Her brother’s return was the first comfort; he could take best care of his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary. Till he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the worse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where; but now the collarbone was soon replaced, and though Mr. Robinson felt and felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the father and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be able to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then it was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so far to digress from their nephew’s state, as to give the information of Captain Wentworth’s visit; staying five minutes behind their father and mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with him, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him than any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all a favourite before. They raved over his blue eyes, and it took all of Anne’s self-control not to correct them. Blue eyes? His eyes were not merely blue. And their description of his physique — broad and muscled — was not right either. Frederick had always been slender. Anne realized she had again called him by his Christian name in her thoughts and forced herself to pay attention to the excited Miss Musgroves.
The girls were saying how glad they had been to hear papa invite him to stay for dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and how glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma’s farther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the morrow — actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a manner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he ought. And in short, he had looked and said everything with such exquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both turned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and apparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles. Anne felt a profound pang of sorrow within her chest that in her younger years might have been jealousy. Anne was too tired now to feel such a thing, and she could not blame them for their ardour. Anne had been their age when she had fallen head-over-heels in love with the handsome boy. How much easier it must be to fall in love with the handsome man.
The same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls came with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make enquiries; and Mr. Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about his heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would be now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry to think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the little boy, to give him the meeting. “Oh no; as to leaving the little boy,” both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm to bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help adding her warm protestations to theirs.
Charles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; “the child was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to Captain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he would not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour.” But in this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with “Oh! no, indeed, Charles, I cannot bear to have you go away. Only think if anything should happen?”
The child had a good night, and was going on well the next day. It must be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the spine; but Mr. Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles Musgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer confinement. The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as possible; but what was there for a father to do? This was quite a female case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no use at home, to shut himself up. His father very much wished him to meet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against it, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public declaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress directly, and dine at the other house.
“Nothing can be going on better than the child,” said he; “so I told my father, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right. Your sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all. You would not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use. Anne will send for me if anything is the matter.”
Husbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain. Mary knew, from Charles’s manner of speaking, that he was quite determined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him. She said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was only Anne to hear —
“So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick child; and not a creature coming near us all the evening! I knew how it would be. This is always my luck. If there is anything disagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles is as bad as any of them. Very unfeeling! I must say it is very unfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy. Talks of his being going on so well! How does he know that he is going on well, or that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence? I did not think Charles would have been so unfeeling. So here he is to go away and enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be allowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else to be about the child. My being the mother is the very reason why my feelings should not be tried. I am not at all equal to it. You saw how hysterical I was yesterday.”
“But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm — of the shock. You will not be hysterical again. I dare say we shall have nothing to distress us. I perfectly understand Mr. Robinson’s directions, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at your husband. Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his province. A sick child is always the mother’s property: her own feelings generally make it so.” Anne certainly knew that if she could have been a mother, nothing would have ever separated her from her children, much less one of her children who was ill.
“I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that I am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be always scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw, this morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin kicking about. I have not nerves for the sort of thing.”
“But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole evening away from the poor boy?”
“Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I? Jemima is so careful; and she could send us word every hour how he was. I really think Charles might as well have told his father we would all come. I am not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is. I was dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day.”
“Well,” Anne looked at her lap, “if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself, suppose you were to go, as well as your husband. Leave little Charles to my care.” Anne dared to look at Mary. “Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain with him.” Any worry Anne had over her motives being discovered for wanting to stay behind vanished as Mary’s face lit.
“Are you serious?” cried Mary, her eyes brightening. “Dear me! that’s a very good thought, very good, indeed. To be sure, I may just as well go as not, for I am of no use at home — am I? and it only harasses me. You, who have not a mother’s feelings, are a great deal the properest person.” Anne could not prevent a wince — motherhood had once been her greatest wish — but Mary did not notice. “You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you at a word. It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with Jemima. Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as much as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with Captain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone.” Anne did not bother to correct her. “An excellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne. I will go and tell Charles, and get ready directly. You can send for us, you know, at a moment’s notice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing to alarm you. I
should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel quite at ease about my dear child.”
The next moment she was tapping at her husband’s dressing-room door, and as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole conversation, which began with Mary’s saying, in a tone of great exultation —
“I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than you are. If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should not be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like. Anne will stay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him. It is Anne’s own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great deal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday.”
“This is very kind of Anne,” was her husband’s answer, “and I should be very glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be left at home by herself, to nurse our sick child.”
Anne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her manner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at least very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left to dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening, when the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to let him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this being the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off together in high spirits. They were gone, she hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself, she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers. She knew herself to be of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others?
She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting. Perhaps indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances. He must be either indifferent or unwilling. Had he wished ever to see her again, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what she could not but believe that in his place she should have done long ago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone had been wanting.
Anne had not known she’d dozed off in her chair until a hand was roughly shaking her awake.
“Anne.”
Even before she opened her eyes, she knew the man who owned that voice. His hand was warm on her shoulder, the fingers curling over her collarbone. Immediate need clenched within her belly.
Her eyes shot open, and Anne unerringly found his face.
The blue-green eyes were looking at her earnestly. His lips were parted.
“Frederick?”
His face relaxed and his hand against her shoulder softened, his fingers now feeling like a caress. “Anne, I had to see you.”
Anne blinked sleep from her eyes, sure she was mishearing. “You are to be at dinner.”
His lips tipped. “As were you.” His fingers trailed lightly along her collarbone to skim up her neck. “I could wait no longer to see you.”
Anne jerked to her feet and stepped away from his touch, sure any second that his fingers upon her skin would reduce her to a wanton mess. She held her hands out in front of her, palms toward him. “Please, Frederick — ” Her speech tapered off. She was uncertain what to say — what to beg. Go away was probably not the correct thing to tell him, though she wished it with all of her being. She could not stand to be in the same room with him and not disgrace herself by doing something entirely untoward.
He stalked closer, paying no regard to her supplicating position or the fact that she backed further away from him, matching every one of his broad steps with a stumbling one of her own.
“Anne.” The word was a whisper and may as well have been a stroke of his hand across her stomach for how it quivered.
A whimper fell from her lips as he backed her out of her nephew’s sick room and into the hall.
“Anne, I have perished for you,” he said in a rumble, “every day for the last eight years.”
Anne’s back met the wall, and still, he kept coming. The heat from his body pressed into hers just before he stopped moving. He stood toe-to-toe with her and raised a broad hand to her face where he cradled her cheek within his palm.
Anne’s breath left her in a sound akin to a sob.
“Shhh.” He stepped even closer, pressing them hip-to-hip and breasts to chest. “All is well now.” His thumb swept over her bottom lip. “I am here.”
Her lips parted beneath his touch, and his thumb caressed the inside arch of her upper lip. He stared intently at her lips.
Something within Anne broke, and her need unleashed itself. She threw caution and to-morrow’s consequences to the wind. “Kiss me,” she begged in a voice she barely recognised.
Fire flashed in his ocean-coloured eyes just before he lowered his head and replaced his thumb with an open-mouthed kiss.
Anne’s gasp sucked his sigh into her lungs, and the silky slide of his lips against hers went straight to her head, rendering her dizzy.
He moaned harshly, and then pressed into her even further, crowding her into the wall. Every glorious inch of his body strained against hers. His flagrant arousal ground into her belly as he thrust his tongue into her mouth and wound his fingers into her hair.
She echoed his moan and dug her fingers into his coat, pulling him impossibly closer and rotating her hips so that she moved against his length.
“Yes,” he whispered into their kiss. “That’s my Anne.” He shoved a hand between the wall and her bottom and hauled her lower half so close it lay almost in between his thighs, whereupon he began thrusting against her in earnest.
Anne realized she was making a desperate mewling sound just as she felt air caress her bottom. The back of her skirts were raised. His fingers slid inside her drawers and down one rounded cheek before seeking the drenched area between her thighs. His forearm rippled across her bottom as he slipped two fingers into her sheath.
Anne cried out and thrust back into his hold, her slick body taking his fingers even further. Bliss spiraled up from his touch and straight to her heart. “Frederick,” she half-sobbed, half-moaned into his dinner coat.
He leaned his head down to press kisses to her neck as he moved his fingers in and out of her body. He continued to thrust himself against her belly, and his breathing was becoming broken and now ended with a harsh whisper of her name on each exhale.
“Anne,” he groaned desperately as he began to shake within her arms. “Oh, Anne.” His body stiffened, and she could feel a spread of warmth against her stomach.
Her peak rose up suddenly and crashed down upon her. Her lips parted as she cried out, and her eyes shot open —
“Anne!” Mary cried as she shook her roughly. “Wake up, for heaven’s sake. You must be having the worst night terror I have ever heard.”
Anne sucked in an unsteady breath as her body struggled to discern reality. She blinked several times to discover that she was sitting in the chair beside her nephew’s bed. Her sheath was still clenching and releasing around phantom fingers, and the shaking she had thought was Frederick’s orgasm ceased when Mary released her and stepped back.
Anne only just prevented herself from clapping a hand over her mouth in mortification. Good heavens. What had she said in her sleep? Had she cried out as loudly as she thought she had?
“It is okay now,” Mary said, looking at Anne with the barest modicum of concern. “We are here. No need to fear something from a dream.”
Over Mary’s shoulder, Anne’s eyes found Charles’s where he stood in the door to the sick room. One look at his raised brows and open mouth, and Anne realized Charles knew exactly what state Anne’s body had been in when Mary woke her. The blood already staining Anne’s cheeks grew even hotter, and she sought some way to direct attention away from herself. “H-how was your evening?” Even Anne could hear the husky quality to her voice, but Mary simply smiled broadly and launched into a rapid fall of words. After a slight hesitation and one more aghast perusal of Anne, Charles joined in.
Her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance, and their visit in general. There had been music, singing, talking, laughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain Wentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other perfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with Charles. Mary overlooked Anne’s gasp completely, while Charles gazed sharply at her for a moment. When Anne waved Mary on, she continued. He was to come to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though that had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come to the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in Mrs. Charles Musgrove’s way, on account of the child, and therefore, somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles’s being to meet him to breakfast at his father’s.
Anne understood it. He wished to avoid seeing her. He had inquired after her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they were to meet. Anne could not help but wonder how her name had sounded upon his lips. Had his voice deepened as he said her name as it used to when they were young? Had he called her Anne or Miss Elliot? Sorrow stabbed deeply as she realized that of course he would have called her Miss Elliot.
The morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the other house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary and Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to say that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs, that his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters meaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing also to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though Charles had answered for the child’s being in no such state as could make it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without his running on to give notice.
Persuasion (The Wild and Wanton Edition) Page 8
