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.’
‘Then I can ask for no more,’ I said. ‘I know she wanted to see you take your mother’s place. I cannot give you a baronetcy, but I can give you the comforts I could not provide you with eight years ago. And how has Mr Elliot taken the news? Has he heard it yet?’
‘I neither know nor care. I have just learnt that he is not the man we thought he was. We have been sadly deceived in Mr Elliot,’ she said.
I was astonished, and asked her what she meant.
‘He did not seek us out in order to repair the breach that had come between us as he claimed. Instead, he came to Bath in order to keep watch on my father. He had been warned by a friend that Mrs Clay, who accompanied my sister to Bath, had ambitions to be the next Lady Elliot.’
‘He knew that if Sir Walter married and had a son, he would lose his inheritance,’ I said, nodding thoughtfully.
‘He did. He declared that he had never spoken slightingly of the baronetcy, as my father had heard, and protested that he had always wanted to be friends. He made himself so agreeable that my father and sister were completely taken in, cordial relations were restored, and he was made welcome in Camden Place at any time.’
‘So he achieved his object of keeping a close watch on Mrs Clay.’
‘And put himself in a position to intervene if he felt it necessary.’
‘But are you sure?’ I asked.
‘I am. I learnt it from an old school friend, a Mrs Smith, who is in Bath at present. She was, once, a wealthy—comparatively wealthy—woman, and she and her husband knew Mr Elliot in London, but now she has fallen on hard times.’
I thought that this must be the same friend Mrs Lytham had told me about, and I honoured Anne for her continued friendship, even through adversity. I thought how fortunate I was to be marrying a woman who knew as well as I did that the important things in life—love, affection, friendship—had nothing to do with wealth.
‘It is largely because of Mr Elliot that my friend has suffered. He borrowed money from her husband, which he did not repay, and, even worse, he led her husband into debt. When Mr Smith died, he should have seen to it that she was able to claim some property to which she was entitled in the West Indies, for he was the executor of the will, but he ignored his duties, and as a result, my friend is living in poverty,’ she said with a sigh.
‘But this is terrible!’
‘It is indeed. If he would only bestir himself, the money raised from the property could provide her with a degree of comfort that would improve her life immeasurably.’
‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ I said. I thought for a moment, and then said, ‘I am indebted to her for opening your eyes about Mr Elliot, and I owe her my friendship because she is your friend. I have some knowledge of the West Indies, and I would be glad to help her.’
She gave me a look of heartfelt gratitude, and expressed her desire that we should go and see Mrs Smith this afternoon. This I agreed to, and when we arrived at Westgate Buildings, I was shocked to see how Anne’s friend was living. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour and a dark bedroom behind. She was now an invalid, with no possibility of moving from one room to the other without assistance, and Anne told me her friend never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath.
I was sorry for her indeed. However, I soon found that her spirits had not been crushed, for she expressed her pleasure at meeting me, and she congratulated me heartily on my engagement.
‘Anne was good enough to visit me this morning and tell me the news,’ she said. ‘I am delighted for her, and for you, too. You are lucky to have won her.’
I assured her I knew my luck, and she declared that she was sure we would be very happy together.
‘I have brought Frederick here for more than one purpose,’ said Anne. ‘I have brought him here to help you. You mentioned a property in the West Indies?’
‘Yes, indeed. If you could do anything to help me I would be most grateful,’ she said to me.
I asked her for particulars and on hearing the details I felt she had a good chance of success. I offered to act for her, and we parted with goodwill on both sides.
I walked back to Camden Place with Anne, and there I left her, for I had promised to look into Mrs Smith’s affairs right away. We did not meet again until later that evening, when we went to the theatre with the Musgroves.
They were, as always, a happy family party. Benwick was missing, for he had promised to dine with an acquaintance, but the rest of the party was there. As we assembled in the box, Henrietta and Louisa were full of their forthcoming marriages; Musgrove was eager to talk of the gun he had seen; Hayter was talking of his living, and Mr and Mrs Musgrove were wanting to talk about their children, the shops and their delight at being in Bath. When there was a pause in the conversation, Anne and I gave them our glad news. They looked stunned, but Mary recovered almost at once and congratulated us heartily.
‘I always felt you were meant for each other,’ she said, though it was obvious the idea had never occurred to her before that moment. ‘I am sure you have me to thank, for I was greatly instrumental in bringing you together.’
‘Ay, a happy chance,’ said Mrs Musgrove, beaming with delight. ‘I am very happy for you. You would have always been welcome in our family, Captain Wentworth, for your kindness to Richard, but you will be doubly welcome as the husband of Anne.’
Whilst Anne accepted everyone’s congratulations, and sought to answer Henrietta’s and Louisa’s questions about wedding clothes, Mary, who was sitting next to me, turned to me and said, ‘If I had not kept Anne with me in the autumn, she would have gone to Bath with Lady Russell, and you would never have met. You owe it all to me. I will be very glad to have a sister married. I do not see why Charles should have two sisters married this year, and I not one. And Anne has caught the best husband, after all, for you are far richer than either Captain Benwick or Charles Hayter. Yes, I am glad that my own sister has won the best husband of the three.’
I could not help my grimace, and later, when Anne joined me, she asked what my expression had meant.
‘One member of your family is glad to have me, at least, but it is only because I am richer than either Hayter or Benwick,’ I told her.
She was embarrassed, and blushed, but she was too happy to be troubled by Mary’s vulgarity for long, and we passed a joyful evening. The play, I believe, was good, but neither of us paid any attention to it, for we were too busy looking at each other.
MARCH
Wednesday 1 March
I called on Lady Russell this morning. There must inevitably be some awkwardness about our first meeting, and I thought it best it should be conducted in private. I was shown in, and there before me I saw the woman who had blighted my hopes eight and a half years before.
She looked conscious, and I felt a moment’s resentment . . . and then it was gone, pushed aside by happiness.
I went forward and greeted her.
‘Lady Russell,’ I said, for she did not seem to know how to begin. I took pity on her confusion, and I went on kindly, ‘Once before you offered me your hand and suggested we be friends. I refused to take it, for I was not ready to make my peace with you then, but I am ready now. This time, I will offer you my hand, and say, “What is done is done, let us be friends.”’
I held out my hand. She hesitated a moment, seemed about to speak, and then took it.
‘I told you, a long time ago, that I would never do anything to harm Anne, and I repeat it now. More, I will tell you that her happiness is, and always will be, my first consideration. I hope this will reconcile you to the marriage.’
‘You are very generous,’ she said, ‘and I will endeavour to be the same. Though I do not believe my advice was wrong at the time, it proved wrong in the event. I believe you love each other sincerely and deeply, and though I wished for a better match for her in terms of rank—I am being honest, you see—I think she could not make a better match in terms of mutual loyalty and affection.’
I made her a bow, and assured her again of my determination to make Anne happy, and we parted, if not friends, then, at least, as two people who had reached a point of understanding and respect.
I told Anne of our meeting when we dined together at the house of some of our Bath acquaintance.
‘Lady Russell told me about your visit. I am glad you went,’ said Anne. ‘In time, she will come to love you as much as I do, and then my happiness will be complete.’
News of our engagement had spread, and we found ourselves being congratulated on all sides. Benwick looked at me with a sense of relief and satisfaction, and when we were sitting over the port, he said to me, ‘This takes a weight off my mind, Wentworth. I was not sure, when you came to Lyme in November, if you were in love with Louisa. I held back at first, for I did not wish to cause you harm, but when you went away and did not come back, I began to understand that there had not been a serious attachment, and so I allowed myself to fall in love with her. She is such an intelligent girl, with such expressive eyes and such a gentle character. Moreover, she does not remind me of’—his voice became low and wistful—‘Fanny.’
I gave him an understanding look, for I began to see how it had been for him. Another girl like Fanny would have reminded him too much of his first love. A girl who was the opposite would not.
‘I still remember her, Wentworth, but now it is not with pain, it is with warmth,’ he said. ‘I am grateful that I was fortunate enough to know her. God knows, I suffered when she died . . . well, you know, you were there,’ he said, gripping the stem of his glass, as his feelings overcame him. ‘But all things must pass, or at least lessen, even grief. It is still there, but not as strong, and although I will miss her always, I have other joys now to attach me to life. I am persuaded that Fanny would have wanted it that way.’
‘She would,’ I said fervently. ‘She was an intelligent young woman who enjoyed life. She would not have wanted you to waste yours in painful memories.’
He smiled gratefully.
‘That is what I think. Harville is finding it difficult to accept this new love—no, do not protest, you know it as well as I. And so he should. He was Fanny’s brother. I do not say he was glad to see me in pain, but it is only natural that someone who loved her as much as he did, should want to know that she is missed by others who loved her as well. But he is a good fellow, and glad to see me emerge from despair. He likes Louisa, and the circumstances of our romance are such as to touch the coldest heart.’ He shook his head, recalling the circumstances. ‘When I think that Louisa, too, might have been dead. She looked so lifeless when she was taken up after the fall.’
I remembered that moment well. It had affected us all.
Captain Wentworth's Diary Page 24
