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“It is done,” said Lady Russell, with gentle firmness, “and it is done for the best.”
Anne, eyes downcast, only nodded mutely in response.
“You have done what was right,” Lady Russell went on, refusing to be discouraged. “Once the first pangs of parting are past, your heart, too, will come to accept it.” She reached out to press Anne’s hand. “I do not by any means underestimate your present sufferings. A tender nature such as yours cannot but be affected when obliged to give pain to another. But time, my dearest Anne, will heal his wound as well as yours – and in your case, it shall be aided by the consolation of a clear conscience.”
“You are right, of course,” said Anne in a hoarse voice, still not looking up. “I know that I have made the – the prudent choice for us both. I only wish—”
But Lady Russell was never to discover what wishes Anne might have wanted to confide. A bout of coughing overcame the girl, shaking her entire frame with its force. Her handkerchief, though quickly applied, was not quite in time: one large, bright-yellow flower escaped capture, tumbling to the floor at her feet. Lady Russell observed it with faint distaste. Its bold, brilliant colour appeared almost offensive amid the restrained elegance of her sitting room.
A stifled sob drew her attention back to Anne’s countenance.
“There, now, my dear,” she said soothingly. “You need not speak of it, if it distresses you. Indeed, perhaps it is better not to. It can do no good to dwell on what might have been.”
Anne nodded again, lips trembling. Lady Russell, casting about in vain for a change of topic, ventured one or two remarks about the closeness of the air in the room and the merits and risks of opening a window, but she received only brief, listless replies. Anne’s mind was clearly elsewhere, and Lady Russell had little doubt of the chief – perhaps sole – occupant of her thoughts.
It was the chiming of the clock which at last roused Anne from her stupor, though she seemed to recall her surroundings only with an effort.
“It is growing late,” she said dully. “I ought to go home.”
Lady Russell protested. Anne’s feelings were evidently still unsettled – indeed, she looked almost ill. She had much better stay and dine at the Lodge or even remain Lady Russell’s guest for the night. A servant might be sent to Kellynch Hall to inform her father.
But Anne was not to be swayed, nor could she be induced to accept Lady Russell’s offer of ordering the carriage. Anne meant to walk, and Lady Russell, comprehending (though not fully approving of) her desire for solitude, was at length obliged to yield. She could only comfort herself, as she stood at the window watching Anne’s slight figure disappear beyond the gate, that Captain Wentworth must have long since returned to Monkford. There could be little danger of an unexpected meeting.
It must not be thought that Lady Russell was entirely unfeeling. It pained her greatly to see her god-daughter so miserable, and could she have relieved Anne’s suffering by taking it upon herself, she would have done so without hesitation.
Nevertheless, Lady Russell was firm in her conviction of having acted rightly. Anne’s entanglement with Captain Wentworth – for the sorry affair, in Lady Russell’s view, could merit no kinder term – had been dangerous and imprudent from the first. Lady Russell rejoiced in its ending and felt no compunction for doing so. If Anne must spend a few weeks nursing a bruised heart and strewing flowers in her wake, it was a small price to pay for her escape. Far better that she should suffer the lovers’ disease now, rather than finding herself similarly afflicted in a year or two, as a penniless widow estranged from her family. The sickness might be violent after a first disappointment, but when the attachment had been brief, recovery also tended to be rapid.
Some slight unease, it must be admitted, assailed Lady Russell on this last score – not due to any doubts regarding the correctness of her advice but rather because of Anne’s disposition. She was a girl of strong attachments and steady affections, and she had been very much in love with Captain Wentworth. Lady Russell did not give much credit to old wives’ tales of disappointed lovers wasting away amid droves of petals, but neither could she feel entirely complacent. Love-sickness was generally a harmless, if embarrassing, ailment, but to a person of strong sensibility, it could sometimes pose a real danger.
Still, Lady Russell reminded herself, Anne was a reasonable girl with little taste for excessive displays of emotion. She would not court misery by indulging in dangerous daydreams or recollections. Nor did Lady Russell mean to leave Anne to her own devices. No, Anne would have the benefits of proper guidance and suitable distractions. A few weeks in Bath, with more varied entertainments and society at her disposal and Lady Russell to direct her mind away from any threatening lapse into melancholy, would aid her in putting Captain Wentworth out of her mind.
Lady Russell turned away from the window, her equanimity restored. She swept out of the room, determined to begin arranging the trip at once.
The yellow flower she left on the floor, crushed flat under a quick, firm heel.
“An application?” inquired Sir Walter, with cold suspicion. “And from what sort of person might it be?”
“An Admiral Croft,” replied Mr Shepherd, undaunted by Sir Walter’s forbidding tone. “A most respectable, gentlemanly sort of man, I assure you. I understand he has acquired a very handsome fortune at sea – but Miss Anne, are you quite well?”
Miss Anne, who had hitherto been quietly occupied by her embroidery, could not reply at once, for she was presently in the grips of a violent fit of coughing.
“For Heaven’s sake, Anne,” exclaimed Miss Elliot irritably from the other side of the room, “do try to control yourself! You have quite made me forget what I was saying to Mrs Clay.”
“Coughing,” said Sir Walter severely, “is a most inelegant habit. I have often observed its ruinous effects upon the complexion. I grant you that the first flush produced by a fit of coughing may be mistaken by some for the glow of health – though a truly superior complexion is never ruddy – but if one makes a habit of it, the results are entirely dreadful. It dulls the skin, robs the lips of colour and creates, in a few short weeks, such a woefully haggard appearance that one is not fit to be seen.”
What effects Miss Anne’s countenance had suffered could not yet be determined, as she had turned away to conceal her face. However, she was able, albeit in a voice somewhat breathless and muffled, to disclaim any distress and beg Mr Shepherd to continue.
Mr Shepherd, perceiving Sir Walter’s growing impatience, complied. Miss Anne eventually recovered enough to make a few short contributions to the conversation, though she almost fell into another coughing fit when attempting to supply the name of the former curate of Monkford.
Still, despite being largely deprived of his best ally, Mr Shepherd did at last succeed in convincing Sir Walter to give Admiral Croft an audience. It was thus with no little satisfaction that he turned his gig homeward. Sir Walter Elliot might yet be steered away from the brink of ruin, and his employees and dependents – Mr Shepherd included – might be spared the consequences of his downfall.
Time, however, was of the essence. Sir Walter must not be allowed to delay his removal to Bath, lest he begin to have second thoughts about quitting Kellynch and upset all Mr Shepherd’s carefully planned schemes.
“Let us hope that Miss Anne is not unwell,” he remarked to his daughter. “It would be a most unfortunate time for illness in the family.”
Had Mr Shepherd chanced to look back towards the house as he drove, he might have been reassured by the sight of Anne Elliot slipping quietly out through the garden door; though had he observed the direction which she took, he would perhaps have been a little surprised to note that she was heading for the old horse pond. The flower gardens and shrubberies of Kellynch were arranged in accordance with the eldest Miss Elliot’s impeccable taste and were widely admired by her neighbours for their fashionable (and expensive) selection of flowers and greenery. The old horse pond, on the other hand, could boast no particular attractions, unless the abundance of yellow irises littering its banks might be counted as such.
Nevertheless, Anne’s gaze lingered long on the flowers swaying in the breeze – but if any sigh or whisper escaped her lips, no one was there to hear it.
It was over. He had seen her; they had met; they had been once more in the same room – and he was satisfied to find himself nearly entirely unaffected.
It had, admittedly, been something of a shock to find Anne so changed, but he did not think anybody else had noted his surprise. On the contrary, he had been almost amazed at his own composure. Despite having long since cast her out of his heart – despite his affection for her being long since extinguished – he had wondered whether the sight of her might conjure up some ghost of past sentiment. Now, however, such fears could be put to rest. She had been so colourless and faded, had borne so little resemblance to the Anne Elliot he had once known, that he would have no difficulty meeting her as a common and indifferent acquaintance.
It was a brisk October day, and the chill, dry air seemed to irritate his chest – evidence, perhaps, that he had grown too used to the milder climate of the Mediterranean. He cleared his throat to dislodge the congestion.
Miss Musgrove, in the middle of saying something to her sister, turned towards him at the sound.
“Oh! But I forgot that I meant to ask you, Captain Wentworth – what did you think of Anne? You were a little acquainted with her, were you not, when you were last in the country?”
He spoke without hesitation.
“Why – she was so altered I should scarcely have known her again.”
Seldom did more than two days pass without the ladies of Uppercross Cottage walking over to Uppercross Hall. Mary could not bear that others should have any entertainment or novelty without her, and so, despite frequently fancying herself slighted by the Miss Musgroves, she was obliged to be constantly visiting them to make sure that she was not being excluded. Ever since Captain Wentworth had joined their circle, she had put much importance on timing her visits for whenever he was likeliest to be calling. Anne would have preferred to do the opposite, but as she could not be forever making up excuses to absent herself, it was inevitable that she should occasionally encounter the Captain on their morning calls.
On these occasions, the pianoforte was often her refuge – an instrument being a most convenient object for anybody wishing to be excused from conversation without appearing unsociable. Mr and Mrs Musgrove had little interest in music except when their own daughters were playing, and the chief part of everybody else’s attention was fixed on Captain Wentworth. Anne was thus at liberty to occupy herself with her playing without fear of drawing anybody’s notice.
Such was the case on a late October morning too wet for sport but not so wet as to keep everybody entirely bound to their own hearths and homes. Mary and Anne had braved the walk to the Great House, where they had found the Captain in the parlour with the family.
“Captain Wentworth!” cried Louisa from the sofa, where she and Henrietta were sitting together, poring over embroidery patterns. “You must help us decide, for we have too many patterns to choose from. I mean to embroider this bit of trim for my blue muslin dress, and Henrietta wants to decorate her new reticule, but we can neither of us come to a decision.”
“I should be glad to give you all the assistance in my power,” replied Captain Wentworth smilingly, “but you seek it from the wrong quarter. I may have done my share of sewing on buttons as a midshipman, but fancy-work is quite beyond me – and a sailor, you know, cannot be expected to keep up with what is in vogue on shore. We are always sadly ignorant of the latest styles.”
“Oh, but you need not know anything of that sort,” said Henrietta eagerly. “We have decided on floral patterns already, for they are never out of fashion. You need only look at these designs and tell us which flowers you like best.”
“Flowers? Why, the shabbiest bit of vegetation becomes a fine novelty when one has been aboard ship for a month or two. I have not had variety enough to make me nice. Give me but some pretty colours and a pleasant scent, and I will be all admiration.”
Despite his professed reluctance, Captain Wentworth had wandered closer to the sofa as he spoke and now leaned down to inspect the patterns offered for his perusal.
“The only advice I shall venture to give,” he went on as he leafed through the sheets, “is that you must not pick anything insipid. None of your delicate cornflowers, if you please – no bluebells, or May-lilies, or the like. If a flower has not a certain boldness, a certain brilliance, I cannot care for it.”
“What can you mean by such abuse?” cried Louisa, though the sparkle in her eye was playful rather than angry. “May-lilies are so very darling – and as for cornflowers, how can you call them insipid? Why, they are as bright and pretty as anything!”
“Ah,” said Captain Wentworth, “but it does not last! The cornflower, Miss Louisa, is a fickle one. It will tempt you to pick it – but then it will fade and lose all its lovely colour. You must not rely on it.”
Louisa, however, was not to be so easily convinced. To her spirited defence of the gentler flowers, Captain Wentworth responded with playful solemnity, while Henrietta sided and disagreed with each by turns. So absorbed were they in the noise and laughter of their debate that the brief pause in the music went quite unnoticed.
Even if Captain Wentworth had happened to glance towards the pianoforte – if he had happened to see, out of the corner of his eye, a handkerchief swiftly pressed to trembling lips and just as swiftly slipped out of sight – he could not have made out the embroidery on the little square of fabric. If he had imagined a flash of blue and yellow – well, imagination was all there could have been to it. A moment later, Anne Elliot’s fingers were flying over the keys again and Captain Wentworth’s eyes were firmly fixed on Louisa Musgrove’s laughing countenance.
The handkerchief, with its intricate pattern of flowers intertwined, remained safely tucked away for the rest of the visit.
“Now, Miss Elliot,” said Admiral Croft, leaning closer to Anne and lowering his voice, “which of them do you think he means to have?”
The he indicated by the Admiral’s significant nod was presently leaning against the chimney-piece in a leisurely attitude, providing an appreciative audience for the Miss Musgroves’ musical performance. The young ladies formed a very pretty picture: Henrietta, rosy-cheeked, at the harp, and Louisa, bright-eyed and confident, standing beside her to sing. Henrietta was, in Anne’s judgement, the more accomplished musician of the two, but Louisa had the livelier manner; and while Henrietta looked a little bashful as her sister sang of rose-buds and true hearts, Louisa boldly met Captain Wentworth’s eye.
“He is taking his time choosing,” the Admiral went on, “and I cannot tell which one he likes better. I wish he would make up his mind and settle the matter. They are both very nice young ladies, but in the end, he can only marry one of them. But what say you, Miss Elliot – which shall it be?”
“My dear Admiral,” Mrs Croft broke in from his other side, “you must not force Miss Elliot into such speculation.” She smiled at Anne. “Sailors, you know, have a reputation for efficiency in matters of the heart. I believe three weeks’ acquaintance would not be thought so very long a courtship in your circle.”
Anne was saved from replying by the end of the performance, as the applause and entreaties for another song would have drowned out anything she might have said. The Admiral, however, had not yet finished with the subject.
“Well, and what good will come from waiting?” he retorted as soon as the noise had died down a little. “The girls are both love-sick enough, and I dare say one of them is as good as the other. Frederick had better make his choice and be done with it.”
As if to prove the Admiral’s point, two or three bright-yellow petals escaped from Louisa’s lips as she laughed at something that Captain Wentworth was saying. Henrietta, meanwhile, had turned away to blushingly conceal her mouth with her handkerchief.
“One would think,” Admiral Croft observed, “that they would grow tired of all that hacking and sneezing. I am glad that we did not have to suffer from it for long. I did not much care for having those little flowers everywhere, though I grant you they smelled very sweet. I can never recall the name of the plant – some girl’s name it was, one of those fine ones which I always forget. They grow all over Gibraltar, however, and quite pretty they are to look at, as long as they are not coming out of one’s nose. Well, but there was a quick cure for that – how many days was it, Sophy, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?”
“We had better not talk about it, my dear,” replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly, “for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before.”
“Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? If we had dilly-dallied the way Frederick is doing, I should have been obliged to go off to sea again alone, and we might both have had flowers growing out of our ears by the time I returned. A great deal of nonsense and trouble that would have been.”
“Oh, indeed,” agreed Mrs Croft. “In our case, it was much better to marry at once. I do not know how I should have survived a long engagement. You see, Miss Elliot” – turning to Anne – “I scarcely had time to be touched by the illness before we married, but I had a dreadful time of it some years later, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North Seas. I passed the winter by myself at Deal, and such a gloomy winter it was! I lived in perpetual fright at that time, not knowing when I should hear from him next, or whether he was alive or dead. Whenever there was too long a time between letters, I came close to coughing my lungs out. No, I hold that there is nothing worse for a young couple than separation.”
Anne, resisting the urge to glance towards the other side of the room, murmured some brief words of assent. Thankfully, the Miss Musgroves chose this moment to begin their next song, and the subject of Captain Wentworth’s courtship must be closed for the present.
Yet, as the evening wore on, Anne could not help observing that the symptoms of love were not quite equally distributed between the three. The girls coughed and blushed – but Captain Wentworth, despite all his smiles and gallantry, never once had recourse to his handkerchief.
“Oh,” complained Mary, “I wish that Charles Hayter had stayed away a little longer. Captain Wentworth prefers Henrietta over Louisa, I am sure he does, and they might very soon have had everything settled between them – but now Charles Hayter must come and throw everything into confusion again. If only Henrietta would stay firm and discourage his pretensions! It would be a dreadful connection for our family. Besides, I have always thought clover a very low sort of plant.”
Henrietta’s feelings did indeed seem to be in something of a muddle. Her attachment to her cousin was of too long standing to be easily relinquished at once, but a Captain Wentworth – handsome, dashing and gallant – must present a formidable rival to a bookish country curate. For a week or two, the humble clover, which the maidservants had been used to picking up in Henrietta’s wake, had been entirely supplanted. Then Charles Hayter’s return had made her waver again. Mary had even heard from Jemima the nursery-maid – who in turn had it from the upper house-maid at the Great House – that Miss Henrietta had, after the two gentlemen’s latest call, been seen coughing up two sorts of flower at once.
After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the field. Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a most decided change. He had even refused one regular invitation to dinner; and had been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove looking almost feverish as he pored over his books, heaps of pink blossoms scattered all over the room. Mr and Mrs Musgrove talked, with grave faces, of his making himself seriously ill.
Anne did not wish to attribute guilt to anybody. Captain Wentworth could not have known of the prior claim on Henrietta’s affections, and if those affections had shifted, it would be best for all involved that the change should be understood and accepted as soon as possible.
Still, Anne could not help feeling a particular sympathy for Charles Hayter. Having had some experience of the sort of pain he must presently be suffering, she could only be glad that he was not obliged to stand silent witness to his rival’s success.
“I wish that Mary were not always fretting and fussing so,” came Louisa’s voice from somewhere in the hedge-row. “It provokes me excessively, the way she carries on!”
Anne, concealed from sight under a bush of low rambling holly, held herself as still as she could. Trapped in her position as reluctant eavesdropper, she could only hope that Louisa and the Captain would soon move away.
“Mary is forever fancying herself ill,” Louisa went on, “and making poor Anne tend to her, when it is really Anne who is in delicate health.”
“She is unwell?” asked Captain Wentworth rather sharply. “Miss Anne, that is?”
“Oh,” cried Louisa, “not very unwell – and you must not mention it to her, for she does not like anybody to take notice of it. But one cannot help seeing how much she coughs; and she used to sing so prettily, but now she says she has not the voice for it. And yet she never complains, while Mary thinks herself indisposed if she so much as sneezes. We do so wish that Charles had married Anne instead. I suppose you know he wanted to marry Anne?”
After a moment’s pause, Captain Wentworth said, “Do you mean that she refused him?”
“Oh! Yes; certainly.”
“When did that happen?”
“I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time; but I believe about a year before he married Mary. I do remember that Charles was quite miserable when we came home for Christmas – love-sick, you know, and leaving flowers all about. But he was more or less recovered by summer, and the next thing we knew, he was courting Mary. We should all have liked Anne a great deal better, however; and papa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell’s doing that she did not accept him.”
“Well,” said Captain Wentworth, after another brief silence, “let us hope that Miss Anne is not too badly tired by our walk.”
“She is a better walker than Mary,” said Louisa, “and even Mary is not really tired. She only wished to avoid visiting Winthrop. It is that detestable Elliot pride – the Hayters are not good enough for her.”
The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more. Her own emotions still kept her fixed. What had Captain Wentworth made of Louisa’s incautious remarks? Had he deduced the true nature of Anne’s affliction? He had long since recovered from his affection for her – surely he would not suspect her of any remaining tenderness. Still, there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation. He did not love her; he was growing attached to another; but he was not entirely indifferent. What else he might be thinking or feeling, she could not guess.
“Clover,” Henrietta was saying eagerly, “is such an important, useful flower. I really cannot understand people who do not appreciate it! I think them quite foolish – do not you?”
“It is certainly a very lovely plant,” said Anne mildly – but as she turned her head a little, Wentworth saw that she was concealing a smile. It lit her countenance with a warm glow, adding to the rosy colour which the wind had brought to her cheeks. The sea air, he judged, had done her good. There was a new lightness in her steps, and he had not heard her cough once during their walk. Whatever ailed her (and he had wondered) appeared to respond well enough to a fine, sunny morning and a brisk south-easterly breeze.
“Ah, there are the steps!” exclaimed Louisa, startling him out of his reverie. “And I am quite sure that the shop was not far from the beach. We shall be back at the inn with plenty of time to spare before breakfast.”
Wentworth expressed his agreement, and, to make up for his moment of abstraction, made sure to put on his best air of gallantry as he assisted Louisa up the steps.
But as they ascended, his attention was again drawn to Anne. A man at the top of the steps, waiting his turn to go down, happened to glance her way as she passed – and Wentworth saw, almost as if he had felt it himself, how the stranger was struck by her countenance. The man’s hand went to his pocket, his handkerchief to his lips, in a movement that appeared quite unstudied and involuntary. He turned away at once, but Wentworth had seen all, and the flush in Anne’s cheeks made it evident that she had noticed, too.
The heightened colour – whether from the wind or the stranger’s earnest admiration – remained in Anne’s countenance while the three of them waited for Louisa to make her purchases, and some trace of it still lingered when she entered the dining-room at the inn a half-hour later.
“Anne!” cried Mary Musgrove at once upon seeing her, a rare light of enthusiasm in her eyes. Of course, even she could not have failed to notice the marked improvement in Anne’s looks. Wentworth braced himself to hear it marvelled over, and briefly, it occurred to him to wonder whether Anne would tell her sister of the man by the steps.
“Oh, Anne,” Mary Musgrove went on, “one of the maids here told me that there is a woman in town who sells the most astonishing curios – snake-stones, they are called. You must convince Charles to go with me to see her shop. He says that it is all nonsense and frippery, but I think they sound very elegant – and besides, we must bring something back for the boys.”
Wentworth turned abruptly away, lest his expression should betray his scorn. He ought to have expected no better. Still, as the Miss Musgroves eagerly joined in the debate, he found himself almost absurdly vexed. That they, her friends and relations, should be so blind – that they should pay her less notice than a perfect stranger—!
The entrance of a servant with the coffee urn obliged Wentworth to return his attention to his companions, who had fortunately changed topics; yet it took him far longer than it should have to recall that he had no right – or obligation – to be angry on Anne Elliot’s behalf.
“He that has sailed upon the dark blue sea,
has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight,”
quoted Captain Benwick, looking out at the foam-topped waves beating against the Cobb. “Though I confess, Miss Elliot, that these lines from the third canto are closer yet to my heart:
“I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must withered be,
But yet reject them not as such.”
As Captain Benwick spoke, his hand came up to gently caress the lily pinned to the lapel of his coat; the origin of the flower was betrayed by the white petals blowing away from his lips in the wind.
“I am always reminded of her when I read them,” he went on, “for we would often put pressed flowers in our letters – she from her little garden, I from whichever port I happened to be in. Ah, Miss Elliot, how sweet it was to see those little tokens of home – to know that she had picked them with her own hands – to feel, or perhaps merely imagine, the scents of an English spring and summer!”
Anne gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, perforce, another way.
She would forever recall those dreadful moments at the Cobb as a jumbled confusion of noise and colour. Yet a handful of startlingly clear images would stand out as if etched into her mind. There was Louisa, laughing as she jumped, bright petals floating into the air around her – those same petals, scattered across the hard pavement, now crumpled and lifeless – Henrietta’s bloodless face as she swooned – Captain Benwick’s hat falling to the ground, unheeded, as he raced back towards the town.
And first and last of all there was Captain Wentworth, leaning against the wall with his hand pressed over his mouth – the very picture of a lover in agony.
“No,” said Elizabeth, with a self-satisfied smile, “the misunderstanding with Mr Elliot is all forgot. He has explained all and apologized, and that is the end of it.”
Anne, recalling the bitterness and offense with which Mr Elliot had, until recently, been spoken of, could scarcely conceal her astonishment. She did not know precisely what had happened between Mr Elliot and Elizabeth before his marriage, for Elizabeth had never cared to confide in her younger sisters. She did remember, however, how irritable Elizabeth had been the winter after the event and how determined she had been, the next spring, to rid the Kellynch gardens of dogsbane.
“A fine young man,” Sir Walter concurred. “Very elegant, and his face is exceedingly well shaped, though I must lament his being so under-hung. He was most eager to re-establish the acquaintance – most eager indeed – and he takes great pride in the Elliot name. I understand he has made a thorough study of the Baronetage in recent years.”
“Indeed,” said Mrs Clay, “Mr Elliot seems to me a man of great family feeling – although” – she cast a conspiratorial glance at Elizabeth – “perhaps that is not his only motivation for calling on us so often.”
Elizabeth did not deign to respond, but she did not look at all displeased by the insinuation.
“And his choice of friends speaks much in his favour,” Sir Walter went on. “Colonel Wallis is very gentleman-like, and his wife, we are told, is a great beauty. I quite long to see her.”
“Oh yes,” cried Mrs Clay, “the beautiful Mrs Wallis! We are all so very eager to make her acquaintance.”
“It is truly astonishing,” said Sir Walter, “how many plain women there are in Bath. I have seen such faces as might cure a man of ever coughing again! Yet the men contrive to be even worse – there was an old fellow in the Pump Yard yesterday whose wrinkles could have made a rose bush shrivel and die. And it is evident that the ladies of this town are very little used to seeing anybody tolerable-looking. I have never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis – who cuts a fine figure, in a military style, for all that he is sandy-haired – without seeing at least half a dozen women reach for their handkerchiefs. Such paroxysms of coughing! They are overcome, quite overcome, by the sight of Colonel Wallis.”
“Ah,” replied his eldest daughter slyly, “by Colonel Wallis, sir? Are you quite certain that all the admiration was for him?”
“And for whom else?” retorted Sir Walter. His smile, however, belied this display of modesty.
“I believe Miss Elliot means to remind you, Sir Walter, that Colonel Wallis was not alone,” said Mrs Clay, “and that his companion was not sandy-haired.”
The two ladies continued their flattery – had Sir Walter not seen what sort of flowers the ladies had been expelling? Was he quite sure it had not been narcissus? – and Sir Walter his protestations of Colonel Wallis’s charms. All three were in the height of good humour.
Anne, quite forgotten, was content enough to remain silent. There was not much pleasure to be had from listening to such conversation, but for all its vapidity, it at least afforded her a moment’s distraction from her own anxious thoughts.
“Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?”
Wentworth turned hastily away from the window, then cursed himself for a fool. Fortune was with him, however: Miss Drew had been addressing the other ladies, and none of their party was looking in his direction.
“Oh! no, that is clear enough,” said Mrs Hodges, with a titter that made Wentworth take an immediate dislike to her. “And I expect his flower-garden will prosper if he only keeps tending to it. I hear he half lives in the family. What a very good-looking man!”
“Yes,” said Miss Drew, “and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with. If Miss Anne Elliot is not waking up with petals on her pillow already, I don’t doubt that she very soon will be.”
“She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to look at her,” opined Miss Brigden. “It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister.”
“Oh! so do I,” cried Miss Drew.
“And so do I,” said Mrs Hodges. “No comparison. But the men are all love-sick for Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them.”
“I should rather say that Miss Elliot’s admirers are love-sick at first,” argued Miss Drew. “From what I have seen, they tend to recover quickly.”
“Or to discover an antidote,” said Mrs Hodges meaningfully.
“Is it true,” asked Miss Brigden, lowering her voice, “that Miss Elliot’s admirers are afflicted with citron flowers?”
“That might explain why her flirtations all turn sour,” replied Miss Drew archly.
The other ladies (and not a few of the gentlemen) laughed.
“I do wonder what Anne Elliot’s flower is,” said Miss Brigden. “Something elegant, I think, and dainty—”
“You must excuse me,” said Wentworth abruptly. “I have only this moment recalled an appointment – I fear I am late already—”
And, heedless of the surprised looks of his friends, he hurried out of the shop, only stopping once he was certain of being out of sight. Let them wonder at his sudden departure. He knew without a doubt what Anne Elliot’s flower was – and he had no desire to dwell on whether her cousin knew it too.
“No!” said Captain Wentworth impressively. “There is nothing worth my staying for.” He was gone directly.
The rest of the concert passed in a haze. The musicians might have abandoned their posts entirely and Anne would scarcely have noticed. Mr Elliot’s attempts to draw her into conversation met with little success: she replied to his questions and remarks almost at random, and he was at last obliged to return his attention to Elizabeth and Miss Carteret.
Mr Elliot was invited to supper in Camden Place, but Anne gladly allowed her sister and Mrs Clay to monopolize him. Everybody else was in excellent spirits. Sir Walter and Elizabeth congratulated themselves on having been seen with Lady Dalrymple, Mrs Clay fawned, flattered and admired, and Mr Elliot exerted himself to be generally agreeable. Anne, however, could pay them but little notice.
Any other evening, she would have listened with concern as her father complimented Mrs Clay’s taste in music, and she might have wondered that he did not note how Mrs Clay covered her mouth (and her projecting tooth) when laughing at Mr Elliot’s jests. She would perhaps have blushed at Mr Elliot’s raising his handkerchief to his lips when her eyes met his, and she would certainly have been surprised that Elizabeth failed to observe it.
Anne’s thoughts, however, were all of Captain Wentworth. Jealousy of Mr Elliot, she now understood, must be the motive for his actions at the concert. It explained both his initial diffidence and his abrupt leave-taking. The gratification was exquisite – but it was soon succeeded by distress. How was such a misunderstanding to be corrected? Where might she find the opportunity to acquaint him with the truth?
These urgent questions resulted in a restless night; yet when Anne rose early the next morning to dispose of the petals accumulated in her bed, she was unhappily aware that they were all she had to show for her ruminations.
“Look here,” said Captain Harville, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small locket engraved with a pattern of entwined flowers. Opening the locket to reveal a miniature painting, the Captain went on: “Do you know who that is?”
“Certainly: Captain Benwick,” said Anne.
“Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But,” (in a deep tone), “it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember, when we were all together at Lyme, that he always had a lily pinned to his coat? I little thought then – but no matter. The picture was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist there, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of having it re-set for another!” He closed the locket and turned it so that Anne might examine the cover. “See here, Miss Elliot – her lily and his sweetbriar. They go well together, do you not think?”
Anne obligingly bent down to examine the engraving – a simple one, such as might be within the means of a young lieutenant, but elegant nonetheless.
“The crocus,” said Captain Harville quietly, also looking down at the locket, “is a pretty flower, I am sure. But when I recall how devoted Fanny was to him – so patient, so constant! – only to be so swiftly replaced in his affections—” He broke off to take a few deep, shuddering breaths. “I sat with her in her last hours, Miss Elliot, and even then, her room had the scent of sweetbriar. He was in her thoughts to the end.”
Anne, genuinely affected, met Captain Harville’s eyes in silent sympathy.
“And now,” the Captain continued, looking down at the locket again, “I have been commissioned to find a replacement! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;” (looking towards Captain Wentworth,) “he is writing about it now.” And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, “Poor Fanny! Her feelings would not have withered so soon!”
“No,” replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. “That I can easily believe.”
“It was not in her nature. She doted on him.”
“It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved.”
The ensuing debate, concerning as it did a subject so perfectly interesting to Anne in her present circumstances, could not but engross her entire attention. Nor could she pretend to be indifferent – her heart was full, her breath oppressed, as she argued in defence of women’s constancy in love.
She was therefore quite startled when a sudden noise erupted from Captain Wentworth’s hitherto quiet division of the room. He was bent over the writing table – which was rather nearer than Anne had supposed – and appeared to have been struck by a severe fit of coughing. Captain Harville’s inquiry as to his well-being was waved off, however, and he presently took up his pen again.
But Anne had seen the flash of blue before it disappeared into his handkerchief. Petals rose into her throat as she resumed her debate with Captain Harville – but her courage was rising also.
“I beg your pardon,” said Wentworth hoarsely. “I have forgotten my gloves.”
He crossed the room – legs as unsteady as a newly-made midshipman’s – and, with trembling hands, pushed the scattered paper on the table aside. For an instant, his gaze met Anne’s, but he could not speak; nor could he decipher the expression in her wide, dark eyes. He fumbled for his gloves – found them where he had left them – and fled.
He dared not glance back to see how she would receive his letter – or the blue cornflower resting atop it.
The gravel walk had seen countless pairs of lovers wander back and forth along its length. It had witnessed quarrels and reconciliations; it had served as the stage for confessions of love and bitter partings; petals of numerous flowers had been scattered across it, sometimes in delight, sometimes despair. Yet to Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, it seemed impossible that anybody else should have walked that same path in the grips of such powerful emotion as they. Their happiness, complete at last after years of separation and suffering, could not but be something quite out of the common way.
And perhaps, though every happy couple would doubtless think themselves equally exceptional, our present pair did have a little more justification for their conviction than some. The recollection of their past trials must, though still painful, contribute an additional measure of sweetness to their present felicity.
Anne, pressing as close to Captain Wentworth as she dared in such a public place, certainly felt that the air in Bath had never had so fresh and pleasant a taste and that the sounds of children laughing and shouting had never been so melodious. Even the bare, leafless trees along the walk had gained a new beauty.
“You are not tired?” Captain Wentworth inquired, a hint of concern in his voice.
“Oh! No, not at all,” Anne reassured him at once. “On the contrary – I feel as if I could walk for miles.” A little haltingly, she added, “It is strange. I had almost forgotten what it was to breathe so freely. I can scarcely describe it.”
“Ah,” said he. “I had wondered – I had heard it mentioned that you were not in health, but I could not tell for certain – I did not know whether to hope or to fear.” He met her eyes with a speaking look, and Anne squeezed his arm more tightly. “Was it all, then, for my sake?”
“Yes – but you must not think that I blame you.”
“I am sorry, nonetheless. Eight years and a half – it is a period, indeed.” He fell silent, and they walked for some moments without speaking.
At length, Anne broke the silence. “And you – did you suffer very badly from the affliction?”
“A great deal more than my pride would have allowed me to confess,” replied Wentworth, with half a smile. “I will not dissemble. I wished to be cured, and I pretended to myself that I had been. If I sometimes gave myself the lie – if I found myself breathless for no reason or discovered flowers in my cot upon waking – I told myself that it was merely the lingering residue of an illness long defeated. But though my pretence of indifference aided me in repressing the symptoms, I could not eradicate their cause – and though I tried, foolishly, to attach myself to others, no warmer feeling could ever grow.”
Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a handkerchief which, when unwrapped, revealed a somewhat rumpled but otherwise intact cornflower.
“How thankful I am that it endured – that it could not be uprooted!” he exclaimed. “The dearest, loveliest of flowers! Nowhere in my travels have I seen its equal. I shall press this one and keep it in my pocketbook, that it may remind me of this day.”
Anne smiled and let it pass. It was too pleasing a blunder for a reproach.
How long they spent strolling back and forth in this leisurely fashion, at times revisiting the past, at others planning the future, neither Anne nor Captain Wentworth could have later recalled. At last, however, Anne was obliged to own that, though her lungs felt as if they should never tire, her feet had not gained a corresponding improvement in strength. Captain Wentworth was at once anxious to see her home, and his solicitude for her comfort almost made her heart overflow with tenderness.
As they made their way towards Camden Place, Anne had occasion to reflect on the disadvantages of conducting a courtship in town as compared with the countryside. The Kellynch grounds, in which they had taken many a walk in the days of their first engagement, had had plenty of sheltered spots to accommodate lovers desirous of a few moments of privacy. The busy streets of Bath were rather less lenient in this regard; and so she and Captain Wentworth must perforce be content, for now, with the press of her fingers against his sleeve and the solid warmth of his shoulder against hers.
Their leave-taking at the door was, by necessity, brief – a brush of lips over gloved knuckles, a murmured “I shall see you this evening”, and a look which expressed much that could not be spoken. Then Anne was stealing up to her room to indulge in the happiest of recollections, while Captain Wentworth, his mind no less pleasantly engaged, wandered slowly back to his lodgings.
“My dear Lady Russell,” said Sir Walter, coming to stand beside her, “allow me to say that you are looking very well tonight. Have you taken my advice about Gowland at last?”
“I thank you, but I assure you I have done nothing out of the ordinary, besides drinking the water, of course.”
“Truly? Well, then you must continue precisely as you are. Your colour is much improved since I last saw you.”
“You are very kind – but there is another who, I think, is more deserving of your praise. Is not our dear Anne in exceedingly good looks this evening? I have been observing her with the greatest pleasure. She is positively glowing!”
Sir Walter followed her gaze to Anne, who was presently admiring a display of greenhouse plants on the other side of the room.
“Indeed! But I have noted a distinct improvement ever since she came to Bath. Her complexion is fresher, and she is not as thin in her person. The air, I suppose, must suit her better here, for she assures me she has not been using anything on her countenance.”
Lady Russell had her own notions of what might have put such a fine blush on Anne’s cheeks. Mr Elliot was standing only a few feet away from her and was evidently trying to catch her eye. Lady Russell was too wise, however, to speak her thoughts aloud. Sir Walter and Elizabeth, she knew, had always viewed Mr Elliot as belonging to Elizabeth almost as a matter of course. Lady Russell judged it prudent not to disabuse them of this notion quite yet. Sir Walter might not much care which of his daughters became the future Lady Elliot, but Elizabeth would certainly not stand aside gracefully. No, Lady Russell would let Mr Elliot and Anne court in peace for as long as possible.
“Those naval men are looking quite dreadful, of course,” Sir Walter obliviously went on, “except for the young fellow – Wentworth. Excellent calves, and his complexion has suffered astonishingly little at sea. I hope, for his sake, that he means to give the profession up while he still has his looks. If he does, he may yet make something of himself in the world. Even Lady Dalrymple admired his air the other day. But you may judge his posture and figure for yourself, for he is providing the perfect opportunity – making a circuit of the room. No, you must look over there – he is just now stopping by the display of greenery.”
Lady Russell directed an uninterested look at Wentworth, who appeared to be carefully examining an orange tree. As if sensing that he was being observed, he turned briefly to meet her eye. She, withdrawing her own, said coolly, “He is not unhandsome, but I must confess my preference for a more refined form and complexion. Mr Elliot, for example, is rather closer to my notion of male beauty.”
“Ah – I can scarcely disagree with you. There can be no doubt of his being an Elliot. Such a gentlemanlike appearance! Scarcely a fault to be found in his countenance, if one discounts the unfortunate shape of his jaw – which I am sure must have come from his mother’s side—”
Sir Walter’s paean to the superiority of the Elliot family traits went on for several minutes; and when Lady Russell was at liberty to look towards the display of plants again, both Anne and Captain Wentworth had moved away.
Lady Russell did not lay eyes on Anne again until some time later in the evening. A few of the less enthusiastic card-players had begun to desire a respite from the activity, and the indulgence of some music was applied for. Elizabeth did not play, and so Anne was tasked with leading the way.
Despite having no very deep understanding of music, Lady Russell had always taken pleasure in hearing Anne perform – and if her enjoyment originated as much in pride at her favourite’s accomplishments as in true appreciation of the art, it was nevertheless founded in affection. Even Lady Russell, however, could perceive that there was an uncommon depth of feeling in Anne’s playing this evening. Perhaps others noticed, too, for at the end of the first piece, she was at once begged to play another.
Anne hesitated for the fraction of a moment, then – colour rising a little – began again; and to Lady Russell’s surprise and delight, the pianoforte was, this time, joined by Anne’s voice. She was perhaps a little out of practice, but any technical shortcomings were more than made up for by the sweetness and sensibility of her singing.
It was a song which Anne had been very fond of as a girl, but Lady Russell had not heard her play it in years – not, she supposed, since Anne had all but given up singing altogether. That she should choose to perform it now could be no coincidence. It must have its origin in the same place as the return of her bloom, as the present glow of happiness in her countenance. Lady Russell looked triumphantly towards Mr Elliot, who was standing not far from the instrument in an attitude of appreciative contemplation. The very fact that Anne’s eyes remained determinedly turned away from him was proof of his influence.
Had Lady Russell chanced to follow the direction of Anne’s gaze – had her eyes alighted on Captain Wentworth’s countenance – she might have read a different tale in his expression. But Lady Russell’s eyes remained on what she wished to see, and so the lovers, insensible to anything but their happiness, were allowed to retain their secret for a little longer.