Life continued in the same manner for a while. For a few days each month Henry travelled back to his father's estate to take care of matters he could not handle by correspondence. Anne stayed behind at Kellynch. She was often invited to the Hall if Henry was away and she came to enjoy that more and more. Sophia had quickly won her over, but the two gentlemen had kept her wary for a long time. It was clear, however, that they meant no harm.
She was less often invited to Uppercross, but she did not mind. The great house was fine, but Mary was less keen on receiving a Mrs. Croft than she had been on receiving a Lady Russell. Mary was furthermore with child again, which usually made her too ill to visit anybody and too unpleasant to be visited.
Anne occasionally suffered some indigestion, which she ascribed to having laughed too much a few times during dinner. Obviously choking and swallowing air did not agree with her. Now she knew why it was unrefined to laugh very hard; there was a good reason to avoid it.
Mrs. Wentworth had not been mistaken. Another few weeks saw her cheeks fill out and although nobody could see it, she assured Anne that she was indeed growing larger. She was very happy and Captain Wentworth appeared equally delighted. He developed a solicitousness that frequently made him the object of his brother-in-law's mockery, but he bore all urges to massage his wife's feet in good humour.
It had made Anne curious nevertheless. "Could you massage my feet?" she asked Henry one evening.
He was taken aback by such an unusual request. "Why?"
"I keep hearing at the Hall that it is such a desirable thing. I wanted to find out for myself what it was like and having walked much today, I thought this the perfect occasion."
He laid his book aside because he did not suppose there was any getting out of it. "I have no idea how to do it, but give me a foot if you insist."
Anne insisted. She gave him a foot, although raising it cost her some trouble. "Well, it is indeed very pleasant," she said after some minutes. "If you could spare a few minutes every evening I should not say no."
He picked up his book again. "I suppose that is possible, but you could also take the carriage out for longer calls or buy some better shoes."
"Do not be so practical," she scolded.
"Ah, you want it even if you have not walked at all." He was beginning to understand females.
"Because I do have good shoes."
"A lady's shoes are never good," Henry said decidedly. He liked to bait her a little, especially when she was already agitated. He knew she would not become angry with him, but a certain way to rattle his wife was to pretend he knew everything about women.
"What would you know of ladies' shoes?" She narrowed her eyes. He was teasing her; he knew nothing.
"They display them quite unashamedly in shop windows, more so than gentlemen's shoes, for we do not choose ours because they are displayed aesthetically. There would be no point in putting gentlemen's shoes in the shop window, for we should consider the door more important than the window."
"The window tells you what kind of shop it is."
"We can read the signs. We do not need images."
"Bah. If you keep this up I shall suffer indigestion again tomorrow morning. I am going to retire to my apartments."
"I shall retire to mine when I finish my chapter," he said without looking up.
"I shall see you when you emerge from your apartments then."
"Yes."
They had trained themselves to speak of different apartments. Slips of the tongue were then less likely. It was nobody's business that the connecting doors were always open and that all Henry did in his own rooms was dress and wash. Anne did not think anybody would be very interest except Mrs. Wentworth, who had now taken over Mrs. Croft's habit of measuring love by the hours spent in a spouse's company, with nightly hours undoubtedly counting double.
It always worried Mrs. Wentworth a great deal if Anne spent all day apart from Henry, in spite of her protestations. She even seemed to think that Anne's indigestion could be cured by spending more time with her husband. Her concern was sweet, but to her godmother it sometimes bordered on prying.
Anne had even taken Captain Wentworth aside to tell him that his wife did not only pry in his company. He had taken her words remarkably seriously and confessed that he had at first hoped she would be kept so busy by her husband that she would not keep a close eye on him, of whom she had always disapproved.
She had a nice conversation with Captain Wentworth then, in which it was revealed they had both changed their minds. "But," he had said in parting, "if you never answer her, she will remain concerned about your happiness."
Perhaps Mrs. Wentworth behaved in the same manner towards her sister and brother, although they probably needed no prompting. It was a rather bashful Mrs. Croft who came to announce her good news.
Anne was astonished. "Another child? How did that happen?"
"The usual way that probably needs no explaining," Sophia said dryly. "I am a little stunned by it, but James is..." She shook her head.
"He is displeased?" It worried Anne a little, but she could not imagine him unhappy with the news.
"No, he is beside himself with smug virility."
That, while not negative, was different from what she had expected. "Why?"
Sophia rolled her eyes. "I wonder that too, because he is certainly not the only man in the neighbourhood whose wife is expecting at the moment."
Anne wanted to discuss it with Henry, but seemingly he had the same plan. "Sophia is expecting a child again," he said when he arrived home. He had been to the Hall. "The poor woman."
"Why do you say that? I did not receive the impression that she pities herself." She thought Sophia had looked pleased with the news, if surprised by it. "She came here to tell me and she would not have done it if she had been unhappy."
"Oh." Henry looked surprised. "But James pities her, although he hides his guilt under a smug manner."
"Guilt?"
"He thinks he should perhaps have waited, although he also thinks his luck might have run out if he had done that. He is undecided." He had shared these doubts with his brother, but Henry had been undecided as well. "He said -- this was capital -- you will not understand, Henry, but I love her. I could not have waited a year. A few months, perhaps." His eyes sparkled. A few months! No, he would not understand.
"No, you would not understand that," Anne commented calmly.
"He must think I do not love you."
Her breath caught in her throat. "Nobody has ever heard you say so, at any rate."
"Had someone wanted to hear it?" He was ready to say it was none of their business. This was between Anne and him.
"I might have liked it," she said in an unsteady voice. If he said James must not think that he did, it followed that he did, yet he had never told her. "Do you love me?"
"I thought you knew that, but it seems you do not." Henry looked hesitant as he wondered whether it had been a great oversight of him to neglect to tell her outright.
"No!" she nearly screamed, but then she calmed down. "I am unfair. I have never told you either, yet I am reminded of it every time Anne comes here to quiz me about it, but I do not know how it would appear if I told her. She might ask why and when and how."
He laughed. "Tell her a simple yes and tell me the rest. I accept actions instead of words as well."
"You are so generous. But it is almost dinner time," she said a little concernedly. They would have no time.
He laughed even more. "It is you who is generous. I never said it had to be this instant."
Neither Anne the younger nor Sophia would be the first to deliver, but Mary Musgrove, or so Anne thought when she called on Mary one morning. She looked quite large compared to the previous time Anne had seen her, which could hardly be healthy, but then she decided that most of the growth could be blamed on Mary's posture.
"You have not been to see me in ages," Mary complained, reclining a little further on the sofa so her abdomen was more visible.
"A fortnight, perhaps, but I received a note from you that you were very unwell and that you could not be visited." She had postponed her call until she deemed that sufficient time had passed for Mary's health to have improved.
"I should have liked to see somebody. Henrietta and Louisa only pass by the window. They ask me for a walk because they know I cannot come and then they feel they have done their duty towards me. Anne never comes anymore now that she is married. You never come anymore now that you are married."
"Well, marriage keeps one busy, as you must know."
"I heard Mr. Croft is always off by himself -- much like Charles -- so that ought to leave you enough time for visits."
It would not be of any use contradicting that, so Anne settled for appeasing Mary. "You look very fine for a woman in your condition." It was a lie, since the two Kellynch ladies looked far more energetic, but it would perhaps keep Mary from complaining.
"Indeed I do, but I have to say it is all much more taxing than with the boys and Charles -- oh, he cares nothing for it. But it is all his fault, you know. It would not have happened if it had not been for Charles."
"Indeed," Anne murmured. She did not suppose that saying no had ever been an option. If Charles had ignored Mary, there would have been complaints about that. "When will it be?"
"In five months. I do not know how I shall survive!"
For once Anne agreed wholeheartedly with Mary. It would be a long five months for everybody.
According to Henry everything went well on his father's estate and even the building of the house progressed well now that most of the cold days were behind them. The house might even be ready before the summer. He had passed his drawings on to the builders and they had no problems working with them.
Anne thought she would miss her current surroundings. Living so near Kellynch Hall with always somebody at home was an advantage she would not have there. Especially as she aged and grew tired more easily, not to mention heavier, she was very pleased to have some friends nearby. There, there was very little.
She missed the occupants of the Hall, who had now travelled to Shropshire to visit Mr. Wentworth. Apparently his wife had had a son. Anne mused a little on the number of infants in that family and how difficult travelling with them would be in a year. Mr. Wentworth had probably never thought his child would already have four cousins so soon after its birth.
Because she would be completely alone if Henry left for his usual visit to his father's home, she begged him not to go. He complied and he had Rupert travel to Kellynch to discuss business, to which Rupert equally readily complied.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Although Anne had asked for Rupert to come, she was glad when she could have Henry to herself again after his brother's departure. Always to have Rupert in the way when she wished to do something with Henry had become a little vexing. Her strict standards had relaxed somewhat out of necessity and she had been seen taking his hand.
When the Wentworths and the Crofts returned from Shropshire, she realised she preferred her friends and relatives at a walk's distance. Then they might meet whenever they liked, but they would always go home and they would not see her at her worst early in the morning. Lately she had been sleeping badly and she had resorted to taking naps after breakfast. Rupert had likely not cared how she looked, but she had felt it all the same.
Mrs. Wentworth walked over shortly after returning to Kellynch. "It was a sweet little boy," she said. "He did not at all look like Margaret and Catherine. He had lots of dark hair."
"As yours may have," Anne said absentmindedly.
"Are you well?" her guest suddenly inquired.
Now she wondered if she looked ill or fatigued. "If you disregard a few bad nights, I am very well."
Her young friend looked concerned. "Bad nights?"
"Yes, I kept waking, so I am a little tired."
"Do you share a room with Henry at night?" Mrs. Wentworth wanted to know.
Anne looked appalled. She instantly denied it out of shock. "Of course not. I wonder that you would ask such a question!"
The reaction did not deter her goddaughter. She did not even look ashamed of herself. "Never?"
"Never," she said most emphatically and she was now capable of an elaboration. "Anne, we are far too old for that sort of thing."
Mrs. Wentworth looked as if she had never considered that sort of thing. "Then it must not be his fault that you cannot sleep because he is snoring."
"No, indeed. Would you like another biscuit?" she asked, thinking Mrs. Wentworth's appetite might have increased along with her figure. She might be distracted by food.
"Yes, please. Are you not taking one?"
"I must mind what I eat." She could not say she had already eaten six that morning. "I still have indigestion problems now and then."
"Oh dear. I hope it improves soon."
"Yes, so do I." She hoped that Mrs. Wentworth would not encourage her to spend more time with Henry. He had nothing to do with it. "Did you find it strenuous to travel?"
"Not at all, but we had to stop often. In fact, if you will excuse me..."
Anne was left to wonder about young Anne's impertinence. Was it Captain Wentworth's fault, Sophia's, or was it her own for being so reticent? Her reticence might in fact invite questions rather than ward them off, yet she could not see herself converse casually on these subjects, whatever Navy wives considered normal.
Henry was surprised to see Mrs. Wentworth slip into his study. He looked at her inquisitively.
She did not come into the room very far. "Your wife is not sleeping well, she says."
"Oh," he said guardedly. "Really?" He had noticed Anne's sleeplessness -- how could he not, beside her? -- but there was nothing he could do.
"Are you not snoring or something of that nature? Perhaps you should try different rooms." She looked very helpful.
"We never share," he replied.
Mrs. Wentworth gave him a half smile and left. He hoped she realised she had asked an odd question, but he did not think of her for very long after she left. Soon he was engrossed in his business papers again.
Henry told himself to keep an eye on Anne to see where her fatigue might spring from, but it seemed to disappear slowly. Soon she complained about neither indigestion nor fatigue. She was glad for the improvement, so glad he met with approval when he proposed going to his father's house together. He had been going there regularly, but he had always wished she would come with him.
They arrived there in early July, in wonderfully warm weather. Anne thought it a little too warm, but Henry thought it was perfect, though perhaps he liked it better because his wife was with him.
The family greeted them politely. He soon discovered why they seemed so used to females -- it was revealed that James had stayed there on his way to Shropshire and back. It gave him pause to hear that James, Sophia and the twins had slept in his room, but when he saw it there was no longer any trace of them. He had the largest room of all the boys, of course.
While Anne chose to rest after the journey, Henry went downstairs to see if anybody wanted to speak to him. Usually they obliged.
His father drew him aside. "Henry, the woman is with child."
"Which woman?" But then he remembered that two pregnant women had stayed here too a short while ago, yet his father had spoken of one. It was puzzling. Perhaps one of them had not announced her condition. He would guess Sophia, for Mrs. Wentworth was far too happy to remain silent about it.
"Yours."
"Mine?" Henry laughed dismissively. That was too impossible for words. "No, you are mistaken about that."
"Are you certain?"
"Yes, quite. I know you saw the two others, but the malady is not catching, I assure you."
His father gave him a doubtful glance, but he did not pursue the subject. Although Henry considered the subject for a while afterwards, he concluded that his father must have been led to think this because of the other two ladies, perhaps entertaining futile hopes of a male heir through his eldest son.
It was odd how he had never wanted them to marry, yet he was now eager for grandsons. Henry knew he had bothered James about one shortly after the twins' birth. He did not blame his brother for saying there would not be another child, although he had also heard that it had been quite gruesome. That was something he did not understand in a man who had been in battles. Were they less gruesome than births? Henry had seen all manner of animals being born and he imagined that it was all rather similar.
Not only did Henry not see what it mattered, girls or boys or whoever had them, but he also did not entertain such hopes himself. Anne had said it could not be and he believed her. She might feel uncomfortable, sensing expectations, if he told her about his father's thoughts. Perhaps she would think it mattered to him when it did not. He decided not to tell her and hoped his father would be silent as well.
He had not seen remarkable changes in her figure, or rather he had not paid attention. If he looked now, he could not remember whether she had ever looked any different. She had always been heavier than the other two ladies and that they caught up with her now did not mean she was in the same condition, Henry reasoned with himself.
Since Anne complained about the weather, Henry persuaded her to walk into the sea with him. She had been sea bathing in her life and so she had the appropriate garments. He had made her pack those, although she had protested. Her manner of sea bathing was so very tedious. He could not have suffered it with his brothers, but he knew his own manner would not have suited her.
"It makes one's clothes so wet and clingy," she remarked.
"Yes, that is why I usually wear none." Because they would make a strange picture if he did not, he had obliged her by wearing some old clothes.
"No, Henry," she said sternly.
"I did not ask you anything."
"But you did think of it."
He smiled. "You think me slow-witted if you think it occurred to me only now. I had in fact considered it long before and considered it very intriguing, but undoubtedly something on which you would not agree with me."
"It would be very uncivilised."
"Yes, very. Why did you marry me then?"
"There are civilised aspects to your character," Anne saved herself quite smoothly. "And it is different for men. You cannot turn me into one of the boys, although I believe you are too intrigued by the points on which I differ to want such a thing."
"That could be true," he admitted. "But it seems my relatives no longer perceive such sharp differences between the sexes as they used to. Or rather, they do not perceive you ladies as quite so bad anymore."
"Indeed. Some of them almost conversed with me. None of it was my doing, however. I think your little nieces are to blame." She would not deserve any credit for changing their opinion of women. It must be those who had been here before her who had accomplished that shift.
"My little nieces are not yet capable of showing anybody that women can converse rationally."
Anne had a wild thought. "Perhaps they are capable of showing that even men can converse irrationally? Either thing brings us closer to the middle."
The idea of his relatives conversing irrationally to the twins was incredibly amusing to Henry, though he realised that practically no other conversation was possible with them. They returned sounds, not words, and they even made those sounds when no one was near.
"Do you think more favourably of living here now?" he wondered. He hoped she did. As much as he liked Kellynch as a temporary residence, this was his home. He did not want Anne to be unhappy here.
"Yes. I believe that Sophia simply had a bad start. I was prepared and I did not expect perfection. It could only improve. Bath is not far, if you will allow me to go there on occasion."
"Allow you," he echoed. "I can? No, I cannot. I mean that I do not feel I have the authority to decide that for you. Asking, perhaps begging, that is as far as I will go."
"Begging! I do not want you to go as far as begging. I am sure we could settle it more easily, although I may beg you to come." Anne smiled. She would certainly need to resort to that.
"Hmph."
"You will not need to go beyond the house and a park here or there," she suggested kindly. There were plenty of amusements in either place.
The mention of a park made him smile. "We shall see."
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Anne was surprised to receive a most kind farewell from old Mr. Croft when they left. She had not thought she had endeared herself to him so, having stayed out of his way most of the time. Henry appeared not have noticed, so she did not mention it to him. It might simply be because she was leaving.
The summer passed slowly at Kellynch. Anne thought the weather not conducive to long walks, so she generally confined herself to the garden and the park. The ladies at the Hall were predominantly busy setting up the nursery, though often they were out on walks. Sophia walked well, but young Anne waddled like a duck. She was quite cheerful about it, however, and bore her inelegance with a smile.
Anne the elder knew that if Mrs. Wentworth waddled, Mrs. Musgrove could not even leave her bed. Indeed, the only signs of life from her were notes she frequently sent around, complaining about her condition. Anne did not have a good excuse not to visit. The other two ladies could feign similar complaints and even Mary Musgrove knew it would be unfair to call them liars.
Anne was just resting on the foot of a statue in the park when she saw her friends approach. Critically she studied Mrs. Wentworth's gait. The poor thing ought to be relieved of her burden soon, or else she would be rolling.
"Why, you picked a nice fellow to keep you company," Sophia teased. "Does Henry not mind?"
"Nice fellow?" Anne was confused. She was alone.
"The statue," Sophia gestured. "It is a nice fellow. I wager a Navy man modelled for it." Despite having been ashore for a year, she retained her bias. Her seriousness was at times annoying.
Anne got up and dusted off her skirts very carefully. She had only seen a place to sit, not what was on display above her head. It was quite embarrassing. "I assure you that I did not check who he was. I was looking for a bench. I am surprised you do not think the admiral modelled for it personally."
"Had the admiral modelled for it," Sophia giggled, "the statue would have been two people."
"I called on Mary yesterday," Anne said because she was not interested in statues. "Because she requested it."
"Oh, have we been remiss?" asked young Anne. "We received her requests as well."
"I told her you could not possibly come to see her, because you were further along and you should not exert yourself so." She did not think her goddaughter was in much danger; her common sense would tell her when to turn back and she had not yet encountered her too far from home.
"Thank you for making my excuses, but I could go, of course. But I do not want to. Sophia said it is good to exert oneself."
"Well..." Anne studied their figures. "Sophia is clearly having only one child this time and thus she can exert herself very well, but you seem to having three, Anne."
"Well, if we go into comparing sizes..." Sophia said readily, but a cautioning look from her younger sister silenced her.
"I think that for my health it would be better if I had only one at a time," young Anne said demurely. "And for Frederick's."
"Especially for Frederick's," his sister nodded. "He should probably not attend."
Although Anne had her opinion, she had no experience in the matter, except with the reactions of other people. "Whatever you do, tell him not to spread the word through the village, because the admiral was considered rather...odd...after he was quite unashamed about having been there. He did not announce it to everybody, but the news spread all the same. It is the sort of news that does."
"And it made all the other men jealous," Sophia guessed.
Anne raised her eyebrows. "On the contrary."
"Sadly, I could have expected that."
"What did Mary have to say?" Anne the younger cut in.
"She gave me a summation of all that ailed her, but I suffer from half of it as well and thus I was not impressed," Anne said dryly. "Most complaints seemed to vanish after having been voiced, too. In that respect my visit was very useful."
"Well, if Mary suffered only twice as much as you do, I say she is doing well," her sister said cheerfully.
"Your husbands are a little more attentive than Charles, I think. I advised him to listen for once and see if that helped. He promised he would." While Charles' intentions were good, she was not certain he would manage to stick to them. She had tried, though, and he had promised her most earnestly to be more attentive to Mary's complaints, but both knew those were rather tiresome. "I also said you should both not go so far away from home --"
Sophia snorted. She seemed to think Uppercross was very near.
"Yes, you have been to the other side of the world and back," Anne said in response to her snort. "You probably think differently. But what if it begins if you or Anne are halfway between here and Uppercross, on foot?"
"We hurry home to await the real beginning, which may take as much as a day. It starts quite painlessly. Let me reassure you -- I shall not go out after it has begun and I shall ask Anne to do the same. There is no danger of our giving birth in a ditch."
Anne looked relieved that it seemed to be impossible, although it was Sophia speaking. "But you would very likely not consider it any hardship at all to give birth in a ditch."
Sophia laughed. "If I must, I could, because you could hardly leave the child in, you know. Had I not always been careful I might have had to give birth at sea. I should prefer a ditch. Though only in the summer."
This comment could only be received in grateful or amused silence, whichever of the two applied to her companions.
"I almost forgot to tell you that I received a letter from Elizabeth as well. She also requested me to come over," said Anne the younger after there had been no conversation for a few moments. "But you would probably advise me not to go in any case, in spite of the seriousness of the situation."
"Is anybody ill?" Anne inquired in concern. It must indeed be serious if Elizabeth required Anne's presence. Elizabeth was not Mary.
"Not as such, though Elizabeth believes our father is ill in his mind. She writes that he is thinking of offering for somebody."
She gasped. That was indeed serious news, especially for Elizabeth. She had no household of her own and she would never voluntarily cede her place to another woman. "And she hopes that you could dissuade him?"
"Apparently. She does not give me many particulars of the young lady, except that she is unsuitable. Young lady," she said significantly. "It may be her only disqualification, as Mr. Elliot is likewise against, she writes. I cannot go. Perhaps she will write to you as well. Although she seems to think you will be in favour of any marriage, having remarried yourself."
"That is not so. There needs to be --" Anne stopped when both ladies looked at her expectantly. She was not yet comfortable with speaking of love. "There needs to be a good reason for it. Does Elizabeth mention a reason?"
"None."
"The young lady is beautiful, at least?" She would not expect otherwise from Sir Walter. Even a wealthy heiress needed to be beautiful to capture his fancy. He would never stoop to marrying someone with plain looks.
"Of course. And she does not seem to be scheming, for Elizabeth thinks it is not yet too late. The target still seems unaware of my father's intentions."
"I could travel there," Anne said hesitantly.
"No, do not," her goddaughter advised. "We -- I thought it would tire you and Henry. But you could write. I have given Elizabeth some arguments she may use on our father, or even on the young lady in question. I suggested that she stress he is in debt and that their style of living is nothing but a façade, but she will probably be too proud to reveal their secrets in such a way."
"If she fails to dissuade Sir Walter, she will have no choice but to marry herself. Elizabeth is beautiful enough." It was only the girl's character that made such a thing improbable. She had too many requirements and not all of them were sensible. If she abandoned some of them, someone would want to marry her soon enough.
"And have her stepmother be stepmother to a very old man?"
"That is the stepmother's problem," Anne decided. "I shall think on it. Where does his wish come from so suddenly? It has been a long time since he last thought of remarrying."
"He has thought of it before?" His daughter was appalled.
Anne thought it might shock her too much if she heard the truth. She settled for being vague. "Yes. You were much younger then and given that the applications were not successful, you were never told."
"But Mama's memory..."
"I am glad he did not succeed." She had had a hand in that herself in one case and she was indeed glad. "Do not let it trouble you. It is past. I must leave you now. I promised Henry to be back soon."
As she walked to the Lodge she pondered the situation. Sir Walter had set his sights on someone again! Elizabeth would understandably be anxious, yet that she was asking for Anne meant that she was very anxious indeed. She and Mr. Elliot had most at stake. If Sir Walter had a son that would be the end of Mr. Elliot.
Sir Walter should come here with his wife and drink the water and breathe the air, Anne reflected, and he would have that son in no time at all. She was surprised at her own thoughts -- she should not think such things without knowing who the lady in question was. She would not wish someone horrible on a close friend. Even Sir Walter deserved every happiness, silly though he might be at times.
As for Elizabeth, she really needed to marry to be rid of such fears. At the age of thirty she had very little choice. Older men might prefer a younger woman and not all younger men were like Henry and preferred an older woman. But if all else failed, Henry had three brothers who were still unmarried and over thirty.
Rupert, though, had seemed to like Jenny now that she thought of it. She had caught them talking once when he was here and although it had surprised her that Jenny had been eager to travel to the Crofts where she was seen as a common servant, she had not thought of it much.
Well, that left David and John, which was choice enough. They did not differ much in looks, only in profession.
"Why are you smiling so?" Henry inquired when she arrived home.
Anne and Henry had been informed that Mrs. Wentworth's child would very likely arrive that evening or the next day, because she was experiencing mild cramping. A note had come written by herself, expressing the hope that she might send another tomorrow with very good news.
Anne was concerned for her health. How often did one not hear of it going wrong? "She is as a daughter to me, you know," she said for the tenth time to Henry.
"I know, Grandmother." He could offer no other wisdom, knowing his own mother had died in childbirth and lost more than one baby in it. He could only hold Anne's hand and wish she would be brought some happy news in the morning. Although she had lamented that it would make her old, he thought she was secretly thrilled that her goddaughter was having a child.
Anne had trouble going to sleep, worried as she was. Surprisingly her night was not without physical discomforts either.
Whatever had been upsetting her stomach now felt ready to be disposed of. Anne, who had had little sleep so far, readily left the bed to get it over with. It proved to be more difficult than her body indicated. She gave up and twice returned to her bed, but the urge grew more insistent and definitely unpleasant, while she grew hot and desperate from trying. Her laboured breathing at last woke her husband.
"What is it?" he asked in concern. He lit a candle to see what she was doing. She seemed to be hard at work, but he could not fathom with what.
She decided her condition was bad enough to justify an embarrassing explanation, although she would much rather have kept it to herself if that had been possible.
"A warm bath," Henry suggested.
The household was awakened and spurred into action. Meanwhile Anne was feeling worse. Her face had become flushed and she was clearly warm. Henry cooled her brow with a wet cloth, but it helped only a little. "Have you had this before?" he asked. He had never seen anything this bad.
"No," she said when she was able to reply.
It reminded him most of when his favourite dog had had puppies, although when Anne was lowered into the bath, nightgown and all, the comparison was lost. "Better?" he inquired worriedly. He was the only one allowed to remain. In fact, even he had not been allowed, but he had ignored her order.
"Slightly. Not a bit," she moaned when the next wave hit her.
Puppies, calves, babies. Henry froze. "D-D-Do you feel anything yet?" he asked when her breathing had steadied. It could not be, but it could not be anything else either.
"Too much!" she snapped, but then she turned her face towards him. "I am so very frightened. I cannot stop it. It is beyond my control."
She would be even more frightened if he told her of his thoughts. "Just push." This would not end until she did.
"But it does not relieve the pressure and I cannot bear it anymore!"
"Soon," he promised. She concentrated and he held her, speaking words of encouragement into her ear. Just when he thought she was going to faint, something happened. She gave a little cry and then it was done. Henry let go of her and reached into the tub. He pulled something out and stared at it.
Anne had slumped against the side of the bath and closed her eyes. She trembled. "What in heaven's name was that? Am I dying? Clean it up before I look, please."
He was busy doing that, swiping the little mouth and wrapping it in a cloth. "You have no idea, do you? What did it feel like?"
"Awful. But it is such a relief now. It is almost over."
The little thing -- a boy, he checked -- began to wail. Henry watched Anne's eyes fly open in shock. "It is a boy."
She stared dumbly.
It occurred to him to call for help. Aside from cleaning it a little, which he had done instinctively, he had no idea what to do with a child and someone needed to see to Anne as well. "Jenny? Mary?"
They were on the other side of the door and nearly tumbled over each other coming in. They hurried towards the bath and screamed at the colour of the water. "Oh dear me!" wailed one. "Madam is dead!"
Madam was too stunned by everything to react.
Henry stood helpless with the child. It had stopped wailing when he made soothing noises and now it was staring at him with a blue-eyed frown. It had come out of Anne, Henry thought, and he had put it there. This was his son. He had never counted on having a son and he was too astonished to have deep thoughts.
Jenny shrieked when she finally noticed what he was holding. "It is a child!"
"It is certainly no puppy," he agreed.
Little Clara had been hovering near the door. At the mention of a child she came running. "A baby!" she cried, jumping up and down, behaviour not befitting a young maidservant in training.
"What do you know about them?" Henry vaguely recalled a great number of siblings.
"Lots."
"Dress it up." He gave the child to her and hoisted Anne out of the bath. The floor would have to be scrubbed and he was becoming very wet, but he did not care. Thankfully Jenny had her wits about her and she had a pile of towels ready.
"I cannot stand," Anne warned anxiously. "What happened?"
"We have a son."
The night was over when everyone had been cleaned and put into new clothes. It had not occurred to Henry to send for the apothecary, but the man called himself. He brought a note from the Hall because he would pass the Lodge on his way home. "Mrs. Wentworth was safely delivered of a child very early this morning. I have a note from her for Lady Russell -- Mrs. Croft."
"What have you been doing at the Hall?" Henry wondered.
The apothecary looked surprised. "Why, I checked if mother and child were in a good condition."
"Does that have to be done? Could I ask you to do it here?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Could you check Mrs. Croft and our son? They seem to be doing fine, but I had no idea they needed to be checked." He looked a little anxious, hoping that his oversight would not have terrible consequences. Anne had gone to sleep. She had felt some pain, but she had said that given the circumstances she was not surprised.
"Your son?" The apothecary was now astonished.
"Mrs. Croft had a son. In the bath."
"In the bath?"
"Yes, is that very odd?" Apart from the baby's having to swim a little, Henry saw no disadvantages. It certainly kept the bed linen from being soiled.
"I have never heard of that. And the child breathed?"
"He swam to the surface, to be sure." Henry could not resist boasting of his little son already. "And then I fished him out, whereupon he began to cry. Mr. Fellows, may I lead you to my wife's rooms?"
"Naturally." Mr. Fellows followed him, but he had more questions. "And the child has been fed and clothed?"
Clara had clothed it with some half-finished gowns intended for Mrs. Wentworth's child and she had also insisted that Anne nurse it, something Anne had been reluctant to do. Henry had insisted as well and she had given in, but he had seen she found it unpleasant. "He was clothed and there were attempts at nursing him, but I am not sure they were successful."
"I shall send Mrs. Fellows over later to have a look at it."
"Mrs. Croft was quite taken aback by his aggressiveness." He had merely thought it amusing, but she had told him it was not.
"Aggressiveness is good."
"She did not think so."
Anne and the child were pronounced to be fine and several weeks of bed rest were proscribed. Mr. Fellows had probed, but he had had to be satisfied with the information that Mrs. Croft had not known about the child.
"I really did not know," she said to Henry afterwards, even if he had not known either. She felt rather silly. "I did have some complaints that Mary had as well, but I was under the impression that she seized every opportunity to blame common complaints on her child."
Suddenly he remembered who had known. "I completely forgot, but my father told me that you were expecting. I dismissed it as nonsense and forgot about it. He was right."
Anne stared. "How did he know?"
"Well..." He eyed her abdomen. "Now that it is out, I can see you were a little fat yesterday. Perhaps he saw you had grown since the previous time he saw you. You were not away from me long enough for me to notice."
"Why did you not tell me what he said? I might have realised it then." She tried to imagine someone asking her a question. While she would have dismissed it as nonsense as well, there was a chance that she would have kept thinking about it.
"Really? I did not tell you because it did not matter to me that you were too old, yet if I told you what my father thought, you might have thought I harboured a secret hope or resentment." He had not wanted one, but now that he had him, he was very pleased.
She smiled at him for his kindness. "I was expecting a grandson, not a son." She rested her hand on the sleeping bundle. He was so small and apart from the violence with which he attacked her when he was hungry, he seemed to be very sweet. She would have to grow used to his being there, though. It was still very unreal.
"Oh! I forgot." Henry took a note out of his pocket.
Anne unfolded it. "Oh! Anne had a boy as well and they are both fine. I forgot to think of them. I am so relieved."
"Are you not glad you are not really her mother? Imagine being the same age as your uncle!"
"What shall we name him?"
"He should be Alexander according to our family tradition, but if you do not like the name you may suggest another. Given that Father never encouraged his sons to have sons, he cannot have been encouraging us to name sons in the tradition."
"I like it. He can be Alexander. As long as it is not Henry." She looked at the note again. "I ought to send one back, but would it not be better if we went there in person?"
"You cannot withhold your congratulations for a month," Henry pointed out.
"I did not mean that."
Chapter Thirty
They were received by James and Frederick, who greeted them with considerable surprise. "Where is Father?" asked James.
Henry grinned. It had been his little joke to have his party announced as Mr. Croft, Mrs. Croft and Mr. Alexander Croft, which ought to have told James enough. Apparently it had not. "Father? Why?" He was supporting Anne and led her to a chair.
"Sofa," she requested. For some reason, probably related to the birth, she could not sit well and she preferred to have a greater surface underneath her so that she might lean aside.
"Father was announced -- and what is wrong with Rusty?" James inquired.
Anne was too tired to reprimand him.
"Alexander, not father," Henry replied as he pointed at the footman. The footmen at Kellynch Hall had become quite proficient in carrying infants.
The two other gentlemen stared at the bundle. "That is not mine, is it?" Frederick ventured eventually. "Because Anne would never allow..."
Henry took the boy from the footman. He drew back some cloth to reveal the small head. "Meet Alexander."
"Unless someone removed all his hair, that is indeed not mine," Frederick remarked. "Where did you get him?"
James had been glancing from Anne to the infant. "My guess that Rusty somehow had a hand in it and from her general condition, I say not long ago."
"I had no hand in anything," Anne complained. "I blame Henry."
Henry was studying Alexander's hair. "What did you say about his hair? He has hair. It is merely not dark."
"Henry," said his brother. "Did they not tell you that your wife ought to keep to her bed for weeks?"
"Mr. Fellows was too busy making indiscreet inquiries to tell me that, but he told Anne. However, we came here for some instruction, because the only one who knows anything in our house is Clara and she is fourteen. I do not recall Sophia keeping to her bed either." Mr. Fellows' order had surprised him, given that Sophia had been the only example he had ever encountered, although when he had first seen her it was already some time after the birth.
"But Anne is," said Frederick. "Shall I get our son to compare?"
"Get him so I may look at him, Captain Wentworth," Anne told him. "And could Anne come downstairs? Because I could not go upstairs unless Henry carried me."
"Henry is not crazy," Henry added. "He will do no such thing. Your Anne must come to see my Anne."
Captain Wentworth was evidently not certain his Anne was equal to the task of coming downstairs, however she might disagree. Anne watched his doubtful face and made a suggestion. "Why do you not tell her we are here and let her decide whether she wishes to come down? And you could always bring your son yourself. What is his name?"
"We are not yet in agreement," he replied sheepishly. "Because I thought it would be a girl."
"And I thought it would be one boy and it was two girls," said James.
"And I thought it was nothing at all until I was reminded of animal births," said Henry.
Anne burst into tears. First she was called Rusty and now she was compared to animals. Her reaction shocked Henry well enough to come to her side. She could not help crying, even if there were other people present.
"I am sorry," Henry said. He was genuinely regretful. "I did not think you were an animal; I was merely reminded of --" He stopped when she hid her face against his shoulder and lacked arms to hold both a wife and an infant.
Her tears had an effect on the gentlemen. They left the room speedily, presumably to collect daughters, sons or wives to distract everybody from this emotional business. Anne was glad for it. "I simply want to cry. It would not have mattered what you said."
"You are easier to stop than Alexander," Henry said a little fearfully. He hoped the baby would not join in the crying.
That was a most distressing comment to Anne. " We did not think it through very well, going here. I cannot stop his crying here. I am dressed. I cannot undress. And he would bite me in half."
Although he had the utmost sympathy for the apparent unpleasantness of nursing, she was being illogical. "He cannot bite you in half, my dear, because he has no teeth."
"He would suck me in half," Anne sniffled.
"Sophia was not sucked into quarters," he pointed out very logically and, he hoped, reassuringly. "But I thought it went a little better after Mrs. Fellows stopped by."
"Yes," she grudgingly admitted. "But I want to complain of it nevertheless. I cannot simply smile and live on as if nothing happened. I was truly afraid something was horribly wrong with me and that I was dying. I must recover from feeling so anxious and afraid."
"Of course." He stroked her hair and kissed her as well as he could with an infant in his arms. "But will you love him? Clara will want to take him if you do not."
"Do not be so preposterous!" She gave him a very earnest look. "I may need some time to appear very fond of him, but I assure you he is very dear to me already, because...who could not think him sweet?"
"I cannot contradict you there," Henry smiled. "He is the best surprise anybody ever gave me. Why did you ever tell me you were too old?"
"I truly thought so."
Footsteps could be heard outside the room and they tried to sit up straight. James carried in one of the twins and Sophia carried the other. Sophia looked highly excited. She set her little girl on the floor and embraced Anne and Henry. "I did not know it was time already!"
"You knew?" James bellowed. All three infants began to cry at hearing his voice, which was louder than he had ever used in a family setting.
"Oh dear," Henry whispered to Anne. "But at least we are above reproach." She was barely attending to what went on, because Alexander had woken and he did not like it. Henry was glad there was no dispute between James and Sophia, for if there was one thing they disliked even less than not being in the other's confidence, it was unhappy children.
Everyone save Alexander was silent again when the Wentworths came in. Luckily they carried in a little screamer of their own, so Anne felt less embarrassed about hers. A mother ought to know how to silence her baby, but she had no idea.
Young Anne approached her directly. "I was right!" she cried.
"You knew too?" James cried too. He looked ready to have a fit.
"I would not allow Sophia to tell you," she hurriedly said over her shoulder. "It is not her fault."
"Stop!" barked Captain Wentworth as if there was a mutiny going on. "I think we should all benefit from an explanation. Please answer me only with yes or no. Anne, you knew?"
"Yes," his wife said meekly.
"And you asked Sophia not to tell James?"
"Yes."
"Oh, stop that nonsense," Anne interjected. She could only imagine that young Anne had remained silent out of consideration and of course she would not have known anything for certain. "I should have told them no even if I had known and I should not have believed them if they had told me." There was considerable embarrassment involved in revealing one's condition. It had to be even greater than the embarrassment involved in revealing one's past condition with the benefit of a distracting infant.
"Besides," Henry added. "Now she was afraid for only five minutes. That would have been much more otherwise. I very much prefer this. Now congratulate us."
This order was obeyed and they received all the congratulations and assistance they wanted.
The Crofts were written and the arrival of a new heir was interesting enough for father and sons to travel down to Kellynch.
"Did I not say so?" old Mr. Croft said triumphantly. The child was checked for Croft features and hair -- for one never knew with widows -- but it was at first sight abundantly clear that he was one. He could have hair red hair, but he did not. That he bore the name of Alexander was another point in his favour.
The old man was even more triumphant when Sophia obeyed his orders -- or so he thought -- and brought a son into the world before he had travelled home again. Surprisingly he had reddish hair and he could not be mistaken for the twin brother of either of his cousins.
"Next round girls," the overeager Frederick suggested.
"Boys," said James.
"Puppies," said Henry.
© 2007 Copyright held by the author.