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Authors: Amanda Grange

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BOOK: Captain Wentworth's Diary
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We lingered on the seashore, looking at the ocean, and then I went to call on Harville whilst the others walked on to the Cobb.
Harville was delighted to see me again, and when I told him of my party, nothing would do for him and his wife, and Benwick as well, but that they should come out and meet my friends.
Harville pressed us to dine with him, and Harriet added her entreaties. Only the fact that we had already bespoken dinner at the inn made them accept, reluctantly, that we could not join them. They consoled themselves by inviting us back to their house at once, and we were happy to accept.
It was a time of good cheer and, my gaze being drawn to Anne, as so often happened, I saw something of her former animation, for she was engaged in lively conversation with Harville. Her eyes were bright, and I discovered that the tone of her mind had not changed, for every word she uttered was a word I could have uttered myself.
I found myself once again torn between frustration with her for rejecting me, anger with myself for not writing to her in the year eight, and hope that she might yet be in love with me.
When we left, Louisa was in raptures.
‘How friendly they all were, and how industrious,’ she said. ‘Did you see the toys Captain Harville had made for his children? We never had finer toys ourselves. It seems to me that sailors are the only people who know how to live. They have given us so much, they should be respected and loved by every one of us.’
Her speech was unaffected, but, after Anne’s conversation, it seemed to belong in the schoolroom.
To Anne herself I said little, for I did not know what to say. I could not speak to her intimately in such surroundings, amongst so many people, and yet I could scarcely bear not to speak to her.
All through dinner I was aware of her, and I stole glances at her whenever I could. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? I was longing to speak to her after dinner, but we had a surprise visit from Harville and Benwick, so it was out of the question.
Harville and I gave in to the entreaties of the Miss Musgroves and entertained them with stories of our adventures aboard the
Laconia
, but again and again I found my glance wandering to Anne. She had gone to sit by Benwick, who had retreated to a quiet corner, for his spirits were still low and would not easily stand such a noisy gathering.
It was like her kind and generous spirit to bear him company, and from what little I heard of their conversation, I could tell they were talking of poetry. I wished that I was the one sitting in the corner with her, talking to her in such a free and open way, instead of being forced to entertain the other ladies.
Harville and Benwick left at last, and once again I hoped I might have a chance to speak to Anne, but the ladies retired straight away.
As I followed them some half an hour later, I felt myself growing increasingly frustrated at the insipidity of the general conversation and wanting something more; something I had always found with Anne.
Friday 11 November
I rose early and I was eager to be out of doors, for it was a fine morning, with the tide rushing in before a south-easterly breeze. I hoped to meet Anne in the parlour, but, on going downstairs, I discovered that she had already gone out. Louisa was there, however, and, breakfast not being ready, she suggested that we might go for a walk upon the Cobb. We went out and walked down to the sea. It was grey, flecked with white, and overhead wheeled the squawking gulls.
We had not been out of doors for very long when we saw Anne and Henrietta. Anne was blooming. The fresh wind had lent colour to her cheeks and a brightness to her eye, and she looked as she had looked eight years ago, when I first knew her. The day faded into nothingness, and I stood in a cloud of silence, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, nothing except Anne. She was laughing, for the wind was whipping her hair across her face, and, as I watched her, she raised her hand and pushed it back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Then her eyes met mine. How long we stood thus I do not know, but however long it was, it was not long enough. I drank her in, her mild dark eyes, her laughing countenance, and her soft brown hair; all held me entranced.
And then a sudden gust of wind blew against us, and Louisa clutched at my arm, bringing me back to the present. I tried to reclaim the moment, but Anne had turned away, and it was gone beyond recall.
‘You are out early,’ said Henrietta.
I said nothing, for the vision of Anne, restored to loveliness, had rendered me speechless.
‘But not as early as you,’ said Louisa. ‘I thought Captain Wentworth and I were the only two people awake.’
‘We have been out a full half hour, have we not, Anne?’ said Henrietta.
Anne seemed to be having as much difficulty as I in replying. The silence was covered by Louisa saying that there was something she wanted at the shop, and she invited us all to go back into town with her. We declared ourselves willing to accompany her and walked back across the beach.
As we came to the steps leading upwards, we saw a gentleman at the top, preparing to come down. He drew back and gave way so that the ladies could pass. Anne and Henrietta ascended first, and as they reached the top, I saw the gentleman looking at Anne, and then looking again. I was hit by a wave of jealousy, for he had no right to look at her in that way. I contained myself, and we walked on to the shops in peace.
Once Louisa had made her purchases we returned to the inn, where we found breakfast waiting for us. Mary and Charles were there and, when we had rid ourselves of our outdoor clothes, we joined them.
We had nearly finished when we heard the sound of a curricle outside. Charles jumped up to see if it was as fine as his own and we all collected at the window to look. The owner of the curricle came out, and I perceived him to be the same gentleman who had passed us on the steps up from the beach.
I saw Anne smile, and once again I felt a hot rush of jealousy, this time worse than before. Why had she smiled on him, and not on me?
On a sudden impulse, I asked the waiter, ‘Pray, can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?’
‘Yes, sir, a Mr Elliot.’
‘
Elliot?’
I asked in astonishment, whilst there was a general murmur all around me.
‘A gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth,’ the waiter went on. ‘Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, on his way to Bath and London.’
‘Bless me!’ cried Mary. ‘It must be our cousin.’
So
this
was Mr Elliot, the man Miss Elliot had assiduously pursued, and lost, all those years ago, the man she had deemed worthy of her hand—and who was now evidently in mourning, for he wore crêpe around his hat. I wondered who had died and, making discreet enquiries of Charles, I discovered that Mr Elliot had married some years before, but that he had recently been widowed. There were no children, he told me, but Sir Walter had not made overtures to him again, on account of some slighting remarks he had made about his relatives, which had reached Sir Walter’s ears.
But what a man for Anne to meet, here, now! I thought in dismay.
‘What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other!’ went on Mary. ‘Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance. I wonder the arms on the carriage did not strike me!’
Charles remarked that the greatcoat had been hanging over the panel, and Mary exclaimed that, if the servant had not been in mourning, she should have known him by the livery.
I, on the other hand, was vastly relieved that we had not known his identity sooner, for then introductions must have been made, and Anne would have come to know him further.
‘Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,’ I said, trying to hide my agitation, ‘we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence that you should not be introduced to your cousin.’
I looked at Anne, hoping she would see it as such. To my relief, she seemed to have no wish to pursue the acquaintance, for she said that their father and Mr Elliot had not spoken for many years, and that an introduction was not desirable.
I was heartened but, without knowing her mind, I could not know her full reasons for not wanting to pursue the acquaintance. Was it because of her father, as she said, or was it . . . could it be . . . that her feelings were already engaged— by me?
I tried to read the answer in her face, but I could detect nothing. I wished I knew why she had refused Charles Musgrove; I wished I knew if she was indifferent to me, or whether she was merely reserved; if she had ever missed me; and if she regretted her decision to reject me.
We were soon joined by the Harvilles and Benwick, for we had arranged to take a last walk with them before departing. Harriet gave it as her opinion that her husband would have had quite enough walking by the time he reached home, and so we determined to accompany the Harvilles to their door, and then set off home ourselves.
We parted from the Harvilles as planned, and were about to return to the inn when some of the party expressed a wish to take one final walk along the Cobb. Louisa was so determined to have this last pleasure that we gave in to her, and Benwick came with us.
There was too much wind on the high part to make the walk enjoyable so we decided to go down the steps to the lower part. Louisa insisted on being jumped down them by me, as she had often been jumped down from stiles.
I tried to discourage her, saying the pavement was too hard for her feet, but she insisted. I gave in to her demands but, as I did so, I began to think that a determined character was not so very desirable after all. If it was firm in its pursuit of right, then it was estimable, but if it was firm in pursuit of its own desires, it was simply wilful.
I had done the damage, however, and must, for the time being, abide by it. I jumped her down the steps with no harm done, and there it should have ended, but she ran up the steps to be jumped down again.
Again, I tried to persuade her to abandon the idea, but I spoke in vain.
‘I am determined I will,’ she said.
She jumped with no further warning. I put out my hands; I was half a second too late; she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb . . . and I looked at her in horror, for she was dead.
A thousand thoughts went through my mind, tormenting me for my folly: I should not have made so much of her; I should never have jumped her down from a stile; I should not have encouraged her to think that being headstrong was a virtue; I should not have brought her to Lyme. A thousand thoughts, whirling round as I caught her up, my body reacting to the crisis as it had reacted to countless crises at sea, taking charge, doing what was necessary, looking for a wound, for blood, for bruising . . . but there was nothing. Yet her eyes were closed, she breathed not, and her face was like death.
‘She is dead! She is dead!’ screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband.
Henrietta fainted, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them.
‘Is there no one to help me?’ I cried, borne down by a weight of guilt and despair, and feeling my strength gone.
‘Go to him, go to him, for heaven’s sake go to him.’
It was Anne’s voice; Anne, who could be relied upon in a crisis; Anne rousing Charles and Benwick, who were at my side in a moment, supporting Louisa. As they took her from me, I stood up, but, underestimating the effect the shock had had on me, I staggered, and once more catching sight of her pale face, I cried, ‘Oh God! her father and mother!’
I could not bear to think of them at Uppercross, imagining us happy, and trusting me to bring their daughter safely home again.
‘A surgeon!’ said Anne.
Her common sense restored me to sanity.
‘True, true, a surgeon this instant,’ I said, and I was about to go and fetch one when Anne said that Benwick would know better where one was to be found.
Again, her cool, calm common sense prevailed. Benwick gave Louisa into Charles’s care and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity.
‘Anne, what is to be done next?’ cried Charles, and I realized that everyone was looking to her in their extremity.
‘Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn,’ said Anne.
Her words roused me once again and, eager to be doing something, I took Louisa up myself. Her eyes fluttered, and I felt a moment of wild, surging hope as they opened and I knew her to be alive! What joy! What rapture!
‘She lives!’ I cried.
There was a cry of relief from all around. But then her eyes closed, and she gave no more sign of consciousness.
We had not even left the Cobb when Harville met us, for he had been alerted by Benwick on his way for the surgeon, and had run out to meet us. He told us we must avail ourselves of his house, and before long we were all beneath his roof. Louisa, under Harriet’s direction, was conveyed upstairs, and we all breathed again.
BOOK: Captain Wentworth's Diary
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