Beginning, Previous Section, Section XIII, Next Section
Chapter 10, Part 2
James Benwick stood at the refreshment table, engrossed in making a decision. At any other time, the choice of a beverage would be simple, but just now his thoughts of Anne -- her welcoming smile, her bubbling laughter, the sparkle in her eyes as she spoke with him -- these drove all other considerations from his mind. Lady Dalrymple had adorned her drawing room with lavish floral arrangements and had brought in a noted harpist and a flautist to play duets, but James saw and heard nothing of them.
The only music in the room was the singing in his heart. For Anne had been pleased to see him, she had not been put off by his comment about the goats, or by any of the bumbling things he had said the day before. In fact, she had spoken with great familiarity, treating him as a friend. And friendship is a good beginning, he told himself. Indeed, it is the very best beginning of all.
He turned his attention to the table. A glass of sherry would be most welcome, but he decided that lemonade would be safer on all fronts. If spilled on his white breeches, it would less noticeable. Besides, he needed to an keep iron guard over his tongue; liquor of any sort -- or too much coffee -- could allow him to slip into a disastrous attack of levity. He had already strayed into this delightful territory with Anne, and he knew he must not do so again.
And how I shall keep a straight face when Turner begins his recitation... James grinned at the thought, realising that he neither knew nor cared. Nothing mattered but to be in Anne's presence, to listen to the sound of her sweet voice as she teazed him.
'You look very fine today, sir...are you puffing off your consequence amongst us?' Her carefree words had been precious to his ears and had caused his spirit to soar. She remembers our walk on that gravel path at Uppercross, she remembers the things we spoke about...my foolish comment about the dress sword ... He turned his eyes to gaze upon her, as she sat quietly waiting for his return. Robert Burns' words were alive to him now...
'Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor...'
"Captain Benwick?" A woman's voice brought James back to the world of the drawing room with a bump.
"There you are, Captain Benwick," Miss Carteret chirped, as she bore down upon him with the guest of honour in tow. "We have been looking everywhere for you. Mr. Turner is most desirous to speak with you about the true nature of his work. It is so rare to find a genuine aficionado. Mother has told him your tragic story and how he brought comfort to your darkest hour."
"I...see," he managed to sputter.
Miss Carteret noticed the glasses he held and raised both eyebrows. "Lemonade? For yourself, sir? We do have something more to a gentleman's taste, if you would prefer."
James thought fast. "No, thank you. This is perfect. Er, lemonade puts me in mind of, er, the coast of sunny Spain, Miss Carteret," he replied. "After all, one may have sherry any day of the year. But to have the delight of lemonade, especially on such a dreary winter afternoon, that is a treat, indeed." He groaned at the obsequiousness of such a toady compliment, but it was the best he could do in his present state of mind.
But as Miss Carteret seemed pleased, Benwick breathed a sigh of relief and wondered what to do next. He smiled politely at Mr. Turner. Mr. Turner smiled back, and Miss Cartaret smiled at Mr. Turner. He then smiled back at Benwick, and the round began again. After several silent moments of this, Benwick spoke up.
"A-hem. As you see, I am on an errand for Miss Anne..." He offered the flimsy excuse in the hope of being allowed to pass by without further delay. But the pair did not take the hint, they remained rooted to the spot, blocking his path. And then it began to dawn on him what they were about, and where his duty lay. Bracing himself, James took a deep breath and bravely did the polite, saying words which he knew would likely spoil his afternoon with Anne.
"Er...would you care to join us?"
"Such a lovely occasion," said Elizabeth Elliot, as she took the arm of the newcomer and led him into the centre of the drawing room. "I had no idea there were so many lovers of poetry in Bath...or that you were numbered among them. I must admit, I am quite surprised to see you here today."
"Our cousin is a desirable connexion, my dear," the gentleman murmured. "If she were to take up Algonquin basket weaving, I believe that would be admired. But seriously," he smiled, "the Vicountess may be onto something with this Tino fellow, if what I've heard is true. Some say he is quite the visionary, years ahead of his time."
"Is he? I was introduced this morning, while I was out with Anne and Mary. He does seem to be quite an interesting person. He's seated over there, the one in the pale yellow coat and violet neckcloth. Anne and Miss Carteret are with him."
Mr. Elliot's eyes followed Elizabeth's gaze and hardened in recognition. "What the devil is he doing here?" he muttered under his breath.
"Pardon? Then you are acquaint -- oh. Are you referring to Anne's poetical sailor?" Elizabeth studied her cousin's expression. "Do you know him, then? He is quite a favorite of Lady Dalrymple's."
"No, we've not been introduced," he replied, a little too lightly. "I have been running into that da-, er, fellow at every turn these days. He seems to admire your sister a great deal." Mr. Elliot eyed Elizabeth carefully before he asked, "Do you suppose the sentiment is returned?"
"Anne? Interested in a person like that? I hardly think so. He is nothing like the other. Come, I shall introduce you."
"...And so few truly empathise, so few truly comprehend the anguished torment of a broken heart!" Tino Turner's thin face was pained as he spoke with Anne and Captain Benwick. He leaned forward in his chair, his voice throbbed with emotion. "And then I asked myself, why do we humans need love? What is the good of it, if all it brings is pain and torture? And then it was I had my greatest inspiration. Love is nothing but a secondhand emotion!" Tino sat back; unexpectedly he smiled. "Do you see?"
Anne and Captain Benwick exchanged a look. "But...from whom is the love borrowed or who was the previous owner?" Benwick asked, with a frown. "I do not understand your meaning, sir. If the emotion is secondhand, one of the pair must have engaged in loving at some point, for your metaphor to be correct. Unless you are calling into question the value of love itself..."
"And surely you must see that the heart was designed to love, Mr. Turner," Anne added. "We see examples of that throughout the human experience."
"But the disappointment of unrequited love!" Miss Carteret cried. "It is quite cruel!"
"I was speaking in generalities, Miss Carteret," Anne replied. "Of course, once the heart has found and lost its true soul mate, it can never love another with the same fervent intensity."
"Or so the poets would have us believe," Benwick put in. "But can the wounded heart heal? And can it love again? That is the question, as I see it." He fixed his eyes on Anne, and added, "I believe that it can."
"But we must be practical," Anne said, with a sigh. "I have known true love to endure years of hardship and deprivation. But once the beloved has departed and all hope is gone, the one left behind is often mortally wounded and so is unable to find another. Perhaps this one should not seek to love this way again."
Captain Benwick frowned. "It seems Mr. Turner would have us eschew the tender emotions of the heart for a different reason, Miss Anne, by his curious use of the term secondhand." He turned to face the poet. "Is love of so little value, Mr. Turner, that you see it as a mere cast-off, a cheap and worn-out emotion?"
"I...er...I...of course not, but I..." Tino looked from one speaker to another, blinking in confusion at the unexpected direction of the conversation. When Miss Elliot approached and asked to present her cousin, he was noticeably relieved. But as Elizabeth and William Elliot were seated, another came hurrying over, in a state of great excitement.
"My dear Tino!" Lady Dalrymple cried. She gave her protégé a beaming smile; she was barely able to contain her enthusiasm. "It has arrived, dear boy, at the perfect time! I insist upon the privilege of delivering it to you myself." She held out a flat parcel. "Your manuscript, directly from the printer. We shall begin as soon as you are able."
At this, Tino Turner lifted a shaking hand to his rouged cheek; his lips formed words, but no sound came forth.
"Have you smelling salts, Miss Anne?" Benwick murmured. "I think that poor fellow may..."
But Tino pulled himself together, took the package, and with trembling fingers removed the wrapping. "It is here," he whispered, as he examined the stack of printed pages. "I cannot believe it! It is actually here! My poem!"
He looked up at the group. "Yesterday morning, I was moved to write this piece especially for today. We so wanted each guest to have a copy of his own...and here they are!" With tears in his eyes, he turned to Lady Dalrymple. "Yes, milady, if your esteemed guests would kindly take their seats, I am ready to begin the reading."
With a flourish, Tino Turner pronounced his final word and made a bow. He had begun with ten of his favorite selections and had ended with his newest. As the applause died away and the poet was led from the podium, Mary Musgrove frowned over the sheet in her hand.
"Well, who would write a poem about saying good-bye to a pie?" Mary grumbled, as she watched Mr. Turner cross the room. "Of all the nonsensical notions! And he does not even tell us what sort of a pie it is, except that it is American. And that is no recommendation at all!
"It is an unmarried female pie; it is called Miss," Captain Benwick said helpfully. At a quelling look from Anne, he directed his attention back to the page in his hand. "Well, it is," he said to her, sotto voce. He was sitting between the sisters and was having great difficulty controlling his impulse to laugh.
"Whiskey, I understand," Elizabeth offered. She was seated a little apart with her cousin, and was participating in the conversation out of politeness. "It is a particular type of liquor, is it not, Mr. Elliot?"
"Indeed it is. And I understand it can be made from rye," he replied.
"It does not say whiskey made from rye but whiskey and rye," Mary complained. "We grow rye at Uppercross, it is quite disgusting. The Musgroves are very fond of a bread the Hayters make from it; the seeds get stuck in my teeth. But why would they put those horrid seeds into a glass of whiskey?"
Elizabeth glared at her sister.
"Well they do get stuck in my teeth!" Mary shot back. "And another thing. I do not think well of these boys for drinking it, no matter what their age or how morally upright they are. Nine or ten years old it too young to drink liquor!"
"Nine or ten? Why do you say that?" Captain Benwick asked, with as innocent a face as he could manage.
"Isn't it obvious? They're not 'young boys' and they're not 'young men'! What else could Mr. Turner mean by good old boys, sir?"
"I have no idea, Mrs. Musgrove," Benwick choked.
Anne gave him another look and made an attempt to converse rationally. "Actually, I find his use of the term Chevy to be most interesting. I wonder what he meant. Perhaps...chivvy?" She studied the page. "But that cannot be right. I thought 'chivvy' meant to torment or to chase..."
"It is the name of a kind of carriage, isn't it obvious? I mean, he drove it to the levee...and the levee was dry," Elizabeth said in bored voice. "Mr. Elliot, I feel in need of a little refreshment. Would you kindly accompany me?"
As the pair excused themselves, Anne continued to puzzle over the poem. "I have never heard this word said this way, either. Why do you suppose he pronounced it 'shh-ehvy' when it is spelt with a 'ch'?"
"Mmmm. It may be that it is French, Miss Anne. Or perhaps..." Captain Benwick fought to keep his voice steady. "A-hem! It is in the finest literary tradition to misuse the common rules of grammar and spelling and then blame it on artistry. I recall having a debate with a Certain Person over the correct way to say Giaour not so very long ago, at Lyme."
"It is pronounced 'Je-our,' sir," Anne reminded him.
"Are we back to that?" he chuckled. "You illustrate my point perfectly. And if it is the fashion for Byron to maul the English language like this, then it is de rigueur for Tino Turner!"
"That word is not 'mauled'!" Anne laughed. "It is simply that Certain Persons have had so much study of Latin and so many years of service in foreign places that they cannot recall the simple rules of English pronunciation!"
"It is pronounced 'Jour,' " he grinned.
Anne was about to reply when Miss Carteret slipped into the chair beside her. "Captain Benwick," she said, in a low voice. "I wonder if I might impose on you. I am rather confused, and as I do not wish to disturb Mr. Turner, perhaps I may ask..."
She moistened her lips, and confided, "You understand poetry better than most, sir. Perhaps you can tell me what this newest poem means."
"I'm sure Mr. Turner would be delighted to explain it. An artist is always flattered by sincere interest..."
"Yes, but I cannot think of anything to ask!" she whispered urgently. "Nothing intelligent, that is"
"Pardon me?" Mary piped up. "Did you hear her question?" she said to Anne. "What did she say?"
Captain Benwick studied the page for a moment. "This line, here," he said quietly, showing her the place. "He repeats it throughout the piece, and twice at the end of the chorus. I believe this statement may be the focal point."
"This will be the day that I die," Miss Carteret repeated; she gasped in sudden comprehension. "Do you mean his theme is...death and dying?" She examined the page with new eyes. "And the person in the poem, the one who speaks, he knew he would perish on that very day, didn't he?"
"It does appear so," Anne said gently, with a look at Benwick. "But Mr. Turner would be the best person to ask."
"Apocalyptic themes are quite popular among poets, Miss Carteret. But Miss Anne is right. I would not put too much stock in that idea until you have discussed it with him."
But Miss Carteret refused to be comforted. "Oh, the poor dear lamb!" she cried, and threw a look of great longing across the room. "Is he in a state of inner torture, which he has concealed from all of us?" she murmured. "You...you don't suppose it is a desperate sort of...hidden message? A wish for self-destruction?" Her eyes strayed again to where he stood.
As if responding to a summons, within minutes Tino was at Miss Carteret's side. "My dear Mozelle," he whispered. "I saw your agony; even from across the room it was palpable. Something troubles you."
"Your poem, Tino...but I shall ask you later," she stammered, blushing furiously.
Mr. Turner patted her shoulder and sat in the vacant chair beside her. But when he realised Anne and Captain Benwick were present, he brightened. "But I do have a piece of news, wonderful news told me by Sir Walter Elliot just now. As a rose blooming in a desert land..." Mr. Turner's smile widened, "...so comes refreshment unexpected in an artistic wilderness. Mmmm. I like the sound of that! 'Refreshment unexpected.' Yes."
Tino sat motionless with eyes closed, murmuring to himself before he recollected that he had excellent news to relate. His eyes popped open. "Miss Carteret, only imagine! Your cousin, Miss Anne, has established a poetical society! And Sir Walter has invited us to join! Isn't that delightful?"
Anne and Benwick were left speechless as Tino talked on with great enthusiasm. Eventually, even Mary (who hated poetry) became interested in presenting herself as a prospective member. A meeting time was finally agreed upon, just as Lady Dalrymple came forward to reclaim her guest of honour.
The gentlemen stood; Mr. Turner prepared to depart, then he turned back. "One moment, milady. I have not heard what these dear people, who are now my most cherished friends in Bath, have thought of my new poem." He smiled in eager expectation.
"It was very unique and unusual," Mary stated. "I have never heard anything like it in all my life."
"So profound and mystical in meaning," sighed Miss Carteret.
"I think it quite interesting and, er, lyrical," Anne replied.
Captain Benwick hesitated for only a moment. "It is a masterpiece of confrabuclation! And perchance we shall have opportunity to say more about it on Friday afternoon, " he said decidedly. "And now, may I escort you to the refreshment table, Miss Anne?" He politely offered his arm.
"What does that mean," Anne whispered, as soon as Tino Turner was out of earshot. "Confra...whatever it was you said."
"Confrabuclation? Nothing, I made it up just now," Benwick whispered back. "From 'confound' and 'fabricate,' twisted just a bit." His eyes twinkled. "What else could I do? All of the truthful comments were used up and I did not wish to lie."
"That is horrible," she murmured, with a chuckle. "And accurate, unfortunately. What a dreadful person you are, Captain Benwick!"
"Yes, I know. I've been told so in the Navy for years. You should hear Wentworth wax eloquent about my defects of charac..." James broke off speaking as he realised what he had said.
"He was always very pointed in his opinions, as I recall," Anne replied tartly, and then she softened. "I do apologise for Father's invitation, though. I'm sure he meant well. Dear me, we shall have them all with us -- Elizabeth, too, when she learns Miss Carteret is a member! There will never be a dull moment with that group...or a deep, profound discussion of poetry, either!"
"Miss Anne, you have a gift for understatement," James replied, with a sigh and a shake of his head.
"Are you going to mope over her all afternoon, Cousin?" Elizabeth asked with a raised eyebrow. William Elliot was staring at the refreshment table, where Anne and Captain Benwick were engaged in friendly conversation.
"Mope over...what do you mean?" He turned back to her with a pleasant smile.
Elizabeth lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eyes. "I would be the most complete simpleton if I did not notice the way you have been watching my sister. Perhaps the gossips are right when they say you are smitten."
"My dear Elizabeth, nothing could be further from the truth." He lowered his voice. "I have not spoken because I cannot. I thought we had discussed this."
"Many things may happen between March and June, sir," she replied archly. "But you would do well to present those suitors for her inspection fairly soon. It would be unkind if Anne were to hear your name mistakenly linked with hers. It would raise her expectations -- and the truth would bruise her gentle spirit."
"And I would not have that for the world," William Elliot answered gravely.
Quotation from Mary Morison by Robert Burns.
Our apologies to Don McLean for Tino's borrowing of his song, American Pie.
Chapter 12, Part 1
"Tom!" scolded Mrs Riley. "Straighten your buttons there and when I finish slicin', take these sweets up to 'em in the salon, and be quick about it!"
Tom had been seated, feet up on the table, cleaning under his finger nails with a paring knife. Upon hearing the rustling of the housekeeper's skirts, the young fellow's feet came down and the knife was tossed aside.
"Yes, Mrs Riley," he snapped. After rebuttoning his jacket, he snatched up the hastily arranged salver as he strode past the table.
As the housekeeper of Bramford Hall, Mrs Riley had nothing of which to be proud when it came to either the occupants of the Hall or the condition to which the manor house had sunk. But she tried her best to manage the very small staff with the same efficiency she had seen in place, years before, when her younger self had served the Levant family.
"And finish clearin' the dining room!" she called after him. "What I wouldn't give to be back in the old house, when the Lady was alive," she muttered, making her way to the scullery.
On any given day, below stairs at Bramford Hall was no jollier a quarter of the house than above -- and this afternoon was no exception.
"And you, Alice! See that these dishes are scrubbed clean -- I had to put aside four to make up the table for dinner!" she said, loudly placing cleared dishes on the scullery counter. Raising a finger to the girl, she continued, "I'll be sendin' ya back to your ma with whipped hide instead of coppers if ya don' do better!"
"Yes, Ma'am," Alice sighed. She went back to the washing the silver. There seemed to be no pleasing anyone that day, upstairs or down, in Bramford Hall. The morning had not begun well. Alice had been severely scolded by the lady upstairs. After brushing all the lady's shoes, Alice had arranged them in the wardrobe in a manner that Miss Rosamond had found unsatisfactory. After a colossal rant concerning Alice's incompetence and throwing the shoes about the room, the lady had threatened to have the girl dismissed.
Alice could have borne a beating more easily than to be sent back home without the job. The Tedlow family was connected to Bramford Hall not only by the land they farmed, but by loyalty to the Levant family. No, Alice ...
A terrific clattering brought the girl out of her unpleasant reverie and back to the warm, brackish water of the scullery. Mrs Harvey took care to arrange several dirtied cooking pots and pans on the counter in such a way that they would not collapse and cascade onto the stone floor. "Those are slipp'ry with grease so be careful! I don't want to be findin' dents in me pots!" The cook began wiping her hands on her apron and surveyed Alice up and down. "Perhaps, if Mr Levant stays a while, I shall take you out of the scullery and teach you to cook -- give you a real occupation!"
"Thank you, Mrs Harvey," Alice said. It was heartening to know that there was someone who did not think her too stupid to learn.
"You do well on them pots and we shall see." Mrs Harvey left the scullery and began lamenting along with Mrs Riley about the fallen state of the Hall and its disreputable occupants. Both had served in the Hall as younger women and often shared fond memories of the family and the sterling reputation that the Hall had inspired.
"All I can say is that Mr Levant is not worthy of the Hall and if his grandmother could see how he behaves...well, I just know that the old woman would weep!" Mrs Harvey said, pulling on and tying her cloak. "I am mortified to see the condition of that garden -- and the herbs! -- how they were left to go to seed! I am fortunate that I am able to harvest any more than that tenacious mint!" Picking up a small basket, she made for the door to do just that. "Oh, Mrs Riley. I shall be leaving a mite early -- just right after tea is served. There will be a cold supper laid out for you to serve. I must be home to see to my boy's supper." With that announcement, and awaiting no reply, the woman disappeared out the door to her herbs.
The housekeeper stood staring at the closed door. She wondered what Mrs Harvey's great, lumpish son ordinarily did for his supper.
Mrs Riley had been dismayed when the woman had come and interviewed for the position of cook. Not that she wasn't quite talented when it came to using the common ingredients available in the small market available at this spare season of the year, but the woman knew the talent she possessed, and used it excessively to elevate herself far beyond reason.
Mrs Riley had been put off when Mrs Harvey had been offered the position and immediately began stating her conditions of employment. As if the distinction of working at Bramford Hall were not enough, the woman had the presumption to put forth her own terms! Mrs Riley had listened carefully to the terms set forth and had taken a great deal of satisfaction that certainly, when she took them to Mr Levant, he would reject the terms and Mrs Harvey out of hand. It had been quite a blow when Mr Levant had only asked if she was a decent cook -- no questions as to Mrs Harvey's character or cleanliness -- and upon hearing the affirmative, hired her!
Mrs Harvey's first term had been concerning her rooming in. She had made it clear that she would cook for Pollard Levant, but she refused to sleep in the same house as he. Consequently, not only did Mrs Harvey leave in the evening just after supper was served, she had begun leaving at any time she chose. She seemed to believe that by stating when she would return, her absence would not be commented upon.
"That woman!" Riley muttered. Just then, Tom came dashing into the kitchen, calling for Alice to help. Flying past the housekeeper, he ran into the scullery. All that was heard next was a loud crash.
Tom stood, with a pile of broken china at his feet and a murderous look on his face. "You stupid, little bi -- "
"Tom! there will be none o' that in this house! What happened," Riley asked, surveying the damage.
"I called to her, but she ignored me and let all that crockery fall to the floor. That's what happened, missus!" He gave the housekeeper a look of pure innocence, then shot the girl one of pure hatred.
Alice stood mutely. Some of what Tom had said was true. He had called to her for help, but he had rushed in so fast and what she had seen of the china, it had been pile, not to be safely carried, but was all askew and more like a child's tower of blocks. She had had no time to help save it from crashing to the floor. She dropped to the floor and looked to Mrs Riley, hoping that the woman would try to understand.
Riley narrowed her eyes at Tom. "You had no business runnin' in the house and you had no business treatin' the Master's things this way. Help Alice clear this mess away! I warn you Tom, no more of these pranks or else!" The housekeeper turned and left the scullery.
As the two picked up the broken china, Tom whispered, "Alice, ya shudda taken my part, you know this won't go well for ya now." It was all he said. It was all he needed to say.
After the scullery was set to right, Tom made his way back to the table in the kitchen area. He had no duties unless the bell upstairs was rung.
Mrs Riley brought out a pile of silver that required polishing and shoved a rag and cleaner at the young man. "Here, be useful," was all she said.
After a half-hearted attempt on a dessert spoon, Tom asked, "So what happened to the lady? She was showin' the master her arm when I went in."
"Miss Coucher? She fell on that frayed carpet in her front room and dashed it on the mantel. That lion's head got her." Mrs Riley said, entering the scullery. "Alice here found her and got her into her bed, then came and got me."
Setting his collar to right, Tom asked, "Shouldn't she be restin' herself? If she's hurt and all."
"Ho!" laughed Mrs Riley. "That one -- take to her kip when she can be plaguin' the two gentlemen? Not likely!" She began placing the silver in the chest, examining each piece as she did so. "Once she refused gettin' the doctor, I knew that she was not so damaged. Though she had the cheek to have me cut up her food like a babe."
"But she will have a terrible bruise -- " Alice said as she quit the scullery.
"Aye, she'll bruise all right, but I am sure she can find a way to get quite a lot of sympathy with it." Closing the chest, she tapped the lid, satisfied that everything was in ready for the next meal. "I have told Mr Levant that the carpets in that room are desperate and need replacin'. It is a sin how this place has fallen. When I was a young woman, Bramford Hall was as near a palace as one could find!"
"When you was a girl, Arthur was still on the thrown !" crowed Tom.
"I think I hear the bell!" The woman turned and glared. "You go upstairs -- now!"
Tom coloured at being called down and dashed from the room.
"And what might I bring you, Rosamond? Brandy or sherry?" Levant asked, holding up both decanters.
"Sherry, please."
"I wonder where Randwick has gone off to ... he seems rather distracted of late."
He eyed her arm as he handed her the glass.
"He is most likely walking in the garden." Taking a drink, Rosamond continued, "Daniel likes the garden." She watched Levant, hoping to nettle him. The only time that Daniel strolled the garden was when he accompanied her.
"Yes, he is quite a natural philosopher, that boy." Levant snorted as he took up a place by the fire. "I think he is most interested in all aspects nature -- flora and fauna."
The room was quiet while each studied the other. They understood one another perfectly.
"So, tell me again how you acquired that wretched bruise."
"It was that girl -- Alice, I think her name is. She was to attend to my shoes, but she left them out and I fell against the mantel. I suppose I should count myself fortunate that I did not fall into the fire." Rosamond rearranged the sofa bolster and her shawl to cover her arm. It was stiff and uncomfortable, but it was the bruise that had bothered her the most. It had bothered her until she had realised how it might be used to her advantage.
"... if the girl is so abominable, I shall see that she is dismissed. There is no need, even in the country for such ineptitude."
"Actually, Pollard, I was thinking that when we leave to back to Town, I might take her with me."
"Take her with you? She's caused you to have a horrid accident! How can you think of taking such a stupid, cloddish creature back to Town?" The puzzlement on Levant's face amused Rosamond. She very much enjoyed confounding him with her little plots and plans.
"While it is true that she caused my accident..." there was no hint of conscience as she again blamed Alice for her injury, "... I find her to be just the sort of girl I have been searching for. She is docile and has no airs -- she makes no attempts to speak back when I ... reprimand her. And, I have found, much to my surprise, that once she has been severely scolded, she does not make the same mistake twice -- and that is very rare -- a girl who learns!"
"I can't for the life of me imagine why you would want some country dullard attending to you. But, if that is what you wish, you had best make the preparations as quickly as possible. Saturday I am expecting a guest who will be bearing a gift from Heaven, as it were. A gift which will put me back in a narrow state of solvency, but a state wide enough to allow me to raise my head in polite society. If all goes as I expect, we will be heading back to Town by Tuesday, at the latest."
Under most circumstances, Rosamond Coucher was not easily discomposed, and especially not by the likes of Pollard Levant. But, this statement did quite a lot to alter her normally dispassionate state.
As she watched him light a cigar, she quickly enumerated how leaving Bramford Hall now would destroy her careful plans. Randwick's appreciation was not cultivated nearly enough to assure his offering her protection when Pollard was eliminated -- she had dallied and taken much too much time in arousing his sympathies. And, if Levant were to receive a goodly sum of money, making a payment of any reasonable size to the Demarest Syndicate would most likely cause Ian Demarest to set aside his plans of a permanent abrogation of Pollard's debt. If her plans were to succeed, she must convince Pollard that staying in the country was much preferred to returning just now to Town.
"Tuesday? At the latest?"
"Yes, I am hoping for Monday," he said, as he came and sat next to her. "But, Tuesday would do just as well. Either way, I shall have you out of this drafty barn and back in your nice snug apartments just in time to rest your weary head on your own downy pillow." He kissed her and implicit in the kiss was the notion that he too would be resting on her downy pillow.
Rosamond drew back and gazed at Pollard for a moment. A plan cemented in her mind and she began. "Wonderful! To be back in Town will certain be a change from this quiet life we have been leading. On the way, might we stop a day or two in Bath?"
Pollard made a face. "Bath? Who of importance goes to Bath any more, and at this time of year?"
"No one goes to Bath any more and certainly not at this time of year! It will be our perfect re-introduction to Town, for I am sure that no one of importance is there either." Leaving Pollard to ponder her statement, Rosamond fussed with her glove, leaving just the proper amount of her bruise exposed and artfully arranged her shawl. Again, leaving her injury on display.
Moving closer to her, Pollard stroked her cheek and said, "My dear, I was not really too concerned about others, I was thinking more of our own comfort." He again came close for a kiss.
With her free hand, Rosamond gently laid her fingers upon his lips. "It is wonderful that our comfort is on your mind. Now that you are coming back into funds, I may begin to redecorate. I will, of course do the bedroom first. There is a fellow I have heard about that does wonders with chantilly and Indian silks. After he is finished, we will be most regally comfortable, I think."
She took pleasure in watching the look upon Pollard's face as comprehension flooded his mind. The look was priceless. "And," she determined she would not dally and lose her opportunity, " ... since I was very limited earlier in the year, I am quite behind in ordering my spring wardrobe. As soon as we arrive back in Town, we must start a round of shopping in order to come back even." With her free hand, she stroked his lapel and fingered his neckcloth. "My poor Pollard, I think we will have to have a few suits made up in the latest styles; your rustication has taken its toll."
At that, Pollard stood and stalked back to the liquor table. Pouring himself a large port, he declared that perhaps leaving Bramford at this time would be a waste -- since there would really be nothing to occupy them upon arrival and that they would be staying for at least a fortnight longer.
With a triumphant smile, Rosamond motioned for him to come and sit by her. After bestowing a promising kiss, she whispered, "Staying here is an excellent idea, Pollard. Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy."
Elizabeth Elliot would have heartily agreed with Rosamond and Levant about Bath: no one of any importance came there during this time of year. Or if they had, they were keeping to their own dwellings today, for it was chilly, dreary, and wet. The company assembled in Sir Walter's drawing room reflected this dullness; no callers had come to brighten and enliven their conversation. Mrs Clay was now recovered enough to be among them, but even she could not suggest a subject which was of interest to anyone.
All in all, a most tiresome waste of time, Elizabeth sighed, as she toyed with her pen. But Miss Elliot's morning had not been entirely useless; she had spent several hours at the desk making entries in her precious book. At last, when all of the persons with whom she had conversed at Lady Dalrymple's were properly recorded and cross-referenced, she sat back and studied the occupants of the room. Her gaze came to rest upon Anne.
Her sister had received a package that morning, a wrapped stack of books. Their father had read the accompanying note aloud. It was from that sailor fellow, and what a very dull sort he was! His letter was most concise and businesslike, hardly the sentiments of a devoted admirer! A little smile of pity came to Elizabeth's lips as she recalled a part of it: 'Enclosed herewith are several more copies of the anthology, to facilitate our discussion Friday afternoon ...'
Anne had taken the letter and had set it aside without a second glance, which was understandable, considering the contents. But now it lay in her lap; she was studying it most intently. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. When she thinks no one sees ... how very like Anne! Always secretive. Elizabeth pursed her lips as she closed her book and set it aside. She is so ... unsisterly! If only she were more like ... but no. Elizabeth sighed in resignation. Anne had no interest in the pursuits of a normal woman: of style and fashion, of clever conversation and social manoeuvres. Other sisters shared gossip, and admirers, and ornaments ... but not Anne. She must always have her nose in some soulful book, Elizabeth sighed. Always to herself ... and oh, so dreary!
But she is infinitely preferable to Mary! Elizabeth nearly winced as she thought about her youngest sister, who would be arriving at any moment -- just in time to share their luncheon, as always. She had never seen Mary in company outside Kellynch and Uppercross, but she certainly did not show well in Bath! It seemed that Mary was worsening with time, if such a coarse person could be said to worsen. At least I have nothing to blush for in Anne's public manners!
Elizabeth rose and took a turn about the room, while Anne continued to read her letter. But a little stir arose as Burton entered with a parcel. Sir Walter raised both eyebrows in surprise.
"Another!" He frowned as he read the direction. "And this is for ... bah! I cannot make it out!"
"It is for Miss Anne, sir, brought by special courier."
"I see. Anne, again." Sir Walter dismissed the butler with a careless wave and removed the letter from under the string.
"My goodness, Miss Anne, you are very fortunate this morning," Penelope Clay smiled. "Two in one day!"
"Mmmph. At least the other was somewhat readable." Sir Walter frowned some more, as he held the paper at arm's length in order to see more clearly. He turned it this way and that, and sighed. "Mrs Clay, would you be so kind as to bring my spectacles from the desk?"
Elizabeth shot a triumphant look at Anne. Here was more proof that their father was not succumbing to Mrs Clay's 'charms,' as Anne supposed. He had ordered her about in a most unflattering way.
But the spectacles did not improve the legibility of the note. "My dearest, most ... Mmm. Cher ... cheru-bic ... friend?" He showed the page to Mrs Clay, who was now seated beside him. "Can that word be 'cherubic'?"
"It is ... pardon me, but I think it must be 'cherished,' sir." She gave him a tentative smile. "What is your opinion?"
"My dearest, most 'cherished' friend, Miss Anne Elliot," he read. "Yes, Mrs Clay, you are quite brilliant. 'Cherished' it is." He applied himself to the letter once more but presently he gave it up. "What the fellow says next is a mystery to me, Mrs Clay. I wonder if it is even in English."
"Perhaps you should open the parcel, sir. It may give you further clues."
The wrapping was torn away to reveal yet another stack of books, slim green books: Tino Turner's elegantly bound volume of poetry.
"Ah!" Sir Walter crowed. "Yes, that would explain the signature, for this is certainly a 'T' ... and the rest of it must be 'Turner.' Very well, it is most unexceptionable, you may have it, Anne. Elizabeth, would you please take this to your sister."
Elizabeth was by no means pleased with the easy way in which she was ordered about, but since she was eager to see the note, she complied without complaint. It was a marvel of fantastical script, with curlicues and flourishes throughout. Her father was right, it was quite illegible.
As Anne struggled to decipher it, Mrs Clay smiled at Sir Walter. "Perhaps Mr Turner is employing an especially elegant form of copperplate, sir. Do you suppose it will become the fashion? You know so much about the latest trends." And then, most unfortunately, she was beset by a fit of coughing. She buried her face in her handkerchief and suppressed it as best she could.
But Mrs Clay was rescued from having to answer questions about the soundness of her health by the entrance of Mary Musgrove, who came into the drawing room with her usual bustle. All the particulars of her morning were poured out, from the unsuitable nature of their breakfast, to the most excellent maid who had lately begun attending them.
"And I have brought Little Charles, as you requested, Anne. Burton took him downstairs to have a treat with Cook. Although why you should want him is beyond me! The boys have been extremely tiresome of late."
Anne looked up from her task of re-folding both of her letters. She put them in her pocket and replied, "I should think it is hard for them to be shut up inside for so long, Mary. I have some errands to do this afternoon and a call to pay on Mrs Smith." Her eyes met Elizabeth's. "You needn't worry about me going alone. Little Charles shall be my gentleman escort."
"Mrs Smith!" Mary exclaimed. "That invalid you are always running off to see? I hardly think that appropriate, Anne!"
Anne sighed. "As squire, Little Charles will be required to pay all sorts of social calls, Mary," she said quietly. "Mrs Smith is simply weak, she has no infectious illness. And she is invariably cheerful and amusing; Little Charles will like that. It is good for him to learn such duties early, and to see them as pleasant, before he comes to resent them as an intrusion."
And of course, such an answer left Mary with nothing to say. She was greatly relieved when Burton presently entered to announce the serving of the luncheon.
At Mr Yee's suggestion, Captain Benwick took his noonday meal in the conservatory at Chauntecleer, among the luxuriant foliage of the old butler's precious plants. As he unfolded his napkin, James wondered how much of the expenditure to heat Chauntecleer was used by this glassed-in room. But since he was paying none of it himself, he gave himself over to the enjoyment of lunch in an indoor garden -- in which thrived his blooming gardenia. In fact, Benwick had yet to eat a meal in the formal dining room. A smaller setting was much more to his taste, as he took all of his meals alone. But little did he know that today that was about to change.
Presently there arose noises at the front of the house: the slamming of the main door, the echo of voices in the entry way -- and it sounded as though the speakers were moving toward the conservatory at the back of the house. One voice in particular sounded especially cheerful. James lowered his fork. If he didn't know any better, he would say that voice belonged to ...
"James, old boy!" The youngest of the Benwick brothers thrust his head in at the open doorway.
"What's all this?" he exclaimed in mock surprise, as he came into the room. "My staid and steady brother, having lunch with a bunch of plants? Can't leave the tropics behind, that you must eat in this, mmm, alfresco way?" He grinned and held out his hand. "You see, I am not so hopeless, Jamie!" he added. "I do remember some of that beastly Italian. Comes in mighty handy. Makes me appear to be an educated man!"
"Ben!" James greeted his brother with a warm handshake. "Have you eaten?" he asked, as he placed a second chair at the small table.
"Not a bite since daybreak. Came down on that same confounded mail Dan said you took. Roads were in wretched shape." Ben Benwick sat down with a grateful sigh. "Yee's already asked me; he's bringing another plate. You needn't ring." He leaned back in the chair and smiled broadly. "Devilish good to see you again, James. Once in a year I decide to leave Town, and you choose that very moment to drop in. So, I have come to you!" Ben glanced up at the tall palms above his head and grinned. "I never expected to find you in a tropical paradise! Your natural habitat?"
"I never served long in the Torrid Zone, Ben, and I'm not at all eager to return! Too many mosquitoes, for one thing," James chuckled. "The Mediterranean is much more to my liking. But never mind that, tell me how you've been."
And after Old Mr Yee brought his meal, Ben related an unvarnished and uproarious account of the Benwicks of London -- which was quite different in flavour than what was related by their gentle brother Daniel two weeks before. Ben went on and on about their eldest brother Milton, and his woes of being a Headmaster at a boys' public school; about his wife Estella, who constantly outran his income; about Dan and his wife Molly, and all their neighbours. He finished with a detailed history of the ups and downs of the shop they owned in Bloomsbury.
James sat back as his brother talked on, and marvelled at the changes time had wrought in his brother. Benjamin had been twelve when their parents and only sister had died. Milton had been sent to University, himself into the Navy, and Dan and Ben into apprenticeships with an abruptness which left the boys reeling. Now at twenty-four, Ben had become a shrewd businessman, without losing any of his boyish charm. The modest mercantile he owned with Daniel appeared to be flourishing, if even half of what he said was true. A natural entrepreneur, Benjamin Benwick had the good fortune to be employed in a career which suited him exactly.
"And I cannot say enough," Ben said, around a bite of stewed beef, "about how surprised I was to find the changes you had made to the storage room! And in such a short time! Dan -- you know how he is, he never takes credit for the things he does do, and they are many -- told me all about it, and how quickly you brought order to that jumble."
"I simply applied an organisational system I learned in the Navy. You know how 'orderly' I am not," James replied. "Dan was at a loss to find anything in there, but together we soon made short work of it. The thing is, you and he must maintain the order."
"Yea, and neither of are much good at that. I am simply too busy with other things, and ..." Ben took a sip of wine and lapsed into thought. "He tries to have an interest, but his heart is not in what he does. I do not know what to do about that." Daniel was barely one year Ben's senior, but a world apart in nature. "And yet, James, he is greatly loved by our customers, for I do not think a kinder man walks the earth! He'll give away the store the moment my back is turned! But I'm coming to see that he has been very good for business, in his own way. He pays calls on all the neighbours and listens to their troubles -- sincerely, I mean. And he's always taking subscriptions for some charity or other ..."
"Molly is good for business," James smiled. "Put her in charge of that storage room. Let Daniel be the parson he was meant to be."
"Who would have guessed that little Molly would become so capable? And yet, once the children begin to come ..." Ben's face grew serious. "And that's the reason I am here, James. I have a proposition for you -- a business proposition. After all, it is because of you that there still is a Morgan Street Mercantile."
"Ben ... don't."
"If you hadn't given us that money, just at the time you did ..."
"I thought we agreed not to mention it." James shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I had nothing to spend it on, after Fanny. It was not much, Ben," he muttered. "And with you and Dan practically starving -- and Milton, too -- how could I do anything else? Now, shall we discuss another subject? The weather, perhaps?"
"I do not call three hundred pounds apiece 'not much.' And we're going to pay you back, Dan and I, once we find that will and get the settlement for this old place." Ben ran his fingers over the ornate handle of the silver table knife beside his plate. "I suppose the money's just about gone, but the sale of the house should bring something. Estella, now -- can you believe it? She's actually talking about buying this place. On Milton's salary!" Ben smiled wryly; he had very little love for his ambitious sister-in-law. "But then, poor Milton would not be able to live here, would he? Humph! He would be allowed to come for the summer months -- and slave away in London the rest of the year while his wife lives here in luxury!"
"Once she comes to know Bath, and learns that this house has not the fashionable address she supposes, she'll be greatly disappointed," James replied. "But we have yet to find that second will. The lawyer who handled the case swears there was no substantial change to it, but it is best not to make plans of any kind, especially those involving money."
"Er, funny you should put it that way. For that's precisely what I've come to do -- to discuss plans." The smile remained on Ben's face, but his expression became more earnest. "James, we ... we'd like to take you on, Daniel and I. Into the business with us, as a part of the mercantile. We need your organisational abilities -- rather badly -- as you saw during your visit! We're planning on expanding, and as the business grows, so will our, er, problem."
Ben's eyes never left his brother's face. "We've been able to buy the building we're in -- Dan said he told you about that when he showed you around." He leaned forward eagerly. "Do you remember that snug little set of rooms on the third floor, which none of us are using right now? You could have those -- and move in as soon as you wish -- now, even! And Bloomsbury's a wonderful location in London, James! You'd be not too far from some excellent libraries and bookstores! It'd suit you down to the ground! Er, except you'd be on the third floor."
As James said nothing, Ben took a hasty sip of wine and added, "I'm talking about a full partnership, mind, share and share alike. And if you are called back to sea, you can leave the business behind without losing anything."
James was silent for a long moment as he searched his mind for a response which would not wound his brother. "I ... I don't know what to say," he stammered, at last. "I thank you both, most sincerely. I would surely take you up on such a generous offer if not for ... well ..."
"Obviously, it is not all that generous if you can turn me down so quickly," Ben muttered.
A blush spread across James' face as he realised that he would need to give a more complete explanation. "I cannot become a shopkeeper, Ben, or ... that is, I would never mind doing so, or living above the store and all that, if it were for my own sake, but ...
Ben's natural instincts were aroused. "But ... what? What are you talking about? Who else has a stake in this?" But as he saw his brother's embarrassed reluctance, Ben's irritation melted away. "Come now, Jamie, you can tell me," he said kindly. "I won't cry rope on you. Where's the hitch?"
"I ... you must swear not to breathe a word to anyone, Ben, I mean it! This is in the strictest confidence." James glanced about the room and lowered his voice. "Your generous offer deserves nothing but the truth from me. The trouble is, you see, I have ... I have met a young woman. A very kind, very lovely young woman."
"James!" Ben smiled widely. "A woman whom you wish to take as wife? That's wonderful! Who is she? Have you had the banns read? When's the wedding?"
"Hold on. It's a little more complicated than that, brother."
"So, nothing's official yet, I take it. Well ..." Ben shrugged good-naturedly. "Once she gets used to the idea, I'm sure she won't mind living in Bloomsbury!"
"She wouldn't mind, but I won't ask it of her. A comfortable little house in the country is what I'd like -- if she'll have me."
"If she'll ... of course she'll have you!" Ben grinned. "A fine captain of the Navy, a man of intelligence and taste? What woman wouldn't have you? Hah! I'd marry you myself ... for the uniform alone! I've always envied you that!"
"I'm only a commander, Ben," James smiled. "I am called 'captain' merely out of courtesy. And 'intelligence and taste' are subjectively appraised, with wide variation in the standard."
"Bah! You're too self-effacing. Your rank can change, you'll be promoted someday to ... to admiral!"
"Perhaps, if we have the good fortune to engage in a long and particularly brutal naval war."
Ben refused to be daunted. "So, when do you plan to speak to her father? Say! I know!" He set his wineglass down with a snap. "Why not do it tomorrow? I'll come with you -- and vouch for your sterling character and fine upbringing!"
"Oh, lord," James chuckled. "That I would like to see! Sir Walter and you! Ben, she's ... mmm. You don't understand the predicament I've got myself into."
"What predicament? You're in love -- just look at you! I do believe you're blushing, old boy!"
"Ben, she's the daughter of a baronet."
"The daughter of a ..." The dismay on Ben's face was nearly comical. " Great Heaven, James! You are in the soup! Whatever made you think that you could court a ..."
"I lost my heart Ben, there's nothing more to say. I didn't know who she was when I met her." James lowered his eyes and plucked at his discarded napkin. He spoke to himself as much as to his brother. "I should have suspected it from the beginning -- her sweetness of manner, her fine education, her taste in reading all showed it. Her sister soon set me straight, with a vengeance! And as I knew nothing about the inheritance, I gave it up. But then I saw her again in February and ..."
"What will you do?"
"After the estate is settled, and when I get enough courage, I will present myself to her father -- without you -- and hope for the best. It does not look well; finer men than I have been repulsed by this man."
Ben shook his head sadly. "Lord, what a state. You wouldn't fall in love with anyone of more humble origin ... eh, like Blanche?"
"Ben ... banish that thought!"
"You never should have worn your uniform when you were in Town; she's hopelessly smitten! Keeps asking Dan about you, every time she comes in! He tries to put her off kindly, but you know how he is when it comes to breaking bad news! And she's not one to take 'no' for an answer, from anyone!"
"I am not persuaded ... even by such fine words of praise," James mumured, with a smile. "I don't believe I'm quite 'timbered up to her weight,' as the saying goes."
"Nor am I." Ben rotated the stem of his wineglass thoughtfully. "Well, as you say, once the estate is settled, then we shall see." A short silence followed as both brothers lapsed into contemplation. At last, Ben raised his eyes to his brother's face; an idea had begun to occur to him.
"The money's all gone, isn't it? Aunt Agatha's money, I mean. We always thought ..." His words drifted away as he studied the guarded expression which crept onto James' countenance. Ben's eyes widened. "You don't mean to say ..."
He reached across the table and grasped his brother's arm. "James, I know you," he said earnestly. "You'd never court the daughter of a baronet without the wherewithal to support her! And Estella's spending money like a fiend -- and going on and on about buying this monster of a house! And Milton is talking about leaving the school! After working so hard to become Head! I thought he'd run mad -- but perhaps not!"
"Milton is an idiot who cannot hold his tongue," James muttered.
"You're the acting executor; is there money? It's not all gone?"
James gave a great sigh. "Ben, sit down. You don't know the half of it. Where shall I begin?"
Chapter 12, Part 2
"But it's raining!" Little Charles Musgrove halted at the threshold of his grandfather's front door. "Mama won't like it if we go out in the wet," he said, dejectedly. "She says mud is a bomma-nashun."
"It is only a little rain, and I doubt she'll mind that," his aunt replied, as she finished pulling on her gloves. "It often rains in Bath; if we waited for perfect weather we would never go anywhere at all! But there are several umbrellas to choose from, Little Charles. In fact, I ... " She paused; her eyes twinkled at him as she turned an idea over in her mind.
"Come with me, Charles," she decided. "I have one which you will like to use. It is larger than any of the others; we can share it quite easily." And with that, she turned and retraced her steps to the stairway. Little Charles followed eagerly.
"It is no different in appearance than most, at least, that's what you think when first you see it." Anne explained, as she placed her hand on the bannister and began to mount the stairs. "And therein lies the surprise. For have you ever noticed, Charles, that sometimes the way a thing looks on the outside is not what it is underneath?"
Little Charles thought about this as he climbed the stairs. As they reached the upper floor, he brightened. "Like a snail!" he announced.
"Yes, exactly like a ... snail!" his aunt smiled. "But this surprise is rather nicer. At least, I think so. Mmmm, being a boy, you make think differently." She led the way down the hallway and opened the door to her small bedchamber.
"The thing I'm looking for belongs to a friend of mine," she said, as she opened the wardrobe and pushed aside her gowns. "But the friend won't mind if we use it today. Ah, here it is." Anne held Agatha Wrenwyth's flowered umbrella in her hand for a moment and smiled at it, before she handed it to the boy.
"It looks like a plain green umbrella, doesn't it? But wait until you open it. Er, out-of-doors, Charles, if you please."
Anne was about to leave the room when she realised that it would be wise to bring along a few extra handkerchiefs. Little boys usually had need of them for noses, and smudged fingers, and various things. But when she opened her top drawer, she frowned in annoyance.
"Elise, you take too much upon yourself!" she murmured, as she felt a blush mount to her cheeks. For here was Captain Benwick's ruffled handkerchief resting on top of the others -- and she knew she had left it hidden in her desk. Must I lock away everything I own? she grumbled to herself, as she took what she needed.
"Aunt Anne?" Little Charles tugged at her skirt with his free hand. "Are we going now?"
"Yes, dear. I was, ah, looking for something." As there was no time to put the handkerchief into her locked box, Anne carefully rolled it with the others and slid them into her reticule. She closed the drawer and turned to face her 'gentleman escort.'
"And now, sir, I believe we are ready to depart. To Mrs Smith's first, and then the shops. Shall we?" And hand-in-hand, the pair descended the stair and made their way to the main door.
"Ten thousand pounds!" Ben Benwick repeated, as the door to the tailor's closed behind him. "I still cannot believe it, James! Who would have thought our old Auntie would have such a stockpile stashed ..."
"Ben, will you pipe down," his brother interrupted. "Unless you want to make our business a topic on the gossip circuit, kindly refrain from discussing it here!"
During a break in the weather, the two brothers had decided to take a stroll along Milsom Street. Ben had a professional interest in the layout of some of the more exclusive shops there; they had already visited several. His inquiry at a tailor's had led to a friendly conversation with the owner, and as one thing led to another, James ended up being measured for and then ordering several very fine suits.
"Sorry," Ben grinned. "But the street's deserted. Wretched day to be out." After a moment's pause, he added, "You must admit, Jamie, a sum that big is a bit overwhelming!"
"We have not yet found the will," James reminded him, as they made their way down the street. "Remember that, amongst your daydreams of an overflowing bank account! Which, I might add, was acquired by some very astute investing by 'our old Auntie.'"
"A thousand pardons, my dear great aunt! No offense meant, and I hope none taken," Ben replied cheerfully. "And the original will's just fine, James! If all else fails, we go by that one, right? We brothers get it all anyway, didn't that solicitor say?"
"You trust the word of a lawyer, do you?" James smiled in spite of himself; his brother's enthusiasm was infectious. "It would be a very good joke on us if she left it all to a friend's pet Pekinese or something."
"Nah, she abominated little dogs; you know that. What I trust is you, brother-dear. You laid down quite a nice sum at the tailor's back there. That convinces me more than anything! You believe it, no matter how many punctilious warnings you toss out. And you see," he added laughingly, "I can lay out the verbiage as well as you and Milton. 'Punctilious,' I like that one. Say, look at this!" Ben caught his brother's elbow and pulled him aside to peer into a window.
"I did get a bit carried away," James admitted, as he leaned against the casement. "But you're right, I cannot continue to wear my uniform everywhere I go."
"To capture the fortress, you mustn't quibble over the cost of the powder to fire the cannon," Ben grinned. "Your best foot forward to impress the baronet and win the daughter, eh?" He gestured toward the display in the window.
"And what do you think of this snug little shop? Pictures and books and all those expensive gewgaws and trinkets ladies like. You see," Ben explained, " the apothecary next door's moving out next quarter. Molly thinks we should take it on ourselves and open a second shop like this one. I think its a terrific idea -- but that was before I knew Aunt Agatha had left me a whopping nest egg!"
"Like I said before, we haven't found the ..."
"Great Heaven," Ben interrupted, as another thought hit. "Aunt Agatha was perfectly sincere all the time! 'I suppose you're needing money, boy! How much?' I can just hear her saying it, in that dragony way of hers! Whenever I visited, it was as if I was being grilled in the Inquisition! And it turns out she had the money all along!"
"Certainly she did. She was simply asking if you wanted any," James chuckled. "Could she help it if you were too faint-hearted to humble yourself and admit the truth? And you'd best beware, you're beginning to sound like Estella, you know."
"Hah!" Ben opened the door to the novelties shop and motioned his brother inside. "How long do you think it'll take her to run through ten thousand quid?"
"Three years, tops."
"You're too generous by half, brother-dear. I give her less than two. Er, James?" He turned to find his brother standing just inside the door, staring at a damp umbrella leaning beside it. "James?"
"She's here. She must be. That's my ... she's ... using it," was all the answer his brother was able to give.
"She?" Ben became instantly alert. His eyes roved through the shop. "The daughter of the baronet?" he asked quietly. He turned to follow James' gaze, which was fixed on a young woman looking at a wall filled with pictures. She turned to smile at a young boy beside her; apparently they were discussing the display. "I say ..." Ben whispered softly, as he caught sight of her face. He studied her for a long moment. "She is beautiful ... absolutely beautiful, James. I take back everything. She is a treasure worth the having."
Ben grinned and gave his brother a nudge. "So, introduce me." When he got no answer, he punched James playfully and hissed, "I believe those are paintings of ships they're looking at, Jamie, and you're a man of the Navy! In uniform! The perfect opening! What are you waiting for?"
James eyed Ben warily. How could he explain Anne's shocked surprise when he had thrust himself upon her that first time, at Molland's? He had no desire to cause her to suffer such chagrin again, yet he very much wanted to speak with her.
"Very well," he relented, "but remember your manners. If she chooses not to recognise us, we nod and move on."
"Chooses not to ... bah! Coward!" Ben whispered back and straightened his frock coat. Yet for all his sportive banter, he politely stayed well back as his brother approached the young woman and boy.
"The ... Skidmore, I believe it says, Little Charles," Anne said, as she strained to see the nameplate on the frame. "Although I cannot tell. It is almost too high up for me to read."
"Was that Uncle Richard's ship? Did it fight pirates?"
"I believe I read that it, er, sank ... off the coast of Antigua, several years back," said a voice from behind them. "But, yes, all of His Majesty's ships fight pirates -- of one sort or another."
Anne turned to find Captain Benwick in the aisle behind her; she greeted him with a smile of genuine pleasure. Her eyes widened as she saw the younger fellow who came to stand beside him. He was slightly taller and of a more slender frame, and was quite well dressed. But when he removed his hat, the resemblance between the two was immediately apparent. He had the same curling hair and large, speaking eyes, though both were lighter than Captain Benwick's. And the name! Anne nearly laughed outright as James Benwick presented his brother.
Ben saw her amusement and grinned. "Yes, Miss Elliot, I quite agree. Parents often take cruel liberties when they name their youngest child, and so it is with me. Ben-Benwick I am ... and ever more shall be!"
"But not all the Benwicks are so afflicted," Ben continued, in his friendly way. He was certain that any woman James had chosen would be interested in every detail of their family. "Our eldest brother, Milton Mortimer, has the most dignified name. Milton is the tall and handsome brother. And James Calvin, here -- named for our father's favourite New Testament epistle and theologian -- he's the intellectual brother. And then there's Daniel Joseph, he's the philanthropist brother."
"And I," he gestured to himself," I am Benjamin Luther Augustine Benwick, Miss Elliot, and I am entirely at your service." He gave a little bow.
"And which brother are you?" Anne smiled.
"He's the one with the big mout ..."
"I have all the charm!" Ben interrupted merrily.
"His initials say it all: BLAB," James pointed out.
"Alas, it is all too true," Ben agreed gaily. "But between the four of us, Miss Elliot, we comprise one perfect man!"
"And three very sorry ones," James muttered, "made up from the leftover parts."
"I see," Anne laughed. "And there was never a dull moment in your home."
"No, never!" Ben agreed. "Our poor mother was driven to distraction at times, with so many boys underfoot."
"Er, Miss Elliot?" Ben's manner became more serious, "Speaking of boys, would you mind ... er, may I borrow Master Charles for a bit this afternoon? There are some playthings and baubles in this shop I'd like to have his opinion on, professionally speaking."
And as Anne gave assent, Ben winked at his brother, dropped to one knee and held out his right hand. "Master Charles, I am Mr Benwick and I own a shop like this in London. Tell me, does your mother ever buy you little toys and playthings?"
"My Papa does," Little Charles replied. "Not Mama."
"Good!" He stood and led the boy toward the counter. "I wonder if you might tell me which are the ones you like best. Not the large toys, but the smaller ones, like these, here."
James and Anne watched them go. When the pair reached the counter, they saw Ben deftly hand a calling card to the proprietor, as he said, "Now which one of these would you ask your papa to buy for you -- and tell this man, too, he'd like to know." He and the man exchanged a look, before they began to question Little Charles.
"The master at work," James smiled. "I hope he didn't bowl you over too much, Miss Anne. He can be downright annoying at times.
"No, indeed! I am very grateful to him, for I was feeling a bit melancholy just now." She motioned toward the pictures. "Mary tells us that Captain Wentworth has been called back to sea. Is this true?"
"It is. According to Harville, he received his orders just before the wedding."
Anne fell silent. "Then I suppose it was inevitable," she said at last. "Even if we had been able to ... he would have gone away." She gave a sigh of resignation. "Some things are simply not meant to be."
She raised her eyes to her friend and made herself say, more cheerfully, "Actually, I am terribly relieved to find you today, Captain Benwick. For we have a dreadful development regarding the poetry group!" She drew Mr Turner's letter from her pocket and handed it to him.
"I received this today, with a pile of his books. Tell me, does it seem to you that Mr Turner believes we are to read and discuss only his poetry?"
"My dearest, most cherubic friend, Miss Anne Elliot," James read.
"I believe the word is 'cherished,' sir." Anne could not help but smile.
James frowned at the page. "Cherished?! That is rather forward of him -- hold on." His eyes began to twinkle. "I, too, received a note from this fellow, during my midday meal. I could not make it out; I set it aside and forgot all about it. Fortunately, I have it with me now." He pulled a folded paper from his waistcoat pocket. "I thought he was accusing me of being a cherub, which has been done before, but if you say the word is ..."
He spread the letter. "Here we are. He begins, My dearest, most, er, cherished companero, Captain Benwick." James shook his head. "Companero! What a fellow he is! Mauling the Spanish again! I was an aficionado at Lady Dalrymple's, you know. I cannot make heads or tails of the rest of it. May I continue reading yours?"
Anne nodded and watched as he, with an occasional raised eyebrow and knowing smile to her, worked his way through the remainder of her letter. One of the most intriguing things about this man was his eyes; at times, she could actually see him thinking. But near the end of the letter, he gave a snort of derision.
"Nymphallic?! What the devil! He likens you to a ..." Captain Benwick grimaced at the page in disgust. "Miss Elliot, were you not a gentlewoman, I would advise that you strike Mr Turner, very hard, when next you see him! For this is not at all a compliment!"
Anne bit her lip and struggled not to laugh. "I wondered about that one."
"I suppose he meant to say you are 'nymphal' or 'nymph-like,'" James grumbled, "which is not at all the sort of thing one should say to a lady, in any case! Who wants to be likened to a cold, clammy water-sprite? And what he does call you is particularly inexcusable in one who claims to be such an expert in English expression!"
"Do you ... do you think he betrays a certain ... partiality for me, Captain Benwick? After all, he says I am his 'dearest, most cherished friend'!"
"Humph!" He looked up at her with a twinkle in his eyes. "Behold me, the 'cherished companero!' I think not. Miss Carteret appears to occupy that position."
"Thank Heaven," she breathed. "You have relieved my mind of a great weight." She took back her letter and began to fold it. "It is so very awkward when a friend -- or an acquaintance -- begins to take on the behaviour and affections of a lover, don't you think?"
"It ... is?"
"Why, yes. When one falls in love, one feels an attraction almost immediately. That is not the way with common friendship."
"I ... that is how it was for me, with Fanny Harville," he said quietly. "But I suppose there are differing ways in which one comes to realise one is in love with another."
"Perhaps. And of course, a man and woman can learn to care for each other, eventually. But that is not at all the same."
"However," she continued, "we have not solved our problem with Mr Turner and the meeting on Friday." And Anne went on to suggest various ways in which they could limit -- or eliminate -- the discussion of Mr Turner's 'cherished' verses.
"And I thought that if we begin at two o'clock and ended in precisely one hour -- could you bring us to a conclusion by that time? -- I will have the refreshments served without delay and Mr Turner will be foiled! For we will have concluded the meeting, without having had time to bring up the subject of his poetry."
"Very good! Er, unless he expects us to talk on through our tea ... about him."
"He would be so ill-mannered, wouldn't he?" Anne agreed, with a shake of her head. "And I do not know what we can do to keep people from talking."
James thought for a moment. "What if you played for us? Extemporaneously?"
"Why yes, that would be just the thing!" she said, laughing. "Shall I jump up like a madwoman struck by sudden inspiration, rush headlong to the pianoforte, and begin pounding away on it?"
"Excellent! And afterward, what if I begin spouting Shakespeare, willy-nilly? Like this: 'Not marble, nor the gilded monuments of princes, shall outlive this powerful rime ...'" he recited. "No, wait a minute, not that one! Turner'll think I'm referring to his rhyme, won't he?"
"Oh dear!" Anne was still chuckling over this when she opened her reticule to put in the letter. A bit of ruffle poked out. She gave a tiny cry of triumph.
"At last! I have remembered!" Anne removed the handkerchief and placed it into her friend's hand with a flourish. "I have been meaning to return this to you, sir, and I do so now, with my most sincere thanks. I did not mean to keep it so long after the wedding."
James stood looking at the square of cloth in his hand for a long moment. His fingers traced his initials, the tiny embroidered flowers, and the ruffled trim. He gave her a quick, penetrating look as he fingered the ruffle.
"Miss Anne, you are a wonder," he said at last. "Today, thanks to you, I have made quite a step-up in the world of fashion. Many gentlemen use these, er, elegantly-appointed hankies, and I do thank you for the, mmmm, flowers and fancy edging."
"Good G-d!" Anne cried, aghast. She had forgotten to remove her 'embellishments'! Her face flamed as she stammered, "I ... I meant to remove those! They were added ... only so I could have it laundered without ... questions! If you give it back, I shall take them off for you! Right away!"
His brown eyes smiled into hers. "But I like it better this way. You needn't trouble yourself."
"Yes, I do!" she cried desperately, and self-consciously lowered her voice. "And it will be no bother! Truly!"
"But then it will become ordinary again. And it is so much nicer now!"
"The ruffle is mine, from my shif -- er, sewing basket!" she argued. "You must return it!"
"It has been attached to, and made a part of, my property -- so it is now mine," he grinned.
"Give it back!" Anne glanced around the empty shop and wondered whether she should make an unladylike swipe for it.
"Nothing doing," he countered, and correctly guessing her thought, held it just out of her reach.
"Captain Benwick, you are a thoroughly horrid and unmannerly person!" Anne said, through clenched teeth. The wretched thing was, she found it was almost impossible not to smile back at him. She fought to maintain her composure.
"'Dreadful,' too, don't forget. You called me that at Lady Dalrymple's!
"I was being kind, for we were then in company!" she grumbled. "You are the ... the greatest beast in nature!"
"Yes, ma'am," he said meekly. "But may not this sad beast keep his poor little hanky? Please?" He lowered his voice. "You know how much I like pink flowers."
This drew a reluctant laugh out of Anne. "Oh, very well, keep it if you must!" she relented. To fight for it was both unladylike and undignified, and besides, he was being impossible.
All at once, she recollected the lateness of the hour and hastened to collect Little Charles from his perch at the counter. Within a very short time, the two of them were out on the wet street, headed for Camden Place. Anne grimly held the umbrella; it was raining and she had forgotten to return it to its owner ... again. Little Charles' hands were full of gifts: a tin of wrapped candies from the proprietor of the shop and a wooden horse from Mr Benjamin Benwick.
"An' Mister Benwick said I was a prime gun, to tell all about the toys I like," Little Charles crowed. He had obviously had a marvellous afternoon. "He asked about my favourite colors -- an' which toy I would ask Papa for first -- an' if I would want it even more if the horse was kept on the counter where I could see it every time I came in the shop ..."
Anne marched beside him silently; she hardly heard as the boy rattled on about his new friend. Her mind was filled with the other Benwick brother, the dreadful one with the smiling brown eyes.
He must think me a complete idiot! she thought, as colour once again flooded her cheeks. How could I forget such a simple thing, to remove that ruffle! Now he has it! And it is ...oh! It is from my shift! She ground her teeth in shame. I hope he does not suspect! He cannot! No, there is no reason why he should! But when she remembered the look he had given her as he stroked the handkerchief, Anne was no longer so sure.
© 2000 Copyright held by the author.