Beginning, Section III
Jump to new as of July 21, 1999
Part VI
Author's Note: The beginning of this story makes reference to the novel Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott. Here is a brief synopsis of the portion of the novel that Charles and Anne are reading: Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe, just returned from the Crusades, fought anonymously against several Norman knights in a tournament, carrying the day for the Saxons. Ivanhoe was badly wounded in the tournament, but was spirited away by Rebecca, a healer, and her father Isaac. Rebecca fell in love with Ivanhoe, although she knew that they could never be together because he was a Christian and she was Jewish. They were subsequently captured by the Normans and held captive in the castle at Torquilstone, where Rebecca tended Ivanhoe's wound and saved his life. Later Ivanhoe has the opportunity to return the favor...I won't give away the ending, though! Read it, or see the very good recent film version of the novel, starring Ciaran Hinds as Sir Brian de Bois-Guilbert (a very different role from Captain Wentworth!)
The rain did not abate for the rest of the week. They quickly finished all three volumes of Pride and Prejudice, and at Anne's express commandment, Charles started in on his own favourite novel, Ivanhoe. He had read it to her, long ago, during their first summer together, and the occasionally melancholy tone of the novel, together with the unending rain, made Anne feel rather pensive.
"In finding herself once more by the side of Ivanhoe, Rebecca was astonished at the keen sensation of pleasure which she experienced, even at a time when all around them both was danger, if not despair. As she felt his pulse, and enquired after his health, there was a softness in her touch and in her accents implying a kinder interest than she would herself have been pleased to have voluntarily expressed. Her voice faltered and her hand trembled, and it was only the cold question of Ivanhoe, 'Is it you, gentle maiden?' which recalled her to herself, and reminded her the sensations which she felt were not and could not be mutual. A sigh escaped, but it was scarce audible; and the questions which she asked the knight concerning his state of health were put in the tone of calm friendship. Ivanhoe answered her hastily that he was, in point of health, as well, and better than he could have expected---'Thanks,' he said, 'dear Rebecca, to thy helpful skill.'
'He calls me dear Rebecca,' said the maiden to herself, 'but it is in the cold and careless tone which ill suits the word. His war-horse---his hunting hound, are dearer to him than the despised Jewess!'"
Anne sat a short distance away from Charles with her sewing, smiling as she watched him read aloud. He had reached the chapter detailing the assault on Torquilstone, and he read with enthusiasm, sometimes thrusting with an imaginary sword or tossing a mythical lance as he read the words of Rebecca, describing the action for the wounded warrior whose love she craved but could never have.
The story had always touched Anne, but even more so in light of her own history. I know how she feels, she thought suddenly, the awful despair of unreturned affection.
Charles continued to read. "She then looked towards the couch of the wounded knight.
'He sleeps,' she said; 'nature exhausted by sufferance and the waste of spirits, his wearied frame embraces the first moment of temporary relaxation to sink into slumber. Alas! is it a crime that I should look upon him, when it may be for the last time?---When yet but a short space, and those fair features will be no longer animated by the bold and buoyant spirit which forsakes them not even in sleep!---When the nostril shall be distended, the mouth agape, the eyes fixed and bloodshot; and when the proud and noble knight may be trodden on by the lowest caitiff of this accursed castle, yet stir not when the heel is lifted up against him! ---And my father!---oh, my father! evil is it with his daughter, when his grey hairs are not remembered because of the golden locks of youth!---What know I but that these evils are the messengers of Jehovah's wrath to the unnatural child, who thinks of a stranger's captivity before a parent's? who forgets the desolation of Judah, and looks upon the comeliness of a Gentile and a stranger?---But I will tear this folly from my heart, though every fibre bleed as I rend it away!'"
Anne did not realize that she was weeping until she saw the teardrops fall onto her work. A sob escaped despite her best efforts to control it; Charles looked up, startled, then dropped the book immediately and went to her.
He knelt before her, taking the sewing gently from her hands and gathering her into his arms. "What is it, love?" he said softly, stroking her hair. "Are you well? What can I do for you?"
"It is so sad," she sniffed. "Poor Rebecca! She loves Ivanhoe so much!"
Charles lifted her easily and took her place on the settle, holding her in his lap like a child. He pushed down on her voluminous skirts, muttering, "To the devil with these fashions! Upon my honour, things have come to a pretty pass when a man cannot take his wife in his lap without being drowned in fabric!"
Anne knew that he was trying to make her laugh, and she forced a smile through her tears; tears that continued to fall, although she could not name their specific cause.
Her husband was equally bewildered. "You have heard this story previously," he said, wiping the tears gently with his thumb. "I have read it to you, and you did not cry then."
"That was before--" she stopped, not wanting to give him pain.
"Before what, love?"
The words burst out of her. "Before I knew that I loved you."
He looked into her eyes and said quietly, "And thought that I did not return your affection."
Anne could never lie to him; he already knew her too well, and he read it in her eyes.
Uppercross
September, 1839
I cannot stand it, she thought in despair, practically running down the passage. Oh, Mamma, I promised you that I would wait, but I cannot stand it!
She was beginning to wish that she had stayed at home tonight, pleaded a headache and crawled into the warm cocoon of her bed with a sentimental book, one that she could cry over and not feel guilty; but affection for her cousin Elizabeth Musgrove--Elizabeth Leigh, now--prevented such a cowardly act. Those abominable Clays shall not keep me from saying goodbye to my dearest friend as she leaves for her wedding tour!
When her father's carriage arrived at Uppercross, she had disembarked last and had been waylaid at the door by Henry Clay, who had prudently waited until her father and brother had already gone inside. His attentions the past two days were as unexpected as they were disturbing and unwelcome, and Anne was at a loss to find a ladylike way to discourage him. It seemed especially rude to be dismissive to him after he had helped her the day before, when her horse had run away with her.
Anne knew perfectly well that she should not have been riding Ophelia that morning; the mare had been purchased by her father for hunting, but had been trained to sidesaddle as well. Wamba, still her much-loved favourite, was getting along in years and no longer able to run flat-out as he had when they were both younger. She knew that Charles would be riding his great stallion, Wilfred, named after his favourite literary hero, and she had boldly ridden out on Ophelia, knowing that the gorgeous bay was nearly the stallion's match. The mare fought the bit, but Anne thought she would be able to control the creature, and she wanted Charles to be proud of his student. Her confidence was rewarded at first, and Anne even raced her horse against Charles and Wilfred, ending at the grove where they had picnicked so many years ago.
She held her breath as Charles helped her down from the mare's back, the events of their last encounter there replaying in her mind. They spread the blanket by the stream, just like old times, and she marveled at how relaxed and talkative he was. Could he finally be falling in love with me? It had certainly seemed that way the previous night, when he had claimed a non-existent engagement to prevent her from having to dance with Henry Clay. And while they were dancing, even though it was only a country-dance, she had felt a difference in his look, his touch, the way he had kissed her hand when the music stopped. Anne had floated on clouds the rest of the evening, and her dreams had been sweet indeed.
She was so distracted by the change in Charles' manner and what it portended that she did not even realize that he was teasing her. They talked about the summer he had spent teaching her to ride.
"You were a good student," he said. "Look how you tried to shame me just now in our race."
Anne was alarmed that he would think such a thing. Then why did you ride out on Ophelia? Were you not trying to show off, Annie girl? "Oh, Charles," she cried, "I was just funning! I would never try to shame you!"
As usual, he made her feel better. He took her hands in his, laughing, and said, "I was funning, too, Anne. I am proud of my protegee. As far as I'm concerned, you can race every man in the parish, and I will cheer you on."
Anne smiled back at him, and a thrill ran down her back when she recognized the expression in his eyes. I did not imagine it, all those years ago! She was sure that he was going to kiss her, but he only dropped her hands and turned away. She choked down her disappointment. Oh, Charles, if you do not care for me, do not torment me!
They mounted their horses and headed back to Uppercross. Anne rode along disconsolately, dropping her hands completely and letting Ophelia have her head. When the fox ran out in front of them, she was unable to regain control before the mare reared back and ran down the roadway.
Anne tried desperately to pull on one of the reins as she had been taught, trying to bring the mare around, but the creature was too strong for her; the reins were pulled from her grip. She finally gave up and clung to the saddle, her head down, praying for the mare to stop. She could hear Charles calling to her, "Hold on, Anne! I am just behind you, love!"
When the arm wrapped around her waist, she released her hold on the saddle, slid her left foot from the stirrup, and allowed herself to be dragged into her saviour's saddle. She sagged against his chest, weeping with relief. But when she looked up at her rescuer, instead of the warm golden brown eyes of the man she loved, she met the amused grey gaze of Henry Clay.
His arms were around her tightly, more so than necessary; as she fought to escape from his grip, he only held her more firmly. Later that night, she found bruises on her arms from his hands. He seemed to take pleasure from her struggles, she realized with a shiver. He enjoys inflicting pain.
Charles rode up beside Clay; he looked angry, and tried to get Clay to release her, but was unsuccessful. Anne felt trapped by Henry Clay and his soft, white hands, a gentleman's hands, she thought contemptuously, comparing them with a pair that she loved, tanned and callused, yet unfailingly gentle. I know what a real gentleman's hands are like.
They went back to Uppercross, and Clay would not leave her alone. Anne felt Charles' eyes upon them, and he was clearly not happy; when he announced that he was going for a walk, she tried to join him, but was foiled once again by Clay and his sister.
Outside in the shrubbery, she was trying to think of a way to get rid of Henry Clay, when she noticed Gwendolyn step close to Charles and put down her parasol, shielding them from the view of the others. Anne could hear Charles' voice, and a distinctly feminine laugh emanate from behind the parasol. Gwendolyn Clay had an unsavoury reputation; Anne's face grew warm when she imagined what might be going on behind the shade. Whatever it is, she thought grimly, it is of Miss Clay's doing, and not Charles'. He had much too high a sense of propriety to engage in improper behavior in his father's park, in the presence of other people.
Anne wanted to go home, very badly. She finally managed to slip away from Clay and found Charles in his library, where she knew he would have retreated. She wanted to ask him to take her home in his gig; she was not up to riding Ophelia quite yet. Henry Clay interrupted them and offered her a ride home in his mother's carriage. He and Charles immediately began to argue over her, and the Wentworth temper finally made its appearance. She accepted Clay's offer, in her disappointment directing wounding words at Charles, and not really caring; not until she was in the carriage, Lady Elliot grinning at her stupidly with her protruding tooth, and Gwendolyn Clay clutching her arm and whispering in her ear. "I am glad that you and Henry are getting along so well. I am beginning to think that young Squire Musgrove is developing a tendre for me. You and he are friends, are you not? You will put in a good word for me, Anne, won't you? I may call you Anne, mayn't I? You must call me Gwendolyn." As if she desired the intimacy of such a creature!
The next day, Elizabeth's wedding day, had been wonderful, although she had a moment's discomfort when Charles arrived at the church. But her duties as bridesmaid had occupied her so fully that she had little time to spare for thinking of him, until they met by her father's carriage.
"Anne, I must speak to you," he asked. "May I call on you tonight?"
She hesitated, unsure how to respond. After a moment she said, "Your mother has invited my family to drink tea this evening at Uppercross. We can speak then."
"Yes," he said. "We will speak then."
Anne climbed into the chaise, wondering at his behavior; in the back of her mind a small blossom of hope had sprouted. The way he has acted toward me the past several days...he has sought my company, has been angry when I was in the company of another man... No, such thoughts were best left alone; they would be the undoing of her sanity.
When she arrived at Uppercross, she realized how right she had been to banish such ideas from her mind. She managed to get away from Henry Clay's importunities, only to enter the big old house and see Charles with Gwendolyn Clay on his arm, rubbing up against him like a cat, she thought in disgust. Charles flushed when he saw her; in Anne's mind, admitting his complicity. I can take no more. I have loved him, selflessly and faithfully, but if Gwendolyn Clay is what he desires, she may have him and welcome. She fled down the passage, looking for a place where she could be alone, to collect herself before joining the company. I am sorry, Mamma. I tried to do what you say, I tried to wait for Charles, but he would not wait for me.
"Anne, wait," she heard behind her; Charles' voice. She stopped, not daring to look at him.
He walked around her until he was in front of her; she kept her eyes riveted on the floor. "You promised me an interview tonight," he said. "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." She silently took his arm and allowed him to steer her to the verandah.
It was indeed chilly on the verandah; she pulled her shawl more closely around her. She could not imagine what he wanted to say to her. "What is it, Charles?" she asked softly. "You said this morning that you had something to tell me." A sudden fear chilled her more than the night air; what if he wants to confide in me about his love for Gwendolyn Clay?
He was silent for a few moments, then said, "I am sorry if what I am about to say pains you. You must allow me to speak to you as a brother would."
Wonderful! Another lecture! She had already endured a brotherly speech the previous day from Edward, who had also noticed the attentions paid by Henry Clay, and had been especially annoyed to see her arriving at Oakmont Park in Sir William Elliot's conveyance. He had scolded her roundly, she had flown out at him, and things were in an uncomfortable muddle for several hours until he crept to her room later that evening. They had both apologized, embraced, and were friends again. Such was the relationship between a brother and sister who loved one another dearly, but were both possessed of a volatile temper.
Charles was talking about Henry Clay, his evil reputation and dissolute habits. "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."
But it is all very well for you to carry on with his sister. "No, Charles," she said quietly. "I am not engaged to Henry Clay." The bitterness bubbled up from her, four years of frustration and unhappiness on top of the emotions of the past few days, the joy of seeing her dearest friend so happily married and the pain of seeing the man she loved slip away from her. "I could not marry him. I could never marry Henry Clay. Not when I am in love with someone else." She had not meant to say it, but could not help it; she no longer cared if he guessed how she felt.
Charles was silent for a moment, then blurted out, "Have I no chance at all then?"
His words struck her like lightning. She whirled around to face him. He paced the verandah, barely coherent words tumbling from his mouth, of how he loved her but had only realized it the previous day, when the jealousy caused by Henry Clay's attentions to her had made him aware of his true feelings.
"Charles!" she cried, trying to stop the flow of words. It was too much to take in at once. Her entreaty was successful; he stopped and stared at her. "Please let me say something," she said, then wondered what she could say to him. That every night when I go to sleep I imagine that I am in your arms? That every morning when I wake I pray that I will find you beside me? He will think me utterly debauched!
Finally she found her tongue, and the proper words. "It is true that my affections have long been engaged. The full truth is that my heart belongs to you, Charles. Only to you."
He stared at her, then crossed the verandah and took her hand. He slowly descended to one knee, and Anne thought her heart would overflow with happiness. There was no desire to laugh, as there had been with the first two offers she had received; his proposal, heartfelt and emotional, caused no other expression of sentiment than tears of joy.
"I love you, Anne," he said, expressing his emotions directly and perfectly, without couching them in elaborate hyperbole. "Will you marry me?"
Such a simple request, with so much feeling behind it. She gently raised his head, gazing into those eyes she had loved for so many years, and said, "Charles Musgrove, I always knew you had the soul of a poet. I love you, and yes, I will marry you."
He stood, lifted her chin, and whispered, "Dearest Anne." Then, finally, he kissed her. The touch of his lips on hers, so long desired, sent a thrill down her spine. No more holding back, no more hiding; she tried, in that kiss, to let him know how much and how long she had loved him. When at last he released her, she felt that she had been indeed successful. And she knew, at last, that her love was returned.
Anne found her mother in the drawing-room, speaking with Lady Leigh and Elizabeth. "Mother, may I speak with you for a moment?" she asked, not caring if she was rude.
Her cousin looked at her curiously, noticing Anne's heightened colour and broad smile. Anne smiled at her and touched her arm lightly, sending a message that they would talk later. First I must tell Mamma.
She dragged Lady Wentworth into the passage, then into an empty sitting-room. She closed the door behind them and flung herself into her mother's arms. "Oh, Mamma, I am so happy!"
"Anne, what in the world has happened?" asked her astonished mother.
She released the older woman and grasped her hands. "Charles has asked me to marry him!"
Lady Wentworth stared at her daughter in amazement. "Charles Musgrove?"
"Who else? Oh, Mamma, you were right! I did what you said, I waited for him, so long, and it was all worth it! I love him so much! I have for such a long time!" Anne knew that she was babbling, her happiness overflowing along with her words, but was yet unable to control herself.
"I must confess that I am not terribly surprised that Charles made you an offer. Your father and I have noticed his attentions to you over the past few days, and you have been friends for years. But are you sure that this is what you want?"
Anne smiled at her mother in a way that left Lady Wentworth in no doubt of her daughter's feelings. "I have never been so sure of anything in my life, Mamma." She hesitated. "Have we your blessing?"
Her mother embraced her tightly. "Of course, Anne! Charles is a fine man, and I know that he will be good to you. If you love him as you say, then I am content."
"What about Papa?"
"You know that your father loves Charles, and has since he was a boy. He will not object."
Anne released her mother and looked at her earnestly. "Let us go and find him. Charles was going to look for him to ask his permission."
"I saw him heading for the verandah with his pipe." They accordingly went out onto the verandah, in time to see Sir Frederick shaking hands with Charles. He turned and caught sight of his daughter, and though he was smiling, she was taken aback at the note of sorrow in his eyes. He held his arms out to her, and she went to him to be folded into his arms as he had done when she was a little girl.
"We have your blessing, then, Papa?"
"Yes, my dear. I could not have chosen better for you myself."
When her father announced her engagement to the assembled wedding guests, Elizabeth was the first to run to Anne and embrace her, her delight obvious. "I always knew that you two should suit," she whispered in Anne's ear. "And I know you will take good care of him. I am so happy for you both, dearest." Anne was touched; she knew that Elizabeth and Charles shared the same closeness that she did with Edward.
Some quick discussion between the families ended with the decision that the wedding would take place in six weeks. In the meantime, the banns would be cried, Uppercross Cottage would be cleaned and prepared, and Anne's wedding-clothes would be assembled. Her fiance kissed her good-night and handed her into her father's chaise, and as the conveyance rumbled back to Oakmont Park, Anne reflected on the breathless pace of the day's events. She had left her home just a few hours ago, never suspecting that her life would change to such a degree, that her long-nurtured love for Charles would finally be allowed to fully blossom.
She glanced over at her mother, sitting next to her; Lady Wentworth smiled at her daughter, took her hand, and squeezed it. Anne returned her mother's smile, and they traveled on together toward home, two women who had truly loved, and who had reaped the reward.
Charles was silent for a long moment. Anne was ashamed of herself; there was no reason for her to burden him with her past unhappiness, rendered moot by their marriage. "I am sorry, Charles," she said, sitting up and wiping her eyes. "'Tis just woman's foolishness. I am quite recovered." She stood and shook out her skirt in a businesslike manner.
Her husband stayed seated, looking down at his hands, which rested on his knees. "I never realized," he said quietly. "I have read Ivanhoe countless times since I was a boy, have sympathized with Rebecca's sorrow, and now I learn that I inflicted the same sorrow on you." He lifted his gaze to her face. "Anne, I would not hurt you for the world! I love you so, and I regret every moment of unhappiness you suffered from my stupidity! Can you ever forgive me?"
Anne knelt before him, took his hand and kissed it, then laid it next to her cheek. "There is nothing to forgive," she whispered. "Speak not of forgiveness, of regrets. I do not regret a moment of the time I spent loving you." Her mother's words came back to her: You do not know the days, the nights I spent in the eight years and a half of our separation, regretting my decision. But it was all worth it, the moment I read that letter. Anne recognized the truth in those words, and the parallel between her mother's life and her own. She took a deep, ragged breath, on the verge of tears once again. "Yes, Charles, I suffered spiritual pain, loving you without hope that my love would be returned. But it all ended the moment that you told me that you loved me, that you wanted to marry me. Do you understand?"
"I do not know how you could continue to love me for all those years," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "Indeed I am surprised that you did not begin to hate me."
"I could never hate you, but I tried not to love you," she responded honestly. "But I could not help myself. I think it is a woman's portion, to love faithfully, even without hope of a return." She could not have known that she was echoing her mother's words to Captain Harville, so many years ago.
Charles had the advantage of the good captain; he had the proof of those words before him, in the person of his own wife. Thus he did not importune her with literary evidence to the contrary, but simply pulled her back into his lap, embracing her tightly and cradling her head against his shoulder. "Thank you for waiting for me, love," he said softly. "I do not deserve you. I suppose that I shall just have to do penance by using every means within my power to make you happy."
Anne smiled at his gallantry. "I cannot make the memory of my unhappiness go away, and stories such as Rebecca's will remind me of it. Today it caught me unawares. I have been so happy since the night of Eliza's wedding, since you asked me to be your wife. And if the price of this happiness is an occasional reminder of the pain, I shall pay that price, and gladly." She tilted her head back and looked up at her husband, who was smiling faintly. "I love you, so much," she whispered. "And I know that you love me. It makes up for everything."
He shook his head in amazement. "This girl I married," he said admiringly. He caressed her face with one hand as she smiled up at him. "No, not a girl," he amended, kissing her forehead. "A woman," he whispered, kissing her closed eyes, and then, before bringing his mouth down to her own, "very much a woman."
Author's Note: If you are confused by the flashback portion of this story, I humbly refer you to my story "A Wedding at Uppercross," which is about Elizabeth Musgrove and James Leigh's wedding, and Charles and Anne's very short courtship! The action in this section is described there in greater detail, although from the gentleman's point of view.
Part VII
Charles buttoned his riding-coat and glanced in the looking glass. He ran his hands through his hair, trying in vain to make some order of his unruly curls. His reflection seemed strange; he was not used to having such a large glass in his bedchamber. It was one of the things he had to get used to, living with a woman.
Everything had happened so quickly that he still was sometimes surprised to find himself married. He enjoyed being married more than he had dared to imagine, but it definitely was an adjustment. One night, he had been reading to Anne while she sewed, and was startled when he glanced up and noticed that, instead of the fancy-work she had always done before their marriage, she was mending a tear in one of his shirts. That settles it, he told himself ruefully. You are an old married man now, Musgrove.
He stood in the doorway to the sitting room and watched his wife, seated at the writing-table, penning a letter to her mother with the details of their return trip to Uppercross. They would be leaving in only two days' time, he remembered with a pang. Their honeymoon had been wonderful, an enchanted time of love and discovery of one another. Charles had thought he knew Anne pretty well before he married her, but he now realized that there were depths to this woman that he might never plumb. This would not stop him from trying, however; the challenge was irresistible.
Anne was dressed in her riding habit; he had engaged a pair of saddle-horses, wanting to take advantage of the fine weather, so rare lately. She sat with her spine straight and her posture perfect, as always, just like her mother's. Most observers would consider Anne Musgrove a frail, delicate woman, judging by her height and build; Charles was only a little more than medium height himself, and when he stood with his wife in his arms, the top of her head fit neatly under his chin. However, he knew of the strength within the slight frame, and had known of it since the first time that he placed her on Wamba's back. Was that when it was, love? he thought, watching her fondly. Was that when I started to love you? When I began to know the things about you that no one else knows? Since their marriage, he had come to learn that her spirit was equally strong. He had seen the fiery passion behind the demure exterior, had seen her dark eyes flash with anger, with surprise, with desire, with joy, with love, and felt privileged that he was the man she had chosen, that he would have the opportunity to resolve the complex puzzle that was his wife.
He knew that he would always regret the four years she had spent waiting for him to emerge from his self-centered cocoon and understand that his feelings for her ran more deeply than simple attraction to a pretty girl. It was difficult for Charles to dismiss that he had bestowed pain on her, however unconsciously. Well, I will just have to spend the rest of my life making it up to you, my sweet Anne.
A few days after their arrival in Lyme, she had inadvertently awakened him, rising as she did shortly after dawn. It was a family joke amongst the Musgroves that Charles was sometimes difficult early in the day; his wife was not privileged with that information, and her morning chatter had merely irritated him. He spoke to her sharply, and she reacted with surprise. She turned her head away suddenly, and he had the impression that she was trying not to laugh. This did not improve his mood, and he had growled at her several more times. Anne ignored his snappishness; indeed, she ignored him entirely.
They went out walking in the town, and as the wakefulness of his mind caught up to that of his body, he had grown ashamed of his behaviour. Anne stepped into a shop to try to match some thread, and Charles waited for her outside.
A filthy and bedraggled man approached him, looking about him confidentially. "Morning, guv'nor," he said, pulling on his forelock.
Charles looked at him askance and did not respond. He felt his black mood starting to return.
"Somethin' pretty for the little wife?" The man, dressed in a ragged pea coat and white sailor's trousers, brought his hand out from inside his jacket. He opened a grubby paw and displayed his wares. Charles noticed a wink of blue, not dark like a sapphire, but light and sparkling like the sun glancing off the sea. He was intrigued in spite of himself. "What is that?" he asked, pointing to the stone.
"Ah, a gentleman of discernment." Two dirty fingers delicately plucked the stone from the tangle of silver and gold. "'Tis an aquamarine, come all the way from Africa."
Charles did not care where the stone had originated; indeed, he did not trust the creature to tell the truth in any event. He laced his hand through the silver chain and held the stone up to the light. It was oval-shaped and fairly large, a beautiful clear blue, sparkling in the sunshine. It reminded him of the ocean on a lovely summer day. Anne loves the sea, and she deserves beautiful things, especially after the way I've treated her this morning. He proceeded to bargain with the merchant, and he had paid for the necklace and pocketed it before she emerged from the shop. I shall have to scrub it when we return to the inn, before I give it to her.
When they returned to their lodgings, he had been too humiliated by his behaviour to find the proper words for an apology. Finally, after a silent supper, he went to her and took her hand. "Can you forgive a fool?" he asked. "I have treated you badly today, love. I am sometimes cross in the morning. You need not bear it silently. Goodness knows my family never did. Teasing me out of my moods is usually the best course of action."
Anne looked at him and smiled. "There is no need to apologize, Charles. We need to learn to live with one another's moods. Wait until you get your first taste of the Wentworth temper. It did not disappear when I changed my name, I assure you."
"I am surprised that I did not see it this morning." He opened his fist and took up the necklace in his other hand. Anne gasped as he held it up. "Perhaps this will make the transition easier." He fastened the necklace around her slim throat.
"Oh, Charles!" She took up a candle and flew into the bed-chamber, preening in front of the looking-glass. He followed her, leaning against the door-jamb, grinning at the success of his gift. "'Tis beautiful! How did you know that I always wanted an aquamarine?"
He was startled at this news. "I did not know, love. I just liked the necklace."
She touched the stone lightly where it nestled in the hollow of her throat. "When I was a little girl and we still lived on Father's ship, he took Edward and me ashore at Bermuda to purchase a Christmas gift for Mother. We went to a little shop, and they had the most beautiful jewelry. There was an aquamarine necklace. I had never seen such a stone--Father always gave Mother rubies, he said they suited her best--and I wanted it badly. Father said that it would not be appropriate for a little girl to have such a piece of jewelry, but when I was grown up I could have one. I dare say he forgot all about it. But I have longed for an aquamarine necklace ever since." She turned from the mirror and ran into his arms. "You spoil me dreadfully, my love. How am I to return to being plain Anne when we go home?"
Charles held her close. "You shall never be 'plain Anne' to me."
No, indeed, he thought, watching her write. Her hair was gathered into a low chignon, her usual style when she was planning a ride. Her slim neck was exposed above the collar of the tight-fitting red velvet jacket, tempting white skin, scattered with a few escaped locks of hair. Charles walked up behind her; Anne was so engrossed in her task that she did not notice. He bent closer to her, catching the light scent of roses that always surrounded her. There is a place, right behind her ear...ahh. He pressed his lips to that spot, breathing in the sweet aroma of the blossoms, particularly strong just there for some mysterious reason. It was all part of the puzzle.
Anne did not start when she felt the caress; she put down the pen, then reached back and slipped her fingers into the hair at the back of his head, further disarranging his curls. Charles did not notice, and would not have cared if he had. He dropped to one knee as she turned to him, cradled her face in his hands, and kissed her, a lingering kiss that left them both rather breathless. Charles Musgrove had experienced the usual desires of a young man, had looked upon other women and felt the power of attraction, but never anything like he felt for Anne. When it caught him unawares, as it had at that moment, he sometimes was overwhelmed by the intensity of his passion for his wife.
He finally released her. "I beg your pardon, love," he whispered. "You looked so pretty, I was quite carried away by you."
She smiled back at him, and he loved the fire that had kindled in her eyes. "I was a very willing participant. But it is not wise to begin such activities when we already have an engagement."
"You are right." He had forgotten about the horses, and the groom waiting patiently outside the inn for them. "Are you finished with your letter?"
"Nearly. One more moment." She turned back to her task, and he seated himself nearby, taking up a book upon which he was unable to concentrate. Her scent was still on his hands, surrounding him; he had never known it would be so distracting to be married.
His thoughts turned to Uppercross. Their rooms at the inn were more home to them, now, than the Cottage, although he was sure that they would soon feel settled there. He looked around him at the sitting-room, furnished with old, comfortable, mismatched pieces, the draperies of slightly dusty velvet, pictures of sailing ships on the wall, and knew that these rooms with their genteel shabbiness would always be a precious memory. They had been the only guests at the inn this past month, and the owners and domestic staff had left the newlyweds to themselves as much as possible, tending to their needs unobtrusively. Charles knew that this delicious freedom would disappear when they returned to the Cottage; their housekeeper, Mrs. Rudd, had served the Musgroves since before his birth and would have no such delicacy. Nonetheless, Charles looked forward to returning to the house in which he had been born. The cycle appealed to him; he would bring his wife to the Cottage where his father had brought his mother, and where his son would bring his bride someday.
"Charles," he heard, and came back from his daydream to see Anne standing in front of him, the letter in one hand, sealed and addressed. She held her high-topped riding hat in the other hand, the veil trailing on the floor. She smiled at him. "I am ready, if you are."
He was looking forward to their outing; it had been too long since he had been on horseback. While planning the trip, he had decided that it would be wasteful folly to bring their own horses to Lyme, a decision that caused him some moments of regret. He missed Wilfred, missed the mighty beast's power and strength, missed the instinctive communication between him and the animal. The saddle-horse provided by the livery stable was stout enough, but no match for his favourite mount.
He rose and put on his greatcoat. "Are you looking forward to your ride, love?" he asked her.
Anne pinned her hat and wound the veil loosely around her face and throat. "Yes! It will be good to get outside in the sunshine, will it not?"
"It will." He picked up his own hat and followed her outside.
Oakmont Park
November, 1839
Anne looked around her bed-chamber with a touch of nostalgia. I will never sleep here as an unmarried woman after this night. The happiness of her approaching marriage had been tinged with sorrow the past few days, as the realization burst upon her that she must leave her family and the only home she had ever known.
The house had been in turmoil for several days, preparing for the wedding, but Lady Wentworth had handled every detail with her usual calm competence. Anne tried to imitate her demeanour, but since her own feelings ranged from euphoria to melancholy and every emotion between, it was difficult to remain composed.
Her eyes fell on her wedding-dress, laid out carefully, the silk shining in the candlelight. The misty white veil was draped across the top of her mirror, the beautiful and intricate Brussels lace ranging along the edges. Unable to resist, Anne took the veil and draped it over her head, modeling for herself in the mirror. Millie would make a wreath of her beloved blush pink roses in the morning, a crown for the queen of the day.
Suddenly, she realized that she was not alone in the room, and turned to see her mother standing in the doorway. Anne could not help laughing. "I am caught," she said, a little sheepishly. "Playing dress-up as if I were still a little girl, not a young lady getting married in the morning."
"I remember when you played dress-up with that veil," responded Lady Wentworth with some emotion.
"Not with this veil," her daughter declared. "I was not permitted to play with it. You gave me a piece of plain veiling to play bride with, but your wedding veil was put away carefully and little girls were not to touch it."
Her mother smiled. "You are correct, of course. I suppose that I have pictured you in that veil so many times that I mixed up the visions in my mind."
Anne removed the veil and carefully draped it across the mirror frame so that it would not crease. She turned to her mother and held out her hands. Lady Wentworth pulled her close and whispered, "I will miss you, Anne."
"I am not going so very far away."
"I know. But it will not be the same, knowing that you are not in the house, that your room is empty." She released her daughter and sat on the bed, indicating that Anne should sit next to her. "I would speak with you, my dear."
"What is it, Mamma?"
"I should have spoken with you about this before tonight." She took a deep breath, then continued. "Do you understand what will happen tomorrow night, when you are alone with Charles?"
Anne felt her face grow warm. She actually had a fairly good idea of what went on in the marriage bed. One of the girls with whom she had been at school had engaged in such activity with the dancing-master, and had been sent home in disgrace when the inevitable result became apparent. But before she "got in trouble," as the headmistress euphemistically put it, she had imparted every detail to an eager audience of her schoolmates. However, one could hardly tell such a story to one's mother. She said only, "I believe so."
Her mother smiled faintly. "I suppose you heard about it from the girls at school." Anne's face must have betrayed her surprise, because Lady Wentworth laughed and reminded her, "I was at school once myself, you know." She hesitated, then asked, "Do you have any questions for me?"
Even if she had, Anne was not entirely sure that she would have been able to ask. She shook her head mutely.
Her mother continued, choosing her words carefully, "No matter what the girls may have told you, do not be apprehensive, my dear. There is nothing to fear."
Why does everyone think I am afraid? Mr. and Mrs. Leigh had arrived at Uppercross a few days earlier, and Anne had invited her cousin to Oakmont Park to view her wedding-clothes. At one point, Elizabeth had taken her arm and whispered confidentially, "You need not fear the wedding night, dearest. Charles will know what to do. And it is not so bad, really." Her eyes grew dreamy as she added, "It is actually rather nice." Anne had simply smiled and thanked her cousin, amazed that anyone could think that she feared Charles. But apparently Elizabeth was not alone in her conjectures.
"I could never be afraid of Charles," she said. "In fact, I am rather looking forward to tomorrow night." She blushed, unable to believe that she had made such a remark to her mother.
To her surprise, Lady Wentworth smiled at her. "I am glad to hear that. That is exactly how you should feel." Anne smiled back at her mother, understanding that they had reached a new plateau in their relationship. They were two women now, not so much mother and child.
"You should be abed, and so I will say good-night." Lady Wentworth kissed her daughter on the cheek.
Suddenly Anne flung her arms around her mother's neck. "I love you, Mamma." Can we be mother and daughter again, just for a moment?
Her mother stroked her hair and held her close, as she had when Anne was small. "And I love you. Remember, your father and I will be here for you if you need us." She released her daughter and smiled at her. "But I do not think that you shall. You are a fine young woman, Anne, and will make Charles a good wife. And he will be a good husband. I predict great happiness for you, my dear."
"I am so grateful to you and to Papa for everything. You are the best parents a girl ever had."
Her mother was silent for a moment before she replied, "I think that is the finest compliment I have ever received, or could ever receive. Thank you, Anne." She kissed her again and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.
Uppercross Church
The Next Day
Anne kissed her mother, and Lady Wentworth took her son's arm and allowed him to lead her up the aisle of the tiny church. Anne looked down at her bouquet of roses and then up at her father, who had said barely a word to her since she had come downstairs in her wedding-dress back at Oakmont Park.
Sophie, with unusual perspicacity, had left them alone and was waiting at the door for the signal to start the procession up the aisle. There was no time for Anne to have many words with her father. She simply turned to him and said, "I am ready, Papa."
Sir Frederick, despite his proudly stern countenance that had left many a lieutenant quaking in his boots, was an affectionate father, and he was not untouched by the emotion of his daughter's wedding day. "You look beautiful, Annie girl."
She smiled. "I thank you, sir. You paid for the dress, you know."
Her father laughed. "Yes, I am well aware of the money I have laid out for this soiree, and I don't begrudge a farthing, my girl." He touched her under the chin. "When did you become a woman?" he asked softly. "Last time I looked, you were a little girl on my knee, and when I turned around you were putting up your hair and going to balls." He sighed. "I regret so much that I was not at home more often while you and your brother and sister were growing up."
"But we always knew you loved us, and that is the most important thing."
"If you ever need anything--" He did not finish the sentence; Anne was surprised to see that her father was unable to speak.
"I know. I have always been able to depend on you. I know that does not end because I am living in another man's house." She embraced her father, who held her tightly, although he was sufficiently knowledgeable after nearly five and twenty years of marriage that he did so without creasing her gown or veil.
"I love you, Annie girl."
"I love you, Papa. I always will."
Sophie interrupted them. "Charles is at the altar. It is time, Anne."
Sir Frederick gave his arm to his eldest daughter, but not before admonishing the younger, "You are not to get married until at least five years from now, Sophie. I am an old man and can only take so much." Thus his daughters walked up the aisle wearing broad smiles, matching his own. Only his wife noticed the touch of sorrow in his eyes as he watched his daughter joined with her true love.
Anne remembered little of the ceremony; her principal memory was the expression in Charles' eyes when she repeated her vows. "For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health..."
Charles writhed on the ground, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand and groaning. When she saw him fall, Anne instantly slid out of the saddle and began running as soon as her feet touched the ground. She pulled off her hat, struggling to free herself from the winding veil, and tossed it aside.
Kneeling before her husband, she cried, "Where are you hurt, Charles?" She touched his arm where he was holding it, causing him to cry out in pain.
"No, Anne!" he cried. "I have dislocated my shoulder. Do not touch it." He groaned again loudly.
Anne looked around. The horses stood together nearby, nosing at the grass by the fence. She directed a malevolent glare at the gelding that Charles had been riding, which had refused to take the fence; when the horse stopped, Charles had been leaning forward, preparing for the jump, and his momentum had carried him from the horse's back. A lesser horseman than her husband could have been injured much more severely by such a fall. Her own mare, a slow but tractable creature, stood quietly. Anne was sure that she could climb up on the fence and get back in the saddle without assistance.
"I will ride to town and bring back a surgeon," she said.
"No! I do not want you riding round Lyme by yourself." Charles struggled to sit up, his face pale with pain. "Help me up and I will ride back myself."
"You cannot ride in your condition, Charles! I will make you comfortable and then go for help."
"No, Anne, I must insist. I have had this injury before. When I was a child, I dislocated my collarbone, and I have had problems with this shoulder ever since." He managed to rise to a sitting position. "Help me stand up, love, and bring that devil of a horse to me, and I will ride back with you."
The surgeon was a capable man of middle age. He exuded a comforting air that settled Anne's jangled nerves, and further soothed her by politely ejecting the landlord, his wife, and several shrieking maids from their rooms. Turning to his patient, he waited calmly while Anne carefully removed her husband's shirt, gingerly working around the injured shoulder.
Mr. Stirling inspected the shoulder, Charles flinching with each gentle touch. "You say you have dislocated your shoulder in the past?"
"Yes," said Charles. "Not for several years now, but it has happened when I was younger."
The surgeon's voice was compassionate. "Then you know what comes next."
Charles nodded grimly. "I am ready. It is best to get it over with quickly."
Their conversation alarmed Anne greatly. "What are you going to do to him?" she cried.
Mr. Stirling answered. "The shoulder has to be put back into position." He looked at Anne. "It will be quite painful for your husband, ma'am," he said quietly. "Perhaps you should leave the room."
"No. I will stay with my husband." Her face was pale, but she was resolute.
The surgeon nodded. "Then you may assist." He helped Charles to lean forward in the bed, then indicated that Anne should sit behind him and support him. She did so, and tried to take Charles' hand, but her husband would not allow it.
"I would only hurt you," he said softly, increasing his wife's agitation.
"Do you have a towel or a cloth of some kind?" Mr. Stirling asked. Anne, mystified, pointed to a clean towel lying on a table nearby. The surgeon handed it to Charles, who surprised his wife by folding it and placing it between his teeth.
"Are you ready?" Mr. Stirling asked Charles, who took a deep breath and nodded. Before Anne could react, the surgeon manipulated the younger man's arm. Charles gave a shout, muffled by the cloth, and went limp.
"Charles!" cried Anne, greatly alarmed at seeing her husband unconscious.
The surgeon removed the towel from his patient's mouth. "He has fainted from the pain. It is better so, ma'am." He bound the injured arm so that it was immobile, then helped Anne ease Charles back against the pillow and cover him with the quilt. "I will have the apothecary send up some laudanum. Your husband should be back to normal in a sen'night, but he will have pain in the meantime." He looked down at Charles consideringly. "You say your name is Musgrove?"
"Yes, sir."
"That name sounds very familiar. I cannot quite place it." He shook his head. "That is what advancing age does to one, ma'am."
"When will he be able to travel? We were to return home the day after tomorrow."
"He should be able to travel by then. If there are any further problems, you may send for me."
Anne saw him out and collapsed into a chair next to the bed. She watched Charles sleep for a few minutes, then roused herself. I must send a message to his parents, she thought in exhaustion. And to my parents as well. She pulled herself from the chair and went to the writing-desk, where she composed two short notes, attempting to give the news without raising undue alarm. After all, he will recover completely. There is no reason to cause our parents apprehension. Anne smiled in spite of herself when she thought of Charles' mother's reaction to the news. My uncle will be able to calm her, I hope. She took the notes to the landlord, who arranged to have them sent immediately by special messenger.
Charles regained consciousness soon after the bottle of laudanum arrived from the apothecary. He was in considerable pain, so Anne dropped out a dose for him, then helped him drink a bit of broth. She took up her position in a chair drawn near the bed and read to him.
"I must apologize, love," he interrupted.
Anne looked up in surprise. "Why?"
Charles blinked his eyes slowly; the laudanum was going to work. "I should not have tried to take that fence on a strange mount. I can no longer afford to be reckless. I am a married man now, and I have you to think of."
Despite the day's distress, Anne could hardly help smiling. "Only you would think of me at such a time, my love." She rose and went to the bed, laying her hand across his forehead. "Do not worry about me, Charles. Get your rest. It is my job now to take care of you."
His eyelids fluttered and shut as she spoke, and he fell into a restless sleep. He did not wake as Anne picked disconsolately at her dinner and then returned to the chair next to the bed with her crocheting. The activity soothed her, the rise and fall of the hook, the stitches that grew into rows that grew into inch after inch of intricate lace. Occasionally Charles would groan or murmur in his sleep, and she would put down the work and rearrange the quilts. His brow was warm; the surgeon had warned that Charles might suffer from a fever during his convalescence. Anne soaked a cloth with cold water and bathed his face. She stroked his hair, softly singing a lullaby as she would to a child, which seemed to soothe him. She did not know that her mother had performed the same actions five and twenty years before, when a small boy had suffered a similar injury.
At last he was still, and she returned to the chair. Too fatigued to work, she extinguished the candle and sat quietly, watchful for any sign of distress. Charles was still, and Anne finally drifted off into sleep, still upright in the chair.
Part VIII
Anne jerked awake at first light, momentarily disoriented at finding herself still fully-dressed, her back and neck stiff and painful from spending the night sitting upright. She quickly reclaimed her surroundings, and her next thought was for Charles. He was sleeping peacefully; his skin was cool, and he was smiling slightly. I wonder what you are dreaming, my love? She covered him carefully and dropped a light kiss on his forehead.
An hour later, bathed and dressed in fresh clothes, she felt able to face whatever the day might bring. Charles woke at nine, and she helped him to bathe, dress, and eat some tea and toast. He was still out of sorts from the laudanum, but refused to take another dose. "I dislike having my head so muddled," he told her.
He sat quietly, awake but with his eyes closed, as Anne read to him from a volume of Byron he had brought along. Charles generally preferred prose to poetry, but the tales of chivalry and adventure that he most admired did not seem appropriate when he sat so limply, his arm caught in the sling she had fashioned for him from a length of white muslin.
Shortly before noon, there was a commotion in the hallway outside their rooms. Anne rose from her chair and went to investigate. Before she reached the door, it burst open and admitted Charles' parents.
Mrs. Musgrove's face was red and wet with tears. "Charles! Oh, my poor son!" She flung herself on him, sobbing.
"Mind my shoulder, Mamma," said Charles mildly, patting her back with his uninjured arm.
Mr. Musgrove smiled warmly. "Hello, Anne," he said, kissing her on the cheek. "Your mother wanted to come, but she thought Charles' mother should have precedence." His expression did not indicate whether he agreed with Lady Wentworth's assessment of the situation. "Walter drove down with us. He is taking care of the coach and should be up directly." He pulled his weeping wife away from Charles, steering her into a nearby chair, where she sat sobbing into a wilted handkerchief. Mr. Musgrove smiled fondly at his eldest son and ruffled his hair, then to Anne's pleased surprise leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead with rough affection.
Charles grinned up at his father. "Hello, Papa," he said.
"Well, Charles," his father declared, "I have always said that Lyme and the Musgroves do not mix. Luckily you have a harder head than your Aunt Louisa."
"What happened to Mrs. Benwick here?" asked Anne curiously.
"Have you never heard that story? Long ago, before you were born, Anne, she fell from the Cobb and struck her head. She was insensible for several days." Mr. Musgrove sighed. "She has never been the same since, really. She used to be more lively and outgoing before the accident."
Anne thought about Captain Benwick's quiet, timid wife and tried to imagine her as a vivacious young girl. She was probably much like Eliza. Elizabeth resembled her aunt Benwick physically; it was probable that their dispositions were alike as well.
"Why," Charles said, laughing, "was Captain Benwick not about to catch her in his strong arms and bear her away from danger? Lord Byron would be ashamed of him." He grinned at Anne, who shook her head at him, although she was unable to stop her own smile.
Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove looked at each other uneasily, then at Anne. "No," said Mr. Musgrove. "No one was near enough to catch her." Anne wondered at their expressions, but dismissed the matter from her mind when she heard the door open again and looked up to see Charles' brother.
Walter grinned down at her, handsomer than ever in his clerical black. "You seem to be holding up, love," he said quietly, kissing her on the cheek. "Although I expected no less." He went to his brother and clasped his right hand. "What are you about, Charles, ruining Anne's honeymoon? I am tempted to lobby my bishop on her behalf for an annulment."
Charles smiled at Anne. "You should ask my wife if she wants an annulment."
"Of course not," replied Anne. "I married Charles knowing that I would have to accept you as a brother, Walter. Why should a mere shoulder injury frighten me away now?"
"Bravo!" declared Walter, delighted at her lively response, and Mr. Musgrove and Charles laughed appreciatively.
Charles' mother was not amused. "How can you laugh about such a thing?" she asked her husband. "Your son and heir lies there wounded! He could have been killed! I hope that horse was shot! No one should be forced to ride such a creature."
"Mamma, 'twas not the horse's fault," sighed Charles wearily. "I have been spoiled by Wilfred. I do not think he has refused a fence in all the time I have had him. I should have been better prepared for the horse to stop."
"I do not like it," said Mrs. Musgrove darkly. "What would Anne have done if you were seriously injured? I will fret myself to death with worry over you boys, as if I am not already ill enough."
"I am sure that you would all like some tea after your journey," said Anne hastily.
"I have ordered a nuncheon for us," said Mr. Musgrove, "and then we shall depart."
"Depart?" cried Anne. "We were not to leave until tomorrow."
"Under the circumstances, Anne, we thought it best to come down and fetch you both home as soon as possible."
Anne looked at Charles, who nodded his agreement to his father's plan. "I had best see to the packing, then," she said.
The landlord's wife sent two maidservants to assist in the packing, and all was soon ready. They hastily ate their cold meat and reassembled outside the inn. Anne, Charles and Mrs. Musgrove climbed into the Musgrove coach, and Walter and his father followed in a hired chaise.
Charles had taken a dose of laudanum before their departure but was still uncomfortable, restlessly changing positions to prevent his shoulder from being jolted. At last Anne took a coach-blanket and folded it. She placed it in her lap and coaxed Charles to lie down on his uninjured side with his head on the blanket; finally he acquiesced and was soon asleep. Anne smiled down at him affectionately, gently stroking his hair. She looked up to find her mother-in-law's eyes upon her.
"You love him very much," said Mrs. Musgrove.
"I do," replied Anne, with some emotion.
Mrs. Musgrove was silent for a moment. "His father and I love him as well. Perhaps we do not always show it as best we might."
"He knows. And he returns your affection," Anne said softly.
Mrs. Musgrove leaned over and stroked his forehead softly. Charles murmured slightly in his sleep and turned his face so that his cheek lay against her hand. She smiled tremulously at her son, and then at her daughter.
"He knows his mother's hand," said Anne, smiling gently.
"I suspect he would rather it were his wife's," responded Mrs. Musgrove with an arch smile. "I am glad he married you, Anne. We have always gotten along well, have we not? And now that Eliza has gone away, you shall be my comfort."
Anne's calm demeanour did not reveal her alarm at this prospect. "I shall try to do so, ma'am."
Mrs. Musgrove was well satisfied with her answer, and returned to staring out the window at the passing landscape.
At last they arrived at Uppercross, and the coach pulled up to the Cottage. Anne disembarked and looked at her home with all the pride of the new homemaker. It may have been a simple farmhouse, improved with French windows and a verandah, but she could not have been more delighted if it were a palace.
Thomas came forward and greeted her shyly, then helped his master out of the coach. Charles looked around him blearily, and allowed himself to be taken into the house by his faithful servant.
Mrs. Rudd stood ready to greet them. She clucked over Charles; she had assisted in the Uppercross nursery when he and Walter were children, and she still regarded them as naughty little boys. "Ah, Mr. Charles," she declared. "That's what happens when you go gallivanting off to strange parts. An Uppercross horse would not have thrown you, I'll stake my honour upon it!"
"Go right upstairs and get into bed," Anne said to him softly. "I shall come up in a moment, when I have everything sorted out here." Charles nodded and ascended the stairs to their bed-chamber.
Lady Wentworth was waiting in the sitting-room. Anne embraced her mother warmly, then removed her hat and smiled at Rose, who was hovering nearby. "Will you bring tea for my guests, Rose? And please have a tray taken up to Mr. Musgrove. I am sure that he will find it welcome after the journey."
"Yes, ma'am," Rose responded, then bobbed a curtsey and scurried off to fulfill her mistress' commands.
"Your father, and Edward and Sophie as well, wanted to greet you," Lady Wentworth told her daughter. "But I convinced them that you would be fatigued after your trip and they agreed to wait until tomorrow."
"Thank you, Mamma," said Anne gratefully. "I must get Charles settled. Will you pour the tea for me, please?"
Lady Wentworth hesitated. "I had hoped to see Charles myself."
Mrs. Musgrove graciously agreed to pour the tea when it arrived, happy to preside in the house where she had once been mistress, and Anne took her mother up to the bed-chamber.
Charles had managed to get undressed and into bed by himself. He opened his eyes and smiled when they entered the bed-chamber, but Anne was pained by the dark circles under his eyes. Lady Wentworth went to the bed and kissed him. "Hello, Aunt," he said, smiling up at her. "I am glad you are here. You were always my favourite nurse. You read to me, and sing to me."
Lady Wentworth glanced over at her daughter, her brow contracted in concern. Anne silently mouthed, "Laudanum," and her mother nodded and smiled in comprehension.
"But I think that I prefer Anne now," Charles continued. "Her hands are so nice and warm." He smiled dreamily at his wife, who bit her lips to keep from laughing.
"Perhaps we should leave Charles to get his rest," said Lady Wentworth with a smile.
Anne kissed Charles and whispered, "Ring if you need me." Charles was nearly asleep; he simply nodded, then shut his eyes. Anne adjusted his covers and left the bed-chamber, shutting the door quietly behind her.
Thomas and some other men summoned from Uppercross were unloading the coach, and the Cottage was a bustle of servants and trunks and boxes and people. Anne longed for them all to be gone and leave her to have a quiet cup of tea. But that was not possible, and she drew on her last reserves of energy to entertain her guests.
After they had finished their tea, the Musgroves took their leave. Anne thanked Charles' parents warmly for driving down to Lyme to fetch them. Walter squeezed Anne's hand and said, "Send for me if you have need," and walked off in the direction of the parsonage.
"I will take my leave as well," said Lady Wentworth. "I must confess that I was concerned about Charles, and about you, but now that I have seen you both my mind is at rest." She smiled at her daughter. "I am very proud of you, Anne. You have shown admirable strength these two days."
Anne returned her smile. "That is a gift you have given me, Mamma."
"What do you mean?"
Anne hesitated, trying to frame her words properly. "I have always considered Father the strongest of us, and thought that my own fortitude was a reflection of his. I have come to realize of late that it was you who gave me strength. The strength to wait for Charles to learn to love me, the strength that upheld me when I despaired, the strength that sustained me these past two days. I inherited it from you, Mamma." She embraced her mother. "Thank you for coming here to meet me."
Lady Wentworth kissed her daughter and held her close. "I am glad that I am here, if it helps you, my dear." She looked at Anne closely. "You look exhausted. Lie down on the sofa and try to get some rest before dinner."
"I will," Anne promised, and saw her mother out. She lay down on the sofa and pulled a shawl over her legs, then giggled when she realized that she looked exactly like Charles' mother. We shall make a pretty pair, the Mrs. Musgroves on twin sofas with matching shawls! She inadvertently laughed aloud, then covered her mouth guiltily, hoping that the servants had not heard her laughing while her injured husband lay upstairs. Well, at least I have maintained my sense of humour, in spite of everything. She closed her eyes, still smiling, and fell almost instantly to sleep.
After a short but refreshing nap Anne woke just before six. When she checked on Charles, he had awakened and claimed to be hungry. Mrs. Rudd brought trays of soup and bread to the bed-chamber, and they both ate, Charles only a little clumsily with one hand. The trays were taken away, and Anne read to Charles until his eyes closed. She stayed by his side, her workbasket providing employment as she watched over her injured husband. He was not as restless as he had been the previous night, and finally she put her work away.
Not ready to retire, Anne took a candle and went around the dark, quiet cottage, checking that the doors were locked and that everything was as it should be. She paused for a moment in the sitting-room and ran her hands over the pianoforte that Charles had purchased for her as a wedding present. " 'Tis a selfish gift I give you, love," he had said with a grin. "I give it hoping that you will play for me every night."
"I shall," she had told him, delighted with the beautiful gift. Anne had missed playing while they were in Lyme; the inn did not have a pianoforte. The other girls at school had looked upon music as another accomplishment, another way to catch a man, but Anne made music for her own enjoyment as well as that of her audience. Something else I share with Mother, she thought with a smile. She was disappointed that she had not been able to play for Charles on their first night at home. Perhaps tomorrow he will feel well enough to come down to the sitting-room, and I shall play until my fingers will move no more, if that is his wish.
Anne passed quietly through each room, taking in the freshly-papered walls, the elegant new furniture that was her parents' wedding gift to them, her fancy-work that had been framed and hung on the walls. Everything spoke of home, of happiness, of love, of family. Yes, we have spent enough time dwelling on the past. Our future is here, in this cottage, our home, together.
When she was satisfied that everything was as it should be, she ascended the stairs to prepare for bed. At least tonight I shall have a bed in which to sleep, she thought wearily. Dozing in the chair next to Charles' bed had not provided any real rest.
First, she went into the little chamber that would be Charles' domain. It contained a chair and table, a clothes-press, some bookshelves, and a small bed. When Anne and Charles had toured the house a few days before the wedding, they had laughed together over the perceived need for the last item in the master's dressing-chamber, but tonight she was grateful for it; she would sleep there tonight, and every night until Charles' shoulder healed, she supposed. The little room was tidy, the trunks unpacked and the clothes and books and boots and other things put away neatly. It would do.
In Anne's dressing-chamber, Rose was laying out her nightclothes. The girl unhooked Anne's dress, hung it carefully to air, then untied Anne's stays and helped her to remove them.
"Would you like me to take down your hair, Mrs. Musgrove?" she asked shyly.
Anne smiled at her. "No, thank you, Rose, I shall attend to it myself. Good night."
"Good night, ma'am." The girl curtseyed and left through the other door, which led into the passage.
Anne finished undressing, then put on the pink silk nightdress she had worn on her wedding night. She sat at her dressing-table and unwound her braided chignon, dropping the pins in a small porcelain dish that had also served that purpose on her dressing-table back at Oakmont Park. She had thought it would be strange to see her old things in a new place, but she already felt at home in the Cottage.
Her hair was quickly brushed and neatly braided into a single long plait, as it had been each night before her marriage. Charles loves it down, but there is no point tonight. Anne took her candle and went back into the bed-chamber to check on her husband one last time before retiring.
He lay with his eyes closed, his brow smooth and cool. There was a fine fire burning, and she knew he would be warm and comfortable through the night. Anne felt suddenly reluctant to go into the other chamber, into the cold and lonely bed that awaited her. An errant curl hung over his forehead, and she brushed it back gently. "How shall I sleep tonight without you?" she asked him softly, not expecting an answer. "Every night of our marriage, save last night, I have fallen asleep to the sound of your heartbeat. It will be much too quiet in that little room." She sighed, then leaned over and kissed him. "Good night, my love. Sleep well." She adjusted the bed-curtains so that the side facing the fireplace was open, and turned away.
Before she reached the door, she heard Charles call her name. She turned back and saw that he had opened his eyes and was smiling at her. "What is it, Charles? Do you need anything?"
"I just need my wife," he said.
Anne smiled and returned to his side. "I am here, my love, as long as you need me." She sat on the edge of the bed. "Can I do anything for you? Are you in pain? Should I get you some more laudanum?"
"No, no," he groaned, shaking his head. "No more of that. Now that I am home, the shoulder will be well in a few days. I have the strangest dreams when I take it, and then I wake up and think I am still in the dream. I do not like feeling so disoriented, and the pain is not so bad."
"Very well."
Charles looked up at her curiously, then tugged gently on the end of her braid, which hung over her shoulder. "What is this, love?" He pulled the bit of ribbon she had tied on the end, and it slid from the braid. "Your hair is so pretty. Will you take it down for me?"
"Of course." She quickly unplaited the braid and shook out her hair. It cascaded around her shoulders as she bent over him.
"Beautiful," he whispered. He reached up with his uninjured hand and combed through her hair with his fingers, then slipped his hand into the nape of her neck, carefully pulling her head down to his. As their lips met, Charles forgot his injury and tried to take her in his arms, then groaned at the misery in his injured shoulder. He looked at her ruefully. "Still a few days yet, I think."
Anne smiled down at him. "You need your rest. I will go in the other room now."
"Why? Stay here and sleep with me, love." He grinned at her. "After all, how will you be able to sleep if you cannot hear my heartbeat?"
"You were awake!" Anne laughed.
Charles looked sheepish. "Would you believe me if I told you it would have taken more energy than I possessed to open my eyes just then? I tell you, that laudanum does strange things to a man."
"Yes, I believe you." Someday she would tell him about some of the things he had said while under the influence of the drug. I do not feel nearly as silly about the way I behaved on our wedding night now! she thought with a grin.
But there was no humour in her husband's eyes, only love. "Will you stay with me, love?" He caressed her face with his right hand. "I still have one good arm to put around you."
"I will stay," she said quietly. She extinguished the candle and lay down next to Charles. Yes, this is right, she thought. This is where I belong, with my husband, here in our home.
Charles' arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her close. She looked into his eyes, glowing golden in the firelight. "I love you so much," she whispered. "Good night."
"Good night, Anne. Sleep well. And know that I love you." She leaned closer and kissed him warmly, then rested her head against his chest, delighting in the feeling of his hand stroking her back. After a few moments, she finally distinguished his heartbeat, slow and steady, mingled with her own, lighter and faster. The weariness of the past two days descended upon her suddenly, and she closed her eyes, listening to the two pulses as she drifted into sleep. And as she listened, somehow, by her will, or by his, or by pure chance, the two separate cadences resolved into one, beating together in the darkness.