettishly up at him through her eyelashes. How many times have I seen Gwen do the same thing? he thought angrily. And after my brother took his life in his hands to protect her from ruination!
The day after Walter's ordination, Charles had turned up at breakfast with bruising around his cheek and eye. Walter had assumed that his brother had suffered a riding accident, and was delighted with the opportunity to tease him. "Charles, you dog," he cried, leaning over to seize his brother's chin and turn his head in order to inspect the contusion. "You will be married in less than a sen'night; could you not wait that long to force yourself upon Anne? But it is good to see that my future sister can defend herself against such ungentlemanly behaviour."
Charles did not respond to this impertinence, but only gave Walter a baleful glare.
"Father," said Walter, addressing Mr. Musgrove, who sat at the other end of the table with his dish of tea, "I do believe that today is one of Charles' difficult mornings. What say you?"
Mr. Musgrove's eyes twinkled at him over his tea-cup. "All appearances support your theory, son. You have my leave to tease him into a better humour."
Charles pushed back his chair, muttered, "I shall be at the stables," and stalked out of the room.
His brother and father raised their eyebrows at one another, but did not comment further; the young squire was occasionally bad-tempered before noon if he had not gotten sufficient rest, and they were both inclined to attribute Charles' mood to that cause. Then Mrs. Musgrove came fluttering in, all excitement. "Where is Charles?" she exclaimed. "I have just had the most astonishing report from my maid!"
"Charles went to the stables," replied her husband, his brow furrowed. "What kind of report, Mary?"
Mrs. Musgrove had stopped before the table, and cried, "Oh, bother that cook! She has not made my toast!" She rang the bell impatiently and ordered toast from the maid that responded.
When the servant was gone, Walter prompted his mother, "What report, Mother? Is everything well with Charles?"
"Oh, yes, everything is quite well. You will never guess what he has done! It is so heroic!"
"No, Mother, I cannot guess, and apparently you are taking great joy from keeping Father and me in suspense."
"Well, Walter, if you will give me a chance, I--" the servant reappeared with the plate of toast, and Mrs. Musgrove laid a finger across her mouth. Walter exchanged an impatient glance with his father; her maid knew, why should she think the other servants were not informed as well?
The door finally swung shut behind the girl, and Mrs. Musgrove said in a stage-whisper, "Sophie Wentworth tried to elope last night with Henry Clay, and Charles stopped them! He took a horse-whip to Mr. Clay in the public street! Have you ever heard anything so gallant?"
Walter was all astonishment. Charles flogging Henry Clay! He knew the worth of servant's gossip, but knew that there must be some truth in it as well. He was appalled at the thought of his gentle, bookish brother fighting the cruel and malevolent Clay. That must be how he came by that bruise. He could have been killed, a week before his wedding! What in the world was he thinking?
Mrs. Musgrove was still speaking. "Apparently Frederick had to pull Charles away from Mr. Clay. The Wentworth coachman saw the whole thing and told the cook, who told the scullery-maid, who was here this morning to fetch some butter, and my Martha heard all about it. Oh, I long to see Charles, and tell him how proud I am of him! I never would have thought he was capable of such an action!"
"Don't be silly, Mary," said Mr. Musgrove. "You know Charles would do anything he could to help one of the girls."
"I will go to the stables," said Walter, draining his tea-cup and rising. "I want it from my brother's mouth. I trust not servants' gossip." He took his hat and greatcoat and strode outside, just as Anne Wentworth rode up on Wamba, accompanied by the Admiral's head groom.
"Hello, Anne," cried Walter, genuinely glad to see his cousin. "If you are looking for Charles, you should have gone straight to the stables. Perhaps he will be more sociable to his bride than he was to his family."
"Actually, I was hoping to speak with you," said Anne, looking at him anxiously.
"Of course," said Walter, and helped her down from the sidesaddle. A servant led Wamba away. "You may return to Oakmont Park, Flynn," said Walter to the groom. "My brother or I will see Miss Wentworth home."
"Very good, Mr. Walter," said Flynn. He touched his knuckles to his forehead in the way of sailors and rode away.
When they were alone, Anne said, "Has Charles told you what happened last night?"
"No," said Walter. "My mother had some fantastic story from her maid about Charles taking a horsewhip to Henry Clay. My father and I have attributed it to servants' hyperbole."
"In this case, I am afraid that the hyperbole is very close to the truth," said Anne with a sigh. "My sister tried to elope last night with Henry Clay. Charles rode after her on Wilfred, and my father and Edward followed in the carriage. Charles arrived first, and found that Mr. Clay had the advantage of a firearm, so he used the horsewhip in self-defense."
"But Sophie is well?" exclaimed Walter in some alarm. "Clay didn't--" he bit back the words.
Anne gave him an embarrassed smile. "She assures me that her virtue is intact, and I have chosen to believe her. Last night she was all penitence, but this morning she is as bold and careless as ever. That is why I wished to speak with you." She paused.
"Yes, Anne, what is it?" Walter prompted her gently.
"I wish you would talk to Sophie," she said. "To try to persuade her not to be so -- forward. I fear that another man will come along and misinterpret her behaviour. Her virtue may not survive the next such attack."
Walter found it difficult not to laugh aloud at the irony of her request; he, of all people, to teach deportment to a young lady! A new realization dawned: he would often receive such requests now. The thought distracted him from the task at hand; he was unable to think clearly, but Anne was waiting for his answer, her face expectant. "Have you not spoken to her, or your brother, or your parents?" he temporized.
"We have all spoken to her, of course, but she listens not. I ask you this favour in the hope that she would pay more attention to you, as a clergyman. And I would prefer that this not go outside the family."
"Of course," said Walter, no longer able to resist the earnest entreaty in her large brown eyes. "I would be glad to speak to her, Anne." He hesitated a moment, then added, "Where is Clay? I should feel a great deal better knowing that he is not about the neighbourhood seeking another opportunity to importune your sister."
"He is gone." Anne sighed. "One can only hope that his departure is permanent."
"He has no reason to come back here. Sir William has cut him off, and his sister as well."
Anne looked at him curiously. "Yes, Charles told me that you had given him that information. How did you come by it?"
Her question was innocent, and Walter knew that Charles had not told her about him and Gwendolyn. "I was quite friendly with Miss Clay at one time. But no more."
Anne gave him a searching glance, then nodded in comprehension. "I see. I am glad that you have learned about her true nature in time to save yourself."
He could not help smiling at her words. "Fear not, Anne, Gwen is completely gone from my life. It is a requirement for one to exorcise all one's demons before taking orders."
That made her laugh, and he was glad to see her smile. Just then, they noticed Charles walking toward them. "There you are, love! I was surprised to see Wamba enter the stable without his mistress, so I came in search of you."
Anne looked up at him sorrowfully. She gently brushed her finger across the purpling along his cheekbone and said only, "Oh, Charles."
He turned his face away from her touch, scowling. "Do not say anything, Anne. I am well, and Sophie is well, and it is best that we forget the whole incident."
"As if I could forget what you did for my sister."
Charles looked at Walter, embarrassed. "I suppose you know about it now?"
"Yes, and I would rather have heard it from you."
"I will not have it discussed. It is over and best forgotten."
"Tell that to the servants. They are hailing you as a conquering hero. How do you think my parents and I came by the information?"
Anne said, "I will wait for you inside, Charles." She reached up and gently kissed the bruise, then touched Walter's arm, mouthed a silent "Thank you," and went into the house.
When they were alone, Walter whispered fiercely, "What were you about, Charles, fighting Clay a week before your wedding?"
Charles looked at him, surprised. "What else could I have done?" he asked. "I could not allow Sophie to go with him. You must see that."
Walter remembered bruises on the arms and face of Hannah, the housemaid, and said, "No, you are right. But without a gun, Charles? You should have known that he would be armed!"
"I did not think of it," Charles admitted. "If you were there, Walter--if you had seen Anne's face, and Edward's, and my aunt's and uncle's--you would not have thought clearly, either."
"I suppose not," said Walter. "But think of Anne! What would she have done if you were hurt, or worse?" He seized his brother's arm. "Do not be a fool, Charles. You are a very fortunate man to have a woman like that love you so well."
"I know it."
"Good. Then I trust that you will not engage in any more battles with the likes of Clay." He released Charles' arm and said, "And now I would like to hear your version of last night's events rather than the scullery-maid's, if you are so inclined."
Charles took a deep breath and related the story in flat tones. "And then my uncle arrived and told Clay to begone and trouble his family no more. And Clay drove off in a post-chaise." He hesitated, and added, "I am not proud of my actions last night, Walter. I gave in to my lowest emotions, anger and hatred and envy. And there was no reason for it."
"I find nothing in that recitation of which to be ashamed. Clay is an animal and deserved to be treated like one." Walter did not realize the vehemence of his words until he noticed Charles gazing at him keenly.
"I suppose you would know," he said simply.
"Yes," said Walter, unwilling to elaborate.
Charles hesitated, then said, "Walter, were you--did your feelings for Miss Clay run very deeply?"
After a pause, Walter replied, "At one time, yes, they did. But those feelings ended when my eyes were opened to her true character." The picture of Gwendolyn with Dalton was before him again, and he pushed it away angrily.
"You have such a capacity for love, Walter. It will take an extraordinary woman to fully deserve it," said Charles quietly. "Now, I have neglected my fiancée enough for this day. I think I might suggest a ride, since her horse is here. Will you join us?"
Walter, momentarily stunned by his brother's casual words, finally stammered out a negative reply, and Charles patted his arm and went into the house.
Recalling that moment, and thinking of the injury his brother had suffered, the evidence of which he still bore on his wedding day, a physical symbol of the danger in which he had been placed on Sophie's behalf, Walter could no longer stomach watching his cousin flirt so outrageously. He walked over to the group and said, "Good day, gentlemen. You will forgive me if I take my cousin away for a private word?"
Sophie looked up at him flirtatiously. "You want to be alone with me, Walter? I am not sure that I should trust you."
Walter gave her his most charming smile. "Why, Sophie, you have nothing to fear from me. I merely wish to discuss family business."
Her eyes traced him down, then up. She smiled and said, "Of course. Gentlemen, you will excuse me?" They scattered before her as she took Walter's arm.
They went into a small, empty sitting-room. Walter shut the door and turned to find Sophie standing rather too close to him. "You are a sly one," she said, laughing. "Family business, indeed! I had no idea that you admired me, Walter."
He deliberately stepped away from her. "Family business, indeed. Your sister asked me to speak to you. She is concerned about your behaviour with young men. After the contretemps of last week, and after the display I just witnessed, I can see why."
"Oh, Anne!" she said scornfully. "Now she is married she will be insufferable. I have assured her that I shall not elope. That does not mean that I cannot talk to men."
"Of course not," said Walter patiently. "But when you talk to them, you must maintain a ladylike mien. They will take their cues from your behaviour. If you are demure and proper, you will earn their respect. If you act the slattern, they will treat you as such."
Anger flashed in Sophie's eyes. "As you treated Gwendolyn Clay?" she countered, then laughed at the look on his face. "Oh, yes, Walter, I know. Henry told me all about you and Gwen. You have no right to lecture me, sir."
"Yes, my behaviour with Gwen was wrong," he admitted. "But I saw the error in my ways and I have corrected them. I will not take advantage of any other woman. But if Gwen had not made herself available, I would not have taken advantage of her in the first place."
Sophie tossed her head and waved a hand dismissively. "Gwen is a ninnyhammer. I shall not give myself to any man without my marriage-lines, I assure you. Even Henry--he tried to sweet-talk me into letting him--but I would not. Not until we were married."
"Clay was willing to wait because his main object was your fortune. You are fortunate that you did not tease him, or some other man, beyond his capacity to resist. Your high ideals would not have protected you then, I assure you."
Sophie stared up at him defiantly. "I know what I am doing."
"You little fool," said Walter angrily. He strode over to her and seized her hands, his face close to hers. "Do you not know what you did? You placed your father and your brother, and my brother, in a dangerous and difficult position. Did you seriously expect them to stand by and watch you throw yourself away on Henry Clay? Did you not realize that they were bound to protect you and your honour, not only by the conventions of society but because they love you? Be glad that they were not forced to fight Clay. I may not have had my brother's wedding service to perform today, but his funeral. Or your father's, or your brother's. Would you have liked that, Sophie? To be wearing bombazine and crepe instead of that pretty silk? To see your father, or Edward, lying in their coffin in that drawing-room, instead of your sister in her wedding-gown?"
She was crying uncontrollably by then. "Stop," she said, sobbing. "Stop, Walter, please. I did not mean it. I did not think."
"No, you did not," said Walter, releasing her. "But do think of that before you flirt with one of those puppies out there, or anyone for that matter. Think of your father or Edward on a cold field at dawn, facing off with pistols at twenty paces. Even if they were not killed or injured, being forced to flee to the Continent. You would never see them again. Think of that, Sophie. And remember what I said."
"I will," she nodded, gulping, her face wet with tears.
Walter took pity on her. "Very well," he said. "Now, pull yourself together. Have you a handkerchief?" She did not, and he took out his own and handed it to her. She scrubbed her face, and even the residual redness of her eyes and nose could not dull her beauty. Walter sighed to himself; he was sure his harsh words would keep her from disgracing her family for this day at least, and perhaps a little longer, but it would be a constant task to keep the bounders at a sufficient distance so that her head was not turned.
"Do I look all right?" she asked, innocently.
"Yes," he said, sighing again. "You are quite presentable, Sophie."
She smiled at him, not coquettishly this time, but in a friendly way. "I shall think about what you said," she added.
"I hope that you do."
Sophie nodded and left the room. Walter did not follow her, but sat down heavily in the nearest armchair and sighed. He placed his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, oppressed by the growing realization that this rector business was going to be a great deal more complicated than he had first thought.
Chapter V
Many thanks to Karen Lee for checking this chapter for, um, fishiness. ;-)
Uppercross
June, 1841
Charles waved the fishing pole back over his head, careful not to snag the line on the trees that lined the side of the stream, and cast in a smooth, graceful motion that was the result of both aptitude and many years of practice. The fly dropped precisely in the middle of the pool, and he grinned in delight. "I hope you observed carefully, Walter. That was a perfect cast."
Walter smiled to himself; Charles did not care much for hunting, and thus was not quite as good a shot as his younger brother, but he was definitely the superior angler. "I can watch you cast all day, Charles, but I shall never do it so well as you."
As if in confirmation of his statement, Charles' fishing pole suddenly bowed, and all his attention was turned to reeling in his catch. A few moments later, a good-sized trout was thrashing on the end of the line, only to be unhooked and unceremoniously dropped into the creel carried by Thomas. It was Charles' sixth large trout of the day; Walter's own catch, a single smallish chub, seemed rather embarrassingly pathetic beside his brother's, but he would not grudge Charles his enjoyment for the world. It was enough to be out in the summer sunshine, in his brother's company.
At another time of his life, Walter would have been in town at this time of year, enjoying the last few weeks of the season until shooting began in August. His parents were there now, and had invited him to come along, but he had declined, as he had declined their invitation the previous year. He gave the responsibilities of his position as his excuse; his father's approving smile had made Walter rather uncomfortable, as he knew in his heart of hearts that he avoided London for another reason entirely. Gwendolyn was in London, and that way lay the destruction of all he had built over the past--was it already nearly two years since he had seen her? Walter sighed heavily and re-cast, trying to make his motion as effortless and elegant as his brother's and failing once again. Even the passage of two years had been unable to completely eliminate Gwendolyn Clay from his thoughts.
She had left Kellynch a few days after Elizabeth's wedding, and he had heard nothing of her since. Kellynch stood empty, and had for some months; Sir William and Lady Elliot had departed on a pleasure-tour of the Continent, which was just as well, for no one at Uppercross save Mrs. Musgrove cared for them at all. Walter could not be in the presence of Sir William with any degree of comfort, knowing how he had misused Gwendolyn, and Lady Elliot was a constant reminder of her daughter.
The sun beat down on them mercilessly, and the air was unseasonably hot; the trees did not provide sufficient shade so close to the water, and the brothers had removed jackets, waistcoats, and neckcloths, rolled up their shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned their shirts at the neck. Thomas, ever the good servant, was appalled by such ungentlemanly behaviour in the squire's sons, but limited his disapprobation to raised eyebrows and the occasional click of the tongue. As he accepted the latest catch from Charles, he ran his eyes down and up his raiment, wet and disheveled, and clicked his tongue yet again. Charles exchanged a grin with his brother as Thomas retreated to the shade, shaking his head.
Charles had blossomed astonishingly since his marriage to Anne. He had always been a good-natured and pleasant young man, but bookish, and this facet of his disposition had become more apparent after he came down from Cambridge. He preferred to spend the bulk of his time with his horses and his books, and was never entirely comfortable in company; his nature had turned inward, somehow, so slowly that none of his friends realized it. Only Anne could draw him out, bring back the charming, funny, outgoing Charles whom Walter knew so well but had not realized that he missed.
The change was not just in disposition. Charles took a more active interest in the management of the farm and estate; in fact, the angling expedition originally had been planned for the previous day, but he had felt it necessary to ride out to visit one of the tenants. Until recently, Charles' attention toward the estate had been confined strictly to the stables; their father left matters largely in the hand of his able steward, and his heir had seemed inclined to follow his example. But now, more often than not young "Mr. Charles" spent his days among his tenants and labourers, listening to their concerns and helping wherever it was in his power to do so. Walter attributed this mainly to Anne's influence. She took seriously her position as the young squire's wife and was always at the disposal of the villagers. She carried food to the sick, made clothing for the newborn, sympathized with the mourners, and read to and wrote for the illiterate, all with calm competence and a serenity that was an exact copy of her mother's. The villagers of Uppercross worshipped her unashamedly. Even the rector had been affected by her influence; lately, Anne often found her brother-in-law in one or the other of the cottages, comforting or counseling or helping however he could. He was surprised at the simple gratitude of those to whom he extended his hand, and even more surprised at his own enjoyment of such activities.
Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for Walter to become aware that his brother was watching him critically. "You should really fish another pool," Charles told him. "You need a deeper pool, where the trout like to hide. Uppercross trout are very intelligent, you know. It takes all the angler's wiles to mislead them."
Walter looked at his brother askance. "They are fish, Charles," he said patiently. "They have not the wit to respond to human tactics. No animal does. They simply have an instinct for survival that they employ to save themselves from their predators."
"On the contrary, Walter. Observe." Charles pointed to a still pool, surrounded by rocks that directed away the main flow of the stream. He made another graceful cast, and the fly slipped below the surface of the water. Less than five minutes later, another large trout was dropped into the creel. "That pool has always been lucky for me," Charles added. "The trout like to hide there. Perhaps you would like to try it?"
Walter cast, suffering his brother's constant instructions, and managed to get the fly to sink down into the pool, although not with the grace and ease of Charles. Almost immediately he felt a tug on the line and watched in amazement as the tip of the pole began to bend toward the water.
"You have a strike!" cried Charles. "Reel it in, Walter! Reel it in!"
He obeyed, gripping the pole tightly and stripping in line, which gathered in a rapidly forming coil at his feet. The fish fought gamely, and he had a difficult time, but within a very few minutes a large trout was pulled free of the stream, thrashing for all it was worth. Thomas splashed into the stream and grabbed the line. "That's a fine fish, Mr. Walter!" he exclaimed, grinning happily as he dug the hook out of the creature's mouth. "The biggest one of the day, I'll wager!"
"I would not take that wager, Thomas," said Charles, coming over to inspect the fish. "You are quite correct, I think. Depend upon my brother to outshine me!"
Walter grinned involuntarily, proud both of his accomplishment and his brother's praise. "I would not have caught it without your help," he said, but Charles waved off his protests.
"I did not catch the fish, Walter, you did. I am gratified if my suggestions were helpful to you, but the glory is all your own. Come, we have sufficient fish for our dinner, and it is time we returned to Uppercross. My wife will think I have run off."
They dressed themselves, gathered their tackle, and trooped back to the village. As they neared Uppercross Cottage, Charles turned to Walter and said, "You will come in for a time? Anne would like to see you, I am sure."
"Of course."
Thomas went off to the kitchen to clean their catch, and the brothers went around to the front of the cottage. Music spilled from the drawing-room windows as they came around the front. Charles grinned and said, "We are in for a treat!" He paused outside the front of the cottage, where two huge rose-bushes bloomed, their perfume hanging heavily in the warm, humid air. He considered the bush and chose a particularly fine blossom, then pulled out his knife and sliced the flower from the bush, leaving a long stem and several leaves. He quickly stripped off the thorns and returned the knife to its sheath, then grinned at Walter again and beckoned him into the house.
The music swelled as they walked down the passage to the drawing-room. Anne sat at the pianoforte facing away from the doorway and was unaware that they had entered. The music continued gentle yet fast-paced, a demanding piece that she played expertly. Charles stood in the middle of the room, smiling at his wife. Walter's gaze was drawn almost involuntarily to the portrait that hung over the fireplace opposite the instrument. It had been painted shortly after the wedding, and showed Anne dressed in the wine-coloured gown in which she had been married, seated at the pianoforte, with pink roses like the one that Charles held scattered over the top of the instrument. The artist had done a masterful job, perfectly capturing her delicate beauty and the laughter that was always behind her large brown eyes. The portrait had been Charles' idea, and Anne had agreed under one condition: that he sit for a portrait as well. The result hung over the pianoforte where she could gaze upon it as she played, and showed Charles standing next to Wilfred, one hand on the horse's bridle and one hand resting lazily on his hip; he looked every inch the prosperous young country squire. Walter's gaze traveled from the portraits around the drawing-room; it was fashionably yet comfortably furnished, every piece spotless and gleaming. Anne managed her household with the same quiet capability that she employed with the villagers, and the Cottage, with its homey elegance, had become a haven to Walter in the past months. The only flaw in the perfect happiness of its inhabitants was that Anne had not yet given birth or shown any sign of doing so. Mrs. Musgrove, impatient for an heir, was not above the occasional pointed comment; after all, Elizabeth had presented Mr. Leigh with a son almost a year previously, and was already expecting her second, and she had been married only a few weeks before Charles and Anne. Charles and Anne, to their credit, did not allow Mrs. Musgrove's sometimes biting remarks to trouble them overmuch. If they were to be blessed with children, it would happen in the time appointed, and they had no control over the matter, so why let it concern them? They continued as much in love as ever, and their real friends, including Walter, rejoiced in their contentedness.
Anne finished the piece, and the brothers applauded appreciatively. She whirled around in astonishment, then burst into laughter. "How long have you two been standing there?" she demanded.
"Long enough to hear a delightful performance," said Charles. He approached her and presented the rose with a gallant bow. Anne took it and smiled at her husband; the glance they exchanged spoke volumes of their love and regard for one another. Walter glanced away, feeling that he had inadvertently intruded on a private moment.
"You must be thirsty," said Anne. "You had a hot day for fishing. Shall I order tea?"
"A glass of beer would go down well, love," said Charles. "Walter?"
"Yes, thank you," he responded, taking a seat near the window. Anne rang the bell and ordered the refreshments, and a pitcher of small beer and two glasses were quickly brought in.
Rose, the young maid who had brought in the beer, poured a glass and brought it to Walter. Her hand trembled a bit as she handed it to him, and a tiny amount of the beverage sloshed onto his trousers. "Oh, Mr. Musgrove, I beg your pardon!" she cried, swabbing at his leg with her apron.
"Never mind, Rose," he said, trying to stop her ministrations. "They require laundering anyway; they are all over fish scales." Rose looked at him with large, anxious eyes, and then at Anne.
"Go on, Rose," she said gently. "It is all right."
The girl stared at Walter for a long moment, bobbed a curtsey, and scuttled out of the room. Walter looked up in time to catch Anne and Charles exchange grins, and he knew well the cause of their hilarity. Since he had become the rector of Uppercross, he had become extremely popular among the young ladies of the village. Shopkeeper's daughters who never dreamed of aspiring to marriage with the younger son of the squire were perfectly comfortable with aspiring to marriage with the rector, especially a young and handsome one, and Walter was forced to constantly fend off their sometimes bold approaches. He shifted between lecturing to them and simply avoiding them, but sometimes they still caught him unawares. Young Rose's was one of the female faces that gazed adoringly up at him during Sunday services, although Walter knew she had no idea of being his wife; yet her simple, innocent devotion was more disconcerting somehow. Perhaps because he knew that it was pure and disinterested, and not motivated by avarice. The wife of the rector of Uppercross would enjoy both position and riches, or at least riches by village standards; Mr. Musgrove had given his son a small independence when he took over the living, and the living itself was a good one. Walter lacked not for income; he simply lacked someone to spend it on. The young ladies of the village were well aware of this fact, and they laid out their lures and traps for him often enough to make him tread warily. He sighed and sipped at his drink.
"Did you have a good catch?" Anne asked.
Charles had immediately drunk down half his glass, and sat back with a sigh. "Yes, and Walter caught the biggest fish of the day," he said. "A fine trout, three pounds if it is an ounce."
Anne turned to Walter with interest. "Then I hope you will share it with us," she said. "Dine with us tonight, if you have not a previous engagement. Your catch shall be the first course."
"I have not, and I would be happy to dine with you," said Walter, pleased to be asked.
"Your cook has an easy time of it," observed Charles with a smile. "You rarely dine at home." This was true; most nights he dined at the Great House, or here at the Cottage, or at the home of one of his parishioners, especially those with marriageable daughters.
"Aye," said Walter, laughing. "And my household bills are next to nothing. But can you send some of the fish to the parsonage, Anne? Mrs. Wilson can prepare it for the servants."
"Of course," she said, smiling. "I am sure that my two fine fishermen have brought home more than we can eat. I will send some to the Great House as well. The servants in residence will be glad to have it, I know."
"And to the Browns'," said Charles, referring to his father's steward. "I would not have them forgotten."
"You may depend upon me, Charles," she replied with a smile.
"I know that, love," he said gently.
Walter finished his beer and rose. "Well, if I am to dine with you, I must get rid of the fish smell that Anne has been too civil to mention but that nonetheless clings to my person. You dine at six?"
"As always," said Anne, laughing. "We will see you then."
Charles saw him to the door, and the brothers exchanged parting gibes at one another that sent Walter off in excellent spirits, looking forward to an evening of companionship with his family.
The parsonage was only a quarter-mile from the Cottage, and Walter anticipated a quick walk, but failed once more to consider the determination of the young ladies of Uppercross village. Only a few feet from the front door of the Cottage, he found his path blocked by the muslin-clad form of Charlotte Smedley, whose father owned the village's most prosperous dry-goods store.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Musgrove," she simpered.
"Good afternoon," he said quietly.
She opened her fan and employed it busily. "It is amazingly hot today, is not it?"
"Yes, it is," he said, wondering how to get away from her without being impolite.
"You look quite warm," she said. "You have not been working in this hot weather?"
"I was fishing," he said lamely. "With my brother."
She moved closer. "Indeed? You are fond of fish? My mother was able to purchase a lovely piece of fish today. Will you dine with us, sir? My parents are always glad to see you."
"I thank you, Miss Smedley, but I am already engaged to dine tonight." He tried to sidle away toward the parsonage. It loomed in front of him, in his vision but too far to reach, like an imaginary oasis to a man lost in the desert.
"Then tomorrow night." She took another step toward him.
"I must consult my calendar."
"Very well. I hope you will come to dine with us, Mr. Musgrove. We always enjoy your company," she said, closing the last distance between them and punctuating her statement with a hand on his arm.
He pulled his arm away as if she had branded him. "Forgive me, madam, but I have--pressing business at the parsonage. I trust I will see you at services on Sunday?" he added, hoping that this last would remind her of how she should behave.
"Of course I will be at services," she called after him as he hastened away. "Morning and afternoon!"
Walter managed not to break into a run as he approached his home, and breathed a sigh of relief as he achieved the peace of his own doorstep. He went inside the cool, dark house.
The parsonage was originally a small, neat building, but it had been improved by Dr. Smythe, who had some family money in addition to his income from the living. He had added some rooms to the back of the building to make bedrooms for his children, resulting in a house that was not only commodious but snug and solid. Walter had been quite comfortable there over the past two years, and he could never be lonely, not with his family so close at hand. His only regret was that Dr. Smythe had done nothing to the stone-walled garden area on one side of the house. There were kitchen-gardens in the back, and these were the domain of Mrs. Wilson, but the decorative gardens, long neglected, were wild and overgrown, and Walter had no idea how to go about making them attractive. He drew up half-hearted plans to prune and improve and install benches, but there was always something more important to demand his attention, and the garden continued forlorn and uncultivated.
He was met just inside the door by his housekeeper, Mrs. Brumby. She had been an employee of Dr. Smythe, as had Mrs. Wilson, and he had kept them on when he took over the parsonage, happy to have servants who were familiar with the routines of the house. "Mr. Stock is here, sir," she said. "I told him you were with Mr. Charles, but he would wait. He is in the library." Mrs. Brumby was not overly enamored of the curate.
Walter managed not to smile. "That is all right," he assured her. "I will see him. Will you have a bath drawn for me in the meantime? And tell Mrs. Wilson that I am dining at the Cottage this evening."
"Very good, Mr. Musgrove," she said. "Would you care for some tea, sir?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Brumby," he said, and walked down the hall toward his small library.
Mrs. Brumby trundled off to the kitchen to see the cook. She ordered the man-of-all-work to heat water and draw the rector's bath, and when he went off, she sat down at the table, where Mrs. Wilson had already placed the teapot, cups, and freshly-baked shortbread biscuits.
"The rector said to tell you that he is dining at the Cottage tonight, Mrs. Wilson," she said, pouring a cup of tea.
Mrs. Wilson, a woman of a comfortable size that spoke well for her own good cooking, sat down with a sigh and accepted the cup from Mrs. Brumby. "Aye, I knew it would be so when I heard he went fishing with Mr. Charles. I knew Mrs. Charles would not allow the rector to eat here, alone at the parsonage, poor man."
"Aye, Mrs. Charles is a good woman."
"That she is, Mrs. Brumby, that she is, like her mother before her. The most delightful young woman she was. I remember when she would visit her sister at the Great House before her marriage. We all loved her, ma'am, and her daughter is just like her. Would you care for a biscuit?"
"I would indeed, Mrs. Wilson." The housekeeper selected a biscuit and took a bite. "Delicious, ma'am!"
"I thank you, Mrs. Brumby."
"No one can touch your shortbread, Mrs. Wilson, so I always say. Yes, the rector is dining at the Cottage. I dare say if he were married he would be happy enough to eat at home five days out of seven, but as long as he is single, we will have easy lives."
"Indeed, Mrs. Brumby," said the cook, helping herself to a biscuit. "And there is no telling when he may marry. The rector is a handsome enough man, if I do say so, but there are no young ladies of his station hereabouts. And the poor man won't go abroad to find himself one. He stays here, working himself to the bone, bless him."
The housekeeper shook her head. "And the silly flirts in the village constantly throw themselves at his head. I fear that he will fall prey to their wiles some day."
"I pray not, Mrs. Brumby, I pray not."
"As do I, Mrs. Wilson. But they're bold, forward articles, they are, and the rector's only a man, after all!"
"That he is, Mrs. Brumby, that he is."
"That Smedley chit is the worst of all. I can't count the days I've gone out to meet the mail and seen her hanging in the lane, waiting to pounce on the rector when he takes his walk. The poor man has no peace, Mrs. Wilson, no peace, I tell you."
"Miss Smedley has a handsome fortune, though, Mrs. Brumby."
"Well, all her handsome fortune has not taught her her proper place, now, has it, Mrs. Wilson? To presume to think she can marry the squire's son, even if he is the rector! 'Tis a sin and a shame, that's what it is, ma'am."
"It is indeed, Mrs. Brumby."
The two women shook their heads, munched their biscuits, and sipped their tea, bemoaning the fate of the rector and commenting on the particular deliciousness of the shortbread.
In the library, meanwhile, Walter found his curate standing exactly in the center of the room, turning his hat in his hands. "I hope you have not been standing this whole time, Stock," he commented mildly. "You could have sat down. The chairs are comfortable, I assure you."
"I did not wish to presume, Mr. Musgrove," said Mr. Stock in his peculiar hoarse voice. "Not at a time like this."
Walter stared at him. "A time like this?"
"I am here to offer my condolences on your loss, sir."
A knot of apprehension formed in Walter's stomach. "What are you talking about?"
Mr. Stock stared at him. "You have not heard, sir? I heard it in the village."
"Heard what?" Walter only just managed to keep from shouting at him.
"Your cousin, sir," said Mr. Stock, clearly unhappy to be the bearer of bad news. "He's--he's drowned, sir."
"My cousin?" Edward, he thought bleakly. Oh, God, no! Why Edward? He sat down heavily in the nearest chair while Mr. Stock stared at him unhappily. Anne could not have heard--she could not know, and act as she did when I was at the Cottage. Oh, God, her mother! He struggled to his feet. "I must go to my aunt," he said, then put his hands to his eyes in anguish. "Oh, Lord, what am I to say to her? What comfort can I offer her?"
"Sir?" said Mr. Stock, his brow creased.
Walter stared at him. "My aunt! Lady Wentworth! I must go to her, she will have need of her family--my uncle is not in Somerset."
Mr. Stock's confusion was obvious. "I suppose Lady Wentworth would be saddened on such an occasion, sir," he said doubtfully. "He was her cousin, after all. Yes, I suppose she would be saddened."
Now he had to shout. "Stock, what in the world are you talking about? She is his mother, not his cousin!"
Mr. Stock's brow cleared. "Oh, you thought I meant your cousin Lieutenant Wentworth! Oh, no, he is not dead. At least not so I've heard," he added thoughtfully.
Walter's brain was whirling, both with relief and confusion. "Then who did you mean?"
"Your cousin, sir. Sir William Elliot. He and his wife were sailing in a small craft round the Mediterranean, and a storm came on them suddenly and the boat capsized. They drowned. They're dead, sir."
Chapter VI
A word of explanation: in my story "A Wedding at Uppercross," I stated that Edward Wentworth would inherit the baronetcy as well as the Kellynch estate due to an incorrect understanding on my part of the laws of succession. The title must pass directly through the male line; in other words, the title could only go to the son of an Elliot male, not to the son of an Elliot female. However, I still want Edward to inherit, so for the purposes of this story we will say that Sir William Elliot had no heirs and thus was able to dispose of his estate however he desired. Okay? Okay! ;-)
December, 1841
"Well, I do not understand it," said Mrs. Musgrove, munching on her dry toast. "I do not understand why Sir William did not leave Kellynch to you, Walter. It is understandable that he did not name Charles heir, as he will have Uppercross one day, but you are nearly four years older than Edward Wentworth and should have precedence."
"It makes perfect sense, Mother," said Walter tiredly. This was a discussion in which they had engaged numerous times since the baronet's death six months previously. "My aunt Brydges is the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, and she has no children, so Sir William left the estate to the only son of the next daughter. That would be Edward. Sir William was entirely fair." In this instance, anyway, he added to himself.
His mother had requested that Walter breakfast at the Great House, as his father had planned to go shooting with Sir Frederick and some other gentlemen. Walter was unable to accompany them because of a previously-scheduled meeting with the Uppercross church wardens, and he had agreed to keep his mother company (and spare his father an evening of imagined indisposition, the usual result of what Mrs. Musgrove considered neglect on her husband's part).
"I cannot agree with you, Walter," his mother was saying. "If he were fair, he would have left something for my sons, who are, after all, the grandsons of Sir Walter Elliot as well. And I do not think it terribly fair that a baronetcy must remain in the male line. If Sir William could leave his estate to whomever he liked, why not the title?"
"Sir William had no control over that, Mamma."
"Perhaps not, but in any event it should have been you, Walter, who inherited Kellynch," she added, gazing tenderly at her younger son. "I would so have liked to see you as Sir Walter, master of Kellynch. For you have the Elliot countenance."
Walter had a difficult time imagining himself rattling around Kellynch in all his bachelor splendour, with no more living and little with which to occupy his days. "Elliot countenance or no, I have no wish to inherit Kellynch, nor to be Sir anything. My cousin may have it, and welcome."
Foiled in her first attack, Mrs. Musgrove changed tactics with a dexterity that her naval brothers-in-law would have greatly admired. "And if he was going to split up the estate, why would he give Kellynch Lodge to Miss Clay? And all that money! Ten thousand pounds! And nothing for you, or your brother or sister! My father must be spinning in his grave!"
Walter had his own ideas about why Sir William had provided so well for Gwendolyn, but he kept them to himself. One could hardly fault a man for wishing to assuage his guilt with his final act.
His mother sipped her tea angrily. "I never liked that William Walter Elliot, you know, from the time he came sniffing around my father and my sisters when they first moved to Bath. He had a secretive way about him that I always distrusted, and it was borne out when he ran off with Mrs. Clay. Mrs. Clay! The daughter of my father's solicitor, the mistress of Kellynch! 'Twas an absolute disgrace!" As Mrs. Musgrove had consistently fawned over her titled cousin and his wife while they lived, her protestations after their death were not taken seriously by any of her family. They attributed her outbursts to resentment of the disposition of Sir William's estate, which excluded her offspring entirely, and had long ago learned that it was best to nod and offer agreement in such circumstances while keeping their own counsel. Thus Walter frowned, nodded, and "hmmed" as necessary while his mother railed about the iniquity of the late baronet.
Mrs. Musgrove finally finished her diatribe, and in a querulous voice professed herself terribly fatigued. Walter, ever the dutiful son, suggested that she repair to her sofa and offered his arm to assist her there. He saw her stretched out on the sofa with a shawl cast gently over her feet, and kissed on her on the cheek. "Rest here awhile, love," he said softly. "You will feel better for a nap. You know you always do."
"Thank you, Walter," she said with a sigh. "You are a good son."
"I do try, Mamma," he said as he moved toward the door. "I do try." He went out and closed the door softly behind him.
Finding himself with some time before his meeting with the church wardens, he made his way to the stables, where he found his brother standing in Wilfred's stall, trimming the creature's mane with an alarmingly large pair of scissors that surprisingly did not seem to trouble the horse in the least.
"Good morning, Walter," he said without turning around. "Give me a moment to finish here." He took a last snip and brushed the long, silky black mane. "Does that look even to you?"
"Very much so."
Charles put down his instruments. "You can come a little closer, brother. Wilfred does not bite."
Walter looked askance at the horse, who looked very much as if he would like to render his master's statement untrue. "If you don't mind, I'll stay back here. I declare, that horse despises me." Wilfred snorted in confirmation.
"You are being ridiculous. I confess that Wilfred can be a little--standoffish, but to say he despises you is too much. He likes Anne better than me, and I do not take it personally." Charles rubbed the horse's nose, and the stallion nuzzled his shoulder. "Yes, you like your mamma the best, don't you, boy? That is because she gives you sugar and apples and other sweet trash."
Walter was appalled. "Charles, please tell me that you did not call your wife that creature's mamma."
"Why not? She does."
"How is Anne, anyway? I have not seen her for at least a week."
Charles sighed heavily. "Poor girl, she is feeling very low. She had a letter from Edward. He is staying in Jamaica for the present. She had hoped he would come home to look after Kellynch when he received word of Sir William's death, but he has a good chance of getting his own command soon, and wishes to stay on the West Indian station."
"Anne is from a naval family. I cannot believe that she would wish for Edward to give up his career so young."
"She misses her brother," Charles replied with a shrug. "She worries about him, so far away. And that is not good," he added, shaking his head and speaking almost to himself. "That is not good for one in her condition."
His brother's words alarmed Walter. "Her condition? Is something wrong with Anne?"
Charles looked up in surprise. He stared at Walter for a moment, then relaxed and laughed ruefully. "No, there is nothing wrong. We had not been going to tell everyone until Christmas, but--well, Anne is expecting."
"Expecting?" echoed Walter, not immediately grasping Charles' meaning.
"A baby," his brother supplied helpfully. "In May, she thinks." He shook his head. "I did very well in my mathematics examination at university, as you will remember, but the calculations involved in determining the date of confinement were frankly beyond my meagre comprehension."
"Charles!" cried his very surprised brother. "That is wonderful news! My congratulations!"
His brother grinned. "I thank you. I must confess, Anne and I had pretty much accepted that we were not to be blessed with children, so we are delighted, as you might imagine."
"Have you told my mother and father?"
"No, no one knows except Anne's mother. And you."
"I shall keep your counsel until Christmas, if you wish, but no longer!" said Walter, grinning in delight. "What a wonderful holiday we shall have, brother! Eliza is bringing our nephews to visit, and now this news!"
"Yes, I am depending upon Eliza's visit to buoy Anne's spirits." He swiped a hand gently down Wilfred's nose, then suddenly turned to his brother. "Will you talk to Anne?"
Walter was startled. "Talk to Anne? What about?"
"Try to make her feel better about Edward staying in the West Indies. I have tried, but she just cried more." He leaned toward Walter and dropped his voice. "All she does is cry these days. She says it is the baby making her so. It must be, for that is not like Anne!"
"No, it is not. But I cannot imagine that I could comfort her better than you."
"But you are a clergyman. It will be--different, coming from you."
In his two years as rector, Walter had become accustomed to such requests, based on the simple faith that taking holy orders would bestow special gifts of insight and reassurance on a man. Perhaps it did; however unprepared he sometimes felt to counsel his parishioners, Walter had noticed that his words did much to comfort and instruct those to whom he spoke. The first such request he had received was to speak to Sophie Wentworth about her brazen behaviour, which he had done at Charles and Anne's wedding; it had worked, to an extent, as Sophie was still somewhat flirtatious, but certainly not as forward as she had been previously. Thus he agreed to speak with Anne, although he had no idea what he could say that would help her, and followed his brother to the Cottage.
"Where is Mrs. Musgrove?" Charles asked the housekeeper.
"She's in her chamber, sir," said Mrs. Rudd. "She was feeling poorly."
Charles started up the stairs and beckoned his brother to follow him. They went down the passage to the door of the bed-chamber. Charles opened the door and went inside. A short time later, he came out and said to Walter, "She will see you."
Walter went inside the room, which was dark and warm. The only light came from the fireplace. He could see that Anne lay on the bed, wrapped in a quilt, with her back to him. He walked around the bed and sat on the edge. She was staring at the fire.
"Hello, Anne," he said softly. "Charles told me your good news. My congratulations."
Her eyes moved from the fire to his face. "I thank you. I am very happy about it," at which time her face screwed up and the tears began to flow.
Walter stroked her hair, which hung loose. "What is it, love? Is something wrong? Can I help?"
She shook her head, and a hand emerged from the bundled quilts, clutching a limp handkerchief. "It is nothing. My mother says it is the baby. She said she was the same way and was surprised that my father did not pitch her overboard when she was expecting Edward." The mention of her brother's name unfortunately brought on a fresh bout of tears.
"Are you missing Edward?" Walter asked her, still stroking her hair.
She nodded. "I do not understand why he does not come home! I have never gone more than a year without seeing him before, and it has been nearly two years now! No one expects him to leave the service, but is it too much to ask for a vi-vi-visit?" Her lip had begun to tremble with her final word, and she managed to get it out, but then began to wail in earnest.
Walter waited until the sobs subsided. At last she was calm again, and he asked, "Charles told me that Edward expects to get his own command soon."
"Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn't it?" she said with a wan smile. "Captain Wentworth! It sounds delightful."
"Perhaps he felt that his chances at such a command were better there than here."
"That is not it," said Anne darkly. "I suspect it has something to do with that Catherine Leigh. She must have broken his heart. He acted strangely just before he left, and he stopped talking about coming back in a year. I think that is why he stays in the West Indies. He does not want to take the chance of seeing her in England." Her lip began to tremble again. "Evil witch! I could scratch her eyes out!" She burst into fresh tears, turning the handkerchief in search of a dry spot and finding none. Ever the gentleman, Walter immediately produced his own and handed it to her.
"Now, Anne," he said soothingly, "you know you do not really feel so about Miss Leigh."
"I do," she sobbed. "She stole my brother away from me, more fully than if she had married him! If she had agreed to marry him he would not stay away!"
"You do not know that, love," he cautioned. "You do not know that he proposed to her, do you?"
"No," she admitted. "But he loved her, I know it."
She lay quietly for a time, so Walter decided to change the subject. "How are you feeling, other than the sadness?"
"Oh, I feel well enough. I have no nausea, but I am so tired, Walter! Mamma says it shall pass, though."
"That will be a good thing, will not it?"
"I suppose so. I shall be able to get out of bed, anyway. I am not accustomed to being such an invalid."
"Go over to the Great House. I am sure my mother shall be glad to instruct you."
This had its intended effect of making her laugh, but she soon sobered and grew very quiet.
"What are you thinking, love?"
She looked up at him with an embarrassed expression. "Walter, sometimes I think God is punishing me."
Walter was taken aback by her words. "Why in the world would God seek to punish you, Anne?"
More tears slipped from her eyes. "Because I am a selfish beast!"
"You, selfish? You are one of the most generous women I know!"
She shook her head. "You do not know. You do not really know me." She mopped at her eyes and nose. "I have been so happy, these two years with Charles! And in my heart, I have been happy--" she began to sob again. "I have been happy that I did not have a baby yet and I could keep Charles all to myself and not have to share him with a child. There! I have said it. You see now how selfish I truly am!" She sobbed quietly and would not look at her brother-in-law.
Walter waited for more, but no more seemed forthcoming. "Is that it, love? You think yourself a selfish beast because you love your husband?"
"It is not that simple, Walter!"
"It is that simple, Anne. If you had been blessed with a child and not welcomed it, that would have been an evil indeed. But to enjoy your husband's company and his undivided attention--that in itself is not an evil. And you have said that you are happy about this baby--am I correct?"
She nodded. "I am happy, so very happy! I feel very ready to be a mother. In truth, I have felt so for some time now. I thought that God punished me for my selfishness by preventing me from conceiving and keeping Edward from me."
"Then your punishment must be at least partially complete, for you have conceived." This time she did not laugh. "Dearest Anne, God does not punish us in such ways! He has His reasons for not giving you and Charles a child before now, and for keeping Edward in the West Indies. We are not meant to understand those reasons, just to accept them."
Anne had stopped weeping and was gazing up at him steadily. After a moment she said, "Charles is worried about me, is not he?"
"Yes, he is."
"He is so good to me," she said, her face screwing up again. "He has been so kind and patient--I do not deserve him!" Her wails began afresh; Walter managed not to laugh, and decided that the time was ripe for Charles to step in.
"He is waiting outside," he said. "Shall I fetch him?"
Anne nodded through her tears, and Walter rose and went to the door. He opened it and saw his brother hovering in the passage, his face anxious. Walter beckoned him inside, and Charles stood in the doorway. "Anne?" he asked hesitantly.
She sat up and said, "I am sorry that I worried you."
"Do not apologize," he said, moving toward her. "You are not to blame."
Anne held her arms out, and Charles sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her to him. She clung to him, sobbing, and he rocked her as one would a child, crooning soft words of comfort. Walter smiled and left them, closing the door behind him gently; neither of them noticed that he was gone.
The next day, Walter was labouring over a sermon. He was a popular rector for many reasons, one being that his sermons were generally short, witty, and to the point, but the grateful parishioners had no idea of the time and effort that the rector put into those sermons. He crossed out, blotted, and struggled, and after several hours had something he considered worthy. He took a fresh sheet of paper to make a fair copy when there was a soft knock on the door of his study.
Mrs. Brumby peeked in and said, "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. Musgrove, but Sir Frederick is here to see you."
Walter smiled and rose from his chair. "Show him in, please, Mrs. Brumby."
A moment later, the door opened again and Sir Frederick Wentworth entered the room. Walter noticed that the older man bent slightly as he passed under the door frame; the habit of a tall man who had spent many years in low-ceilinged ships, he supposed. He held out his hand. "Hello, Uncle Frederick!" he cried, knowing that he would be chastised if he used his uncle's title. "It is very good to see you, sir!"
Walter had always been very fond of his uncle; one of his earliest memories was of sitting on Sir Frederick's knee, grasping at the buttons on his coat and listening to him sing a song which Walter was later able to identify as "Hearts of Oak." It must have been before then-Captain Wentworth had married Aunt Anne--but no, for she was in the room as well, and he recalled Charles lying ill on a sofa--yes, they must have been married already. What a little beast he had been as a small child; he had been pestering Aunt Anne as she tended to his brother, hanging from her neck until Uncle Frederick peeled his hands from her and took him away to amuse him with the song. Such consideration for his wife; yes, they were certainly married, or at least very close to being so.
Sir Frederick shook Walter's hand with a wide smile. "And it is good to see you, young man; you are looking very well indeed."
"I thank you, sir! May I offer you some wine, or perhaps some tea?" The Admiral accepted the offer of tea, and Mrs. Brumby nodded and left to fetch it.
"How may I be of assistance to you, Uncle?" asked Walter when the door had shut behind the housekeeper.
"I am here on a commission from Edward," said Sir Frederick, drawing a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket and passing it to his nephew. "He asked me to give this to you, and to wait for your answer, if you will."
His curiosity awakened, Walter broke the seal and read the letter.
Admiralty House, Jamaica
15 September, 1841My dear Walter,
I hope this letter finds you well as it leaves me. This letter is yet another in the many I have dispatched in the past two days since word reached me of Sir William's demise. As a clergyman, I hope you will find it possible to forgive me if I confess that I have shed no tears over the melancholy event, without reference to any gain I shall have from it.
It is in your capacity as a clergyman that I address you today. My father informs me that the Kellynch living has had no incumbent these seven years, the late baronet not being a man of churchgoing habits. My father suggested rather strongly that I rectify the situation, and I can think of no one I would prefer to have the living than you, cousin. I know this shall present you with some difficulties; from what you have told me in the past, your bishop may have little patience with pluralism. But the churches being so close together, I have confidence that you shall be able to admirably discharge your duties to both parishes. My father stands ready to speak to the bishop on my behalf if necessary.I shall not be returning to the parish myself for the time being. As you know, when I arrived here almost two years ago, I accepted the position of flag lieutenant to the Commander in Chief of the North American and West Indian Station, a position that I have found most rewarding. There is a possibility that I shall be promoted very soon and given a sloop of my own to command. Such advancement is not to be found in England at this time. The Admiralty keeps much too tight a rein on the officers within its immediate reach. Here, so far from England, an Admiral can promote deserving officers as he desires, and I would be foolish not to take advantage of the gains I have already earned here.
Kellynch Hall is to be let in my absence. My father shall act as my agent in this regard. However, he has other duties that weigh upon him, and I shall depend upon you to be my representative in your capacity as rector, if you decide to accept the living. I hope that you do, Walter. It will be helpful to my mother to see some tie of family retained at Kellynch.
I have written to Annie to explain my position but I do not think she will understand. I have tried to explain that I have good reasons to stay here, but I fear that she attributes my actions to other motives. Suffice to say that at this time, I feel that my best chance of happiness lay in the West Indies. I hope you can help Charles to convince Annie so. However, I have no fear for my sister with two such men as you and Charles to look after her.
I hope that you accept the living in the spirit of family affection in which it is offered. When you have reached your decision, my father shall act in my behalf in all particulars. I remain
yours &c.,
Lt. Edward Wentworth, RN
When the housekeeper had again departed, Walter sipped his tea and regarded his uncle thoughtfully. "Was it your suggestion that Edward offer me the living, sir?" he asked.
Sir Frederick stared at him in astonishment, then laughed. "Yes, it was. Or more properly, it was my wife's suggestion, although I passed it on to Edward with the letters from the solicitors. Your aunt has very strong family feelings, you know, and it has pained her that the Kellynch church has stood empty these seven years. You may be interested to know that she made a similar request of Sir William, but he chose not to honour it."
"I am honoured by Edward's offer, but I do not think that Bishop Prescott will be of a mind to agree to it."
"I shall take care of the bishop," sais Sir Frederick with great deliberation. "Have no fear on that account. If a man cannot use his title and position to help his family, then what good is it? And it is an excellent living, Walter, a clear five hundred pounds a year plus glebe land. You have a curate already, and you can let the Kellynch parsonage, if you like; it will be a fine addition to your income." The older man smiled at him and added teasingly, "Perhaps you may feel now that you can marry!"
Walter laughed. "Have you a particular young lady in mind for me, Uncle?"
"No, although I would be in your debt if you took Sophie off my hands!" The two men laughed together, Walter a bit uncomfortably, wondering if there was perhaps a grain of truth in his uncle's last statement.
"Well, what do you say, son?" Sir Frederick asked him kindly. "Will you accept?"
"Yes," said Walter decisively. "I will. I thank you, sir. I shall write to Edward directly."
"Very good," said Sir Frederick, placing his empty cup on the tray. "I shall have the necessary papers drawn up and bring them to you when they are ready." Walter rose to see him out, but his uncle waved him back to the chair. "I can find the door very well myself." He smiled fondly and added, "You are making your aunt very happy."
"My mother shall be delighted as well, you know. And after all, there is nothing like the domestic felicity of women to ease a man's life."
The admiral laughed heartily. "You have wisdom beyond your years, Walter! You are indeed ready to marry!" He went off down the passage, chuckling.
Walter returned to copying out his sermon, then wrote a letter to Edward, and it was not until several hours later that he realized that he had agreed to be the rector of the parish in which Gwendolyn Clay might very soon be living.
© 1999, 2000 Copyright held by the author.