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Chapter 9
"What is that smell? What is that in your hand? " He whispered distractedly. With great reluctance, Frederick drew a little away from her.
Forgetting the sweets that she held, she had brought her hand to rest on his shoulder, evidently close enough for him to catch their scent. Trying to breath normally, Louisa blinked and said shakily, "Um . . . they are . . . are candied walnuts. They were on the sideboard . . . after supper." Not knowing what else to say, she stammered, "W-would you care for one?" She had opened her hand to show him the sweet and then took one in her other hand and offered it up to him.
"Would you care for one?" a sweet voice from long ago asked.
"No . . . I . . . I don't care for such things." Drawing her a little roughly back into his embrace, Frederick endeavoured to throw off the voice and the memory which accompanied it by single-mindedly applying himself to his wife's lips.
But the more he tried to elude the memory, the more compelling it became. More clearly came Anne's dark hair and eyes. As he kissed the lips and throat of his wife, he could clearly see and truly feel Anne. While Frederick's engagement with her had never approached these heights of physical intimacy, as he continued, the reality of Louisa and the memory of Anne joined to make a phantasm that he had no desire to deny.
"Oh . . . Anne, I have always lov . . . " The rest was lost in kissing a pair of willing lips. The illusion created by the scent of the walnuts, the warmth of the room and the softness of the body he held convinced him that were he to merely open his eyes, the hair in which he had buried his hands would be chestnut and the face he would see when he drew back, would lovingly gaze on him with warm brown eyes.
"W-what did . . . you . . . say . . . darling?" she whispered into his ear, thinking he had been addressing her. As she spoke, she bestowed gentle kisses.
Without thinking, without hesitation, he replied, "Ann-d . . . I have . . . I have always loved . . . your hair," he murmured vaguely.
Shocked by both utterances, he tried without success to continue, but passion had flown upon the mention of Anne. He had actually spoken her name! He had brought another woman into his bedchamber. More to the point, he had brought another woman into the consummation of his marriage. What he had done disgusted him, he had never felt himself so contemptible.
Reaching up , he took her arms from around his neck, and brought her hands down before her. She kept hold, but freed him as she realised he was pulling away. Stumbling from her and looking away with embarrassment, he said raggedly, "I am sorry, Louisa. I . . . I . . . cannot continue with this. I think I shall bathe. You may as well retire . . . I will be some time. Excuse me." He walked quickly into the dressing room and before closing the door, he said hoarsely, "I am truly sorry." He had not even looked at her.
Louisa leaned against the credenza, her knees shaking. Had all this truly happened or was she merely dreaming a horrible dream? But she realised it was real enough, the walnuts were beginning to melt a little and become sticky in her hand.
Standing before the mirror, Frederick watched with detachment as he buttoned his nightshirt. It was as if he watched another man, not himself. He had not allowed any thoughts on any thing while he had bathed, he had pushed the incident entirely away. It was all he could do, literally, to just keep his head above the tepid water, the urge to stay under and not come back up had been quite strong. "But an honourable man would do no such thing . . . would he, Captain?" he muttered at his reflection.
Turning from the mirror, he took the chair that sat before the dressing table. Leaning with his elbows on his knees, he rested his head in his hands and allowed the evening, memories and all to flood over him.
He thought of sitting companionably by the fire . . . first he and Louisa talking and then he braiding her hair . . . the scent of her and then his open desire of her touch. Suddenly, both in the present and from the past . . . "Would you care for one?" The words had been exactly the same, as had been the gesture: a small hand offering him a candied walnut.
The first occurance had been in Somersetshire. The occasion, an evening party at the estate of the Strafford family. It was a fine summer evening and most of the guests had no particular interest in staying to the card tables. Most were out walking the lighted paths and enjoying the twilight air.
The Captain, (just a commander then), had been invited specially by a friend of his brother. The friend, Henry Wyngate knew that a young man would care more for an evening of polite society than the company of his bookish, curate brother and had encouraged Frederick to accompany him to the Strafford's evening party. But this new acquaintance had decided coming ahead by a few pounds at whist was preferable to walking, and so had left Commander Wentworth to his own devices.
As he strolled and examined the greenery, he had been delighted by the sight of one Miss Anne Elliot. They had met a few times before and to the Commander's way of thinking, they were making great progress in getting to know one another better. He had secretly hoped to meet with her that evening, but was not certain that she would be in attendance. Not to worry, she had seen him and had bestowed a nod and a smile.
Leaving the greenery to itself, he had gone to the terrace where she stood and offered his arm that they might stroll. "There are many others out also, there will be dozens watching, so we'll not be too much alone," he had said when she hesitated. She had looked about the grounds and seen what he said was true. Having agreed, they had begun their walk together.
He had pointed out the various stars that were beginning to make their appearance, they had been properly animated when discussing that the weather's being neither too hot nor too cool for the crops and finally, both had heartily agreed that the Strafford family boasted a truly beautiful estate. As they had stood together, admiring an intricate boxwood topiary, Anne had opened her reticule and brought out a small napkin.
As she unfolded it, she smiled and said, "You will think me wicked, but I took these from the refreshment table." Holding the napkin open, with the help of the flambeaus lighting the paths he could just make out candies walnuts. "I adore them, but we never seem to have them at home, so . . . when others make them available, I . . . indulge a bit. Would you care for one?" She had picked one up and offered it to him.
He stood suddenly and took a deep breath. Giving himself over to the remembrance of that evening was as sweet as it was agonising. But he would not stop now, such indulgences had already ruined the night for he and Louisa, there was no reason to ruin this particular one for himself.
When Anne had offered him the sweetmeat, she had intended that he take it from her and place it in his own mouth, but he had been caught up in the evening and her and their growing liking for one another. Seeing no one nearby, he had taken her hand and guided the nut into his own mouth, taking it from her own fingers. She had given little . . . nay, any resistance. Before he had released her hand, he had tenderly kissed her fingertips.
He remembered the silky feel of her gloves and the caress of her fingers on his lips. She had reluctantly taken back her hand, and said shakily, "I think it best if we go inside, there is danger being out in the falling damps." The rest of the evening was lost to him; he remembered nothing of it as the only thing that mattered was what had passed between them at the boxwood.
Having closed his eyes to see every bit of the recollection, he now opened them and sighed heavily. He had not thought of that night for years and now that he had, now that it had been brought back to him by such a devilishly simple thing as a handful of sweets, he knew that his brother had been right about marrying one woman while loving another.
"I think you have not been able to unlove one woman in all these years, why would you suddenly be able to love another? And, I think Anne will always be a spectre to you...and be a part of most everything you do.
The words had been those of his brother and the opportunity had been New Year's Eve, exactly two months previous. Edward had tried to make him see that a marriage to Louisa was not only an act which would betray his feelings for Anne, but one which would eventually betray his wife as well.
. . . and I do mean everything. Having one woman in your mind while you are married to another is dangerous to your soul, Frederick."
When his brother had said the words, Frederick had known precisely their meaning, but at that moment he realised just how true they were, and if he were to allow it, just how easily this sort of adultery would overtake him.
As he stood, he realised he was staring at Louisa's shift hanging on a peg. It was very like the shift she had been wearing Monday night. Perhaps it was the same one, embroidered white flowers on light buff coloured material. The same excitement of feelings came over him that had begun that first night, their wedding night. He had pushed the truth from himself so skillfully that he could almost plead surprise at what had happened with Louisa earlier. But it was a lie, he knew he felt desire for her . . . for her physical body, but for her mind . . . for her heart . . . ?
As he continued to look at the shift, he thought, How simple it would be . . . merely to go to Louisa, take her to my bed, indulge myself with her body! It could be perfect! By simply closing my eyes, I could make her Anne. I could have them both! None would be the wiser . . . only I would ever know.
He was repulsed by the thought, by the duplicity of such an act. But what truly sickened him, was to look into his own soul and know he desired it more than anything else he could imagine.
Later, he awakened sitting in the chair, leaning against the clothes hanging on the pegs. He heard the clock striking one. Frederick had exhausted himself and knew it was more sleep that he needed. Standing and stretching his emotion knotted muscles, he went on to bed. Louisa would be sleeping by now so there would be no having to explain himself. There was no explanation he could give that would not hurt her further. There was nothing he could say in his own defence, he deserved no defence.
Entering the bedchamber, he looked to the fire, saw that it was low and put on more wood. He sat on his heels as it caught and after prodding things around to his liking, he turned to go to bed.
Though the fire had gone low, the room was still quite warm and so it was no wonder that Louisa had pushed the blankets to one side in her sleep. At first, he moved across the room to the bed, wanting to be certain that she was fully asleep . . . coming even closer, he stood looking down at her. The longer he looked, the more he was fascinated by the beauty of this young girl, of his own wife. The soft firelight gave her skin a rosy glow; her hair, which his own hands had braided, was beginning to come loose. So much for my ability to tie . . . he thought bemusedly, recalling his boasts made earlier that evening.
The pink gown she wore was nearly translucent . . . and he knew her form beneath it to be soft and yielding. The sight of her held his attention as strongly as the memory of Anne. "Oh Girl . . . " he breathed, unwilling to tear his eyes from her.
After a few moments, Frederick drew a shaking breath and turned away, pierced to his very soul by the overwhelming desire he again was feeling for his wife. His life would be much simpler were she a little repulsive, or simply plain! But then . . . he would never have flirted with her in the first place.
He walked quickly back to the bathing room, made his way over to the large ceramic washbasin on its stand, dumped the contents of the ewer into it ... and plunged his head into the cold water!
Frederick was not certain how long he had stood over the basin. The water had calmed considerably, but there was still the occasional drop falling from his face. Taking a towel from the bar on the stand, he buried his face and said aloud to himself, "Will it always be this way?"
Chapter 9
From Part 2:Louisa leaned against the credenza, her knees shaking. Had all this truly happened or was she merely dreaming a horrible dream? But she realised it was real enough, the walnuts were beginning to melt a little and become sticky in her hand.
As she had stood by the credenza, staring at the closed the door to the dressing room, Louisa looked at her hand and the candied walnuts; the sugar had begun to melt into the creases of her hand. Dropping them carelessly next to their dish, she wiped her hand on her robe and made her way into the bedchamber.
After closing the door, she had stood for a time, not knowing what she should do. As the sensations of her passion abated, doubt, condemnation and hurt came in their place. What have I done? was the only thought that would come to her mind . . . What was it that I could have said to cause him so quickly to retreat? His passion had been as obvious as her own and she was confident of the direction the evening had been moving . . . What have I done?
Pacing the room proved fruitless, the fire had been banked high and all her agitation only caused her to grow hot, though she had divested herself of her robe and wore only her nightdress. As she had passed by a small mirror decorating the mantelshelf, she took it down and brought it over to the bed, nearer the candles. Looking at her reflection, she studied her own drawn face. Biting her lip, she thought, Is this what he sees? No wonder he can't bring himself to the act. Thinking back to his reactions earlier in the evening, when she had been so silly to throw the towel, and joke about the bath . . . A blotchy little girl . . . stupid and stuttering . . . Had he merely been tolerating her nettlesome behaviour and not playing along with her as it had seemed? Lowering the mirror, she lay down and the tears began.
Later, having cried herself to sleep, Louisa came awake slowly . . . and alone. "Mmm . . . where am I? . . . oh, please remember, remem . . . re . . . Resplendent! Yes, I am at the Resplendent! We are in Kidderminster for the night, a lovely inn . . . ah-h! . . . why must that be the first thing that comes to my mind? He is not here . . . and his side is not rumpled . . .but perhaps he will come to bed soon." Hearing nothing in the outer chamber, she determined that he must have truly gone to bathe. Things had been quiet for some time. The fire had burned down, the candles were guttering out one by one. The room was still quite warm and the light was low; a room ideally suited for passion . . . but not for them . . . not tonight.
Louisa gave a few more moments to the hope of his joining her, but then began to think about the evening. After he had left her, she had made her way into the bedchamber and tried to reason through his leaving. The crying had come, since the only explanation that satisfied her was her own inadequacy. "I thought myself so clever in the autumn, teasing with him, and flirting. Making him think I was more grown and womanly . . . like others he has undoubtedly known. And then . . . when he does come to me, I am silly and ignorant of the ways of pleasing a man . . . I tremble and am awkward . . .I offer him candies! . . . no wonder he left me," she moaned.
Turning to her stomach and hugging a pillow close, she continued to muse on the autumn and had passed between them. "I revelled each time Charles turned his face from my behaviour . . . or when Papa chose to keep still about my drawing him away to myself when he would be invited to Uppercross . . .I was left to my own and see what I have made of it."
Kicking the blankets to one side, she turned and plumped the pillow. As she lay down, she noticed her braid. The tie was missing and it was coming undone, but she left it, she cared little about it now. It had been her hair that had begun this dreadful night. "Now I see why some women are cutting it completely off! No need for anything . . . or anyone that way!" Tossing the braid behind her, she settled into the pillow. Just then, she heard the door latch open slowly.
She quickly closed her eyes. She did not wish him to know she was awake. He is stirring the fire . . . perhaps he is intending to come to bed and is banking the fire for the night . . . the tools are being put away . . . I hear nothing now. Why does he sigh? The door closed, quietly.
Has he left . . . ? After laying quite still for a time, Louisa slowly opened her eyes and raised her head. She saw no one. He had obviously not come to bed, but had taken care to bank the fire, then had left her. "I wonder if he will come back and try to rest? I do not wish him to sleep out in the sitting room . . . or worse the dressing room . . . I think that is the door I heard close earlier. He most likely looked in and was repulsed by the thought of a girl in a childish pink nightdress sharing his bed . . . he expected a woman . . . he could not force himself to lie down with me. Everyone has their limitations, I suppose. Oh G-d . . . shall it always be this way?"
Just as she had uttered the words, she heard the door to the hallway close. "Oh, G-d! That was the door going out!. Where is he going to? " Quickly climbing from the bed, she went to the door of the chamber and threw it opened. She faced an empty room. Rushing to the dressing room and going through to the bathing room, she proved that he had left. "His satchel, has he taken the satchel?" In a panic, she ran back to the bedchamber. Hurriedly opening the door to the wardrobe, she pulled out his valise. Clutching it to herself, she leant against the jamb and muttered, "He has not left me . . . No, thank G-d. All his money and papers are in it, he would not be leaving me totally and go without it . . . he would have taken his papers and money were to leave for good. Thank G-d, he has not left me." After a long time, she realised how absurd the entire idea of his leaving had been. Replacing the valise, she softly closed the wardrobe door. Exhaustion suddenly overtook her and all she wished was sleep . . . some peaceful sleep. "Lie down, girl," she said to herself. "Rest . . . it is a long night yet."
Pulling the wide entry door of the Resplendent closed, the Captain pulled the collar of his great coat up around his neck. The wind was freshening and a light snow blew about. Descending the broad stairs to the sidewalk, he quickly reckoned the direction he wished to go.
It was not by accident that the Captain had chosen to walk the more indecent streets of Kidderminster. They were a far cry from the wide, clean boulevard on which the Resplendent made its formidable mark. Tonight, it was Krekston's Lane and its denizens with which he desired to take his ease.
As the coach had entered Kidderminster the previous afternoon, Trimble had chosen to cross over the slow-moving Sevren River by the most direct route, Krekston's Bridge. As in most cities of any size, the river district is not the finest of areas and these which lay at either end of this particular bridge were no exceptions. It was safe enough in daylight, but at night, what was merely shabby and frowsy became much worse.
While they had been crossing, the Captain and Louisa had been conversing but he had taken enough notice of his surroundings to know it was in this grimy part of town he now wished to haunt.
The raucousness of the pubs, the squalid rooming houses and the vulgar women marking a brothel or two assured him not only of his economic superiority, but would hopefully reinvigorate his sense of moral superiority as well. Though on this night, Frederick took no comfort in the fact he carried more money in his satchel than some of these people, honestly or dishonestly might handle in a lifetime. And even more galling was the knowledge that after his night with Louisa, his moral superiority was hanging like a battered sail, so damaged it was unable to catch a breeze.
Forgetting what had taken place in that lovely room at the Resplendent would not be allowed and each of the events repeated themselves in a continual circuit through his mind. Louisa's amiability through the early part of the evening naturally flowed into thoughts of the untaught passion which had begun to overtake them both. The full-blown pleasure of it was always juxtaposed with the vileness of his betraying thoughts of Anne.
The memory itself was base enough, but the abject duplicity in covering his slip sickened him even more. When he had withdrawn to the bathing room, he was forced to see that fulfilling himself with his wife while conjuring images of Anne would be a gross violation of his vows of marriage, worse yet, it was a desire which cried greedily to be fulfilled.
As he walked the streets, his thoughts were rudderless: no sure course, no destination, just driven along with whatever wind or wave overtook them at the moment.
I always wonder that the religious decry the filthier parts of a city. If for no other reason, it gives them, and a man such as myself a quarter in which to feel our moral superiority so keenly . . . In my valise, I carry more money than many of these poor wretches will ever see in a lifetime . . . and that is not even a half of my means . . . I am a man of such consequence, eh Captain?
The snow was still falling, but it was not a snow heavy enough to settle anywhere. It gave him a perverse bit of pleasure to see the flakes gather in a corner, thinking themselves at rest and then a gust blowing them back into the air . . . not unlike his own heart being blown about by the wind of his emotions . . . he could find no rest either.
Passing by a drunkard collapsed out on the sidewalk, he continued his musings.
No, this part of a city serves us nicely . . . the well-heeled sot can come here and look at a fellow such as him, face down in the snow and feel quite confident that before he becomes too far gone, instead of ending in his own spew, his man will assist him to his rooms, undress him and pour him betwixt the sheets . . . And the adulterer comes to see the men paw at the whores, feeling oh so smug that he betrays his wife so cleanly and with a better sort of woman . . . yes, the wife of a friend . . . or, perhaps the daughter of a business partner . . . or as I . . . with the memory of an old love. Yes, I am the cleanest of them all . . . there is not even a woman to be caught with . . . Louisa would think herself loved and never suspect a thing. How simple it would be! I could then know Anne in a way never before possible! And after a time, I would grow used to not saying her name as I blunderingly did this evening. But until then . . . I covered oh so well. "Ann-d I have always loved your hair," . . . ah, it fell so trippingly, didn't it? Not a thought given . . . it came to rescue me quite unbidden. The sneering in his mind's voice was becoming more pronounced as he continued on this course.
As he thought more on how naturally lying seemed to come to him, a whole world of duplicity opened, one that he himself had held in contempt only a few years previous.
At his elevation to captain and with his command of the Laconia, his social obligations had expanded and Frederick had increasingly found himself in what many would call 'superior' company. The company itself was very rarely 'superior.' While the ranks were indeed higher, and the men of more consequence, he had found that many times what looked to be better company was merely better fed and dressed; better able to cover their debaucheries.
In particular was a situation of which he had been made acquainted after landing on Madeira, the Port of Funchal.
One of the first social invitations he had manoeuvered through was a dinner at the home of Admiral Trygger Truman. Admiral Truman was neither brilliant, nor particularly clever, but he was the son of an Earl. And while he had no squadron over which to hoist a pennant, Admiral Truman did his duty to Crown and Country by keeping the thieving of the local ship wrights to a bearable level and seeing that when captains anxious to be refitted were willing, the bribes found their way into the appropriate pockets. Captain Wentworth had known little of the cosy arrangements that characterised the port of Funchal at the time, but quickly became familiar with them and their overseer.
The dinner at the Truman home was lovely. The Admiral had taken great pride in presenting to the company his older sons before they were shooed off to bed. Mrs. Truman had proven to be a wonderful hostess. Not only lovely to look on, she was witty and made each guest feel quite at home. She had even taken great pains to arrange for enough female dinner partners for all the gentlemen. Even a newly posted captain, who, at any other dinner, would have been relegated to the back of the room with those of the lower ranks that were highly connected, but invited only out of necessity. The Admiral's brandy and cigars had been the finest and the evening's entertainment by local musicians had been superb.
There had been nothing that Frederick could have named that might bring shame upon the host or the evening. Nothing that is, until he had conversed with several acquaintances who were kind enough to apprise him of the Truman family 'arrangement.'
It seemed that the Mrs. Truman who had so graciously greeted the party had actually been one Mrs. Dorothea Campbell. A London widow of no consequence and no fortune. The true Mrs. Admiral Trygger Truman resided in the family seat in Wessex and had not set a foot out of country in ten years. Both were aware of the others' existence and each was quite grateful for the other's contributions to the Admiral's career.
The out of country Mrs. Truman proved to be invaluable to the Admiral by being his hostess and providing the society necessary to a man wishing to gain ground with the Admiralty. The in country Mrs. Truman kept alive the family presence in Wessex and most importantly, raised the future heirs to the Truman title and fortune.
Frederick's merchant class morality had been incensed by such an arrangement, but he had kept his opinions to himself. The Laconia was in need of work and having no money for bribes, he was dependent upon the good-will cultivated with Admiral Truman to see his ship properly outfitted.
Remembering this particular arrangement caused him to ponder such an arrangement for himself . . . and Anne.
Any other time, he would think that there was no hope in the world of convincing her to take part in such an abominable scheme, but if the rumours that he had heard at Uppercross about Sir Walter were true, the gentleman was very near the end of any mercy when it came to his creditors . . . and that would leave Anne destitute. Lady Russell would no doubt take her in, but if he were just able to talk to her, perhaps he could persuade her to go another way.
And Frederick would not humiliate her by such a blatant flouting of convention, he would not present her as his wife and expect her to play that part in public! No, they would be very quiet and to themselves in this, besides, it would be a few years yet before he could hope to take the step up to admiral, and until then, there would be no advantage of placing her on a foreign station. For there to be any hope of them being together, he would have to keep her in country, close to any home he made with Louisa. Perhaps he could install Anne in a larger city! Perhaps even London. She would have diversions in the theatre and concerts . . . quite different from the quiet society of Kellynch, she would enjoy that, surely. . . and the Admiralty at Whitehall would give him more than enough excuses to travel to the city . . . ! And once he made Admiral . . . then a foreign station would be possible!
"G-d! Stop it, you reprobate, dog!" He nearly shouted the words and with them came warm feelings enough that several milling on the sidewalks looked at him, but wild rantings were not uncommon in this place and so his were given no real attention.
Pulling his greatcoat closer, Frederick stalked on. The whole scenario he had just outlined for himself was extraordinarily vile, and he could not help hearing his pesky brother--The Rector. Edward had again predicted with accuracy this course that Frederick might take.
"You have made an honourable decision . . . once this part is finished, if you are reasonable, I think you will have no more hardship than others new to marriage . . . but if you persist in thinking yourself despicable, you will soon truly become so. . . there will be nothing keeping you from travelling that road and you will allow yourself license that you never thought you would. Please ... don't do that."
The whole of what he had thought was despicable. He would debauch a woman he claimed to love, he would betray vows taken before God and his family . . . and a trusting girl who he was growing to . . . he could not even name what his feelings there might be. He would use the foolishness of the Baronet to take advantage of Anne and entice her into a degrading union with him, one with no hope of true happiness. He would betray Louisa, the woman who would bear him the children to inherit his fortune and his honourable name. That was the worst of it. What he would do to the three of them would not stop with them . . . it would continue on and on. His actions would start a legacy that could destroy his family for generations.
Frederick had given thought to children at times, not many, but enough to know his own mind about certain things. He knew that he did not wish his children to suffer him as the Wentworth children had suffered their father. If he were to carry out his concoction of wickedness, his true children would bear the burden of his obvious contempt for their mother. He knew that with his own father, the contemptible treatment of his mother was exactly how the man had eventually treated Edward and Sophia and finally himself. While his children born to Anne, would be easily loved because of his feeling for their mother, they would one day be faced with the truth about him--and their mother. They would forever be on the wrong side of the blanket and no amount of love would change the fact that their father had done such a thing to them.
He knew in his heart that the only avenue left was to forget her. To put her completely and inexorably out of his thoughts. Frederick knew himself too well, if he allowed the luxury of contemplation on thoughts as those earlier, he would begin to work towards them. He would become as determined in this as he had been in his career. His anger with Anne had kept him at bay for eight years and a half, but now, if he allowed, desire would drive him to certain destruction of them both.
"Why didn't she just marry Musgrove and be done with it?" he muttered. Looking back, had he returned to Somerset and found such to have been the case, he would have been hurt and angered, but at least he would know her to be well cared for. Musgrove was not an exceptional man by any means, but he would be faithful and she would have improved him. Yes, Anne would have made Charles Musgrove an excellent wife!
"Think Anne'll make a good sailor's wife?"
The words came to him suddenly. Again that night, an unexpected voice from the past came to him. It took him some time to remember where he had heard it. It had been Charles Musgrove! The occasion had been the wedding . . . after he and Benwick had exchanged words.
"Yes, he'll do . . . He'll do very well, I think. Already looking out for her, protecting her. I like that in a man."
" . . . Already looking out for her." Those had been Charles' exact words. "And he had been," Frederick said under his breath. ". . . he said he had found her out somewhere crying and had seen her to the house . . .put her before the fire . . .covered her . . . brandy. And this was not the first time he had seen to her . . . in Lyme his attentions were . . . his attentions were great ...!"
It was coming clear to him that James Benwick had not developed a sudden interest in Anne at Uppercross . . . there had been an attraction much earlier . . . and . . . the attraction had been somewhat mutual. Anne had not treated Benwick's prodigious attention with disdain . . . but cordiality . . . no, with distinct pleasure!
The last time Frederick had seen them together was when Benwick had escorted Anne to the carriage that he might take her and Henrietta back to Uppercross. There had been no conversation that he could see but there had been a general feel of good-will on both their parts, and an ease as they a said their good byes.
Recalling as much as he was able concerning Anne and Benwick in Lyme, he began to take comfort. While it was ridiculous to think that his own feelings for Anne over the years had somehow done her any good -- she had never known his mind and there had certainly been no material good done by them -- he was disconcerted by the notion of releasing her from his thoughts. It was as if she would drift alone, friendless and abandoned into the lonely world. "But if she were to go to Benwick . . ." he murmured.
Frederick also knew that James Benwick would not have taken the time to reproach Musgrove had he not been motivated by something other than simple gallantry. Benwick was a man as solicitous of a woman's comfort, as any alive. Nay, more so, but he had seen something greater at work in his friend than mere chivalry. There had been more on the mind of James Benwick than Mrs. Musgrove's treatment of her sister . . . much more.
After thinking on about Anne and Benwick, and walking further and longer than he had ever intended, he came back to the boulevard where the Resplendent lay. As he came closer to the inn, Frederick knew that no matter what happened between the two of them, he must release Anne. He must let go the sweet memories and put them away. He must guard himself against the unprincipled fantasies in which he had indulged earlier. Anything to do with Anne must be banished from his heart and his mind. To remain faithful to himself and his marriage, he must bid her good bye.
Having made his decision, the Captain found, as most do, that relief comes and takes up residence in the heart of the one deciding. Frederick knew he would return to the room at the Resplendent, and laying down next to his wife, if she were awake and willing, he would begin his marriage.
Chapter 10, Part 1
~~~ At Sir Walter's residence in Bath ~~~
"Sir ... and ... Milady."
Elizabeth Elliot gave the barest of civil nods to the thin little man who bowed and simpered before her. His mien was one of grovelling respectfulness, save the eyes. Watchful and shifting, they held a half-hidden smirk of smug satisfaction which caused her to stiffen.
"Horrid man," she muttered under her breath, as her father escorted him through to the front entry. He and Sir Walter had been closeted together in the library on an unknown matter of business; now he was leaving. And good riddance! Elizabeth sniffed, sincerely hoping never to see this person in Camden Place again.
She moved over to the drawing room windows and stood looking down at the street below, watching as he climbed into the hired hack which had brought him. As he bent to enter the vehicle, he shot a sharp, appraising look up at the house; through the window glass his eyes met hers. A woman of lesser substance would have blushed and backed away from such an exchange, but not Elizabeth Elliot. She pursed her lips and returned his brazen gaze through narrowed eyes. Her whole bearing was one of complete contempt. "Horrid, horrid man!" she repeated.
The hack rumbled off down the street, turned the corner and disappeared from sight, but the frown on her lovely face did not. "What on earth can Father have to do with such a dreadful person?" she grumbled to herself. Everything about the man had shrieked of his low-born origins. His ancient black overcoat and tall, battered hat were positively comical! But Elizabeth was not of a mind to laugh, not today.
She turned back toward the drawing room doors, awaiting her father's return to the room. Today she intended to find out exactly who this man was and why he had been coming; no more would she allow herself to be deterred by her father's vague explanations! Elizabeth tapped her foot impatiently as she waited. She heard her father's voice, and Burton's, some scuffling, shifting noises ... and then the sound of the outer door opening once again. Obviously, someone was coming in ... or leaving!
Elizabeth moved quickly to open the drawing room door. "Father?"
Sir Walter turned back from the threshold, briefly. "Ah my dear! I am going out. A ... little matter of business to transact. I shall be back shortly." With a smile and a nod he was gone, leaving his eldest daughter standing rooted to the spot in surprise. Father? Going out on a matter of business? Himself?
Aware of Burton's silent, but interested presence, she returned to the privacy of the drawing room and began to pace the length of it, her delicate silk skirts rustling softly as she moved about the room. Try as she might, she could not control her growing uneasiness. Her father never handled business transactions himself! And his tone of voice had been pleasant, almost ... cheerful. But how can that be? Elizabeth bit her lip as she thought. Especially after such a dreadful letter this morning!
And this unknown man had come again. How could she explain his presence? Not someone we know socially, of course, she speculated as she continued to pace. It was curious that her father should be so polite to such an one. Not a solicitor. That sort of man would dress fashionably, and would have more gracious manners. A merchant? A tradesman? Elizabeth's beautiful amber eyes narrowed as she remembered the battered black satchel the man had carried. Or ... could he be ... a moneylender?
She stopped pacing and sighed. Perhaps Anne is right after all. Although loath to admit it to anyone, Elizabeth was now coming to realize that her father's removal to Bath had not brought the carefree life she had expected. He was certainly pleased with their new situation and society; in fact, he had been heard to say on more than one occasion that this was something he should have done years ago! And there was no reason why she should not be equally as delighted with life in Bath. There had been introductions, and many flattering invitations, and the promises of the amusements of the spring season; there was the intoxication of her beautiful new gowns, now beginning to be delivered ... So why do I feel so ... mistrustful of it all? Elizabeth pondered. Because everything that seems too wonderful to be true generally is! Especially where Father is concerned!
Heaving another sigh, she cast herself into one of the elegantly upholstered chairs before the fire, thinking. That letter this morning from Mr. Shepherd! She pulled at the ornate fringe on one of the richly brocaded pillows as she went over in her mind what had transpired.
The postmark "Crewkherne" had probably been the cause of the entire incident; without it, the letter would have remained on her father's desk with the rest of his correspondence. As it was, Sir Walter had noticed it, had recognized Mr. Shepherd's hand ... and had assumed it was for his daughter. He had given the letter to Penelope at the conclusion of their breakfast that morning.
"Oh no, dear sir!" Penelope had smilingly returned it, dropping a tiny curtsey, a charming habit she had when speaking to the baronet. "Please excuse me, but this is addressed to you!"
Sir Walter took the letter with an answering smile of thanks and a small, cordial bow, as he was wont to do when addressing personable young women such as Mrs Clay. But his look of gentle courtesy changed to a frown, and then to a scowl as he opened it and began to read. "Preposterous, Shepherd!" he burst out. "What lunacy!" Straightway he had crumpled the letter and began roundly abusing poor Mr. Shepherd's person and abilities. Penelope had flushed to hear such things said about her father, and fled the dining room in shame. Sir Walter watched her go, an annoyed expression on his face; he had forgotten her presence. The offending letter was tossed into the fireplace before he, too, quitted the room, leaving Elizabeth alone at table with Anne. I thought we had left such scenes behind us, she sighed. Obviously not.
For a full minute, an awkward silence had reigned as both sisters sat staring at the remains of their breakfast. It seemed to Elizabeth that time had stood still just then. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the room; to hide her discomfort at her father's unmannerly outburst, she busied herself with pouring out more tea. She absently watched as she stirred the swirl of white milk into the dark beverage; her silver spoon made a musical chime against the rim of her fine china cup. Elizabeth had looked up just then. Quite unintentionally, her eyes met Anne's.
It was only for a moment, but it had been enough to see an expression of anxiety and genuine concern on her sister's face. It was followed by a look of wary determination. Sending the lone attendant from the room on the pretext of procuring a fresh pot of tea, Anne pushed back her chair, made her way directly to the fireplace and, with the aid of a poker, retrieved the letter. Their father's aim had been poor; it had not reached the flames entirely. Anne knelt and smoothed the paper on the surface of hearth, careful not to leave any telltale smudges of soot from its burnt edge.
"It is from Mr. Shepherd," she said as she straightened, speaking as one resigned to trouble. She averted her eyes and sighed deeply. "And all is far from well, apparently. Here. Read for yourself." And after handing it to Elizabeth, she, too, left the room.
Elizabeth knew she should not have looked at the letter, but violating the dictates of conscience had become nearly second nature to her, especially these last few years. Besides, it had been Anne who had rescued it from the fire; hers was the greater share of the blame. But when she had finished reading it, Elizabeth better understood the look of desperate concern on her sister's face.
This letter she had kept, folding it into a square for safekeeping. It was now in her pocket, evidence of a hard truth which her sister had long suspected, and Elizabeth was only now coming to believe. The plan of retrenchment had not been entirely successful.
Alone in her room, Elizabeth had read it over and over again. She pulled it out now as she sat in front of the fire in the drawing room. The import of its contents still sounded absurdly foreign, or as if something from a bad dream. Mr. Shepherd wrote respectfully, but forthrightly. He had been receiving requests for payment from tradesmen in Bath which were mounting up at an alarming rate; of particular surprise was one very large cheque which had been made out to some sort of artisan! Mr. Shepherd was becoming concerned, lest these debts become in excess of the income of the estate (which monies included the rental fees paid by Admiral Croft). Did not Sir Walter understand the nature of a retrenchment?
Mr. Shepherd! Elizabeth fumed inwardly. How does he dare to write such things? Did we not follow his advice? "In Bath you may be important at comparatively little expense!" His very words! We were induced to believe that we should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by relocating here!
But Mr. Shepherd's letter carried an ominous reminder of the terms under which Sir Walter's primary creditor had agreed to make over the loan: the quarterly payments must be paid in full and on time ... and this was news to Elizabeth. She had no knowledge of any such arrangement. Mr. Shepherd had minced no words in his appraisal of their predicament and in his proposal for extrication:
With the funds so low at present, it appears that securing the one hundred pound payment for March 25th could be a close-run thing. Therefore, may I respectfully advise that you exercise whatever means are in your power to raise the ready cash for said payment yourself. I would further advise a drastic and severe course of action: all unplanned, extemporaneous spending must cease immediately.
Elizabeth ground her teeth at Mr. Shepherd's choice of words. "Extemporaneous spending?" And that would be, what? Food to eat? Fires to warm ourselves? She tapped her foot impatiently, listing off "necessities" which, obviously, a man of Mr. Shepherd's ilk would think wasteful. Including ... the lavish redecoration of the front bedchamber? her thoughts taunted. Elizabeth froze at the justice of the accusation. This, certainly, was not a necessity by anyone's definition! Her thoughts went further. My ... new clothing? She covered her face with her hands.
But I must have these things! I must! The entire point of coming to Bath would be wasted, else! Every waking thought, every introduction sought and every social engagement accepted had been with this in mind: to secure for herself an advantageous match. And this time, Father will not interfere! There had been more than a few offers for her hand over the years from gentlemen she had met during her annual visits to London, offers spurned by the fastidious Sir Walter. And if Anne is right! If we have nothing! But I must not think on it! She raised her head and took a deep breath. I cannot give way to ... idle speculation!
If only, Elizabeth's delicately arched brows furrowed, remembering, if only my Cousin William would come up to scratch! She smiled to herself as she thought about him. If only he would propose ... and if only I could have the glorious ability to refuse him! She had never forgotten the very pointed snubs dealt her by this man years ago, when she had willingly, nay, eagerly acquiesced to her father's plan of a matrimonial alliance. He will make an excellent husband, though ... unfortunately. Elizabeth pulled at the golden fringe on the cushion she held in her lap. She had every intention of accepting William Elliot, once his period of mourning was completed. After all, she thought bitterly, he has Father's three essential requirements: wealth, title, and a good appearance. All of her other suitors had been lacking in at least one. But this match would have Sir Walter's support ... and there was no question in Elizabeth's mind that Mr. Elliot would make an offer. Why else would he be coming to call so often? Ah well, she sighed in resignation.. He has become a much more pleasant companion than he was years ago. It will not be so very bad to be his wife.
But I wish I may do better than he! The small society in the vicinity of the Kellynch Estate had long ago lost its charm; the idea of remaining there and occupying her mother's place as Lady Elliot (as she had done these thirteen years) had very little appeal, apart from the title she would acquire. Now that we are becoming established in Bath, we shall see ...
The sound of laughter and friendly conversation in the front entry called her attention back to the present; her father and Mrs. Clay had returned together. Elizabeth hastily refolded Mr. Shepherd's letter and put a pleasant expression on her face; it would never do to let her father know that she suspected anything was amiss. His business transaction must have been completed successfully ... and Penelope's 'solitary ramble' in the park had been unmarred by any rain. She had been taking these walks several times a week now; they seemed to do much good in restoring her spirits..
And this evening provided a pleasant prospect; they were to attend a dinner at the Leighton's. And I must remember to ask Father to have my diamonds brought out of the vault, she reminded herself, as she rose to greet them, for I must certainly look my best tonight!
Elizabeth sat at the writing desk in the drawing room, intent on a rather large book which lay open before her. No general plotting a campaign, no admiral analysing the positioning of his ships, could be more seriously attentive to his task than she. "Leighton" was the name she had written at the top of the ledger page in her beautiful, flowing hand. But there were no financial figures marching across the pages of this book. Instead, its lines and columns were filled with Useful Information. Below the surname, Elizabeth had recorded the particulars of the Leighton family members.
Harold Leighton, elderly, retired to Bath for reasons of health.
Estate in Kent. "Maldondale"
Maude Stapleton Leighton, wife, of indifferent health and conversation
Gladiola Leighton Lamare, oldest daughter, married to Mr. Rupert Lamare.
Narcissus Leighton, unmarried younger daughter, engaged to Col. Robert Derrick, now serving in India. Not a Young Woman. A marriage of convenience? Resides with parents.
Hugo Leighton, only son, heir, married to ...
Elizabeth frowned in an effort to remember the name of Hugo Leighton's wife. No matter! It could be found out this evening. She scanned the contents of the page once again, committing the information to memory. The Leightons were not well-known to her; the daughters were uniformly plain and had the most hideous names! Elizabeth smiled to herself. Being in the company of plain women never did her any harm, especially if there were eligible gentlemen in attendance! Perhaps there would be some tonight! She resumed reading her entries.
December 15th ... first introduced at card party given by Vance LeCroix
Mrs. Leighton has a small dog (a pug) named "Vincent"
Very ill in November.
Mr. Harold Leighton a poor sport at whist. Capitulate!
Mr. Hugo Leighton, rather better at cards, an enthusiastic talker. Especially fond of horses, matched bays, new phaeton.
There followed more in this vein; each encounter, each conversation with the family was neatly recorded for future reference.
The newly-arrived newspaper was taken up next. Its pages rattled a little as she turned them, scanning the society column for any news of the Leightons. Finding nothing, Elizabeth refolded it and laid it on the desk. During her seasons in London, she had devised this system for keeping track of the members of Polite Society, their interests (useful for conversational gambit), and any hint of gossip. Far more precious (and useful!) to her than her father's copy of the Baronetage, she kept meticulous care in keeping The Book up to date. She had begun this new volume for Bath shortly after arriving; its pages were beginning to fill with personalities: those she had met, wished to meet, and would be careful to avoid.
"Father ..." A thought occurred to her as she closed the book. "I wonder if I might request a favor, please."
"Very well," came Sir Walter's reply from across the room. He was occupied with a game of backgammon with Mrs. Clay. "What is it you require, my dear?" He was in an especially pleasant frame of mind this afternoon. The rain had come, but it had not dampened his spirits at all.
Elizabeth rose from her chair and moved to stand beside the game table. "I would like my diamond drop earrings and pendant from the vault, if you please, Father," she replied. "I would like to wear them to the Leighton's tonight." She smiled at Mrs. Clay. "Don't you think the effect will be perfect with my silvery gown? Tres fashionable!"
"Ah, the new one, my dear? But of course, how stunning." Sir Walter returned her smile, but with a slight hesitation of manner. "But perhaps you should not consider wearing something so ... so understated. I suggest your grandmother's diamonds, dear; they are always so elegant. Do not diamonds have a timeless quality about them?"
"Grandmother Stevenson's diamonds?" Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. "Oh no. The setting, Father! How ... antiquated! No, I prefer my own beautiful earrings and pendant. You, at least, have much more discriminating taste than fusty old Grandmother Stevenson!" Elizabeth's diamonds had been a gift from her father upon the occasion of her twenty-first birthday.
"Ah ... yes! But my dear, the entire purpose of wearing such an ensemble is to show to all that we are of an ancient, noble lineage! Your diamonds ... why they are so new. We are not of the nouveau set, dearest, but not all in Bath know of it. We cannot hold the open Baronetage under their noses, now can we? No, I think the older jewels would be best tonight."
Elizabeth was not at all pleased with this response. The silver gown had been designed with her own diamonds in mind, to call attention to the size and brilliant fire of the stones. Elizabeth met her father's gaze directly.
"I thank you, Father, for your opinion. And I do understand your meaning. Perhaps some other time I will wear Grandmother's set. But I would prefer mine own diamonds tonight, please."
"Well, I would not!" Sir Walter replied peevishly, fixing his eyes on the game before him. "And I will not fetch them for you. Indeed ... I ... cannot! They are ... they have been taken ... to the jewelers ... for cleaning! I thought they looked ... rather ... dull, when you wore them last! You will wear the others tonight! Or, perhaps, the Elliot sapphires!" He tossed his head and pushed back his chair. Rising awkwardly, he made his way to refill his glass with sherry. "And for heaven's sake, sit down! Why in heaven's name are you standing about in that stupid way?"
Elizabeth turned and gave her father one of her clear, appraising looks. Jewelry cleaning? An unwelcome suspicion had begun to occur to her, but she was unwilling to give voice to it at this time. "Very well, sir," she said, sliding into the chair nearest the game table. "I shall wait to wear the gown until it may be properly seen. Might I have my garnet set, then?" These gems had gone missing a week ago, while Anne was away.
"Garnets! Poo!" her father grumbled as he filled his glass, "What are you about, daughter, to shame me before the Leightons? Those are nothing but rubbish! You never wear them nowadays!"
"The stones exactly match my maroon velvet gown, Father," she countered. "The earrings are quite ornate and beautiful."
"With your velvet gown?" He replaced the top of the crystal decanter with a snap. "You will look like a confounded Spanish woman in them! I won't have it!"
"Would I!? Then I shall wear a black lace mantilla, to match!" Elizabeth retorted, stung by his uncompromising answer. Obviously her father meant to withhold the garnet jewelry as well! Out of the corner of her eye she say Penelope Clay slip out of the drawing room door.
"And be mistaken for an attendee of a costume ball? Elizabeth! Do not be so foolish!"
"Very well, Father." Elizabeth spoke sweetly; inside she was seething. "I shall wear my ivory silk ... and my mother's pearls. They have not been sent for cleaning as well, have they?"
"No, indeed! Where did you get such an idea!" Sir Walter fulminated, not a little unnerved by the accusatory tone of his daughter's remark. " I shall have them brought down directly."
"I thank you, sir," came the gracious reply. "Please excuse me while I consult with Elise about my change in attire for this evening." Elizabeth rose and glided gracefully toward the door. In the hallway outside she found Mrs Clay studying her complexion in the ornate mirror there. "Oh, Miss Elliot! Do you think your father's lotion ..."
"I am sorry about the fracas, Penelope, dear," Elizabeth broke in. "Father is better now. You may continue your game, if you wish."
This was said in such a way that Mrs Clay could not mistake; it was a command not meant to be ignored. "Yes, Miss Elliot." She quietly returned to Sir Walter.
Elizabeth made her way to the stairway and took hold of the bannister. She pressed her other hand to her aching head. In addition to the unknown business of the odious little man, there were now more enigmas to puzzle her. She glanced back at the drawing room door through half-closed eyes; the sound of Mrs. Clay's gentle, soothing voice could be heard from within. "Very well, Father," she murmured quietly, "I shall bide my time. But I intend to find out about this ... man ... who came today. Has he come to clean my jewelry? Indeed, I think not!"
Chapter 10, Part 2
~~~ Part Two ~~~
"Oh, dear sir!" Mrs. Clay spoke to the baronet, her voice, as usual, soft and musical. "I do believe the next move is yours."
After a brief exchange of pleasantries, she and Sir Walter had resumed their game of backgammon; and the unpleasant exchange with Elizabeth was well on its way to being forgotten. A steady rain drummed against the tall windows of the drawing room as the two 'opponents' conversed amiably across the board.
"Ah, you are quite right. Mrs. Clay: Please forgive me. My thoughts have been elsewhere." He threw the dice and moved a black disk. "There. Now what will you do with that?" He smiled, simple and proud at his own cleverness.
"Oh!" Penelope groaned, "You are such a vicious opponent, Sir Walter! How is anyone ever to get the better of you?" Sir Walter chuckled softly at her predicament; she hid a smile as she reached out for the pair of dice. She rolled them between her fingers for a moment in deliberation, pretending to concentrate on the game. Lifting her eyes briefly from the board, she sized up the opportunity before her. She was alone with him in the room, a rarity, indeed! Mrs. Clay decided to make her move and threw the dice.
"Oh no!" she cried in dismay, as one of them slipped out of her hand and fell to the floor. As luck would have it, it rolled under the table. Mrs. Clay quickly dropped to her knees to find it. So did Sir Walter.
"Do you ... see it ... anywhere?" she asked, crouching on her hands and knees, turning her head to hunt for it. Her eyes strayed more often to his face, for the search would never be successful; she had the missing die firmly pinned beneath her knee.
"Gah! I shall call the boy to search for it," he panted. "Please do not trouble yourself, my dear Mrs. Clay."
"No, no! It is not important! Truly! I ... I will concede the victory to you, dear sir. My mind was not really on the game, you know."
"Nor was mine," he admitted. He smiled a little as he sat on his heels and looked at her. As she knelt, the low neckline of her gown revealed ...
"I am so very sorry about ... what happened this afternoon," she said softly. Her large gray eyes looked into his. "If I may be of help to you, Sir Walter, with ... anything ... I beg you will not ... hesitate to ask!" There was silence in the room as they regarded one another under the table.
"Uh, yes ... of course!" He came to his senses, blinking a little in stupefaction. "Thank you, my dear. I shall." He slowly got to his feet, and courteously assisted her to rise. "It is perhaps as well that we do not finish the game. You, I am sure, will have many preparations for this evening's dinner."
"Yes indeed!" Mrs. Clay's cheeks delicately flushed. "Such a generous, obliging invitation, to include me! You have such thoughtful friends, sir. I ... shall wear the gray gown, your gift to me!" !" She blushed, lowering her eyes modestly. "It is so lovely! I have never owned such finery!" She stopt again, her blush more intense. "Oh, excuse me! I meant to say, 'the gift from Elizabeth and you'! I did not intend to imply anything ... improper!" She raised her eyes to meet his.
"Yes, yes, my dear, of course you did not." Sir Walter pulled himself to his full height, thrusting out his chest the tiniest bit. A young woman like this thinking I might be improper with her! A nice thought, to be sure! But then, why should it be so surprising that she should? Am I not, after all, quite remarkable-looking for my age? Aloud he said, "You are very welcome. And I shall look forward to our evening together, Mrs. Clay."
"And I." She curtseyed and gracefully backed toward the door. "Thank you, sir!" On the whole, it had been quite a profitable ... game.
"Oh! Look!" She swiftly knelt by a nearby chair and brought up the missing die. "Here it is!" Mrs. Clay smiled charmingly as she returned it, taking care to brush his hand with her fingertips. "Until tonight, then, sir." She felt his eyes watching her as she left the room. Yes, it had been a very profitable game, indeed!
Anne had spent the time since breakfast and all of the afternoon alone in her little room, her luncheon having been brought on a tray. She had quietly occupied herself with small tasks in an effort to drive the news of Mr. Shepherd's letter -- and her father's easy dismissal of its contents (for she was certain he had not read it entirely!) -- from her mind. Now, seated at her desk, she tried to concentrate on a volume of selected poetry, but with little success. Her mind refused to fix itself on anything she attempted read; her thoughts still in a jumble. After turning to several of her favorites and finding them completely unappealing, she closed the book and laid it aside.
I shall not give in to idle worrying! Anne's eyes traveled over the desktop as she thought, searching for another task that needed doing. Every drawer had been tidied; the pens ordered in the standish, stationery stacked neatly in its place. I suppose there is a letter or two I might write, she thought, running her fingers over the smooth surface of the paper. But other than her weekly letter to Mary, she could think of no one to whom she was obliged to write. Except ...
Except ... that letter! Anne nibbled on a fingernail as she thought about it. Here was another dilemma, one which had troubled her since her return from Uppercross. What shall I do about ... it ... and him? If only I had remembered to return it, instead of putting it into my pocket!! She had yet to come up with a solution. Perhaps if I were to see it again I could think of something ...
Anne got up from her chair and crossed the room to the wardrobe. On the floor of it, beneath the hems of her gowns, was a square cedar box. Here, from childhood, Anne had kept her most precious possessions away from the prying eyes of the servants. For in a household as well-staffed as Sir Walter's, nothing went unnoticed. The contents of her drawers, the wardrobe, the pockets of her cloak and pelisse ... were available for all to see. Now, kneeling on the floor, she drew out her box and unlocked it. Slowly she removed a badly rumpled white square of cotton cloth ... Captain Benwick's handkerchief.
Once again she attempted to smooth it, rubbing it on her lap. This would never remove the wrinkles, but one could always hope! Hope for a miracle! Anne sighed, and looked at the square in dismay. I cannot send it back to him in this condition! But how to have it laundered?
For this was the central worry in Anne's predicament. To have the handkerchief properly washed, clearstarched, and pressed, it must be given to the housekeeper, or Elise, or one of the other maids with special instructions to return it directly to her. And to do so was clearly unthinkable, for Anne knew her world too well. Speculation would run wild through the downstairs staff as to the owner ... and the circumstances surrounding her possession of such a thing. Anne held it up and sighed. So obviously a man's handkerchief! Whatever am I to do? The thought that James Benwick might prefer to have it as it was (for though wrinkled, it had been used to dry her tears) never once occurred to her.
I suppose I could take it to the laundress myself, although ... her brow wrinkled with a frown, I do not know the location of such an establishment! And I ... At that moment, a knock sounded at the bedroom door. Anne hastily thrust the handkerchief into the pocket of her dress and pushed the wardrobe door shut.
"Enter," she called out, rising to her feet.
It was Elizabeth who opened the door. "Anne, I ..." She hesitated for a moment, trying to decide how to begin her request. Since she had learned of the "cleaning" of her diamonds, she had grown concerned about the location of her other jewelry. But at that moment, requesting anything from her father was out of the question. That had left only Anne to be asked for help. Now she needed to choose the words. This was proving harder than she thought.
"Elizabeth?" said Anne, at last. "Is there something you ... wanted?"
Elizabeth came fully into the room and closed the door. "There is. I ... wonder if you might do me a little favor." An awkward silence followed. Anne mistrusted her sister's "favors" as much as Elizabeth disliked asking for them. Elizabeth decided to pursue her objective in a roundabout way. "What are you wearing this evening, Anne?"
"To the Leighton's? My taupe silk," Anne replied, her mind, if not her voice, on-guard.
"Taupe? Oh." Elizabeth frowned at that. Anne read the look as condemnation of her choice of dress, and flushed. The colour is all wrong, but no matter! Elizabeth thought with irritation. To her sister, however, she composed herself to say, "I wonder if you would like ... to wear my emerald pendant this evening."
As the incredulous expression formed on Anne's face, she hastily added, "Or perhaps I shall, instead. It matters not ..." Her father's excuses had made her anxious to see this particular piece, but she had no intention of betraying her suspicions to Anne. Elizabeth realized that her concern had caused her to handle the request clumsily, and she began again, this time more truthfully.
"You see," Elizabeth explained, "Father and I ... have had a little ... row over jewelry this afternoon, and ... I do not wish to ask him for the necklace myself. Yet ... I would like to see it, to ... match the colour with something. And while it is out, it might do well for one of us to wear tonight. I wonder, then, if you would mind asking him to bring it out of the vault ... for you."
"But then he would expect me to wear it, and I do not think ..."
"Oh, very well, Anne!" Elizabeth replied, vexed at the response. "Since you must be so difficult about it, I will wait until another time!" Her sister was always like this -- deliberately contrary and uncooperative!
"Has Father recovered from ... the letter?" Anne asked quietly, as Elizabeth turned to go. "He spoke quite sharply about it to Mrs. Clay. I was hoping ... "
Elizabeth looked back, her hand on the doorknob. "How would I know?" she interrupted. "Ask him yourself! But I believe he and Penelope have made it up. They are playing backgammon together in the drawing room now."
"Elizabeth, how could you? To leave them alone like that!"
Elizabeth's dropped her hand and took a step toward her sister. "Are you continuing to nurse those ridiculous fears for Father, Anne?" she demanded. "For shame! He shall never have an interest in Penelope Clay! And even if he does come to have a particular fondness for her, it shall never go beyond!
"Fondness is where admiration and love begin, Elizabeth. And after that comes ..."
"Penelope knows her place, Anne. And Father knows his! And even if she did not, she is far too plain to appeal to a gentleman of taste, such as Father is! He loathes freckles as much as I!" She smiled condescendingly. "You have not been in London with us, Sister-dear. I have seen the sort of woman he admires. You can be sure there are no areas of similarity between such handsome women of wealth and rank ... and poor, provincial, common Penelope Clay!"
Anne met Elizabeth's frown with an even gaze. "I certainly hope you are right, Elizabeth!"
"I am, dear! You may rest assured about that! And never mind about the emerald necklace. You are quite right, it would look poorly with your gown. I shall compare the colour another time." Having recovered her composure, Elizabeth smiled graciously and removed herself from Anne's presence.
"My taupe silk," Anne repeated to herself, as the door closed. Elise had already pressed the gown. It was hanging in the wardrobe, ready for the evening. "It shall not look poorly with my agate necklace, Elizabeth!" she said aloud, to the door. "It may not be as elegant as the emerald, but the colour is quite perfect!" She collected herself. What had she been doing, before Elizabeth's interruption? She remembered, and pulled Benwick's handkerchief out of her pocket and looked at it. "This."
"I must think." She wandered about the room for awhile, searching her mind for a solution to the problem. At last she sat down on the edge of her bed, but this only made her aware of her weariness. It was quite taxing to do nothing all day but work to keep from worry. I am a little tired! she thought with a sigh, And I can think of absolutely nothing that can be done about this!
Anne closed her eyes and lay down upon the bed, deciding that a nap would do very well to restore her spirits. It would likely be a long evening at the Leighton's. She grasped the corner of the counterpane from the other side of the bed and covered herself. She took a deep breath and felt the tension begin to leave her body. All was quiet in the room. The rain beat against the windows; it felt good to be inside, dry and warm, on such a stormy winter day.
Anne continued to hold the handkerchief as she lay there. Her fingers found the monogram embroidered at its corner and she traced along the raised surface of the three initials. Her thoughts, a little softened now, returned to him. Captain Benwick. He was so ... good to me. I don't suppose he would miss this, were I not to return it. But I shall never see him again and I cannot repay his kindness with ... common thievery! She took a deep breath and decided to think about it later, after she had rested. Surrendering to her sleepiness, she snuggled comfortably into the bedding. The counterpane felt warm and heavy across her shoulders.
Memories of the wedding floated across her mind, the last time she had seen Captain Benwick. He had been very kind on that most difficult day, listening compassionately as she spoke of her heartbreak, holding her as she wept. Anne could almost feel his arms around her, now, as on that day, comforting her. In her memory, she could hear his voice, speaking earnestly ...
"... perhaps we should do that ... dare to hope for love someday. It will not be the same, of course, not in the beginning. And it may come from an unexpected source ..."
"Love from an unexpected source," Anne murmured to herself, stifling a yawn. "Benwick is right. It could never be the same ... but it might be ... nice ... to be loved again." She had never cherished the hope that love might come her way, but ... The Leighton's dinner party this evening would have many who were new to her, and some might be eligible gentlemen. As she listened to the rain, she thought what it might be like to have a new love. Perhaps I shall meet someone wonderful ... from an unexpected ... Anne yawned again, source ... perhaps ...she stretched just a little, I might meet him ... tonight ... and slowly she drifted off to sleep, smiling just a little into the pillow.
Elizabeth entered her bedchamber abruptly, stripping off her evening gloves as she came. Her maid staggered sleepily to her feet, dropped a small curtsey, and hastily began preparing to assist her mistress with the removal of her gown.
"No, no Elise!" Elizabeth waved her off impatiently. "Do go away! I need ... oh! Attend to Anne first!"
As Elise left the room, Elizabeth heaved a sigh and groaned. The evening had proved positively ... mortifying! She closed her eyes and sighed again in vexation. Anne had had a wonderful time! But herself -- ! She dropped into the chair before her dressing table, kicked off her kidskin shoes, and held her aching head with her hands. "Father!" she hissed her thought aloud, "you have quite outdone yourself this time! I hope you are ... pleased!" Her shoulders sagged as she relived the agonies of the evening.
Such dreary parties were becoming commonplace, but her father's behavior tonight! Elizabeth pulled herself upright and began to work at unfastening the clasp of her mother's string of pearls. She knew that Sir Walter would not be able to retire until he had seen them safely restored to the vault.
"Perhaps I should keep you waiting, Father!" Elizabeth muttered, maliciously. "And you would be well-served, after such treatment tonight!" Not that Sir Walter had behaved in an impolite manner toward any guest -- in fact, quite the opposite! His manner toward several of the unmarried gentlemen had been openly obsequious and flattering. And it had been he,of all people, who had suggested the dancing, compelling Anne to play for them all!
Elizabeth felt her face grow hot with the shame she had dared not allow herself to feel at the party. "How could he! Lord Farrington is old enough to be ... my grandfather!!" Elizabeth grumbled, still fumbling with the clasp. "And for Father to pitch me at him in that odious, obvious way! I was never so ... humiliated!" Necklace, earrings, and bracelets, once removed, were dropped on the marble-topped table. Elise would put them away in their velvet-lined cases.
Elizabeth turned her head to study her reflection in the mirror. Her face held a haggard, weary expression. "The most beautiful woman in Bath," she muttered. She had been pleased beyond measure to hear those words said about her after their arrival in town; now they stung, mockingly. "And quite unmarried. How delightful! Bah!" She quieted, and thought, Am I yet so old, so ... at my last prayers ... that I am to be ... pleased ... with the attentions of a worn-out man of fashion such as that ... creature! Never! She began to finger the pearls. Tears welled up in her eyes; Elizabeth swallowed them down. She never allowed herself to weep over hurts and disappointments until she was completely alone, in the dark privacy of her bed.
And weep she certainly would, for it had been a dreadful day and a worse evening! All her careful preparations for this event had been completely wasted! The only unattached gentlemen in attendance tonight were nowhere near her age, with the sole exception of her cousin, William Elliot. And true to his "plan," he had spent much of the evening conversing with Anne ... leaving her to the eager attentions of ancient Lord Farrington!
Elizabeth sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, managing a wry little smile. Had I known that Father would make such a ... spectacle ... of me, I would have worn that dress and the mantilla, just to annoy him! But no, the garnets are being cleaned, apparently. Although he did not say this; he had simply dismissed them as being "rubbish." Elizabeth sighed. Somehow she would get to the bottom of this tangle ... after she had repulsed the attentions of "Grandfather" Lord Farrington.
Elise returned to the room, her tread quiet so as not to provoke her mistress further. In her arms she carried The Book. It was Elizabeth's habit, before retiring, to there record the events of any social occasion she attended; tonight would be no exception.
"Thank you, Elise. Bring that here, and the pen and ink. And take these" -- she indicated the pearls on the tabletop -- "to Father. Then attend to Mrs. Clay; I shall be some time at this." Elise obeyed, and left the room without delay.
Elizabeth shook off her renewed disgust at her elderly suitor and began to apply herself to the task at hand. Each guest would be recorded on the proper pages. Many were already known to her, but there were a few new ones: a Mrs. Rushworth, for instance, the particular friend of Mrs. Leighton. She is a widow, obviously wealthy, with a house in Bath, although not residing there permanently at present. Elizabeth frowned as she searched her memory. Had Mrs. Rushworth a grown son? She had overheard a snatch of a complaint about "Augustus on the prowl again ..." And she had caught this woman observing her narrowly several times during the course of the evening ... which would be duly noted.
"But first, before anything else," Elizabeth smiled wickedly to herself, turning to a fresh page, "I begin with him!" She dipped her pen into the silver-trimmed inkwell. "Farrington" she wrote boldly across its top, and made the first entry. Lord Gerald Farrington, not a Young Man ...