Beginning, Section II
Part IX
The guests had descended en masse on Uppercross for the wedding breakfast, and that venerable edifice was rather strained at the seams. Charles made his way through the crowded drawing room, occasionally being pulled aside by an aunt or uncle or some other relation to have his head patted or his cheek pinched as if he were still a schoolboy. He withstood this impertinent treatment with good-natured equanimity, really very glad to see so many old friends.
Finally fatigued by so much good fellowship, he moved to a window and looked out upon the lawn. Anne Wentworth was there, playing with some of the smaller children. They joined hands to form a ring, dancing in a circle, then stopped and fell on the ground. The children screamed in delight, and Anne laughed with them, her eyes alight with merriment. Charles leaned against the window frame, watching her, unconscious of the loving smile he wore.
He felt the presence of another person at his elbow and turned to see his father, a plate in his hand. "Have you tried the kippers, Charles? They are really quite good. I've always enjoyed kippers for breakfast." He took a bite and looked around him at the crowds of people. "I can't say I won't be glad when all this fuss is over," he said. "I dare say you'll be next to the altar, eh?"
"How did you know?" cried Charles in astonishment. "Did Walter tell you?"
"Tell me what?" asked Mr. Musgrove, his brow furrowed. "I was just teasing you. Walter has told me nothing. Is there something you wish to tell me, Charles?"
The genuine concern on his father's face compelled Charles to unburden himself. "I want to marry Anne Wentworth," he said quietly.
Mr. Musgrove followed his son's gaze outside, where Anne still romped with the children. "So it's Anne Wentworth, is it? I can't fault your taste, son. She is a remarkably pretty girl. The picture of her mother at that age." He watched her for a moment, lost in his own private reverie. After a moment he shook his head and turned back to Charles with a smile. "Have you spoken to Frederick yet?"
"I haven't even spoken to Anne," Charles admitted
"What are you waiting for, then? Upon my honour, you young men today are remarkably backward. She's not going to ask you, you know."
Charles sighed. "Every time I try to talk to her, there is an interruption. And lately she has been keeping a great deal of company with Henry Clay. Perhaps she prefers him. I just don't know what to say to her, Papa."
"You haven't called me Papa since you were a boy," said Mr. Musgrove quietly. He considered a moment. "I'm no poet," he said. "You should perhaps consult James Benwick if you are looking for pretty words, or one of those books you always have your nose in. If you're seeking my counsel, I would tell you, speak from your heart. You need never be ashamed of your words if they describe an honest emotion."
"I am going to ask her tonight," said Charles. He looked at his father. "Have I your blessing? I would not proceed without it."
"You do indeed. I trust you, Charles. I would not scruple to dispute your choice of a wife. When you and Anne come to an understanding, Uppercross Cottage will be readied." He gave his son an affectionate pat on the shoulder and walked away, munching on the kippers.
Across the room, Edward Wentworth raised a hand and caught Charles' eye. Charles made his way through the throngs to where the young naval officer stood. Edward shook his hand heartily. "What a crush! I should not have worn my sword. I'm half-afraid that I'll impale someone quite by accident."
"How long is your furlough?"
"Three months, then we set sail for North America." He looked across the room to where Catherine Leigh stood talking to her mother and Elizabeth. "I wish that I had twice as long."
Charles smiled. "Miss Leigh is a very popular young lady."
"Did I tread on Walter's toes the other night?" Edward asked sheepishly. "I am very sorry if he is disappointed. But, Charles," he said, turning to the other young man earnestly, "is she not an angel? And she is not just beautiful. She has a lively mind and an amiable disposition. I thought I would never find a woman I could love more than the sea, but I was wrong." Suddenly, the light in his eyes dimmed, and he frowned as he caught sight of something behind his cousin. Charles turned and saw Edward's mother in conversation with Sir William Elliot.
The baronet had once been a handsome man, but the years had not been kind to him. His face was creased with lines, his body bloated from the excesses in which he was well known to indulge. Village gossip, carried by the scandalized domestic staff, told of the dissolute company and intemperate habits of the current inhabitants of Kellynch.
"Tell me, Edward," said Charles, his curiosity roused, "Why does your father despise Sir William so? If it's not a family secret, that is." Sir Frederick had always treated his wife's cousin with cold contempt, never openly insulting him but certainly not giving him the deference normally bestowed upon a baronet by his lessers.
" 'Tis no secret. My father has not told me all the details, but I understand that Sir William treated a friend of Mother's in an infamous manner. I believe you know her; the widow, Mrs. Smith?" Charles nodded. "It was something to do with her husband's will. Sir William was executor. His failure to act on the provisions of the will left the poor woman with little to live on and quite destroyed her health. Father says that no title could make a gentleman of such a villain." He watched the villain converse with his mother and added, "And he is correct."
As they watched, Sir William took Lady Wentworth's elbow and led her out of the drawing-room. "What is he doing?" exclaimed Edward indignantly. He started forward, but Charles caught his arm.
"Do not let your temper get the better of you," he said in a low voice. "You do not want to embarrass your mother."
"I would not make a scene on Eliza's wedding day. But neither will I allow that scoundrel to insult my mother, not while I draw breath." Charles followed him into the passage; the younger man had an impetuous nature which had not been entirely tamed by nine years in the service of the Crown, and Charles feared what might happen if Sir William behaved in an untoward manner.
They walked down the passage to the library. The door was slightly ajar, and they heard Sir William's voice. Edward would have entered the room, but Charles stopped him. Through the opening, they could see Sir William, who was standing next to the chair in which Lady Wentworth was seated.
"I must tell you, sir, that I granted this interview only out of respect for the wishes of my late father, who desired us to maintain relations with family members," Lady Wentworth was saying. "I will hear your proposal, but then I must return to the drawing-room. Mary requires my assistance."
Sir William was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "Lady Wentworth--Anne-- I have been examining my life of late and have found it wanting." Charles and Edward exchanged bewildered looks. The baronet continued speaking. "You may have wondered why I married Penelope, after I was disappointed in my hopes for you." Edward's eyes grew wide at this comment. Charles gathered that he did not know that Sir William had once hoped to marry Lady Wentworth.
"When we married, she was with child." Edward rolled his eyes. "Of course, that in itself did not oblige me to marry her. Many men of more wealth and nobility than I have fathered bastards. But I was eager for a legitimate heir. I did not scruple overmuch at the inappropriate connection. And I must confess that there was an element of revenge. I was very fond of you, and when you refused me, I became angry with you, Anne. I have been angry with you for a long time. And it was wrong of me." Sir William drew closer to Lady Wentworth and took her hand in his. "When I first saw you at Lyme, I thought you were a lovely girl, and I wanted to know you. Then I went to Bath, and there you were. It was as if fate had given me a gift."
Lady Wentworth wrenched her hand away and stood up. "This is not an appropriate conversation, sir. I am leaving." She moved toward the door, but Sir William blocked her way. "Don't you see, Anne? We cheated the fates. You should have taken your mother's place as mistress of Kellynch. After I married Penelope, the child was lost, and the physician prescribed separate bedrooms. I was bound to a woman unable to give me an heir. You do not know how it delights me that your son will inherit my estate and title. It is as if our son--"
Lady Wentworth had lost patience. "What are you suggesting, sir?"
The baronet hesitated, then went on. "Penelope and I have an understanding. We lead our lives as we each see fit." He held her hands, his face very close to hers. "I would like to see you, privately. Will you come to me at Kellynch, Anne?"
"He does not dare," muttered Edward, his hand going to his sword hilt. Charles grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the door. Edward was taller, but years spent training horses had given Charles superior strength. He pushed his cousin against the wall and whispered harshly, "No, Edward! I like this no better than you, but your mother would not relish your interference." Edward looked at him steadily for a moment, then dropped his gaze and nodded. Charles released him.
They could hear Lady Wentworth's gentle voice. "Sir William, you seem to be labouring under a misapprehension. I met Frederick eight years before we married, and although we did not meet again in the interim, I knew that I could never love another man." She hesitated a moment. "If I had a preordained fate, as you seem to think, it was to be the wife of Frederick Wentworth. I have fulfilled the destiny meant for me. I am very sorry that you are unhappy, but I am quite unable to help you." She turned away and walked toward the door. Charles pulled his cousin back into the shadows. Lady Wentworth exited the library and walked down the passage without seeing them. Sir William followed a minute later, his shoulders bowed and his step halting. Charles felt he should have sympathy for the baronet, but was unable to find any.
He looked at Edward, who was leaning with his back against the wall, his eyes closed. "Come, Edward," he said, leading the younger man into the library. "I keep a bottle in here, for medicinal purposes only, of course. And I have rarely seen a man more in need of such medicine than you." He poured a glass of brandy and handed it to his cousin.
Edward drank half the fiery liquid in one gulp and took a deep breath. "I must thank you, cousin. I would have run him through had you not stopped me. It would have given me great pleasure, of course, but I think it would be difficult to court Catherine from prison."
"Few men could hear such an insult directed toward their mother and not have the same reaction. I considered taking your sword to him myself for a moment."
Edward smiled and shook his head. "No, Charles, you are only trying to make me feel better. I know you better than that. You have always had admirable control over your emotions." He set down his glass and said, "Shall we rejoin the company? If I begin to growl at Sir William, you may put me in the kennels with the dogs."
"I would not torture my dogs in such a manner." They both laughed and went out into the passage.
As they walked toward the drawing-room, Edward said thoughtfully, "I had never considered the elements of my parents' marriage. One does not suppose that one's mother and father had the same feelings that one has, that they must have courted as we do." He contemplated this for a moment. "I suppose that each generation thinks that they have invented love. It's not something we are taught, as we are taught seamanship or farming or any other vocation. It just happens." At that moment, Catherine Leigh turned to him and smiled. Edward smiled in return, then turned back to his cousin. "I would study this topic further. A subject for research has presented herself, Charles. You will forgive me."
"Go, Edward," he declared. "I will expect a full report the next time we meet. Are you free in the morning? We can go for a ride, or Father and Walter will be going shooting, I expect." Edward agreed to return to Uppercross early the next day, and eagerly made his way to Miss Leigh's side.
Mrs. Musgrove, delighted to find herself in the middle of a convivial group of neighbours, called to Charles to join them. With an effort, he put the events of the morning from his mind and joined his mother; however, he was unable to wholly forget his hopes for the evening, although the others never guessed the weight that was on his mind.
Part X
The last guests had finally departed, and the customary quiet was once again settling over Uppercross. Mrs. Musgrove took to her sofa before the final echo of the closing door had dissipated. The servants were in the kitchen enjoying a bowl of punch and leftover wedding cake, and Mr. Musgrove had managed to escape to his own study, so Charles, being unfortunately nearby, was compelled to fetch his mother's tea and a shawl to cover her legs.
"Dear me, I have never been so fatigued in my life," she said, spreading the shawl and leaning back with a heavy sigh. She closed her eyes and smiled. "But it was a lovely wedding, was it not?"
"It was," Charles agreed. "Eliza made a beautiful bride. And she and James will be very happy together, I think."
"Of course she will be happy," responded Mrs. Musgrove. "What is there to be unhappy about? When she is mistress of Ashleigh Hall, she will be very happy, I dare say."
Charles thought it might be best to change the subject, as it often was when he conversed with his mother. "I understand you have invited my aunt and uncle Wentworth to drink tea with us tonight," he said.
"Yes, I thought it would be proper to have company for Sir George and Lady Leigh," she said. "I have invited Sir William and Lady Elliot as well. I'm sure she'll bring along those dreadful children of hers, but I suppose it can't be helped. Why Sir William doesn't put them out of the house is beyond my comprehension."
Charles closed his eyes and put his hand over his mouth for a moment, the better to stop himself from saying the first thing that came into his mind, which was hardly proper for his mother's ears. "Mamma, please tell me that you have not invited Sir Frederick to a family party with Sir William Elliot."
"And why not?" she asked, glaring at him. "The day Frederick Wentworth dictates whom I invite to my home is the day that I'm laid in my grave, knighthood or no knighthood. Sir William is my cousin, and family connections are always worth preserving. Sir Frederick will have to forget about twenty-five-year-old jealousies for one night." She lay back, closing her eyes and waving her hand at him dismissively. "Do go away, Charles. It is so unkind, the way you boys tease me when you know I am ill."
Charles gladly exited the sitting-room. He loved his mother but was frequently irritated by what he had heard his aunt Benwick refer to as "Mary's Elliot pride." He went to the library and settled down with a copy of Ivanhoe, his favorite book since he had first read it at the age of ten. The story of chivalry and adventure was an old friend, one that he usually found comforting in times of spiritual unrest, but today even Sir Walter Scott was unable to soothe his restless mood.
"Have you finished packing your trunk, Eliza?" asked Mr. Musgrove. He turned to address his son-in-law. "You will spend most of your wedding tour waiting for her to pack her trunk, James. I feel it is my duty to warn you."
James grinned at his father-in-law. The happy glow of his new status as a married man still radiated from his face, particularly when he caught the glance of his wife. "You may rest assured, sir, I will not leave her behind if she falls late," he said. "Not on this trip, anyway." There was general laughter at this comment; even Elizabeth smiled and shook her head at her husband.
Charles sipped his tea and smiled as the newlyweds exchanged a loving glance. A chance encounter in London the year before had prompted him to invite his old school friend to visit Uppercross. Despite his mother's winks and hints, he certainly had not intended to make a match between James and Elizabeth, although he was delighted with the marriage. James Leigh had an affable disposition which had endeared him to all his schoolmates, but he was not exactly handsome; certainly not the type of young man that Charles would have thought inspired love in his sister's heart, or any young woman's for that matter. Much you know about it, Musgrove, he thought wryly. You don't even know what inspires love in your own heart. The door-bell interrupted his thoughts, and he set down his cup and took a deep breath.
The butler announced, "Sir William and Lady Elliot, Mr. Henry Clay, and Miss Gwendolyn Clay." Walter had come forward with his parents. He exchanged a frosty bow with Henry Clay, but took Gwendolyn's hand and kissed it. As he turned away, her eyes followed him with an expression that Charles recognized; he had seen it in the mirror lately. Gwendolyn Clay is in love with Walter, he thought, amazed. He had not thought such a woman capable of the finer emotions, but the proof was written on her face as plainly as on the page of a book. Charles suspected that his brother had no idea of her feelings, judging by his cavalier words the previous night. Miss Clay looked down at her clasped hands for a moment, then glanced around the room until she caught Charles' eye. She smirked in her mocking way and inclined her head in his direction, one eyebrow archly raised. All his new-found sympathy for her disappeared with that action, and he turned away in disgust.
The Wentworths arrived while the Kellynch group was still paying its compliments to the master and mistress of the house. Edward approached Charles, wearing a smile that disappeared when he spotted the baronet talking to Mrs. Musgrove. "He has a nerve, coming here after his infamous behavior this morning," he whispered.
"You have not told your father about that, have you?" asked Charles cautiously.
"No. You saw my reaction, cousin. I assure you that my father would have entertained a similar impulse. And we may not have been able to persuade him otherwise."
Charles could not disagree with Edward's assessment. A quarter-century of preexisting animosity, added to understandable anger at an insult to a beloved wife--Charles felt cold as he imagined his uncle in full fury. Then he noticed that Anne had not entered the house with her family.
"Where is Anne?" he asked, looking behind Sir Frederick. Henry Clay was nowhere to be seen, he noticed apprehensively.
Lady Wentworth frowned as she looked around. "She was just behind us." Sir Frederick's eyes grew stormy, and Charles knew that he must have realized that Clay was missing as well.
"I will go outside and look for her," he volunteered hastily.
Sir Frederick looked at him shrewdly. His lips twitched, but he said only, "Thank you, Charles." Charles hastened to the passage, not noticing the conspiratorial smiles exchanged behind his back by husband and wife.
The door was standing open, and he halted in confusion at what he saw outside. Henry Clay stood with Anne, their heads very close together. He was holding her hands in his and speaking to her earnestly. Anne shook her head and responded, her eyes locked on Mr. Clay's shoes.
Charles felt a hand wrap around his forearm. He looked down to see Gwendolyn Clay's green eyes laughing up at him. She switched her gaze to her brother and Anne and smiled. "I wonder what Henry is saying to her," she said. "It seems to be a very serious conversation."
Anne pulled her hands away from Mr. Clay and ran up to the door. She stopped short on seeing Charles and Gwendolyn. Charles tried in vain to pull his arm away. "Good evening, Miss Wentworth," cried Miss Clay, her grip like a vise, leaning against him in a rather provocative manner. " 'Tis so very good to see you!"
Anne looked from Miss Clay to Charles and back to Miss Clay, frowning. "Good evening," she finally said, and pushed past them into the passageway.
Charles finally disengaged his arm and went after her. "Anne, wait," he called.
She stopped but did not look back at him. He walked around her and looked down at her earnestly. "You promised me an interview tonight. Will you do me the honour of accompanying me out onto the verandah? If it is too chilly for you we can go into the library. But I would rather that we were not interrupted, and no one else will come outside this late in the evening." He held out his arm to her. She took it silently and he led her down the passage and out onto the verandah.
Anne pulled her shawl around her more closely. "What is it, Charles?" she asked softly. "You said this morning that you had something to tell me." She still had not met his eyes.
This is your opportunity, Musgrove, he thought. Do not squander it. He opened his mouth to speak, then paused. He turned away and then back to her, his agitation not allowing the words to form. At last, he was able to blurt out, "I am sorry if what I am about to say pains you. You must allow me to speak to you as a brother would." He realized that the words were singularly inappropriate as soon as they left his mouth, but he forced himself to continue. "I have observed over the past few days that you have grown close to Henry Clay. I understand that he may have engaged your affections as a result of the service he rendered yesterday. I am also aware that he is handsome and that his manners are engaging. However, he has a reputation as a libertine and a dissolute spendthrift. Also, I have received information that leads me to believe that he only courts your affection so that he may gain your fortune as well." He paused for breath and to observe her reaction.
She had turned to him with an expression of puzzlement, but did not speak. Charles plunged on. "Anne, listen to me, please," he said. "You cannot marry Henry Clay. I know you well enough to know that you would not suit one other. He would make you desperately unhappy. Please tell me that you have not come to an understanding with him."
Anne looked away. "No, Charles," she said quietly. "I am not engaged to Henry Clay."
A wave of relief crashed over him, and he closed his eyes for a few seconds.
"I could not marry him," she said. She was facing away from Charles, and speaking softly; he had to strain to hear. "I could never marry Henry Clay. Not when I am in love with someone else."
Part XI
Her words nearly stopped his heart. He had not considered such a circumstance; he was prepared for Anne to tell him that she was in love with Henry Clay, but not that she was in love with another man. Charles attempted to collect his scattered wits and exclaimed, "Have I no chance at all then?"
Anne whirled around to face him, her astonishment obvious. She opened her mouth to speak, but Charles kept talking. "I suppose I do not really deserve your affection. I have been an utter fool." He paced the verandah, his mind reeling. "I did not realize how I felt about you, not until I saw you with Clay. It was not just concern that I was feeling, Anne, it was jealousy. I could not stand to see him touch you, even talk to you."
"Charles!" Anne cried. This got his attention and stopped his rambling speech. "Please let me say something." She wrung her hands, turned away for a moment, then back toward him. "Forgive me. I am unused to speaking of such things."
Charles' heart sank even further at this statement. He felt that he could not stand it for another second. "Just say it," he whispered.
Anne was blushing furiously. "It is true that my affections have long been engaged. The full truth is that my heart belongs to you, Charles. Only to you."
A medley of emotions coursed through Charles: wonder, relief, ecstasy. His feet began moving almost without his knowledge, slowly bringing him closer to Anne until he stood before her. He took her hand and silently descended to one knee. If he had met her eyes, he would have noticed the expression of dazed joy on her face, but he focused on a point behind her and tried to assemble his thoughts. He took a deep breath and spoke. "Sometimes I think that I read too much. Since I came down from Cambridge, I have met many lovely and eligible young ladies, but I have never fancied myself in love. I kept waiting for that violent passion that the novelists speak of so eloquently, expecting to walk into a room and meet the eyes of a beautiful stranger and lose my heart forever. Needless to say, that never happened. I was such a nitwit that I did not realize that I already knew the most beautiful, wonderful girl in the world. That you return my affection is a gift I dared not hope for. I know I am not handsome, nor very rich, but there is a home for us at Uppercross Cottage, and you can travel the length and breadth of the kingdom and never find a more devoted heart than mine. I pledge to do my utmost to ensure your happiness, and my own happiness will be found in yours. I love you, Anne. Will you marry me?"
She touched his face, and he looked up at her. Her face was wet with tears, but she was smiling. "Charles Musgrove, I always knew that you had the soul of a poet. I love you, and yes, I will marry you."
Charles stood and wiped the tears from her cheeks. He gently lifted her chin; the expression of love in her eyes, which she no longer needed to conceal, nearly rocked him back on his heels. "Dearest Anne," he whispered, and brought his lips down to hers. It was a kiss that brought together two faithful hearts and melded them into one, a kiss that foretold all the happiness and passion their life together would hold.
At last, overcome by his emotions, he gathered her into his arms and held her close. They stood together for a few moments, enjoying the closeness and their newfound delight in one another. Finally Anne broke the silence. "If this a dream, do not wake me."
Charles closed his eyes, his cheek resting against her hair. "It is not a dream, my love."
"You do not know how I have longed for this," she said. "To feel your arms around me, to hear you say that you love me. You were always so...distant. I thought it was your kind way of letting me know I had no hope."
"Oh, Anne, can you forgive me? I could never think of anything to say to you. My brain would stop working and the words would never come."
"You seem to have regained your eloquence tonight, sir."
He smiled. "There is much I would say to you, my love, now that I know your mind." He tightened his embrace, and Anne sighed with happiness and rested her head on his chest. "I have loved you for so long, and I did not even know."
"I did not realize it at first, either," she replied. "I was sixteen years old, a silly chit barely out of the schoolroom, and you were at university and seemed so intelligent and sophisticated. I never thought anyone like you would pay any attention to me, but you were unfailingly kind and generous. Later, I went to London and Bath and met many young men, but like you, none that I ever felt I could love. I thought for a long time that there must be something wrong with me. Then one day I realized that I was comparing them unfavorably to my favorite riding instructor."
Charles laughed, looking down at her. "You too? That was the way it was for me as well. But you are more self-perceptive than I am. In one way I am grateful to Henry Clay; his attentions to you awakened my consciousness. You should have brought one of your beaus around several years ago, my love, this business would have been more forward."
"I cannot believe that you thought I could ever love Henry Clay," said Anne, frowning. "He is very handsome, I grant you that, but there is something about him--he is like the villains in those dreadful novels that Sophie reads. They always have something cruel about their mouths. That is exactly what he reminds me of."
" 'That Sophie reads'?" Charles teased. "How would you know about these cruel-mouthed villains if Sophie is the one reading these dreadful novels?"
Anne blushed. "She leaves them lying around, and I have picked them up from time to time. But that is not the point. I have heard the gossip about Mr. Clay, and about his sister as well. You need not look so pained, Charles," she added, laughing at her fiancé's expression. "I assume that you heard those stories while in the company of other gentlemen. What do you think the ladies are discussing in the drawing-room while the gentlemen are otherwise engaged?"
Charles had not thought about it at all. He realized that he had much to learn about the ways of women. "What was he saying to you tonight, when I saw you outside?"
"He wanted to engage me for the first dances if there was to be dancing tonight. I told him that I did not think my aunt had planned such entertainment. I tried to get away from him as quickly as I could." She shivered, and he pulled her shawl up around her shoulders, although it was not the chill in the night air that caused her to tremble.
"And what about you, Charles?" she continued. "You have been keeping a great deal of company with Miss Gwendolyn Clay recently. What exactly was going on behind her parasol yesterday in the shrubbery, sir?"
Anne was laughing, but the blood rushed to Charles' face as he remembered his encounter with Gwendolyn. He released Anne from his embrace and walked away. "I can only imagine what you must have thought of me," he said quietly. "Please believe that I did not encourage her advances."
"I did not think that you had. But listening to her insinuations yesterday in the carriage...oh, Charles, you cannot know how I felt."
"I can," he said grimly. He turned to her. "She means nothing to me," he said. "Less than nothing. As I said the other night, we cannot control their behavior, only our own. I love you, Anne. You have nothing to fear from the likes of Gwendolyn Clay."
"And you have nothing to fear from her brother."
He started toward her, then stopped short. "I do not want to frighten you, or act disrespectfully," he said. "But may I kiss you again?"
She laughed. "That is one of the things I love about you, your sense of chivalry. You need never ask me that question again. You may kiss me, my love, as often as you like." Almost before she was finished speaking, Miss Wentworth found herself in a very enviable position; not only was she in the fervent embrace of the man she loved, but also being kissed by him until she was quite out of breath.
Finally he said, "I must speak with your father."
Anne tilted her head back and looked up at him lovingly. "There will be no opposition," she said. "My parents love you almost as much as I do. And you know Edward will be delighted." She paused, then added, "It may interest you to know that he has spoken to me very seriously about Henry Clay as well. When you prefaced your speech this evening with expressions of brotherly concern, I thought I was in for another scolding. Little did I know you had other intentions."
All the anxiety and of the last two days had lifted from his soul like a heavy burden from a weary labourer, and Charles was able to laugh at her gentle teasing. "I am sorry if I alarmed you, my love," he said. "But from today, there will be no more misunderstandings between us. And now, it is time for you to find your mother," punctuating this command with a kiss on the forehead, "and I will find your father." He released her and she turned to go inside, but he had caught her hand; she stopped at arm's length, then ran back for another quick kiss before she disappeared into the house.
Charles turned away, closed his eyes for a moment, and lowered his face into his hands. He offered up a short prayer of thanksgiving to whatever deities were listening, still amazed at his good fortune. In two days he had been transformed from a bachelor farmer to the beloved of a beautiful and intelligent woman. It was almost too much to comprehend.
Footsteps on the stone behind him made him turn around, and he was startled and glad to see that Sir Frederick had joined him. The Admiral had brought his pipe, and scratched a wooden match on the sole of his boot to light it. "Good evening, Charles," he said. "I did not want to smoke in the house. Will you stay and keep me company?"
"Of course," he responded. "I wish to speak with you anyway, sir."
Sir Frederick tilted his head to one side and gave him a small smile. "Indeed? By all means."
Charles took a deep breath. "I seek your permission to marry Anne, sir."
The match, arrested in its path, hovered in the air, a tendril of smoke curling up from the flame. "Have you ascertained her feelings on the matter?"
"Yes, sir. I have asked her to marry me and she has consented. But I would not proceed without your permission, and your blessing."
Sir Frederick shook out the match and set the unlit pipe on the top of the short stone wall. "You do not need my permission, Charles, as you well know. Anne is of age and may do as she pleases."
"We both have too much respect for you to act against your wishes, sir."
The admiral nodded approvingly. "Have you spoken to your father yet?"
"Yes, and he has given his consent."
"Then I would certainly not stand in your way." He paused and turned away for a moment. "Forgive me, Charles. I have anticipated this request from some young man or other for several years now. I thought I was prepared for it. You have no idea what it does to a father to realize his little girl is grown up and leaving him." He turned back and smiled at Charles. "But you will know someday, when my granddaughter's fiancé approaches you for a similar interview. You and Anne may marry, my boy, with my most sincere blessing." He held out his right hand, and Charles took it. "Take care of her, son," he whispered.
"I will, sir," Charles responded.
Sir Frederick nodded, unable to speak. A movement at the door caught both their attention, and they turned to see Anne standing with her mother, their hands clasped, looking at Sir Frederick with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation. He smiled and held his arms out to his daughter. She ran to him and he held her close, kissing the top of her head.
"We have your blessing, then, Papa?" she asked, tilting her head back to look up at him.
"Yes, my dear. I could not have chosen better for you myself." Anne flung her arms around her father's neck and kissed him on the cheek.
Lady Wentworth came forward and embraced Charles. "I am delighted for you both," she said.
"Well," said Sir Frederick, "should we intrude on Elizabeth's wedding day to make the announcement?"
"She will not object," said Anne, taking her fiancé's proffered arm. "And if we do not tell them soon, I may start shouting it from the rooftops."
They went into the drawing-room, where the company was gathered in small groups, making conversation and listening to Catherine Leigh play the pianoforte. Sir Frederick, always able to command attention just by entering a room, instantly drew every eye to him, and the expression on his face kept them there. Catherine's fingers faltered on the keys, and silence descended over the room.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Leigh," said Sir Frederick. "I did not mean to interrupt. But since I have everyone's attention, I have an announcement to make. Charles Musgrove has asked my permission to marry my daughter Anne, and I have consented. I believe he already has the consent of his father." Mr. Musgrove and Sir Frederick exchanged grins, and the admiral continued speaking. "Please join me in wishing them all the happiness they deserve, and that is a great deal."
As might well be imagined, pandemonium followed this announcement. Good wishes, handshakes, embraces, and kisses rained down upon the happy couple.
Elizabeth embraced her brother, making him laugh by whispering in his ear, "It's about time, dearest," and then Anne. "I am so happy that we will be sisters! Have you set a date yet? You must wait at least a month, until we return from our honeymoon."
"We will wait until you and James can be here," promised Anne, and a date was fixed for six weeks later, at the end of November.
Henry Clay approached Charles and held out his hand. Charles, magnanimous in the security of Anne's regard, politely shook his hand. "I wish you all the best, Musgrove," said Mr. Clay. He looked down at Anne, smiling by her fiancé's side. "I'm sure you will both be very happy." He walked away from them and joined his sister. Miss Clay stood listening politely to Sophie Wentworth, who was chattering happily about being a bridesmaid once again.
Walter stood a little apart from the others. Charles caught his eye, and he smiled. "I am very happy for you, brother," he said. Charles could see in his eyes that he told the truth. Walter grinned at Anne. "Are you sure you know what you're in for, love?" he asked her. "I know you both share that strange equine obsession, but I certainly hope you take equal joy in the prose of Sir Walter Scott, for you will get a stomachful as the years wear on."
"I am rather fond of Scott," Anne declared. "And if you think you can torment me because you are my brother, Walter, you are wrong. I will stand your teasing no less than I stand Edward's."
"I see I am defeated before I begin," cried Walter, gallantly kissing her hand. "You may expect no less than my utmost respect, my dear sister." The mischievous light in his eye spoke to the merry twinkle in her own, and they both knew that their relationship would remain warm, friendly, and extremely irreverent.
Shortly afterward, the company began to disperse. The Wentworth family stayed longest, and Charles accompanied them outside. Anne grabbed his hand and led him around to the back of the carriage, out of sight of the others. She put her arms around his neck and pulled his head down to hers. He kissed her and said, "May I call on you tomorrow night?"
"You may. I will be waiting." He kissed her again, feeling as if he had found a home in her embrace.
That night, Charles lay wakeful, remembering the expression in Anne's eyes when she told him that she loved him, the smell of her hair and the taste of her lips, the way she ran her fingers through his hair when he kissed her, and thought that the next six weeks would be both the shortest and the longest of his life.
Part XII
Five weeks later
The horse trotted through the crisp November evening, snorting out frosty white plumes as he discerned an alien scent in the woods. "It's all right, Wilfred," Charles said soothingly, patting the side of the horse's neck. The chestnut stallion was his favorite mount, big and strong yet still fleet of foot; Charles had spent long hours training the mighty creature until he responded to his master's commands instinctively. Walter mockingly referred to Wilfred as "Charles' destrier," after the pampered warhorses of the Norman knights. As was his custom, Charles dismissed his brother's insolent comments, although he privately thought his faithful steed sincerely worthy of the compliment.
Much of his time since his sister's wedding had been spent readying Uppercross Cottage for his bride. The old cottage held many happy childhood memories for him, and he had taken delight in making every detail perfect. Tomorrow se'night I bring you home, my love. He clicked his tongue, and the stallion picked up the pace.
They arrived at the drive to Oakmont Park. Wilfred, who had made the trip many times of late, turned in without any prompting from his master and ambled up to the main entrance.
Anne was watching for them, and came out of the house carrying an apple in her hand. "Hello, Wilfred," she said, and held out the apple to the horse, who crunched it in his enormous teeth. Anne stroked and kissed his long, velvety nose, and he whinnied softly and nuzzled her appreciatively.
"You never greet me like that," Charles teased her, handing the reins to the waiting groom.
"Come inside," she replied archly. "I think I can find an apple for you."
The groom led the horse away, and they were alone. Charles pulled Anne close to him and kissed her. During the past five weeks they had spent at least part of each day together; on this day, however, Charles had been obliged to attend to farm matters with his father, and had been unable to visit until the evening.
"I missed you today," she said, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist. "But I am glad that you were not here. You cannot imagine the row that went on."
"Was it something about the wedding?" Charles asked, concerned.
"No, no. It was Sophie." Anne sighed and pulled away from him, taking his hand to lead him into the house. "Since our engagement, she has withdrawn from the rest of the family. She would disappear for hours at a time to nobody knew where. A few days ago, she started receiving letters, sometimes two or three in one day. She would take them and run to her room and refuse to say who had sent them. Today Papa intercepted one. It was a love letter from Henry Clay."
Anne's words brought Charles to an immediate halt in the passage. "Have you told her about his current circumstances?" Shortly after their engagement Charles had enlightened Anne as to the Clays' distressed financial situation, although he had not related Walter's involvement with Gwendolyn. "He has obviously transferred his affections from your fortune to hers."
"I have spoken to her, Edward has spoken to her, my parents have spoken to her. It is no use. My father forbade her to contact him again, of course. She flew out at him-she has always been headstrong, but I have never seen her like this, Charles. She locked herself in her room and would not come down for dinner." She paused thoughtfully. "Sophie does not see him as a threatening person. She thinks of him as a romantic stranger from one of her novels. I worry about her, Charles."
Charles looked down at his fiancées troubled expression and touched her chin. "I would not worry. I have a feeling that your father will keep Henry Clay far away from Sophie."
Anne gave him a little half-smile and said, "I know you are right. But I cannot help feeling apprehensive about it." She took his proffered arm, and they went into the drawing-room.
Lady Wentworth sat near the fire, staring intently at a thin silver crochet hook that she was using to net fine thread into an intricate piece of lace, which Charles knew was intended for Anne's wedding dress. She called her daughter to help her: "Anne, you must show me this stitch again. It does not look quite right." Anne went to her mother's side and took the lace away from her, the hook flashing in the candlelight as she demonstrated the stitch. Anne had learned to crochet from a Bath acquaintance; the young Queen had recently made the skill a fashionable accomplishment for young ladies to acquire, and Anne had become proficient in a short time. Charles marveled at the way the frilly threadwork seemingly grew from her fingers, and he had enjoyed many pleasant visions of the creamy lace gracing her arms and shoulders on their wedding day. Anne's mother, however, was still learning the craft, and their heads bent together over the piece. Father is right, thought Charles. They do look so much alike. Despite the sprinkling of silver strands in Lady Wentworth's hair, in the soft gleam of the firelight they appeared as much sisters as mother and daughter.
Sir Frederick, who had been hidden behind a newspaper, folded it into his lap for a moment. "Good evening, Charles. How are the roads?" It had rained the day before, although that had not stopped Charles from making his daily visit to Oakmont Park.
"A bit muddy, sir, nothing that Wilfred could not handle."
The admiral snorted. "That immense beast could wade through Noah's flood." He raised the paper again, smiling behind it at his future son-in-law's obvious delight at the praise for his favorite mount.
The door to the drawing-room opened, and Edward entered. "Oh, it's you again," he teased Charles. "Are you not weary of our company yet?"
"Of yours I am, my friend."
They laughed, and Anne looked up from her work and rolled her eyes. "He does not come to visit you, brother."
"I know of no young man who would choose to spend time with a couple of old sailors like Father and me when there are such lovely ladies to gaze upon," said Edward, bowing to his mother. She smiled up at him, shook her head, and returned to her crocheting. "Speaking of lovely ladies, has Sophie not finished her sulk yet?"
Sir Frederick looked up from his newspaper. "Perhaps you should go up to her," he said to his wife. "She will fret herself ill at this rate."
Lady Wentworth handed her work to Anne and rose. "You are right, Frederick. I will try to persuade her to come down and have some tea with us. She has eaten nothing since breakfast." She rang for the maidservant and asked her to bring in the tea-tray before she went to her daughter's room.
Charles took the vacated seat next to Anne. She draped the lace over her shoulder and said, "It is a lovely pattern, is it not?"
"Beautiful," he replied, gazing into her eyes. He leaned closer and murmured, "And the lace is very lovely as well." She blushed rosily, looking down at her work and smiling.
Edward, seated nearby, made a choking noise. Charles glared at him. "Wait until your turn," he said. "I would imagine that this time next week you will be whispering sweet compliments into Miss Leigh's ear." James and Elizabeth were returning to Uppercross for the wedding, and James had agreed to escort his sister.
"I am sure that I shall." Edward's eyes grew distant as his thoughts flew to his absent lady.
A noise at the doorway drew their attention. Lady Wentworth stood there, her face ashen, clutching the doorframe with one hand and a crumpled piece of paper in the other. Before any of the others had even registered her distress, Sir Frederick had dropped his newspaper and rushed to his wife. "Anne, love, what is it?" he asked urgently, putting an arm around her waist and guiding her to the nearest seat.
She held the paper out to him mutely. He opened and read the note, and an expression of mingled fury and fear came over his face.
"What is it, Papa?" cried Anne.
Sir Frederick's jaw twitched as he struggled to compose himself. At last he said, "Sophie has left to meet-" his voice stumbled, "-she has left us. To be with Henry Clay." He looked down at the note. "She is to meet him tonight in the village, and she says he is taking her to London, where they will marry." He paused, then bellowed, "Jennings!"
The butler, alarmed at the sound of his usually amiable master's voice, entered the room. "Yes, Sir Frederick?"
"Have the carriage brought round at once."
Jennings paused for a bewildered second, then looked closely at his master's face and replied, "Very good, sir," and rushed to obey the command.
Charles called after him, "Have my horse brought round as well." The butler nodded and ran outside, shouting to the groom.
The anguish in his uncle's eyes tore at Charles' heart. He remembered the admiral's words: "You have no idea what it does to a father to realize his little girl is grown up and leaving him." To realize that the little girl was eloping with a black-hearted wretch like Henry Clay must be pure torment. Sir Frederick said weakly, "Charles, you do not need to-"
"Wilfred can get to the village more quickly than any carriage. We can go across the fields. It is a shorter distance than the road."
Edward brought their greatcoats and began to don his own. He nodded agreement. "That horse is faster than any I've seen, Father. Perhaps Charles can delay them until we get there." He closed his eyes for a moment. "If we are in time."
"She probably did not expect us to find the note until the morning," replied his father. "We will be in time to stop them." He looked at his wife and daughter. "We will bring her back," he said.
Lady Wentworth rose and returned her husband's gaze earnestly. "I know," she said. He embraced and kissed her quickly and led the young men outside.
Wilfred stood ready, tossing his head and pawing the ground impatiently, sensing his master's mood. Charles swung into the saddle and looked down at Anne, who stood next to the horse, huddled into her shawl. "Please be careful, Charles," she said.
"I will, love," he replied, smiling down at her reassuringly.
She shook her head. "You don't know him, really," she said. "Do you remember what I said about him before? It is not just his mouth that is cruel. His eyes, his hands-oh, poor Sophie!" She began to weep, and Charles felt anger rise in his throat, hot and bitter. This will be the last time you cause her pain, Clay.
He reached down and touched her cheek. "Take care of your mother," he said. "I will be back soon. I love you."
"And I you," she whispered, the tears flowing down her face.
"Go, Wilfred!" he shouted, bringing the crop down upon the horse's rump, and the stallion galloped down the drive. The destrier carried his master over the fence in a mighty leap, plunging into the meadow bordering the road. Their urgent mission spurred them on as they flew across the moonlit fields, a dark streaking shadow, man and beast moving in perfect synchronization.
Part XIII
Wilfred pounded across the meadows, the frostbitten brown grass crunching beneath his hooves. The high-flying clouds did not block the light of the full moon: they spread across the sky like a velvety white blanket glowing with incandescent light, white and pink and yellow, the stars still visible where the veil was rent. The effect was eerily beautiful, but Charles' state of mind did not permit him to notice it. At least Clay had sufficient brains to choose moonlight for this misbegotten venture, he thought bleakly.
He arrived at the village in good time, although Wilfred was a bit lathered and Charles was perspiring under his heavy greatcoat. He reined up the horse and walked him down the main road of the village. It was late enough that the road was nearly deserted, and outside the inn, he saw a post-chaise being prepared for a journey.
Charles tied the horse by the water trough and tossed a coin to a stableboy, who ran to fill the feedbag. He saw two figures in the shadows near the front of the inn, and he approached them cautiously. The murmur of voices came to him but he was unable to distinguish the words. As he drew closer, he saw that the figures were a man and a young woman. The man was holding the girl's wrists tightly.
The man, who had his back to Charles, was saying, "It is time that we were leaving, my dear."
The girl seemed to be struggling to free her hands from his grip. Charles recognized Sophie Wentworth's voice. "I don't know," she said, trying to pull herself away. "I think I want to go home."
"Get in the chaise, Sophie," the man said impatiently. "We must be on our way. Since you insisted on leaving a note for your family, in spite of my explicit instructions, your father may arrive any minute." The expression of his voice changed, deepening into a persuasive note. "I thought you wanted to be with me. You said we must marry if we are to be together. I agreed to marry you, Sophie. I explained it to you. We will go to London and become man and wife. Then no one can separate us, not your father, not your brother, no one."
"It would appear that the lady has changed her mind," said Charles mildly.
Henry Clay started and turned around, still gripping Sophie's wrists.
"Charles!" Sophie cried, her struggles becoming more frenzied. "Please help me!"
Charles suddenly realized that he was unarmed, and he felt sure that Clay was not similarly unprepared, although no weapons were in evidence. It is too late to turn back now. "Let her go, Clay," he said. "If you have to abduct a young lady to get her to marry you, I dare say it cannot bode well for your future happiness."
Clay glowered at him. "Leave us, Musgrove," he hissed. "Go back to Miss Anne. She may prefer farm life, but Sophie knows better. Isn't that right, my love?" The inflection of the last two words denoted not affection but contempt, and Charles felt his fists clench instinctively as his anger mounted.
Their exchange distracted Clay's attention away from his intended bride. Having spent much of his youth away from the neighborhood of Kellynch, he was not acquainted with Sophie's fiery nature; despite her pretensions of maturity, in many ways she was still the indulged youngest child. Henry Clay learned that fact, much to his chagrin, when she delivered a sharp kick to his right knee.
Clay cried out and doubled over in pain. "D---ed vixen!" He let go of one of her hands and raised his own as if to strike her. Instinct took over as Charles charged at Clay, shoving him roughly into the side of the chaise. Clay turned and delivered a blow to his face that sent him reeling, and Charles managed to seize the front of the chaise to keep himself from falling. Clay worked the handle of the chaise door, trying desperately to open it, and Charles knew that he was after his firearm.
He looked up and saw the carriage whip sitting in its receptacle. He grabbed it and whirled around to face his opponent. The whip cracked; Clay's head snapped back, and he spun around and fell to all fours. He looked back at Charles, his eyes full of fear. The blow had opened up an ugly gash underneath one eye, and blood streamed down his cheek.
Charles advanced on him, still holding the whip. His mind was crowded with images: Anne struggling to escape Clay's embrace, Clay's arm around Anne's waist as he dragged her from the back of her horse, Clay kissing Anne's hand, Sophie crying for help as she fought to release herself from his hold. Charles stood over the fallen man, glorying in his abjection, his hatred overcoming his better emotions. He raised his arm, the whip ready to strike again, when he felt his wrist enveloped in a strong grip.
He turned and looked into the eyes of Sir Frederick Wentworth. Edward stood just behind his father, one arm wrapped around his weeping sister. In the extremity of his wrath, Charles had not heard their arrival. "You would be useful on board ship, Charles," said the admiral. "Flogging would indeed be an appropriate punishment there. But on land we handle things differently." He gently removed the whip from his nephew's hand and laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder. Charles turned away, his agitation not allowing him words.
Clay was trying to creep away, on all fours like an animal. The admiral pointed the whip at him and said, "Stop right there, sir. I require a few words with you."
The younger man froze, his gaze traveling to the shotgun that Edward carried. "You would not shoot an unarmed man, sir?"
Sir Frederick smiled grimly. "I suspect you would not have scrupled at shooting my unarmed nephew. But you are not worth the bullet it would take to kill you." He grabbed Clay by the hair and hauled him to his feet, then put his hand under the man's chin, shoving him against the side of the chaise. He leaned in, their faces only scant inches apart. Despite his actions, his voice remained steady and amiable in tone. "But I am trying to think of a good reason why I should not break your neck and throw your body to the dogs." Charles did not doubt that his uncle could do so if he chose; Sir Frederick was no longer young, but his years had not decreased his strength.
The admiral turned his head slightly toward where his son and daughter stood. "Sophie, did he...hurt you?"
Sophie understood her father's euphemism. "No, Papa. I told him--I told him that we must wait until we were married."
"I believe that his real object was not Sophie's virtue, sir, it was her fortune," said Edward, turning a contemptuous gaze on Clay, "which he hoped to obtain by marriage."
Sir Frederick nodded and turned back to Clay. "Your discretion has saved your life." He released his grip, grimacing at the blood on his gloved hand, which he wiped on the other man's coat. "Get in the chaise, and leave this place," he added, his voice reverberating with quiet menace. "Trouble my family no more. I assure you that there is nothing on this earth that will save you next time." He turned away and began to walk toward his children.
Clay put his hand to his face where the whip had cut him. He glared at Charles. "You and I will meet again, Musgrove," he said.
The admiral spun around at these words. He strode back to Clay and pointed at him threateningly. "Charles Musgrove is a member of my family. If you intrude on his peace in any way your life is forfeit. Remember that."
Clay glanced from one grim face to another, and lastly to Sophie, who looked at him no longer with affection but with horror and loathing. He understood that he was defeated, and finally turned away and climbed into the chaise. Sir Frederick restored the whip to the driver, who had studiously ignored the altercation, believing that it was not his place to interfere with the doings of the quality; his forbearance was rewarded with several silver coins. The driver tipped his hat to Sir Frederick and shouted to the horses, and the chaise rolled away.
Sir Frederick turned to Sophie, who was still in the protective embrace of her brother. Sophie looked earnestly at her father. "Forgive, me, Papa," she cried. "I am so sorry. You were right about him. Please, please forgive me."
The admiral held his arms out to her. A single tear ran down his face, and his voice broke as he said, "Sophie, my precious--" She ran to him, and he folded her into his embrace. "Of course I forgive you, little girl." She wept luxuriantly into her father's chest, and he stroked her hair, soothing her tears and his own at the same time. "But from now on, you will listen to your mamma and me, will you not?"
"I will," she sobbed. "I promise. I am so sorry."
Charles walked over to Wilfred and untied him, the horse now quite recovered from his run and ready for more. His master, however, was drained. The side of his face throbbed where Clay had struck him. The physical pain was a mere annoyance; he was more troubled by his spiritual turmoil. He took a measure of comfort from the family tableaux before him, knowing that Sophie was safe. But when he recalled the unholy joy he took in seeing Henry Clay cower before him, he was overwhelmed with shame.
Sir Frederick helped Sophie into the carriage and looked over at Charles standing despondently by his horse. He murmured something to Edward and joined his nephew. "I have not thanked you, son," he said quietly. "Will we see you back at the house?"
"Yes. I promised Anne that I would return tonight."
The admiral nodded. "We will speak there. We should be getting Sophie home." He climbed into the carriage, and they pulled away. Charles pulled himself into the saddle and clucked to Wilfred, who broke into a trot as they followed behind.
Following the longer over-road route, and lacking the gravity that had impelled their hasty mission, the return trip to Oakmont Park took much longer than the initial journey. Charles almost wished it had taken longer. How can I face her? he thought. He was ashamed to think that Anne's father had witnessed the humiliating spectacle. I wonder how Sir Frederick feels, knowing that he has given his daughter to a savage who is not master of his baser instincts. Edward's words echoed in his mind: "You have always had admirable control over your emotions." No, cousin, I am a barbarian. A barbarian who is to marry your sister in a se'night.
Light spilled from the open door as the carriage pulled up. Lady Wentworth and Anne rushed to the carriage, embracing Sophie as she climbed out. Charles slid from the saddle and stood holding the reins. He did not approach the group, and after a moment Anne looked around and caught his eye.
She smiled and ran to him, then stopped short when she noticed the contusion on his face. She gave a small cry and put her hand to her mouth. "You fought with him, Charles?" she exclaimed.
"I did," he said harshly. "Would you have a brute for a husband, Anne? For that is the bargain you have made for yourself." He could not stand the earnest compassion in her eyes, and turned away.
"Charles." Sir Frederick's voice had the tinge of command, and he reluctantly turned to face his uncle. "If every man had your sense of honour, there would be no Henry Clays in the world. Unfortunately, there are such men, and there are times when they trespass on our good will and we must respond accordingly." He put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "You need feel no shame for your actions tonight, son. You did what was necessary, and I am in your debt." Charles shook his hand, unable to meet the eyes of his future father-in-law.
Lady Wentworth joined them. "Let me see your face, Charles." She turned his face toward the torch so she could see it in the light. "Come inside. I have an ointment that will help with the pain."
"No, thank you, Aunt. I must take my leave."
"Will we see you tomorrow?"
He nodded. Lady Wentworth took his face in her hands, kissed him, and murmured, "Thank you for my daughter." She took her husband by the hand and led him inside, Edward and Sophie following behind. Charles and Anne were alone, as they had been when he first arrived.
So much had happened since they had greeted so joyfully, only a few hours ago. Anne stood in front of him, a few feet away, sensing that he was not ready for her to come closer. She said softly, "I hope that you do not think that I was judging you. I know you to be a good and honourable man. I would not presume to censure any action you took in my sister's behalf."
"I am not ashamed of my actions, Anne, but the emotions that fueled them. I was not concerned for Sophie's welfare, or even my own." He paused a moment, then decided that she deserved to know everything. "I did not have the forethought to provide myself with a weapon. I thought Clay was going for his gun, so I took the carriage whip and used it on him. I took up the whip in self-defense, but I wielded it in anger and hatred. I know I am secure in your love; there was no need for my jealousy, my rage. He cowered before me, and I took pleasure in the sight."
Anne's voice was quiet and steady, but she was obviously affected by her fiancé's recitation. "He is a despicable man. Such strong emotions are natural, I think. We all have a side of ourselves that we do not often show. You have been fortunate that you have not previously been acquainted with that part of your nature."
His lips twisted in an ironic smile. "I am not sure that I desire a closer acquaintance."
"Henry Clay is gone. Let the hatred and anger go with him. We have no need of them."
"No," he said. The darkness in his heart began to ebb, replaced by the steady warmth of her love.
Anne moved closer to him. "What is most important, my darling, is that you came back to me. You do not know the agonies of mind I experienced while you were gone." Her tears had been under control, but they began again. "Until five weeks ago, I had resigned myself to the fact that you would never care for me. When you told me that you loved me, that you wanted to marry me, it was as if I had been reborn. A life of which I had only been able to dream opened before me. Tonight, I had to be strong for my mother, but I was so worried that you would be taken away from me--" She was unable to continue speaking; sobs shook her body, and she covered her face with her hands and gave herself up to them.
Charles pulled her to him. "I am here, love, as I promised. " He held her until the sobs subsided, and wiped the tears from her face. He gently brushed her lips with his, meaning merely to soothe her, but she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him fiercely. There was none of the sense of restraint that had marked their prior embraces, a holding back that they both tacitly acknowledged would last until they were wed; caught off guard, he responded in kind, and the kiss became more passionate, until Charles finally broke away and stepped back, his breath ragged, afraid that if he touched her again he would not be able to stop himself. "One more week, my love," he whispered.
"Seven more long nights without you," she replied, the fire in her eyes matching his own. "If I do not run mad in the meantime from waiting."
He laughed and climbed up into the saddle. "Send word if you feel the madness overwhelming you, love. I'll sling you over my saddle like Lochinvar, and we'll ride to Scotland, find the first available blacksmith, and plight our troth." He was glad to see her smile at his banter.
"I love you, Charles Musgrove," she said.
"And I love you, Anne Wentworth." He was serious now. "Never doubt that." He clicked his tongue, and Wilfred trotted off. They were halfway down the drive when Charles reined up and turned the horse around to face her. "Be sure to lock your windows, Anne," he called. "I may decide to carry you away whether you call for me or not." He slapped the horse's rump with his crop, and Wilfred took off at a gallop, Anne's laughter following them down the drive.
Chapter XIV
They drove away from Oakmont Park in Sir Frederick's carriage, warmed by the good wishes of their friends, traveling for the first time together to their new home. Anne huddled into her cloak, the hood pulled up over her head against the chill, her hands pulled inside; Charles could not see her face, just a formless shape blending into the shadows. They did not make any conversation, and the only sound was the gentle squeaking of the carriage springs and the muffled thumping of the horses' hooves on the roadway.
Charles found his thoughts drifting back to the wedding ceremony. Anne had looked so beautiful, draped in her filmy veil, walking up the aisle on her father's arm. She had rejected the new fashion for white wedding gowns, instead choosing a wine-coloured silk trimmed with the lace she had made. The assembled guests, as well as the groom, agreed that the bride certainly knew what she was about; with her chestnut hair and dark brown eyes, the effect of the deep red dress was breathtaking.
He had hoped that his brother would stand with him as groomsman, but at the bride's request they had been married at Uppercross Church, and the Reverend Walter Musgrove's first official act as vicar was to join Charles and Anne as man and wife. Edward Wentworth, tall and handsome in his naval uniform, had witnessed their vows, along with his youngest sister. If the lieutenant's thoughts were less on the ceremony than on a certain raven-tressed young lady watching from the congregation, Charles and Anne did not begrudge him.
The wedding party and guests had repaired to Oakmont Park, and the merrymaking went on much of the day. With all the demands of the bridegroom upon him, Charles had been hard-pressed to spend much time with his bride. Now they were alone together, and he found himself as tongue-tied as he had been early in their courtship.
It seemed strange to drive past Uppercross and know he was still going home. The driver steered the carriage up to the front door of the Cottage. Thomas, a Musgrove family retainer who would be man-of-all-work at the Cottage, opened the door of the carriage and said, "Everything's ready for you and the missus, Mr. Charles. I wish you joy, sir." He pulled on his forelock and ambled off toward the Great House.
"Thank you, Thomas," said Charles as Anne climbed down from the carriage. She stumbled a bit and fell against him, and he grabbed her arms to steady her. She laughed and put her hands on his chest to regain her balance. Charles released her, opened the door of the Cottage, and turned back to where she stood smiling at him. "Welcome home, Mrs. Musgrove," he said softly.
Anne wrapped her arms around his neck. "Thank you, Mr. Musgrove," she whispered, and he bent down to scoop her up in his arms. He carried her through the doorway and pushed it shut with his foot.
The cottage was utterly silent, the few servants they would keep not yet in residence; Charles and Anne would spend the night at the Cottage, breakfast at Uppercross, then set off for a month in Lyme. The honeymoon destination was the particular choice of Anne, who shared her parents' love of the sea.
Charles set her down, and she wavered again, regaining her equilibrium when he put his arms around her. She kissed him somewhere around his ear. "I love you, Mr. Musgrove, my handsome husband. Why did you say that you were not handsome? I think you are the most handsome man in the world," she murmured, nuzzling his neck.
"I am glad that you think so, my love," he laughed. "How much wine did you drink tonight?"
"Oh, not so very much," she said. Her breath tickled his ear. "Will you carry me upstairs?"
"I think I had better," he said. He lifted her again and headed for the stairs, wondering why Anne, who rarely partook of spirits, had become intoxicated on this night of all nights. Perhaps she was nervous; he had heard that brides were often so. They had not spoken of their ardent encounter of the week before, but from her words that night, Charles had assumed that Anne looked forward to their wedding night as much as he did. You know I would never hurt you, my love, he thought in some bewilderment.
He entered their chamber and set her on the bed. A fire was burning brightly, the warmth welcome after their cold ride, and Thomas had lit some candles as well.
Anne lay back flat on the bed, her dress ballooning around her and her feet hanging off the side. She smiled up at him. "Charles?"
"Yes, love?"
"The room is spinning round in the most alarming fashion."
Charles remembered that particular symptom from his days at Cambridge. He grinned down at her. "It will stop presently."
She closed her eyes. "I am very glad."
He sat on the bed next to her and stroked a stray bit of hair from her eyes. "Why did you drink so much wine?"
"Your mamma kept bringing me glassfuls and pressing me to drink them. She said it would make things easier for us tonight."
Not for the first time, and not for the last time, Charles Musgrove winced inwardly and thought, Oh, Mamma! "Anne, I have some advice for you."
"Yes, my handsome husband?"
"Our married life will be much more pleasant if you do not listen to anything my mother tells you."
Anne burst out laughing, and the noise echoed in the empty house. She clapped both her hands over her mouth, but her eyes brimmed with mirth.
"What is so funny?"
She removed her hands from her mouth and whispered, "Your father told me the same thing!" She went off into peals of laughter, rolling away from him. Charles laughed with her in spite of himself, lying down on his side next to her, propping his head on his hand. Presently she turned back toward him, reached out, and put her hand in his hair. "I love you, Charles."
"I love you, Anne." She will find this diverting tomorrow, I hope, after her head stops aching.
Anne put her hand on the back of his neck and pulled his head toward hers, but just before their lips met, she rolled on her back and gave an enormous yawn. "I am so very fatigued, my love."
Charles sighed. "Perhaps you should get ready for bed, Anne. You don't want to crumple your pretty dress."
She held out her hands, and he stood and pulled her to her feet, steadying her when she swayed. She turned her back to him and said, "I require help with my buttons, sir."
The buttons were quickly undone, Charles biting the inside of his mouth as his hands came into contact with her warm skin. She smiled at him over her shoulder, holding the gown up around her neck, and went into her dressing-room.
Charles went to his own little chamber, where his nightclothes had been laid ready. He undressed, donned his nightshirt, and took a book from his bag. When he re-entered the bed-chamber, Anne had not yet returned. He snuffed all the candles except the one on the bedside table.
There was a vase of hothouse roses, sent over from Oakmont Park earlier in the day. Charles regarded them thoughtfully and selected a blush-pink bloom, just beginning to open. He carefully dried the stem; the thorns had already been removed. He set the rose on Anne's pillow and climbed under the covers.
He was reading when he heard the door to Anne's dressing-room close. He looked at her over his reading spectacles. She had brushed out her hair; it fell halfway down her back, a shining chestnut veil. She was wearing a pink silk shift, which fell to floor length but clung to her figure revealingly. Charles was mesmerized.
Anne walked over to the bed and looked down at the rose, then at him with a delighted smile. "Is this for me?" she asked.
"It reminded me of you," he said.
With her hair hanging down around her shoulders, she looked like a little girl who had received a particularly welcome present. She picked up the flower and climbed into bed. "What are you reading, my handsome husband?" she asked. "No, let me guess. Would it be the work of a certain Scots baronet?"
"It would," he replied, grinning. "Walter tried to warn you. You are saddled with me now, love, along with my appalling taste in literature."
"I do not think it is appalling," she said. "Will you read it to me?"
"If you like," he said. She curled up next to him, her legs tucked underneath her, and laid her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her waist and pulled her close. She held the rose in front of her in both her hands, occasionally raising it to her nose for a delicate sniff or to stroke her cheek with its soft petals.
Charles opened the book and began to read. "Lochinvar, by Sir Walter Scott.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Charles stopped reading. Anne's eyes were closed, the rose had dropped into her lap, and her breathing was slow and regular. He sighed to himself, disappointed but still content just to be near her. Tomorrow night, love, we'll be together in Lyme, and if anyone brings you wine I will have him flogged.
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"--"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, " 'Twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?"
A short time later he felt her stir. "Young Lochinvar," she murmured. He kissed her shining hair and continued to read to himself.
Then he felt her hands on his face. She was removing his spectacles. She leaned over him to place them on the table next to the bed, one arm wrapped around his waist to steady herself. The heavy curtain of hair fell across her face and puddled on his chest. He could smell the rosewater she brushed into it.
Anne blew out the candle and turned to face him. She placed a hand on each of his shoulders, then ran them down his chest, finding the opening of the nightshirt and sliding them inside, then back up to his shoulders, soft and warm against his skin. Charles held his breath. His heart was pounding so that it felt as if it would come through his chest. "Lochinvar," she said again, softly, and he knew that she was addressing him.
He could not help the slow smile that spread across his face. "Yes, Ellen?" he asked, just as softly.
In the firelight, he could see that Anne was smiling as well. She leaned close to him, her mouth by his ear, and whispered, "Put the book down."
The beloved volume slid, unheeded, to the floor, there to remain in an undignified sprawl until morning, as Charles reached for his wife.