Posted on Friday, 19 August 2005

I will always remember the evening we met. Edward and I had gone to an evening party, nothing exceptional or memorable in itself. I had not been long in the area and so was not yet acquainted with many of the people there. We were introduced in the middle of a dizzying stream of introductions. We spoke no more than a few sentences while her eyes shone up at me, but I left that evening knowing that of all the people I had met, she was the one person I wanted to get to know better.

And so I did. I saw her again at various gatherings and made a point of speaking with her. We spoke of books and poets, of my family and the sea. I was drawn to her as I had never been to another, drawn to her goodness and her intelligence, to her gentleness. I had never had much gentleness in my life, had never thought that I was in need of it. Still, it drew me as a moth to a flame.

After a few meetings I realized that although her face was always calm and pleasant, the truth of her feelings could be seen in her eyes. I began to watch her more closely to see the humor in her eyes when dealing with someone ridiculous, the affection when speaking to Lady Russell, the compassion when comforting someone. The pain after encounters with her father and sister. Our conversations grew more frequent and more lengthy, and one day I realized that I could see myself in her eyes. Not the flawed, faulty man I knew myself to be, but the man I wanted to become.

That was the day I asked her to marry me.

Looking back now, I suppose it was a foolish thing to do. I had no means of supporting a wife, but I knew that I soon would. I had always been lucky, something which was proven by her acceptance of my offer of marriage, and I knew that I should continue to be so. I was certain that it would not be long before we were able to marry.

Soon, though, her eyes changed from glowing with happiness to being clouded with tension. Her father, while not withholding his consent, made it perfectly clear that he disparaged both the match and myself. Her dear friend Lady Russell, who had always been pleasant to me, was now decidedly frosty. While I was angry with the former and irritated by the latter, I resolved to ignore them. In truth, I cared not what they thought, except that they might injure Anne's feelings. While I knew that Sir Walter had no care for his daughter, I hoped that Lady Russell at least would act with more forbearance towards her than she did to me.

In that hope I could not have been more disappointed.

Shortly after our engagement was formed, a day came when Anne and I had arranged to go walking. She was exceptionally quiet and I attempted to tease her into a better humor, with no success. When she finally began to speak, I could not believe what I was hearing. At first I did not believe it.

She did not want me.

I felt as though someone had reached inside my body and was wringing out my stomach.

She did not want me.

She was stammering and twisting her hands together and wouldn't look at me...I didn't know what she was feeling. I bent over to try to see her eyes, but she turned her face away and hid behind her blasted bonnet. There was such a roaring in my ears that I could hardly understand what she was saying, but one phrase slipped through-that it was best for me.

Best. For. Me.

How dare she!

I was so angry I could hardly speak. Unfortunately that condition did not last and words exploded from me. Even immediately afterward I could not remember all that I said, but I know that it was all of it horrible. I saw one flash of her eyes, tearful and anguished. Then she ran.

I did not see her again for eight years.

After she broke our engagement I told myself that I did not care. That I had had a lucky escape. That her eyes were anguished because I, a lowly seaman, had dared to speak the truth to a daughter of the House of Elliot. That her feelings were hurt, not her heart. That she did not have a heart. That I had never seen anything in her eyes but what I wanted to see.

Even so, my dreams at night were filled with longing for her and I had nightmares about her eyes as I had last seen them, tearful and anguished, but staring, staring. I would wake in a sweat and get angry all over again.

After my initial rage cooled, I began to consider that perhaps she had not been heartless. I could not believe that I had been that mistaken about her feelings. I realized, however, that I had been sadly mistaken about her character. She was weak. She had been persuaded to abandon me. I had not taken the time to determine the firmness of her temper. I would not make that mistake again.

I was resolved to forget her. Eventually I thought I had. I ceased to dream of her and even to think of her. I did think of her when I returned briefly to England in the year eight and even fleetingly thought of writing to her, but it was not difficult to talk myself out of it. I also thought of her whenever I met another woman. I did not believe that she was the woman I had thought she was, but I knew that the woman I had thought her to be was the woman I wanted.

And so eight years went by, and I was once more cast upon shore and once more headed into Somersetshire, this time to visit my sister. She and her husband were living in Kellynch Hall, Anne's home, of all improbable places. I could not help but revel in the irony of it. I, who was not good enough for Sir Walter, was brother to the couple now residing in his house, and would soon be residing there myself. I almost wanted to rub my hands together in glee at the thought of it.

I did not have any interest in seeing Anne. I did not wish her ill, but aside from some curiosity as to her circumstances, I was totally indifferent to her. Or so I thought.

I was the greatest fool who ever lived.

Of course, I did see Anne again. She was staying nearby with her younger sister, who had been away at school during my previous stay. When I first saw her again I instinctively looked at her eyes, and I saw nothing. They were as unfeeling as her face.

We were constantly thrown into company together. I hardly knew how to act around her. After some initial uneasiness, she was always calm and pleasant. Her eyes were always calm and pleasant. I wanted to shake her.

So I avoided her as much as I could. I did not initiate any conversation with her, and she certainly did not initiate any conversation with me. I distracted myself with flirtation and silliness with Henrietta and Louisa and allowed my foolish ego to be soothed by their adoration. I tried not to look at her, or even allow myself to be close enough to her to be forced to engage in the commonest civilities.

I could not help watching her, though, on occasion, searching for the woman I once knew. She did not dance. She did not laugh. She did not have any opinions. She always looked so infernally calm and pleasant. Oh, she was kind and helpful and considerate to everyone around her, but her eyes held no emotion. Just calm and pleasant, calm and pleasant. Where was she?

Finally, a day came when I saw something else in her eyes. We had all been walking, and it ended up being an exceedingly long walk. I could see that she was tired; anyone with eyes should have been able to see it. When my sister and the admiral drove up and offered a seat to any lady who wished it, I did not hesitate to ask them to take Anne with them. It would have been unfeeling to do otherwise. She began to refuse the offer, so without thinking I placed my hand on the small of her back to urge her toward the carriage.

She gasped.

It was a tiny gasp, but a gasp nonetheless. The moment I touched her, I had determined not to look at her, but at the sound my eyes automatically flew to hers. She looked at me for the barest moment, then away. As she settled herself in the carriage and they drove away, I stood there trying to figure out exactly what I had seen in her eyes. Whatever it was, it definitely had not been calm and pleasant.

And why had she gasped?

Had I startled her? Was she afraid of me-the very thought made me angry-or was it something else? Could it be possible that behind her emotionless face and eyes she still had feelings for me? Did I even want her to? Did I not despise her feeble character, her weakness? But aside from her rejection of me, had I ever seen any evidence of a feeble character--was she really as weak as I had been convinced that she was?

That was the worst question of all.

I did not know what to think. Over the next few days I began to watch her more closely, trying to see things in her eyes. My easy openness with Louisa was by now a habit, but though I once had welcomed the distraction, now she was almost an irritant. I no longer wished to be distracted, but for every step I retreated she advanced. She was a sweet girl and I did not wish to hurt her feelings, so I tried to behave as I always had, not realizing what a very bad idea that was.

I was glad for more than one reason when I received a letter from my good friend Harville telling me he was settled for the winter as close as Lyme. I fled there without even telling him I was coming or anyone in Uppercross that I was leaving. I was very pleased to see him, and his family, and relieved that Benwick was so improved since last I had seen him. He was still grieving, to be sure, but no longer so wild with it. I did not wish to tax Harville's resources and knew that he and his wife would refuse to hear of my staying at an inn, so I stayed only one night.

I visited Uppercross again the day after my return to explain my unusual absence. After hearing my portrayal of Lyme and the Harvilles, and of my intention to visit them again at some time, there was a general desire that we should make a party of it and visit together. Though I was not opposed to such a scheme, Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove preferred that their daughters wait for the better weather and longer days of summer to make such a trip. Louisa carried the day, however, bearing down all the objections of her parents with great determination-actually, to be perfectly frank, with a rather disturbing obstinacy.

And so we were to go to Lyme.