Beginning, Section II
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Part 14
Lady Russell, observing that Anne was more than usually somber on the morning following this conversation, attributed it to the success of her campaign to change her friend's mind regarding the advisability of her engagement, and rejoiced inwardly. Now, she thought, was the time to discuss the subject more openly than they had since that first interview, which had proved so disappointing to them both. If Anne really were coming to see things in a proper light, it would not do to pass up this opportunity to reinforce her doubts.
Accordingly, Lady Russell began to steer the conversation towards the subject of a mutual acquaintance that had, in Lady Russell's view, committed a similar folly and quickly learned to regret it. "Poor Mrs. Hathorne; had she but listened to her friends, she would not be in the position she is now--a widow by twenty-seven, with four children to care for on her own, and scarcely enough money to support one! And there is no way to know how much longer this war will continue, how many more young men will leave their wives unprovided for."
Here was something else Anne had failed to consider! They had talked of the war as a good thing, in that it would provide opportunities for Wentworth to advance in his career, but she had not thought of the other possibility: that he might be killed. How would she be able to bear it, if one day she was waiting for him to return, only to receive an express instead, informing her that he never would?
Her thoughts were occupied by such unpleasant ideas until her attention was once again caught by something Lady Russell said. "...the question of where you would live, of course. He has, I understand, no estate, nor even a small house somewhere. From what I have heard, it is doubtful that he even has enough money saved to purchase a place now. And clearly you cannot go to sea with him! My darling Anne, so clever, so beautiful, so refined, living on a ship? It is of course unthinkable. And I am sorry, but I do not think Sir Walter would allow you to continue living here, after your marriage..."
That Lady Russell should be concerned over the very issue which had divided the young couple the previous day worried Anne. Perhaps her friend had been right, and there were aspects to the engagement that she had failed to understand when she accepted....The thought was painful, but unavoidable. Had she truly thought things through rationally, or did her conviction that the marriage would be successful have only an emotional, and therefore unstable, basis?
Lady Russell paused in her monologue, noticing that her friend's attention was directed inward, rather than focused on the conversation. That would not do; she must persuade Anne to acknowledge her arguments. She had hoped to avoid this step, but clearly there was nothing else to be done....Secure in the knowledge that she was doing the right thing, however much it may hurt her friend for the moment, she went to Anne and took her hands. The young woman, who in truth had nearly forgotten Lady Russell's presence, looked up, startled, and found a regretful, compassionate expression on her face.
"Anne, I love you like my own daughter, you know that. I would not wish to see you hurt, much less hurt you myself. But sometimes it is necessary, in order to prevent much worse in the future. I know you think you love this Commander Wentworth, but he is not the right husband for you; it truly would be better for you both if this engagement went no further. Have you ever considered that his life will also be more difficult, if he has a wife? A sailor can only be furthered in his career if he takes chances, exposes himself to danger; how could he do that while worrying about what might happen to you, if he became injured or worse? Not to mention the necessity of supporting you and, eventually, children, when at this stage it would be more prudent for him to save what he can for the future...
"I am very sorry to cause you pain like this, but I console myself with the knowledge that your darling mother would have said the same, were she here. As she is not, it is up to me to act as I know she would have, to protect you, no matter how difficult I find it to say these things."
This was a severe blow to Anne. She had thought herself prepared for almost anything her friends and relations could say on the subject of her engagement, but this was too much for her. Lady Russell had known her mother for over twenty-five years; if anyone could be expected to know what Lady Elliot's opinion would have been, she could. If even she thought Anne's mother would have objected to the match, then surely it must mean that Anne herself was mistaken in her assumptions. Was it possible that her mother would have agreed with those who felt the engagement was unwise? Had she truly been acting in a manner which her mother would disapprove? The thought was extremely unsettling. Anne's conviction that her situation would have been different if her mother were still alive had been a source of comfort to her; but now, it seemed even that comfort was based on misguided assumptions.
And if indeed she would hold Wentworth back by marrying him, could she do that to him? Two days ago, she would have been confident that it would pose no problem, he could never resent her presence. But two days ago, she had believed they could never have a serious difference of opinion, and clearly she had been wrong on that point. How many other things had she been wrong about? What other mistakes was she making?
Could the others have been right all along?
Anne felt as if she could not breathe. She murmured an excuse to Lady Russell; seeing how pale the girl had become, yet how clearly anxious to be alone, the older woman kept her concern to herself and merely took leave, hoping that some time by herself would be all Anne needed to make the right decision. As soon as her friend had left the room, Anne ran out into the garden. She was halfway to her mother's grove when she remembered what Lady Russell had said, and realised that her mother would no longer be a comfort in this case. For the first time since her mother's death, Anne feared that going to the grove would cause more pain, not relieve it. Instead, she ran to a stream that cut through the park, barely able to see through her tears by the time she reached its banks.
Her sorrow over the possibility that her engagement truly was misguided was nothing compared to the disappointment she felt in herself. She had always tried to live up to her mother's expectations of her. And her wish to do so had only grown stronger after Lady Elliot's death; the very idea that she could have been so wrong about her mother's opinions regarding such an important decision....she did not want to consider it! But she must. Lady Russell, she was certain, would not lie to her; clearly, Anne had failed her mother. How could she continue with the engagement, knowing that? Knowing that every time she looked at Wentworth, she would remember her own weakness, and sense her mother's disapproval? What if she began, over time, to blame him for it--would that not be highly unfair to someone she did, despite Lady Russell's opinion, really love? She would not wish to, but she could imagine doing so eventually all too clearly. And if getting married would truly hinder him in his career at this stage, would it not be selfish of her to do so anyway?
How long she lay by the stream, struggling with such questions, she did not know. By the time she withdrew from her thoughts enough to notice the world around her, it was beginning to grow dark, and she knew she must return to the house.
She also knew what she must do, much as it would pain her.
Part 15
Anne was pale when she came down for breakfast the following morning, and, had Elizabeth taken any notice of her, she would have observed that her sister barely ate two bites. She had spent the entire sleepless night attempting to gather her strength for what she knew must come, yet she feared she had been unsuccessful. Despite wrestling with her decision for so many hours, she knew not how she would bear putting it into action. And yet, there was no postponing the matter; she and Wentworth had planned to go on a picnic that afternoon, and he would see at once that something was wrong.
When he arrived to pick her up, Wentworth did indeed notice that his darling Anne was not in spirits. He forbore commenting, however, hoping that once they were alone she would confide in him. As they walked toward their chosen spot, he kept up a steady stream of lighthearted, idle chatter intended to raise her spirits without requiring a reply. His efforts were unsuccessful; Anne still did not seem herself when they had arrived and seated themselves on the blanket he spread out.
Still, she knew she could not--indeed, ought not--postpone further. Eyes studiously avoiding his, she took a deep breath, and began.
"Commander Wentworth, I have something I must say that you will not like to hear any more than I like having to say it. But it must be done, and in time I am certain that you will see, as I do, that it is the right thing, however painful it may be for us now."
Wentworth was mildly alarmed, but his certainty of having Anne's love convinced him that whatever she might say would be bearable. In fact, there was only one thing he could think of that might warrant such an introduction, and although he would prefer to avoid it, sometimes there was nothing else to be done. "You wish to postpone our wedding until after I return from my next assignment? I must admit that I would rather not wait so long, my love, but I can understand that it might be better to wait until after I have increased my fortune a little. And it would give your father more time to adjust to the idea; I know how little you enjoy acting against his wishes."
Tears in her eyes--how could she destroy his happiness, when he had ever been so sweet, so understanding of her situation?--Anne shook her head. "No, I am afraid that is not what I was about to say. I wish it were. You must believe that. You have to believe...." Her voice trailed off; she would not cry in front of him, she was determined. But it was so hard. It would be best to simply say what she had to say, with no more painful delays. She closed her eyes; she did not want to see his expression; it would only make her task harder. "I have thought a great deal, and although this is the last thing I would want, it is better for both of us this way. I must...must inform you that, for the benefit of us both, I cannot marry you at this time."
"Anne, what are you saying? I told you, I am willing to wait until I return from whatever my next post may be...." Suspicion was dawning, but he refused to acknowledge the possibility. His Anne would not do that to him; she was too generous, too caring, too honourable...
"Commander Wentworth, I am breaking our engagement. Please do not make this harder than it already is!" she whispered.
The silence that followed this announcement was more than she could bear. She had to see his face, to prove to herself that it was really over. And, she admitted to herself, she could not resist hoping that he would understand, and forgive her.
Her hopes were dashed when she caught sight of his face. The shock was only to be expected; it was the growing coldness which hurt her most. She could understand anger, but not this. Not being looked at as if she were a stranger, by someone who just moments before had been all affectionate concern. The silence continuted to stretch. "Say something..." she found herself pleading.
"And what would you like me to say to that? Might I at least have the honour of knowing why you are withdrawing your pledge? Or am I to be left wondering what it is I did wrong for the rest of my life?" His voice was tightly controlled, its tone as hard as the expression in his eyes.
"Oh, no! You have not done anything wrong! It is not that...that is not why.... You have done nothing."
"What is it, then? Are you, too, concerned over my current lack of fortune, despite your earlier protests to the contrary?"
"No! I care nothing for that. Were it just myself I had to think of, the money would be nothing. But I have come to realise that, at this stage in our lives, our marriage would be a selfish thing for me to do. You would not be able to take the risks needed to advance in your profession, if you were worrying about a wife and children, how we would manage if you did not survive some action. And if we held you back, you would eventually grow to resent it, resent me. You would not intend to, I know!, but it would happen nevertheless. No, you should not marry just yet; you should wait until you are established in your career, and can support a family without having to risk so much danger."
His control was rapidly failing him; despite his desperate struggles to suppress his feelings, some of his pain and confusion slipped into his voice. "You are talking nonsense, Anne! I could never resent being married to you; have I not told you that I love you too much for that? Or are you trying to tell me that it is you who will have this problem, that you will resent it if I do not soon earn promotions and acquire the wealth to which you are accustomed?"
Anne could no longer restrain her tears, but she barely noticed. How could he say such things? Was he not aware of how much she loved him? "I...I know you cannot mean that. You surely do not truly think me capable of such baseness. It is not your fortune--or lack of it--that could ever trouble me."
Wentworth, all attempts at cold reserve abandoned as his anger mounted, refused to let the phrasing of her denial go unnoticed. "Oh, so there is something else you would resent, then? My common birth, perhaps, or lack of connections? Because of course we all know that it would be such a degradation for a daughter of Sir Walter Elliot's to be married to a mere sailor!" he could not resist adding sarcastically.
She could not believe what she was hearing. She had known that this would be painful for him, as it was for her, and she had expected him to voice his displeasure. But for him to imply that she was as shallow as her father and elder sister was simply too much. "You know that is not true! I would have been perfectly willing to give up all that, had there not been other impediments to our happiness. But indeed, I am beginning to understand what Lady Russell meant; my mother would truly not have wished me to forever bind myself to a man who could accuse me of such sentiments, even while he claims to love me as I do him! And to think I nearly disobeyed my own father's will in order to marry you!"
By this time, Wentworth was beyond caring what he said. He merely hoped to inflict as much pain on the woman he had, just minutes earlier, expected to marry as she had on him. "Oh, certainly, Miss Elliot," he declared harshly, "you must do anything rather than consider disobeying the father who could not even be bothered to remember your existence when I asked for your hand. And who, when I finally got it through to him that it was indeed not Elizabeth or Mary whose hand I was seeking, confidently declared that I was speaking nonsense, as 'no one would want to marry Anne'. Yes, he is much more deserving of your loyalty than the man who has loved you with all his being since almost the first moments of your acquaintance." The look on Anne's face as he said this would return to haunt him in the future, but for now he forced himself to ignore it, taking instead a twisted delight in knowing he had succeeded in hurting her.
The shock Anne felt at hearing him confirm what she had long suspected regarding her family's opinion of her was nothing compared to that of realizing that she had come close to marrying a man who could actually say such things to her. There could be no doubt that he had intended to be cruel; at least, he showed no signs of regretting his words, gave no indication that they had merely slipped out in the heat of the moment. He just sat there, glaring at her, his expression challenging her to deny the truth of his statements regarding Sir Walter. For the first time, she began to feel grateful to Lady Russell for not allowing her to make such a horrible mistake. "That may be the case, Commander," she said, exerting all her self-control in her efforts to remain civil, "but he is still my father, and as such I owe him more respect than I have of late been showing him. Good day."
With that, she left him, her inner turmoil not affecting the dignified, proud bearing which was visible proof that, despite all the differences between her and her currently living relations, when it came to dealing with malicious attacks from outsiders, she was indeed an Elliot.
Part 16
By the time she reached the grounds of Kellynch, Anne was running, not caring if anyone saw her. All she wanted was to reach the safety of her room as quickly as possible; once she did, she threw herself down on the bed and gave free reign to her tears, unaware that she had actually slammed the door behind her, shocking the servants, who expected such behaviour of the rest of the family, but not Miss Anne. But at the moment, their opinion was the farthest thing from her thoughts.
How could he say that to me? It may be true, but he ought never to have repeated it in front of me like that! How abominably rude! I am better off without him, she tried to convince herself, but although she succeeded in making herself even more angry at Wentworth, the pain of losing him did not lessen in the slightest. Eventually her physical and emotional exhaustion caught up with her, and she feel asleep despite the early hour.
She did not awaken until the following morning. At first she had a vague sense of something missing from her life; when she remembered what that was, she turned and buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could block out the memory of the previous day as easily as she could the light coming through the window. She was in no humour to be sociable, and spent the entire day in her room, hardly even acknowledging the girl who brought meals she had not requested. The Kellynch staff, however, was worried about their favourite mistress, and when they saw that she would not be taking her meals with the others, insisted on seeing to it that she at least had nourishment available to her, although they could not make her eat it. In addition, it gave them an excuse to send Alice in to check on her periodically, although the reports she brought back were not heartening. While they expected fits of pique from Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, Anne had never been one to sulk or indulge in black moods, not even when dear Lady Elliot had died, and they knew not what to make of the fact that she was doing so now. It was obvious that something was very wrong, but they could not ask her about it and certainly could not rely on Anne's family to offer the consolation she clearly needed. So they worried, and tried to make her as comfortable physically as they could.
A few days passed with little variation before Anne found she could no longer bear it; she needed to escape from her room for a time. She was feeling trapped, and knowing that the only person forcing her to be so was herself did little to relieve her frustration. She still did not wish to speak with anyone, however, so she took care to sneak out of the house without being seen, and soon was heading, from force of habit, towards her favourite grove.
When she arrived, she just sat for several minutes, enjoying the feeling of the gentle breeze and the warmth of the sun on her face. She did not want to think for a while, since lately the only thing she could think about at all was her argument with Wentworth. Years of telling her troubles to these very trees were impossible to resist, however, and she soon found herself doing so yet again.
"I tried to do as you would want, Mother, and only succeeded in ruining everything. I did not expect him to be pleased at what I had to say, but I thought he would come to understand why it was necessary, as I did. Instead, he gave me no chance to explain before leaping to conclusions about my reasons, saying I cared more about his lack of money than I do about him, and that I broke off our engagement because I would resent him as being beneath us! He must know that is not true! Although," she had to admit, "I was concerned that I might resent him for inducing me to go against your wishes, Mother. Still, it is not the same, and he ought not to have accused me of being mercenary that way. And then he tried to make me feel guilty for refusing to disobey my father, just because he does not care for me as much as Mary and Elizabeth....But he is still my father! I could never do something so important as marrying, knowing he was opposed to it. I owe him more respect than to disregard his authority simply because I think him a trifle silly, do I not?" Anne sighed.
"Mother, I miss him so much already. I miss knowing that there was someone who thought well of me...who loved me, and loved me for myself, not because I remind them of you, as Lady Russell does. I miss...I should not think this, Mother, much less say it, but I miss feeling that soon I would be part of a family again, one that could accept me as I am. Mr. Wentworth has always been kind to me, and he seemed actually pleased to learn that we were to be related....When I visited the parsonage, I felt as if I belonged, in a way that I have not at Kellynch since you left. And now I will never have that. I ought to have realised before, to have prepared myself for the loss, but somehow it feels worse than I had expected; our argument was so final, in a way that I had not imagined."
She contemplated their final interview for a few moments. "I wish he had let me explain how much it hurt me to do what I did. Maybe then he would have realised that I do still love him, and he would not have treated me so cruelly. I knew it was hard for him, but it was difficult for me as well. He ought to have known that. At the least, he should have known that I would never have accepted him at all if I had not cared for him! But now...oh, Mother, now it is too late. He thinks me mercenary, I am sure, and proud, like Elizabeth. When all I wanted was to do the right thing...We are both so young, and it would have been ill-advised for us to marry now without even my father's approval, would it not? Oh, how I wish you could tell me I did what was right! I think I could bear it, if I knew you approved, but how I shall come through this on my own, I cannot imagine..."
Anne fell silent, trying not to let her mind dwell on the events of the past few days. Her attempts were unsuccessful, however, and after a time she found snatches of their final conversation flitting through her head. "...Commander Wentworth, I am breaking our engagement...." "...it would be such a degradation..." "...had there not been other impediments to our happiness..." "...the man who has loved you with all his being since almost the first moments of your acquaintance..." "...I cannot marry you at this time..." "...You wish to postpone our wedding until after I return from my next assignment?"
Suddenly she sat up, in shock. "I am willing to wait until I return from whatever my next post may be...." How could she have been so foolish? He had offered the perfect solution to their dilemma, yet she had been so focused on her painful resolution that she had not even heard it! They could indeed wait until he returned from sea after a year or two, with hopefully enough funds to support them comfortably; and they would then have the time to grow more certain that they were truly right for each other. Surely her father and Lady Russell would have to see that their marriage was a good thing, if their attachment could bear such a separation and a long engagement, would they not?
She could not wait; she jumped up and began running towards the road. She had to tell him immediately that she had been wrong, and that she wished to renew the engagement on the terms he himself had suggested. He must not continue thinking that she did not love him, not if there was a way around their present difficulties! If only she could be certain he would forgive her...
Out of breath, Anne arrived at the parsonage, her mind in a painful state of anxiety; how would he receive her? Would he even listen to her apology? It seemed too much to hope...
She was shown into the parlour, where she found Mr. Wentworth alone. He looked at her with some surprise. "Miss Wentworth, I own I had not expected to see you--" he began, with only a touch of coolness, certainly far less than she deserved for what she had so recently done to his dear brother, but she could not wait for him to finish. As coherently as she could manage, she told him that she needed to see Commander Wentworth urgently, on a matter of utmost importance, and begged that he might be called.
Edward Wentworth gave her a compassionate look; there could be only one reason she came calling on his brother in so much distress. "My dear, I am very sorry. Frederick left for Portsmouth three days ago. The letter requiring his return arrived the day before he went to Kellynch last; by now he is already at sea. I am afraid you are too late."
Part 17
Anne could not believe her ears. "Too late?" she repeated numbly.
"Miss Elliot, you must allow me to lead you to a chair. May I get you some wine? I fear you do not look well." Edward Wentworth was very concerned; he had always been fond of Anne Elliot, and despite her argument with Frederick, he had no desire to see her hurt. Yet there had been no truly kind way to give her the news. Her reaction seemed to confirm his suspicion that she had come to apologize to his brother, and he wished now more than ever that he had been able to persuade Frederick to at least try to talk to her once more before he left. He had been convinced leaving in anger would be a mistake they would both regret, but his brother remained adamant, claiming he and his former fiancé had nothing more to say to each other. And now Edward was left to break the poor girl's heart all over again; at that moment, seeing how Frederick's departure affected her, he could almost think his brother deserving of the pain he was feeling, if he could be so indifferent to such a sweet young lady who clearly cared for him.
Anne let herself be seated, hardly aware of what she did. It could not be true. She could not have lost her final chance to make things right between them. That last day, before their argument, he had not said a word about having received a letter, or going away shortly, or anything! Yet now he was gone, forever, and she could not even tell him how sorry she was, how foolish she had been. It was all her fault; she would never be able to forgive herself for wasting so many days hiding in her room rather than truly thinking about what had happened. Maybe if she had realized sooner that there was still a way for them, she might not have arrived only to find him beyond her reach.
"Miss Elliot? Pardon my presumption, but perhaps you would like to send a letter to Frederick? It will take some time to reach him, but by then he ought to have had opportunity to calm down, to realise...that perhaps he was a trifle over-hasty in his assumptions, and that this can all end more happily than he lately expected."
She turned a blank gaze on the man before her. The resemblance was remarkable; a small portion of her mind remained clear, detached from recent events, and it wondered at the physical similarity between the Wentworths, when there was almost none among the Elliot sisters. They had the same eyes, the deep gray of a storm cloud...a colour she had always loved....But she should stop thinking this way; it would come to no good. She must put him out of her memory as much as possible, if she hoped ever to be happy again.
"Shall I fetch writing materials, Miss Elliot?" he repeated.
"A letter?" Anne shook her head mournfully. "I thank you for your kindness in suggesting it, but I am afraid that a letter would no longer be sufficient. You do not know...no, a letter is too impersonal. I suppose I shall simply have to learn..." To forget, she would have finished, but she found she could not voice that thought.
He shook his head. "I cannot agree, Miss Elliot, but I will not try to force you. If you will forgive my frankness, I must confess that Frederick told me some of what occurred the other day, and while I am not acquainted with all the particulars, I do feel it likely that had he still been here when you called, the situation might have been resolved to everyone's satisfaction. I sincerely hope you will reconsider the letter."
"No, it would be no use. There was only a slim chance he might have forgiven me had I been able to explain directly, but at such a distance...There is nothing I can do." Suddenly she remembered that she had been talking to a comparative stranger, and blushed. "I beg your pardon, sir; I ought not to have taken up your time this way. I thank you for your patience, and must beg your further indulgence, in asking that you please not speak of any of this. I should not want..."
"No, of course not; I understand completely. I only hope that somehow everything will reach a happier conclusion than seems likely at the moment."
Anne blinked back tears. Could he really be so generous as to wish her well despite what she had done? To think that this man might soon have been her brother...it was too much. She whispered her thanks, and took leave hurriedly, wanting to be back in the privacy of her own home before she could further embarrass herself.
As he watched her progress down the street, Edward Wentworth formed a resolution of his own. If she would not write Frederick, he would, and he had no qualms about telling his brother how childish he was being in his determination to leave no word for Anne Elliot. Nor would he hesitate to describe her distress, in hopes it would bring Frederick to his senses and convince him to attempt his own letter of reconciliation.
Part 18
Although refusing to retreat entirely to her room once more, Anne spent the next couple of weeks leaving the Kellynch grounds as little as possible and endeavoring to be unavailable when callers came. While acknowledging that she must move on with her life, she felt unequal to the trivialities of social discourse. She most particularly had no desire to encounter Lady Russell; for though her friend would be sympathetic, she must also be pleased at recent events, and Anne did not wish to face sentiments so opposite her own just yet.
Gradually, however, she began to return once more to her accustomed habits, occasionally venturing into the town on some errand, and remaining in the drawing room if she happened to be there when a visitor called, although her part in any conversation remained unwontedly brief. In this manner, her thoughts were slowly less and less occupied by her own folly and regret, and began to return their focus to the world around her, which must be the best remedy for her depressed spirits. She saw Mr. Wentworth only at church, and was grateful for his discretion in keeping his distance there, and not revealing the greater degree of acquaintance that had existed between them during her brief engagement, or the concern for her which he had seemed to feel when it ended.
One morning she received a call from Catherine Parri, with whom she had not really spoken since soon after her party. At first due to reluctance to reveal her engagement before it received her father's approval, then more recently because she felt unequal to appearing her usual self before those who knew her well. However, she could no longer avoid it, for she knew she had been seen through the window as Catherine came up the walk; and as Elizabeth was visiting shops that morning, the interview was to be a private one. Anne hoped she would be able to meet her friend with some cheerfulness.
Once the greetings were past, Catherine inquired after Anne's health. "For I have noticed that not only have we not had the pleasure of your company for quite some time, but you have not been much about lately at all until recently. Have you been feeling unwell, my dear?"
"I confess, I...have not been quite myself of late. Do forgive me for neglecting you for so long, but I hope I shall be tolerably well before too much longer."
"No matter, Anne. You are looking perhaps a trifle weak still; so you just sit there comfortably and let me tell you everything that has been happening while you were ill..." Anne decided not to correct Catherine's assumption that her indisposition was physical; too many painful explanations would be necessary otherwise. Instead, she listened to the town gossip of the preceding weeks, glad of an opportunity to think about such things so wholly unconnected with her own troubles as poor Mr. Gordon's ailing pig. She even found herself beginning to take an interest in her friend's information, until a familiar name came up.
"...and then, you probably do not yet know that Mr. Wentworth's brother has left us already. His departure was quite sudden, took us all by surprise; Mr. Wentworth says the Commander received an urgent request to take up a new post immediately, but I cannot help feeling there was something more to it. He went without even bidding farewell to any of his acquaintance here, which I daresay is not at all like him. I wonder at it. And I must confess--and dear Anne, please do not be angry with me for my presumption--but I had thought I would very shortly hear an announcement that would have pleased me tremendously. But, as he clearly left without speaking to you, my observations must have been tainted by my wishes. It seemed to me he was quite attracted to you (and who would not be?), and I should have thought you would make a perfect pair. Ah well. As things turned out, I am glad I did not mention my suspicions to you before, and risk raising hopes that would not have been fulfilled.--Anne? Are you certain you are up to receiving a visit? You look quite pale all of a sudden; perhaps I should leave so you can rest."
"I am sorry--perhaps I--you must excuse me!" Anne quickly left the room, feeling as though she could not breathe; not only had she not regained sufficient strength to listen to his name without pain, but to learn that she had not been alone in thinking they were right for each other...it was too much. For added to all her other mistakes in the affair was the realization that, had she only confided in Catherine instead of Lady Russell, she might never have felt a need to break the engagement at all! Her tendency to think of Catherine as her own age perhaps misled her; despite their closeness, the other woman remained several years older, and was married herself. Although she was quite a bit younger than Lady Russell, she did have more experience of married life than Anne, and if she too thought...oh, it was not fair! To be constantly learning that their misery could have been avoided, had she only done this or that little thing differently...
But she must not continue thinking this way. She could not expect to improve her spirits if everything reminded her of him, and what might have been--and what she had done wrong. She had to put him behind her, or she would never learn to be content with her lot in life once more; and if she did not do that, she knew not how she would be able to face the years ahead. She had to discipline herself to forget--or at least to suppress the pain and regret associated with those memories.
She simply had to pretend she had never known him, because there was nothing else to be done.
Part 19
True to her word, Anne immediately began making efforts to drive all thoughts of Frederick Wentworth out of her mind. Much to her surprise, she found that once she began fully participating in the world around her once more, letting herself be distracted by it was not nearly so difficult as she had feared. Her pain remained, but it gradually became possible to forget its existence; first for a moment or two, then for longer periods. As her self-assurance returned, she resumed spending time with the friends she had felt unable to face before, Catherine and Lady Russell in particular. The Parri children, while a reminder of what she might have had, were always a delight; their complete ignorance of the subjects which had been giving Anne so much trouble was refreshing; even if they noticed their Aunt Anne was sometimes not as playful as she used to be, they did not speculate on the reasons, but simply told her stories of their latest findings in the garden or each other's recent misbehaviour in the schoolroom, and their cheerful innocence was a comfort to her. As her confidence in her own strength grew, she began returning to her long-standing friendship with Lady Russell. There was one subject which was never raised between them, but in general they were able to rekindle their affection and, in time, trust.
Anne also threw herself into her duties as a landlord's daughter. Elizabeth, while technically the lady of the house, had never cared for those responsibilities, which detracted from her social obligations; they had instead fallen to Anne, who was more than willing to take them on. Now, her renewed enthusiasm arose from guilt at having neglected their tenants as well as a need to occupy her time and thoughts. She took great pleasure in helping those less fortunate, and no assistance she could give--whether it be in terms of food and other material goods, or simply her time--was too great a sacrifice to ask of her. The poorer tenants were always happy to see her, for unlike Elizabeth, Anne never made disparaging remarks about the size of their cottages or the quality of their clothing, and she could always be counted on for a kind greeting if their paths happened to cross in the town. Their children loved her; she always brought them a little trinket or a handful of sweets when she came visiting. She greatly enjoyed her talks with these people, most of whom she had known since her childhood, when she would accompany her mother on similar errands; their outlook on life seemed a lot more realistic than those of her father or sisters. They never pried into her own affairs, but the more observant among them offered a general comment or two calculated to console.
Thus the days passed, winter came, and before Anne thought it possible, her father and sister were talking of their annual visit to London. She tried to stay out of their preparations, and they were perfectly willing to let her do so, but Lady Russell refused to allow it. She insisted that her young friend accompany her to Bath, if she did not wish to go to London, telling Anne that she deserved her share of pleasure as well. Unspoken, but never forgotten, was a more urgent reason for her desire of Anne's making the trip: she hoped the entertainments of a city would help the girl recover her spirits and put the events of the summer more firmly behind her. And so early spring found Anne in Lady Russell's coach, pulling up to the building where her friend had taken rooms for the season.
Anne had never much cared for Bath; her years attending a school there after her mother died were far from happy memories. Her sole consolation in returning there now was that it must be easier for her to gain access to navy lists and current news in Bath than it would be at Kellynch; although she was beginning to make it through some days without her thoughts constantly turning towards a certain sailor, she had by no means stopped wondering about his welfare. When she thought herself in little danger of discovery, she eagerly poured over newspapers, searching for his name or that of his ship. Every report of a new battle had her fearing for his safety, until details could be obtained that reassured her of his not being among the casualties--or better still, not in the action at all. All anyone had to do to gain Anne's full attention was to mention the war; once the topic came up, she listened eagerly in hopes of learning more about the commander of one small sloop.
As for the usual diversions of Bath, Anne took little pleasure in them. Each assembly reminded her of the one in which she had first danced with him, each morning of idle chatter in the pump-room was unfavorably compared with those precious few conversations she had enjoyed with him and his brother. Although her new acquaintance seemed agreeable, none could erase the remembrance of a certain late-night stroll, or a card party at which her mind was on anything but cards. No matter how often she told herself to forget, this return to society after her self-imposed isolation made the memories impossible to ignore. For her friend's sake, she tried to appear cheerful, but in her heart Anne knew that she would find no relief in Bath.
Lady Russell, though she took care never to say as much, observed that the girl's smiles were forced, and that her conversation lacked her natural enthusiasm. Her best efforts at introducing Anne to pleasant, eligible young men yielded no results; she spoke to them politely while they were present, then seemed to forget their existence once they were out of sight.
At length, she acknowledged to herself that the trip was unsuccessful, and although she herself loved the city, Lady Russell knew her friend had always preferred the countryside; she decided there was nothing to be gained in staying longer in Bath. Therefore, Anne was returned to the familiar rooms of Kellynch before summer was fully underway.
Anne was frankly relieved to return to her home; there, she could spend nearly as much time as she wished alone, out of doors; she would not be forced to be sociable with people she barely knew. She could indulge her tendency to be lost in her thoughts; she could daydream of what might have been all she wanted. She could live quietly, her desire of making it through each day with as little effort as possible far easier to realise in the country than in Bath. She was, too, grateful to Lady Russell for not berating her for her lack of spirits; she knew her friend was trying to draw her out, and she made every effort to comply, but it had been too difficult; Lady Russell, however, never broached the subject, merely suggesting Anne looked fatigued and might be more happy if she returned to Kellynch earlier than they had planned.
Anne could scarcely credit that nearly a year had passed since Frederick Wentworth had first entered her acquaintance. Soon each day brought a fresh reminder of what had occurred exactly twelve months before, the memories' joy tainted by the knowledge that their promise had not been fulfilled. The days surrounding the anniversary of their argument were especially difficult for Anne; she could not resist reliving them, even though they were among the most painful times of her life. She managed to bear them, though, and once she got past the worst days she found being able to tell herself she had survived one year without him gave her courage to face the next.
That autumn and winter progressed much as the previous had, with Anne's time spent primarily in visiting their tenants and spending time with the Parris and Lady Russell. Spring saw another trip to London for Elizabeth and Sir Walter and to Bath for Lady Russell, but this year Anne was permitted to remain at Kellynch. She found spending her favourite time of year in surroundings she loved quite healing, and regretted even more that she had been convinced to go to Bath instead the year before. Her relations returned to Kellynch all too soon, in Anne's opinion as well as their own, and once again she faced the approaching summer with apprehension, yet ever-increasing belief in her own strength.
Part 20
One day as Anne was returning from a visit to some tenants, her mind could not be kept from drifting to the past; she was still incapable of walking through the meadow in which she had once become engaged without thinking of that other, happier, morning. She raised her eyes, and thought she spied a familiar figure waiting by that very stile. She chastised herself for doing so; she had thought the days of seeing him around every corner, behind every tree, were finally behind her; this sign of her continued weakness was all the more disappointing for being unexpected. She would have to try harder.
Suddenly, the other person started towards her, raising his arm and calling out something indistinguishable as if to attract her attention. As he drew nearer, she saw that he was not someone she knew, although his face seemed vaguely familiar. Perhaps she had seen him about the town, she mused, not really paying any attention to him until he was upon her.
"I say, miss, have you seen a young dog come this way? She got away from me about a quarter of an hour ago, and has not yet learnt to come when called. She shall ruin my sport once the season begins, I am sure of it. Doesn't want to take to training, that one...," the young man explained.
"No, I am sorry, but I have not seen any dogs this morning. Have you perhaps tried searching the woods on the other side of the lane?"
"Yes, blast it, not a sign of her. Oh, beg your pardon, miss. It's just so blasted annoying, I can't help it. The pup's from a line of excellent hunters, you know, but she seems determined to be anything but."
Anne smiled faintly. "Well, I am sure you will find her soon, sir."
"If you do happen to see her, would you please send word to Uppercross? Name's Charles Musgrove. 'Twould be greatly appreciated, Miss...."
"Anne Elliot. Certainly, Mr. Musgrove, although I am sure she will turn up at home; dogs generally do. She may even be waiting for you there now."
"Yes, yes, in most cases I would agree. This one's just so stubborn, never does what one expects. Well, I had better get on with the search; nice meeting you, Miss Elliot, and please don't forget to keep an eye out."
"My pleasure, Mr. Musgrove. Good day." Anne remained where she was for a few minutes more as she watched him continue down the lane, bemused. This was clearly not a person to stand on ceremony; he may, in fact, have been the most natural acquaintance she had made since...well. For a long time, at any rate. Two years, in fact. She rather hoped he would find his poor dog, and thought it might perhaps be worth pursuing a friendship with the young man. It would be nice to have a friend around who knew nothing of her former folly, and who therefore could not judge her for it. And even Elizabeth could have no objections, surely; although there was no prior acquaintance between the Kellynch family and that of Uppercross, Anne had heard enough over the years to know that the Musgroves were certainly respectable, and looked up to in their sphere the way the Elliots considered themselves to be in their own. No title, certainly, and probably not so large an estate, but of sufficiently gentle birth to satisfy even Elizabeth's requirements for being an acceptable acquaintance.
No opportunity for furthering the acquaintance presented itself, however, and she soon forgot all about their chance meeting, until she was coming out of a shop one day and he bumped into her.
"Oh, I'm sorry, miss, my fault; I wasn't paying attention to where I was going, I'm afraid."
Anne recognised the young man immediately, and smiled; this frank admission fit perfectly with her previous estimation of his character. He probably gave little thought to other people at all, she had surmised, and was therefore able to be just as open with people he did not know as with longtime members of his acquaintance; she suspected he found it difficult to remember who belonged to which group, and just treated everyone equally.
"Quite all right, Mr. Musgrove. I hope you found your dog?"
"My dog?" He looked blank for a moment, uncomprehending and clearly not knowing her.
"The one who had run away from you a few weeks back, who, you said, was being difficult to train," she prompted.
"Oh, yes! Her. Yes, she came home on her own later that night, the scoundrel. But how did you--? Oh, yes, the young lady. Pardon; I had forgotten. Miss...Elliot, was it?"
"Yes, that's right. I am glad to hear that everything turned out all right." She assumed their brief conversation would end there, and started to continue on her way, but he turned and walked with her.
"For now, perhaps, but I've still no idea how I'm going to get her in shape before it's time to start shooting. Always running off on her own, won't listen to any commands. No, I suppose I shall just have to leave her behind, and not take her with the others...but it's a dashed nuisance to have a useless dog like that."
Anne knew little of hunting, it not being a pursuit her father had ever taken an interest in, and was therefore limited to making vague, noncommittal comments, Mr. Musgrove did not seem to notice, however, and cheerfully continued a discussion of what appeared to be his favourite pastime with no need for her assistance. When they reached Anne's next destination, she stopped walking and prepared to take her leave, but it was several minutes before he noticed.
"Oh! I beg your pardon, Miss Elliot. You're wanting to finish your shopping, and here I am going on about topics I am sure you take no interest in. You should have said something."
And when does he think I could have gotten a word in? she wondered, once more amused by his willingness to admit what some might view as grievous errors of propriety. "I beg you, do not concern yourself, Mr. Musgrove."
"Well, I shall take myself off now, and let you go about your business. Perhaps we shall meet again one day."
Anne smiled. "I am sure we shall."
"I should like that," he acknowledged, then bowed and continued down the street. Anne shook her head, wondering what the rest of the Musgroves must be like, and hoping very much that she would get to know them some day.
Part 21
Uppercross being only three miles from Kellynch, and Charles Musgrove being an active young man, Anne began frequently noticing his face about the town. Most often he seemed wholly absorbed by his own thoughts, Probably of hunting, but when he did see her, he always greeted her warmly, though occasions for actual conversation were but few. Anne mentioned making his acquaintance to Lady Russell, who heartily approved. In her opinion, it was past time that Anne started meeting new people. The only way to recover from an attachment was to form a new one, and while he may not be all she could wish in a husband for her dear friend, this was the first man Anne had seemed to show a genuine interest in since her disastrous engagement. Although Lady Russell had not been acquainted with Charles Musgrove herself, she took advantage of a nearly forgotten former friendship with his mother to secure an introduction. Wishing rather to meet him without Anne's knowledge, so she could judge his suitability without her friend's accusations of interference, she made an opportunity to call on Mrs. Musgrove one day.
That lady was very surprised to receive the visit, for many years had passed since the two could really have been considered friends, it having always been Lady Elliot who was the common bond between them; yet she welcomed Lady Russell with characteristic warmth. The years that had passed without much communication between them provided ample topics for conversation, and it was not difficult for Lady Russell to convince her hostess to discuss her own children. Unfortunately, these were so numerous that gaining as much information as she wished about the eldest was difficult. She heard enough to establish him, in his mother's eyes at least, as a very kind, moderately intelligent young man. Perhaps a bit over-concerned with hunting, but there were worse pastimes a man of his age and situation could take an interest in, and at least he was responsible enough to give his parents no great cause for worry. This was in stark contrast to the next oldest son, a worthless young reprobate who had been sent to sea as soon as he was old enough, in hopes that hard work would effect a reform. Despairing of receiving any more detailed information about the real focus of her curiosity once Mrs. Musgrove launched into an obviously oft-repeated complaint about her second son, Lady Russell took her leave soon after, pretty well satisfied with the outcome of her visit.
Soon thereafter, she was able to meet the young man himself; she happened to be out with Anne when they ran across him, and the introduction was performed. He seemed easily distracted, but amiable enough in other respects. And Anne was not getting any younger, after all. Yes, he would do...and his being the heir of an estate within such an easy distance of herself was another point in his favour. Before they parted, she made sure to express a hope of seeing him at the upcoming assembly. He did not strike her as a young man much given to dancing, but once she broached the subject, he did not express a resolution of never attending such frivolous gatherings, either, so she did not despair of his making an appearance and asking Anne to dance.
To Anne's own surprise, when the evening of the assembly arrived, Charles Musgrove did in fact attend, along with his parents. Mrs. Musgrove soon approached Lady Russell, and revealed that although it had been a long time since she had mixed in Kellynch society, tending to remain closer to Uppercross, the visit from her old friend had led her to feel a desire of renewing old acquaintances. Therefore she had persuaded her husband to accompany her to the ball, and found their son had no objections to coming along. Anne, who had long been wishing to meet more of the Musgroves, was perfectly willing to accept the introduction now made; and to Lady Russell's disappointment, she spent several minutes in conversation with the older couple before even glancing around in search of their son. The latter had abandoned his parents immediately upon entering the room, in favour of some young men he occasionally hunted with. Some time after the dancing had begun, however, he made his way over to the party from Kellynch, and stood listening to his mother's conversation with Lady Russell until Anne's current partner returned her to the group. Lady Russell was at first disappointed that he had not approached earlier, until she realised that in waiting, he had avoided the necessity of speaking with Elizabeth or Sir Walter, as the former was now holding court among the circle of her admirers on the other side of the room, while the latter was off in search of the punch.
He and Anne greeted each other with evident friendship. Lady Russell, through subtle maneuvering, was able to arrange for them to be standing a little apart from the rest of the group, so as to afford them what little privacy might be possible in a ballroom. She was, therefore, a trifle put out that he failed to seize the opportunity to ask her friend for a dance. She was soon able to console herself, however, with the realisation that supper was due to be served very shortly, and that he must be the one to accompany Anne. Afterwards, Lady Russell found herself unable to escape the card-rooms any longer, leaving her incapable of continuing her close observation of the pair. And since when the Elliots were ready to depart, she was unsuccessful in persuading Anne to stay a little longer and ride home with her, any discussion of the evening would have to wait until the following morning.
Part 22
The following morning Lady Russell called at Kellynch as early as she supposed it might be possible to find its inhabitants awake and dressed. Upon arrival, she discovered that in fact two of them were still abed, but as Anne was not, she thought that mattered little. She had only a brief wait before Anne entered the parlour and greeted her warmly.
"Good morning, Lady Russell; I am afraid Elizabeth and my father are still sleeping. We do not usually expect to see you so early the morning after an assembly, you know!"
"Yes, my dear, I must apologise for coming this early, but I was longing so to know what you thought of the evening."
Anne looked puzzled. "I cannot see why that would interest you so greatly; it was a ball like any other. I enjoyed it as well as I might expect; not to the extent I might once have, but certainly as much as I have any in the last couple of years."
An uncomfortable silence followed, as each was reflecting on the unspoken reason for Anne's decreased enjoyment of such activities since the time in question. Not wishing to be distracted from her purpose in visiting, however, Lady Russell soon cleared her throat and attempted to sound as if the moment had not occurred.
"Well, Anne, and what did you think of the company? Particularly your more recent acquaintance."
"Hmm? Oh, you mean the Musgroves, do you not? They seem very nice. Quite different from our family, of course.... Mrs. Musgrove struck me as being all that is amiable; not very refined or intellectual, perhaps, but quite warm-hearted and surely a devoted mother."
"Yes, yes. She always was fond of children; we knew she was destined to have a rather large family of her own. Speaking of children, I noticed you talking to her son quite a bit. I have only exchanged a few sentences with him, of course; what would you say he is like?"
"We did not converse that much, Lady Russell, but what was said did confirm my previous opinion of him. I dare say Elizabeth would not like him at all, for he quite often completely forgets to pay attention to propriety, but he is so natural and well-meaning that I find it refreshing."
"Yes, Anne, I do believe you are correct. If that is the case, then Elizabeth most certainly would not like him," Lady Russell agreed dryly.
Anne smiled. "I am afraid he would not be willing to pay her compliments simply because she is an Elliot. Perhaps it is quite a good thing that he is not likely to ever call here, for I should hate to have her learn that such a lack of 'proper manners' is possible!"
"Quite. But do go on, my dear. What did you talk about?"
"With Mr. Musgrove? There can only be one subject for him, it seems--hunting!" She laughed. "Although as he does not require a response, one does not mind so much. If nothing else, it means one does not have to pretend to know anything about the subject. To be perfectly fair, though, last night he also talked about other topics. His family, for instance; he has two sisters who are away at school, and who he thinks will enjoy assemblies tremendously once they are out. He said they would be overjoyed at the thought of finding themselves the object of the company's admiration on such occasions--and he seemed to think highly enough of them to believe that such would be the case. But of course, that may just be brotherly partiality."
"Yes, most likely it is. But then, he seems to be showing good taste in bestowing his own admiration, so perhaps he will prove right on that score after all," Lady Russell commented pointedly.
"I am sorry, but I cannot think to what you may be referring. I did not notice that Mr. Musgrove seemed to admire anyone particularly."
"No, dear, I am sure you would not. You lack the vanity necessary to have correctly interpreted his actions; but I assure you, he was clearly attracted."
"What, to me? I have not heard something so ridiculous in quite some time! While I do think, and hope, that we are becoming friends, I neither wish for more nor believe he wants more than that himself. I cannot think where you got such an idea; you are normally more perceptive than that, Lady Russell."
"Well, well, that's as may be. Only time will tell which of us is correct in this matter, my dear, but I am quite certain I am not imagining things."
Anne could not be convinced, however, and both tacitly agreed to let the subject be changed before the disagreement could develop into an argument. They spoke of more neutral topics for another hour before Lady Russell decided she would learn no more from Anne that day, and took her leave.
Anne herself was a little surprised at her friend's assertions. That Lady Russell, who knew her whole history as well as her temperament and therefore ought to realise that her love for Commander--now Captain, she had read--Wentworth would not be diminished simply because they were no longer in the same circle. She had never even considered looking on Charles Musgrove as anything more than a potential friend, and was in some degree disappointed that one of the people who knew her best could think her affections so inconstant as to be altered by a mere separation, when her conscience would not even let her blame him for it. Catherine would not have expected her to now be interested in Mr. Musgrove as a potential husband, she was sure; that is, she would not do so if she had known of Anne's short-lived engagement. Thinking of Catherine's probable disagreement with Lady Russell's opinion in this case recalled to mind their opposite reactions to the idea of her marrying Wentworth, and once more she was left wondering which friend she ought to be guided by. Her duty was clearly towards the woman her mother had asked to look after her, but her own wishes drew her towards Catherine instead. Was that because Catherine was proving to be more accurate in these situations, or merely due to the fact that it was Catherine who told her what she wanted to hear?
To clear her head, Anne decided to take a long walk, away from the distractions of home and her sister's post-assembly callers. Her steps automatically guided her towards the road she knew so well even after all this time--the path to Monkford. Once she became conscious of her direction, her reason insisted that she ought to turn into some other route, but her heart persisted in reliving old memories, even the happy ones inevitably tinged with regret. Her attention was at length caught by a greeting from the subject of that morning's discussion, recalling to her mind the fact that the road she was on also led to Uppercross. Making an effort to compose her features, for the last thing she wanted was for Charles Musgrove to inquire what was wrong while her thoughts were engaged on such a subject, she greeted him with tolerable cheer.
"I am a bit surprised to see you here, Miss Elliot. If my younger sisters are to be believed, no young lady ever emerges before noon the day after a ball!"
"I dare say that is true for many, but I am afraid I could never sleep that late myself, morning after a ball or not! You will just have to inform your sisters, Mr. Musgrove, that not all young ladies are so fashionable as to behave thus."
"Yes, and what a blow it will be to them, no doubt. But as I think I told you last night, they are still quite young and their ideas of such things as public assemblies are certainly not formed from experience. A trifle silly, perhaps, but no more so than most their age, I wager, and very good girls overall."
Anne smiled. "I am sure you are right. And schoolgirls do get some fanciful notions at times; they will learn better when the time comes. Having an elder brother to guide them will make it all the easier, I feel certain."
"Who, me? I know nothing of such things, I'm sure! All too fancy and genteel for the likes of me. I show up occasionally, spend the evening trying like the devil not to be roped into dancing, and look forward to the time I can leave without rousing too much notice. Not my idea of a good way to spend an evening, I confess."
Anne's good opinion of him rose still further. Having seen the way most young men would have tried to correct such a blunder by expressly making an exception for the time spent with the lady he was addressing, she liked knowing that if Mr. Musgrove were ever to pay someone a compliment, it would be sincerely meant. She was not inclined to take a lack of such words of course as an offense, and instead entered into the conversation with no ill feelings.
"Assemblies can be tiresome at times, I must agree. And I am sure you would much rather spend the time with more agreeable companions, such as your dogs. Am I not right, Mr. Musgrove?"
He laughed unabashedly. "Yes, Miss Elliot, you know me well. My mother would say I ought to apologise, but dash it, I don't like being surrounded by that many people, most of whom I don't know or don't care to, for several hours together. I am much more comfortable in smaller gatherings."
"That is perfectly understandable. I prefer evenings spent among a handful of friends myself."
"Always assuming that the evening in question is not being devoted to cards, you mean, Miss Elliot," interjected a well-remembered voice from behind her. Before she had finished turning to meet him, Mr. Wentworth came up and wished them both good morning.
Anne blushed, remembering that they were still in close proximity to Monkford, and wishing she had suggested to Mr. Musgrove that they continue walking. She did not wish to have Mr. Wentworth draw the same conclusions Lady Russell had voiced just that morning, however untrue she herself might know them to be; and while they had carefully let their incipient friendship fade back to the level of common acquaintance in the past two years, she could not bear the thought of his thinking ill of her, which he surely must do if he decided she had transferred her affections from his brother after so short a period.
As the men conversed, Anne took herself to task for such thoughts. Just because Lady Russell saw more than existed between herself and Charles Musgrove, she was now expecting everyone she met to do the same. That was nonsense. She knew, after all, that her friend was far from unbiased regarding herself, and must therefore be likely to assume admiration in others, whether it was actually felt or not. For her own part, she felt no hint of improper intimacy in their friendship; why, then, should she suspect others of imagining such? Mr. Wentworth surely had no motive for doing so, and he had always seemed fond of her; there could be no cause for him to look for a reason to change that opinion now; not if the disastrous way her engagement to his brother ended had failed to turn him against her, as had certainly seemed to be the case.
She resolved not to allow Lady Russell's erroneous suspicions to alter her behaviour so long as she knew herself to be innocent of any wrongdoing in this matter; yet she could not be entirely easy knowing that such conclusions could be drawn, and that she would not always have the opportunity of refuting them.
Her attention was drawn back to the conversation at hand when Mr. Wentworth mentioned leaving Monkford. "Leaving us, sir? I do hope I heard that incorrectly; I confess my mind had been wandering...."
He looked at her compassionately, clearly surmising that her concern over his departure was for his brother's sake rather than his own. "Indeed, Miss Elliot, you heard correctly. I will be leaving in less than two months; I have been granted a living in Shropshire."
"How sad--for us, I mean, although I am of course happy for you. We shall miss having you around."
"And I shall miss the people here as well. I know I already regret not having had the opportunity to become closer acquainted with you, Miss Elliot," he said, with a particular look which she was very well able to interpret as a reference to their having almost been brother and sister, but which made her glad for Mr. Musgrove's habitual inattention to such nuances in the people around him; the last thing she needed was for more rumours to start, this time concerning herself and Mr. Wentworth!
"I, as well," she answered sadly. "But it cannot be helped. I hope you will be pleased with your new position, and wish you all the best."
"Thank you, Miss Elliot. I hope the same for you. And who knows? Perhaps we may meet again one day."
Anne shook her head. "That is not very likely at this point, I am afraid. I should like it a great deal, but I find I cannot believe it possible, Mr. Wentworth."
He sighed. "Perhaps you are right; but I know you will forgive me for hoping that, in this case, you are mistaken, unlikely as it may seem to us now."
His persistence seemed more than could be accounted for by common courtesy; dared she hope he knew something of his brother's feelings or intentions which led him to conclude that they might indeed be drawn back into the same circle? "Mr. Wentworth," she ventured, "is there some reason you feel so? Do you know anything which I do not, to give you this conviction?" Mr. Musgrove had by this point been completely forgotten, she would be ashamed to realise later.
Mr. Wentworth was suddenly conscious of the false hope he may have given. "I am afraid not, Miss Elliot. I am speaking only from my own wishful thinking, and not out of any secret knowledge or even true expectation of such an outcome. But if it should occur, I would be very happy to learn it."
They stood a moment in silence, Anne temporarily unable to summon the courage for a casual reply; Mr. Wentworth wondering if it might indeed be possible to convince his brother to return to the area and set things right; and Mr. Musgrove reflecting that the morning promised fine hunting weather for the next day or two. At last Wentworth recalled them from their separate thoughts by wishing them both a good day, and continuing his interrupted walk towards the town.
Part 23
Lady Russell had by this point come to the conclusion that she must help her young friend if she wanted to see her married. Ordinarily she might feel there were a few years yet before it would be time to worry, but despite her youth Anne's bloom was already beginning to fade; and while he was not all she could wish, Charles Musgrove seemed like a pleasant, if single-minded, young man, and was more importantly heir to a nice bit of property; and since Anne avoided London and Bath, and was not likely to meet with many better young men in the relatively secluded, withdrawn society to be found around Kellynch, he would have to do.
Once she had decided to take an active role in the couple's courtship, the first step was to throw a dinner party. The perfect excuse soon arose: the youngest Elliot, Mary, had finished her schooling and was due to return to Kellynch. Inviting the Elliots was a matter of course under any circumstances, and her expressed desire to renew the friendship between herself and Mrs. Musgrove provided the perfect reason for asking the Musgroves and their eldest son despite their not being acquainted with Mary. The Parris and one or two other couples from among their neighbours rounded out the guest list; to Lady Russell's delight, everyone accepted.
The evening in question proved to be a fine, clear night, the pleasant weather a good omen, to Lady Russell's mind. There was, in truth, no reason the party should not be a success; Anne showed more interest in Charles Musgrove than she had in any man since that disastrous business with the sailor a few years prior; and he certainly seemed taken with her. At the least, he did not seem to mind when she pulled him out of his thoughts by speaking to him, and that was more than could be said for most young women, according to his mother's laments and Lady Russell's own close observation. It appeared that the only thing hindering their alliance was the gentleman's regrettable diffidence in social matters--an affliction she was determined to cure him of with all speed.
As was their custom when she was their hostess, the Elliots were the first to arrive. In former, happier times, Lady Elliot would have spent much of the afternoon with her, adding final touches to the seating arrangement and helping to direct the servants in the decoration of the rooms. Anne would gladly have continued her mother's tradition, but Lady Russell refused to hear of it. A young, unmarried woman should spend the final hours before a social engagement in anticipation and experimenting with her hairstyle, not assisting her hostess; and on this evening in particular, her friend had not wanted to risk Anne's tiring herself before the event even began. Shortly after their entrance, the other guests began making an appearance, and soon the entire party was collected.
The attentions she knew Sir Walter, Elizabeth, and Mary were expecting prevented her from observing the pair of particular interest to her as much as she would like, but as they all went in to dinner she was able to reflect with some satisfaction that the evening seemed to be going according to plan. She had no fears for the meal itself; Anne and Charles Musgrove were carefully seated both next to each other and as far from Anne's family as possible. A hint to Catherine Parri, on Musgrove's other side, would be all that was required to see to it that she did not attempt more than a minimum of conversation with him; and on Anne's other side was an older gentleman who had been invited primarily because he preferred to focus on his food rather than discourse. To the extent possible in such a setting, the couple would be effectively alone; she only wished that they could have been situated closer to herself, so that she could have overheard their conversation. Still, she had high hopes.
From Anne's perspective, the evening so far had been enjoyable, but nothing to excite particular interest. She took some pleasure in being among a small company of, mostly, friends like this, but she still had not regained her former fondness for society. After dining, she spent the time before the gentlemen joined them primarily in conversation with Catherine. Later, she once more found herself seated next to Charles Musgrove; she glanced over at Lady Russell suspiciously, but the latter's apparently being engrossed in a discussion with Sir Walter made it unlikely she was manipulating the pair. Still, Anne resolved to do what she must to make it clear to her friend that there was no attachment between herself and Mr. Musgrove. In the meantime, she returned her attention to him.
They had been talking of Mr. Musgrove's siblings again; Mary's being just returned from school had called to mind his absent sisters, and the unfortunate brother who was away at sea. "But it is the most amazing thing, Miss Elliot--we actually received a letter from Dick last week! It seems he recently got posted to a new ship, and his new captain insisted he write his parents! I think this may be the first letter he ever sent that did not just beg for money. Perhaps there is hope for my brother after all, if only he can manage to stay in this post long enough to benefit from it before this new captain, too, is forced to get rid of him."
Anne was pleased for her new friends. "Why, that is good news indeed! I imagine your mother is particularly happy to hear from him; I know she regrets having to be separated from one of her children for so long."
"Yes, well, my mother has almost become resigned to the fact that there was really nothing else to be done with Dick. It helps her, I think, knowing that Louisa and Henrietta are doing so well at their school. They miss home, of course, but it sounds like they are having a good time and doing well with learning all those fancy things ladies all know how to do."
"...and which you see as worthless, if I am not mistaken," Anne laughed. "And in many cases, I would have to agree with you. But then, we women must have some way of passing the time, since we are unable to enter any profession and most trades, and one might as well do needlework or paint as anything else available to us, I suppose. After all," she could not resist adding mischievously, "it is not as if we were permitted to hunt."
Her companion laughed. "I understand your point, Miss Elliot, and will confess that I do feel sorry for you. But though you apparently believe me only capable of thinking on one subject, I am in fact quite aware that you don't share my fondness for sport. But then, not many ladies do, and it is quite kind of you to put up with my talking about it so often nonetheless."
She just smiled in return. "It is nothing, Mr. Musgrove. What else are friends for, if not to listen when we wish to talk?" She noticed him casting a glance towards the other side of the room, one of many since the gentlemen had returned, and a thought struck her. Catching her younger sister's notice, she indicated that Mary should approach them. "I don't believe you have been properly introduced. Mary, this is my friend Charles Musgrove; Mr. Musgrove, my younger sister Mary."
"How do you do, Miss Elliot?"
"Quite well, I thank you, sir," Mary smiled.
Anne saw that her friend and her sister were equally uncertain as to what to say next, so she decided to come to their rescue. "Mary, Mr. Musgrove has two young sisters who are away at school. I believe they are several years younger than you, and were sent at a rather early age. Is that not correct, Mr. Musgrove?"
"Oh. Yes, I believe it is. I mean, I do have two sisters at school, and from what I understand they must have been sent there unusually young, and I believe that they must be several years younger than Miss Mary Elliot. Actually, they are practically children still, but fourteen and fifteen," he managed to reply.
Mary ventured a smile. "I hope they are enjoying themselves, Mr. Musgrove. I should dearly like to meet them; there are not enough proper young girls in this neighborhood, and one so dearly likes to have friends of about one's own age and station. I am sure they are delightful."
Mr. Musgrove relaxed. If there was a sure way to win him over, aside from expressing a love of hunting or admiration for his dogs, it was praising his much-loved sisters.
Gradually the conversation became easier, and once Catherine had joined them, Anne spent the remainder of the evening in a state of reasonable contentment; her two friends, and the sister she hoped to rescue from following Elizabeth's footsteps, might perhaps seem an unusual group to observers, but to Anne, it was all she could ask for. All she might hope to attain, rather. There was still someone missing whose presence would have made it perfect, but for the moment, it was enough.
It had to be.