“What of his own parish?” Sir Walter demanded, eager to make her see how he and this vicar were most certainly not to be considered equals. “Surely he has an obligation to his flock?”
“Indeed, and he has traveled—at his own expense, I should add—back to Monkford once already to see to his duties.” She sighed. “It might very well have been more economical to have stayed at an inn near Monkford, and yet—well, I wonder why he came? I suppose he felt obligated to accept my brother’s invitation.”
Obligated? What nonsense! Sir Walter felt the frown lines forming and quickly changed the subject.
Could he only have changed the composition of the household. It was bad enough having to talk about Grant, but to see him! Fortunately, the vicar stayed out of the way, spending most of his time in the Stevenson’s library. And though Sir Walter feared coming across him in one of the corridors—Would there even have been room for the two of them in South Park’s narrow hallways, given the vicar’s exceptional width?—he saw him only that one evening in the library, and then at occasional meals, when the vicar ate with silent determination—as fat men were wont to do.
At least Sir Walter could be certain he would not see the man today. Though invited to the wedding and breakfast, Grant had adamantly refused, turning beet red when Miss Stevenson spoke of it. Indeed, he had been so uncivil to his hosts that Sir Walter would have upbraided him, if only he had not been relieved at the vicar’s refusal to attend.
Well, he could put Mr. Grant from his mind now. A few hours, and then he and his lady would be well on their way to Kellynch.
“Sir Walter!” said Mr. Stevenson, hurrying across the churchyard. His soon-to-be father-in-law’s expression gave him pause. Stevenson did not often appear anxious, and yet there was no denying the furrowed brow (an unfortunate family trait, it seemed) or the worry lines joining the other wrinkles surrounding the old man’s eyes.
“What is it?” Sir Walter felt a moment’s fear, but only a moment’s. Pretty women ran off with ugly vicars only in novels, or so he assumed, having never read one himself.
“I am afraid Mr. Thomas, our vicar, is dreadfully ill.”
Sir Walter only just suppressed a sigh; the marriage would have to be delayed until the vicar from a nearby village could be summoned. In the meantime, he would simply have to make sure neither he nor Miss Stevenson went anywhere near South Park’s library.
When Miss Stevenson arrived, looking quite adorable in a pale blue gown with a bodice of the finest white lace (just the thing to show off the milky skin of her bosom), she was devastated by the news.
“Oh, I do hope Mr. Thomas is not in any danger!” she cried, a slight flush spreading across the swell of her breasts.
“He has been such a good friend to our family,” said her brother. “Is there nothing we can do for him?”
“No, the apothecary assures me he will make a recovery but not a speedy one.” Mr. Stevenson frowned. “That leaves us with the question of what to do about the ceremony. Sir Walter agrees that we should send for the nearest vicar, though that will mean a delay in the ceremony.”
“But why not ask Mr. Grant?” suggested Miss Stevenson. “Is he not still at South Park?”
Stevenson clapped his hands. “But of course, I had forgotten all about the lad! He is always in the library, I hardly know he is around.”
“No,” said the younger Stevenson, in such a curt tone that Sir Walter felt sure that Jamie Stevenson could see what neither his father nor sister could. “I do not think that will do, Elizabeth.”
“But why ever not?”
Her complete innocence struck him then, not for the first time, but with such force that Sir Walter felt a sudden jolt of fear. He had, in fact, looked forward to unburdening her of this innocence (not to mention her clothing). But now he wondered: What would he find beneath the surface of Miss Elizabeth Stevenson? What if that beautiful complexion was a trap, the mere illusion of light concealing deeper, darker waters below?
The few women he had bedded in the past—these he had always considered stained, dirty creatures. Serviceable, and beautiful in a showy sort of way, but impure and sullied, too. Only now did he recognize their one point of superiority to Miss Stevenson: they had experience—and not just the kind that made him moan in pleasure. These other women had fully understood what was expected of them. Their worldliness had been an anchor, something he could rely on.
Miss Stevenson’s guilelessness, however, was another thing altogether. Hers was a stubborn innocence, not the kind easily scrubbed from the bedsheets after the first night of passion, but a spirit within herself that she alone could touch.
He did not like people who were more than they seemed. They unmoored him, turned his world upside down. They reminded him of the time he had fallen from his horse and been struck temporarily blind. He had been only eight, and the blindness had not lasted more than a few days, but God, how he had suffered! It had not been the pain so much as the fear that he would never see again, that he would be forever stuck in the dark. Even now, the remembrance of that time sent chills down his spine. He was a man who lived through his eyes, who knew no other way of understanding his world except through sight.
“Sir Walter?”
He looked up at the sound of Miss Stevenson’s voice. For a moment, she was nothing but a blur, a swirl of blue and white. Only after a few panicked breaths did she come into focus. The Stevensons were all staring at him.
“You look unwell,” said the older Stevenson. “Your face looks odd.”
Sir Walter spun toward the window of the church, but alas, it was stained and not at all the kind of glass he needed.
“We should marry today,” was all he could manage as he turned back to face them. Yes, they must marry today—before he experienced more of these worrisome episodes. “Send for your friend, Stevenson.”
The younger man shook his oddly-shaped head. (He shared none of his sister’s good looks.) “Grant would feel…he…oh, Elizabeth, can you not understand how it is with Grant? Why he came to South Park all those holidays, all those summers? Why even now, on the verge of your marriage, he cannot keep away?”
She blushed then, some of her innocence perhaps swept away by that rush of blood to her cheeks.
“I know you understand, Sir Walter,” said her brother with a catch in his voice, “even if my sister does not. Come Father, write to the vicar in ____shire.”
When Miss Stevenson’s shoulders sank, Sir Walter saw how she was about to acquiesce.
“I hardly know what you mean, Stevenson!” he said, trying for one of his toothy smiles. His face felt stiff, brittle, on the verge of breaking.
But the smile seemed to work on old Mr. Stevenson, who said, “Indeed! Why must you always speak in riddles, Jamie, my boy? I sometimes wonder at my decision to send you off to Oxford.”
“What I do know,” said Sir Walter, taking Miss Stevenson’s hand in his own, allowing her smooth skin to soothe his nerves, “is this: my beloved wishes to marry today, as do I—most assiduously. Your friend is a vicar; we have need of his services. I say we send for him, and when we do, I am sure he will do his duty.”
Jamie Stevenson sighed. “Yes, that is true enough. Grant will never shirk his duty. Very well, I will fetch him.”
An hour passed before they returned—an hour that would have been dreadful for Sir Walter if he had allowed his mind to ruminate on those ridiculous thoughts about innocence and blindness. Instead, he walked Miss Stevenson about the churchyard, describing the many rooms of Kellynch—the color of various pieces of furniture, the number of chimneys, the great size of the drawing and dining rooms (they could seat thirty-six guests without a bit of trouble). These words had a notable effect on Miss Stevenson—her complexion paled, and her blue eyes shone, making her appear as beautiful as she had ever been—and Sir Walter felt better with each detail he shared.
“Do you ever find yourself wondering,” she asked, interrupting his description of the family’
s best set of silver, “what it means to understand, truly understand, another person?”
“Understand?” he repeated after a pause.
“Yes, to comprehend their true selves, to see beyond the surface of things and…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I had no notion that Mr. Grant…that is, when you spoke of it days ago, I thought you were merely being gallant, and perhaps a little jealous, but to hear my brother…”
Never before had Sir Walter experienced the sensation that then came over him: the sense of time standing still, that separation between what he saw (clouds inching past the sun, a chicken racing across the yard, dust rising from the nearby road as a carriage approached) and what he sensed (nothing, absolutely nothing). It was not merely the possibility of being jilted, with all the embarrassment and inconvenience attending such an event, that stilled his heart. No, it was a true sense of loss, a gaping hole inside him, for somewhere deep down, beyond the golden curls and sparkling eyes, beneath the fine clothes and fair skin, there lurked in Sir Walter Elliot the disembodied belief that Elizabeth Stevenson might actually be good for him.
“…and I can only hope,” she was saying, her voice as indistinct and insistent as an insect buzzing at his ear, “that he is not terribly disappointed or hurt by my choice, for I assure you, I had no notion, absolutely no notion, of his tender regard!”
He blinked, her face coming into focus only as the last of her words reached him. She was not going to jilt him! And then, though it was not right or proper, and though it would almost certainly increase the likelihood of lines, he smiled so widely that he could feel that smooth skin of his cheeks stretch and ache in protest.
His appearance must have been arresting, for she immediately ceased her crying. “You…you find this amusing?”
“I find you adorable,” he replied, laughing and taking her hands in his. The relief on seeing how things really stood—that she did not care for the vicar (how could she!) except perhaps by pitying him more than he deserved—brought him back to himself completely.
“You worry about the most unaccountable things, my dear. Mr. Grant could never have expected someone like you to return his feelings, so you must not worry on his account.”
She looked away. “And yet…does not my blunder suggest we know very little about the people we claim to love, Sir Walter?”
“Ah, you worry that I do not know you,” he said, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Shall I tell you what I see, my lady—for my lady, you soon shall be? I see a delicate flower, so fresh, so tender, so—” innocent, he almost added, but knew better than to go back into that mode of thinking—“lovely. You will adorn Kellynch Hall with your grace and beauty, my dear.”
“That is not precisely what I meant,” she said, still keeping her gaze firmly on some point behind him. “What if you are not…”
When she did not continue, when she instead raised her shining eyes to his, when he saw the fear in her expression (so very similar to his own unwarranted fears), he understood.
“What if I am not pleased with you?” he asked gently. “My dear, how could I not be?”
She closed her eyes then, and he smiled at this obvious show of relief.
“Ah! I see the vicar and your brother.”
At these words, her eyes flew open and the color flooded back into her cheeks.
“Let us go into the church and be transformed. We shall enter as Sir Walter Elliot and Miss Stevenson and emerge as Sir Walter Elliot and his wife.”
When she did not move, he tugged gently on her hand. When still she remained rooted to the ground, he added, “Lady Elliot. It has a nice ring to it, does it not?”
“Lady Elliot,” she said, her voice catching on the name. Then, with an odd, breathy laugh, she added, “I suppose you think it will look well on a calling card, too.”
He smiled. “Indeed it will! I remember my own feelings on first seeing Sir Walter Elliot on a card.”
She looked at him then, her smile unaccountably sad and gentle, as if he had just expressed some deep hurt rather than a pleasant memory. Putting her arm through his, she patted his hand. “Dear Sir Walter.”
That she kept her eyes averted from the ugly vicar throughout the service, he found quite sensible. That she spoke her vows in a mere whisper, he understood quite well. The tremble in her hand as she last signed her name “Stevenson” he did not wonder at, nor did he question the tears that sprang to her eyes when she bid adieu to all her family and friends, as well as Mr. Grant, at South Park.
It was only when he gave her his wedding gift on the carriage ride to Kellynch that he felt a return of that inexplicable fear which had taken hold before the wedding. He watched her unwrap the gift—“Oh, a book, Walter! I shall always treasure”—and saw the way her face drooped in disappointment as her fingers traced the embossed title.
“The…the Baronetage?” she asked faintly.
“Your very own copy, my dear.”
Nothing he said—not his explanation of how they would add her name to its pages first by hand, and then, when a new copy was issued, in print; not his careful delineation of the Elliot family’s age and respectability; not even his whispered promise to help her add a new Sir Walter to those hallowed pages—seemed to have much of an effect on her. She sat, for the remainder of the ride, stock still and silent.
It was the shock of all that had happened, he supposed, and the natural fear of what was to come. It was that inexperience he had found so daunting earlier in the day, the inexperience he now found rather endearing. For it was clear to him now, the truth of the matter: his dear Lady Elliot had no idea what lay before her; she felt blind and uncertain. Well, it would be his pleasure and his duty as her husband to open her eyes, to make her see just what kind of man she had married.
Elizabeth, born June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, Nov. 5, 1789… —Persuasion, Chapter I.
KELLYNCH, MARCH 1790
Sir Henry Russell had only three things to recommend him, in Sir Walter’s estimable opinion: first, that he had purchased and improved Kellynch Lodge (an abode that had, in earlier times, been part of the Kellynch estate but, for various unhappy reasons, had been sold off), thereby bringing some honor to the Kellynch name; second, that he had sold Sir Walter a fine pair of pistols that, though rarely used (hunting being far too ugly a business for the likes of Sir Walter Elliot), looked very well in the glass case in the entrance hall; and third, he possessed a wife who united good sense, a healthy respect for rank, and an appearance that was, if not appealing, then at least inoffensive.
It was not for himself that Sir Walter admired Lady Russell, but for the sake of his own wife, who, it turned out, required something more than a handsome baronet to buoy her spirits. Six years had not brought complete happiness to the Elliots of Kellynch Hall. Though Sir Walter had found all his hopes fulfilled on the night of his wedding (the skin under her clothes being quite as smooth and firm as he had long imagined it to be), he discovered that marriage required a good deal more of him than exploring the gentle terrain of her body.
Of course, he had always known he would have responsibilities: introducing her to the first families of the neighborhood; teaching her the proper forms of address for those noble families with whom he corresponded, such as the Viscount and Viscountess Dalrymple; and making sure she managed her household duties with all the pride expected of a baronet’s wife.
Lady Elliot had proven herself quite adept at the first and second of these responsibilities, but Sir Walter found her lacking on the third point. Oh, it was not that she shirked her duties; indeed, he rather thought she expended too much energy on certain matters, such as the wages of the servants and the balancing of household accounts. With the former, she was in his opinion far too generous, with the latter, far too strict. That he should be asked to moderate his purchase of clothing so that the scullery maid who did his laundry might have a longer day off had caused no little discord between Sir Walter and his wife.
“You do not know what is due a baronet!” he had exclaimed during one of these arguments.
“Perhaps you do not know what is due a scullery maid,” had been her response, one so ridiculous that he had felt himself gape (a most appalling look for any man, even one with good teeth). Still, he had forgiven her, for she had been with child at the time; no doubt she had been experiencing nerves. Besides, she had eventually acquiesced, giving the scullery maid only an extra hour and speaking no more to him of his clothing, except in suggesting quite timidly one night (when they were in the process of removing said clothing) that she had heard Sir Henry Russell boasting of his tailor in Bath who also dressed several lords in residence there. That this tailor was also less expensive was hardly worth mentioning.
Perhaps most worrisome for Sir Walter was his wife’s unhealthy interest in the lesser sorts of people who lived in the surrounding neighborhoods. Though she had almost completely given up the serious reading that had caused him some alarm before their marriage, she seemed to have shifted her energies toward philanthropy. While some small acts of charity were expected of Lady Elliot, she did much more than take baskets to those tenants and servants too ill to make much use of them.
Sir Walter had at first suspected Lady Russell to be the inspiration of his wife’s zeal in this realm; Lady Russell had, after all, been known to suggest various works of philosophy to Lady Elliot, and one never knew when these intellectual types might begin to believe the mad ideas they so enjoyed discussing.
But it seemed she was not, after all, the culprit. Indeed, it was Lady Russel (dear woman) who had made him aware of the severity of the situation.
“I must admit to some surprise,” he said as they sat down together in the Kellynch drawing room, “at your request for an interview, Lady Russell. You must have been told that Lady Elliot is out.”
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