Authors: Amanda Grange

Captain Wentworth's Diary (28 page)

BOOK: Captain Wentworth's Diary

13.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

‘Then you wished the choice unmade!’ I said, much struck. ‘And so soon.’ My heart was warmed. ‘I never knew. I was angry and I could see only that you had betrayed me. I was a hotheaded young man, though I thought myself so experienced. Did you, then, believe that even with the disadvantages of your family’s disapproval, and the uncertainties of a long engagement, that you would yet have been happier with me than without me?’

‘I did.’

‘And did you hope my professions might be renewed when I came to Kellynch?’

‘I hardly dared hope for anything of the kind, but I longed to see you, to discover how you looked, and if you remembered me. I told myself it could not be, and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. I told myself it was folly, that we would meet as strangers, that we could never be to each other what we once had been, but still, I could not be easy. I thought of you constantly.’

Better and better!

‘I was relieved that the past was known to so few people— only you, myself, Lady Russell, my father and my sister—for I could not have borne conscious looks from others. Your brother I supposed you would have told, but he had long since moved out of the neighbourhood, and I was sure that his discretion could be relied upon, so I was spared the trouble of it being common knowledge, at least.’

‘And so you thought of me, even on that first day,’ I said, pleased and yet angry with myself at the same time. ‘If I had only spoken . . . if I had only put aside my pride and my anger, we could have been spared all that followed.’

‘When did you put it aside?’ she asked.

‘That day at Lyme. I saw myself in a different light, because I saw that you had been right to be cautious, and to listen to the counsel of those older and wiser than yourself. I do not say that their counsel was good, only that you had been right to listen to it. I was about to tell you so, to go to you as soon as Louisa was out of danger, and tell you of my feelings, but no sooner had she been pronounced out of danger than Harville made it clear he thought that Louisa and I were engaged. That was a bitter time,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘for if those about us thought we were engaged, and if Louisa herself felt it to be so, then I knew I could not in honour abandon her. I would have to marry her. Never had I regretted my foolish intimacy with her more. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide by the consequences. I decided to leave Lyme, for I decided I could, in all honour, try to weaken her attachment, if it could be done by fair means.’

‘I knew nothing of this. I thought you were in love with Louisa. I thought her youth and gaiety had captivated you. I knew that, beside her, my looks were faded and my spirits were low. You did not return to Kellynch, and I presumed it was because you were worried about Louisa.’

‘And so I was, but only in the way I would worry about any girl who had had such an accident. I stayed with Edward. He enquired after you very particularly, and it gave me some relief to talk of you. I believe he guessed my feelings, for he even asked if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter.’

She smiled.

‘And then, I was released from my torment by Louisa’s engagement to Benwick. Within the first five minutes I said, “I will be at Bath on Wednesday,” and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come? And to arrive with some degree of hope? You were single. It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as I did: and one encouragement happened to be mine. I could never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, ’ "Was this for me?”’ I turned to look at her. ’Was it, Anne? Did you refuse Charles Musgrove for me?’

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, and the thought made me very happy. ‘Lady Russell liked the match, but I was older by then, and wiser, and I did not take her advice. I had been persuaded by her out of marrying the man I loved. I was not going to be persuaded by her into marrying a man I did not love.’

I smiled.

‘I was jealous of him, when I met you in the year six.’ I shook my head as I remembered the feeling. ‘You seemed fond of him, but once I learned he was a family friend, I forgave him! But I had someone else to be jealous of this year. Mr Elliot. I could not help but see that he admired you when we saw him in Lyme, and once I discovered who he was, and how eligible he was, and how desirable the connection, I was afraid. I had come to Bath to speak to you, to tell you I loved you, and yet, when I saw you, you were always with Mr Elliot. You smiled at him—’

‘Through simple courtesy.’

‘I did not know that. I thought you favoured him, and so I was silent. The meeting in Milsom Street was exquisite in its pleasure and its pain, and the concert was worse. You stepped forward to greet me, which gave me hope, but then you sat with Mr Elliot. Your heads were always together, as though you were having a private conversation—’

‘I was translating the words of the songs for him. Mr Elliot does not speak Italian.’

‘Ah,’ I said, much gratified.

‘Is that why you left?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I could bear it no longer. To see you so close to him . . . I had to leave, for to see you in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see Mr Elliot close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match, was terrible for me! To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared? How could I look on without agony? Was not the very sight of Lady Russell, who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immovable impression of what persuasion had once done—was it not all against me?’

‘You should have distinguished, you should not have suspected me now; the case so different, and my age so different,’ said Anne. ‘If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated.’

‘Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus, but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could not bring it into play: it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year. I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me. I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had no reason to believe her of less authority now. The force of habit was to be added.’

‘I should have thought that my manner to yourself might have spared you much or all of this.’

‘No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to another man would give. I left you in this belief; and yet, I was determined to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here.’

We had by this time reached Camden Place, and I was forced to relinquish Anne.

‘I do not want to part from you,’ I said.

‘It is only until this evening.’

‘Ah, yes, your sister’s card party. I am surprised she invited me.’

‘You are well spoken of in Bath. She has at last, through the opinions of others, discovered your worth,’ she said.

I let her go, reluctantly, and watched her go inside, then I returned to my rooms, more happy than I had ever been.

As I dressed for the evening, I thought I might have spared myself much misery by speaking to Anne as soon as I came to Kellynch Hall.

I finished dressing and made my way to Camden Place.

The party was insipid, as all such parties are, but it gave me an opportunity to see Anne. I watched her as she moved amongst her father’s guests, glowing with happiness, and knew her happiness was for me.

I talked freely to Mr Elliot, my jealousy banished, and replaced with an excess of goodwill. I ignored the superior attitude of Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, and instead I talked to them of the sea. I even exchanged pleasantries with Sir Walter and Miss Elliot. The Musgroves were there, and Harville, and we had free and easy conversation. Louisa engaged, Anne and I coming to an understanding—I had had no idea, at the start of the year, that such a happy conclusion could be reached.

I saw Anne talking to my sister and brother-in-law, and I was delighted to see how well they all got on together, for even though I had not told Sophia my news, I knew she would be pleased.

And every now and then I managed to snatch a few moments with Anne. Her shawl slipped, and I helped her with it. A fly settled in her hair, and I wafted it away, feeling the soft strands of her hair brushing my fingers.

And when I could not talk to her, I watched her.

But I could not bring myself to talk to Lady Russell. Anne noticed it, and joined me by a fine display of greenhouse plants. Pretending to admire them, so that she could speak to me without drawing watchful eyes, she asked if I had forgiven her friend.

‘Not yet, but there are hopes of her being forgiven in time,’ I said. ‘I trust to being in charity with her soon. But I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady?’

I told her of the time, in the year eight, when I had almost written to her, but that I had been held back by fear.

‘I had been rejected once, and I did not want to take the risk of being rejected again,’ I told her, ‘but if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?’

‘Would I?’ she answered, and her accent told me all.

‘Good God! you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive everyone sooner than myself. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me. I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards. Like other great men under reverses, I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.’

She smiled, but could do no more, for she was borne away by the Musgroves, and I had to make do with Harville’s company until the party came to an end.

Monday 27 February

I rose early and went to Camden Place where, once again, I found myself asking Sir Walter for Anne’s hand in marriage. He was a little more gracious than last time, for his friends esteem me. He expressed his surprise at my constancy and then enquired as to my fortune. On finding it to be twenty-five thousand pounds he said that it was not as large as a baronet’s daughter had a right to hope for, but declared it to be adequate. I was angered by his attitude, but I resisted the urge to say that my fortune was at least better than his, for he had nothing but debts. He gave his consent at last, then our interview was at an end.

I smiled at Anne as I returned to the drawing-room. Anne smiled back at me, and we told her sister the news. Miss Elliot showed no more warmth than formerly. She managed only a haughty look, and a slightly incredulous, ‘Indeed?’

I was angered on Anne’s behalf, for it was ungenerous of her sister not to congratulate her, but I soon saw that Anne did not care. And why should she? We had each other, so what did we care for anyone else’s approval?

‘And when will you tell Lady Russell?’ I asked Anne, as her sister left us alone.

‘Soon. This afternoon,’ she said. ‘She has a right to know, indeed, I am longing to tell her. It will be very different this time, and I hope she will be happy for me.’

‘I hope so, too, but tell her tomorrow instead. For the rest of the day, I want you to myself.’

She agreed, and we spent the time in free and frank conversation, opening our hearts to each other as we had done in the past, until it seemed that we had never been apart.

We spoke to no one, except at mealtimes, when it could not be avoided, and parted at last, reluctantly, at night.

I was longing to tell Sophia and Benjamin about my engagement, but they were away, visiting friends, and so I nursed my secret to myself.

Tuesday 28 February

I arrived at Camden Place early this morning and found that Anne was out. I waited for her, and when she returned, she told me that she had been visiting Lady Russell.

‘And how did she take the news?’ I asked Anne.

‘She struggled somewhat, but she told me that she would make an effort to become acquainted with you, and to do justice to you.’

BOOK: Captain Wentworth's Diary

13.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

Read Book Download Book

ads