by Maria Grace
No one wanted the company of a bitter old-maid.
No, she was not an old-maid, not yet. But a girl headed for the shelf could not entertain even the hint of bitterness, lest it seal her fate.
“Do you prefer to return to the house?” He stopped and gazed upon her quite intently; at least it was intently for him. Nothing like the intense gazes Wentworth had offered her …
“No, not at all. Why do you ask?”
“You have a most peculiar expression right now, rather as though you are a bit uncomfortable or discomposed.”
“Forgive me. Being in my mother’s garden sometimes makes me think of her and of the past which, at times, can lead to a touch of melancholy.” Though not complete, the answer was true enough for the moment.
He nodded and resumed a slow walk. “I understand. My mother is apt to a similar sensation when she considers my brother, Dick. I am afraid it seems that school has not settled well with him.”
“The new establishment your father chose for him has not worked out?”
“Father is reluctant to say as much. Dick’s notes say very little and are few and far between, as they say. But the headmaster dispatched a letter recently and, judging by Father’s mood after reading it, I cannot imagine that the news was good.”
“I am sorry to hear that. I understood that your sisters enjoy being away at school very much and were even looking forward to the next term. I look upon my years at school with such fondness; it is difficult to conceive of someone who would not.”
“True enough, but I understand that a girls’ school is a far more genteel sort of establishment than a boys’. The rigors of Greek and Latin, you know, can be very taxing.”
What he meant to say was that his brother did not appear to have the capacity to learn such elevated subjects, but Charles was far too gracious to say so directly. It spoke very well of him that he should be so kind toward one who was well known to be wanting in most accomplishments and, if truth be told, in his character as well.
“Did you see that?” He shaded his eyes as he peered off into a clump of fragrant hawthorn bushes that marked the border of Lady Russell’s gardens at Kellynch Cottage.
“What did you see?”
He rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “It must have been nothing, but for a moment I thought I saw a very large, brightly-colored bird.”
“There are some bright wrens that frequent the garden.”
“This was far larger than any wren, larger than a swan even. No matter, I am sure my eyes were just playing tricks on me. With all the blossoms around us, I am certain it was simply a clump of flowers swaying in the wind.”
“You must be correct.” She stooped to smell a cluster of purple bee balm—spicy, oregano with hints of mint and thyme—braving the buzzing bees surrounding it. “I am sorry to hear your mother is downhearted on his behalf, though.”
“To be honest, I do not expect it to improve. Papa has been talking of sending him into the navy.”
Who knew a lump so large could rise so quickly in one’s throat? “The navy?”
“What else is to be done with him? He must have some sort of profession. If he cannot learn classical languages, then he will not make it through university. So, he can be neither a vicar nor a barrister.” His voice turned cynical. “I suppose Father could try to purchase him a commission and send him into the regulars.”
Anne winced.
“Clearly you understand how bad an idea that is.”
“I do not mean to speak ill of your brother, but yes, I can understand your father’s reluctance.”
“So, then what else is to be done with him? Father cannot, will not, support him all of his life, especially in the life of some sort of a dandy who is good for nothing and no one.” His heavy boots fell, hard and regular, along the gravel.
But not nearly as harsh as his father’s judgments would fall. The senior Mr. Musgrove had some very definite opinions of foppish young men who strutted like peacocks and spent money not their own. One of the few very strong opinions he held. No son of his would ever resemble “one of those.”
“So, then I expect, he is for the navy.” Charles clasped his hands behind his back, his head slightly bowed.
Anne swallowed hard. She had to say something, but her voice faltered. “I thought that life could be quite harsh. Surely harsher than school could be.”
“Yes, yes, it is. But it is the making of many young men. Father hopes it will be the making of Dick.”
If it was not his undoing first. But that was impolitic to say.
“I think Mother is very glad that the decision is not hers to make. She is happy to leave the raising of her sons to Father. Selecting a school for my sisters was taxing enough for her.”
Anne chuckled. Mrs. Musgrove disliked decisions only slightly less than Father disliked inferior company.
“My father has been turning more and more of the business of the estate over to me.” Charles kicked at a clod of dirt into a clump of bee balm. Bees scattered away from the swaying stalks.
He seemed to be hoping she would say something? But what was he looking for? “How do you find the activity?”
His posture straightened, and his voice turned lighter. “Actually, quite invigorating. I did not expect it to be so, but in truth, I like it very well.”
“Then I am happy for you. It is fortunate to be able to sample one’s destiny and find it agreeable.”
He turned to her and looked straight into her eyes, something he almost never did. “You say the most curious things, Miss Elliot.” The corners of his lips turned up. Was he amused with her or was he laughing at her? The distinction was small but significant. “Has anyone told you that before?”
“No not at all.” But then again, no one listened to her in the first place, so why would they?
He shrugged and trundled on. “I have been giving a great deal of thought to the future recently.”
“And what have you concluded?”
“That it is time for you to change your name.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I need a wife.”
Anne stopped so suddenly she nearly tripped. “A wife?”
He caught her elbow and steadied her for a brief moment. “Indeed, a wife. It is the done thing, you know. A man cannot have a household without one. Well I suppose he could, with a sister or housekeeper or some such, but it is hardly the same and hardly what I have envisioned for myself.”
“I see.”
“Do you?”
She edged back a mite.
He took a half step closer. “Perhaps you do not, Miss Anne. I would very much like you to be my wife.”
“Oh.” Her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped before she could properly school her expression. Was that how he thought one made an offer of marriage? Wentworth had—
“Oh? I am not sure what sort of an answer that is.”
“I … you must forgive me, but your question has taken me completely by surprise.” By its complete lack of feeling and finesse.
“Has it? I was certain you would have been anticipating it by now.” His eyebrows rose high enough to hide under the brim of his hat.
She pressed a hand to her chest to quell the rising breathlessness. “I am afraid I am quite unprepared.” At least that much was true.
“I see. Does this mean you do not have an answer for me?”
“Pray forgive me, but I believe I must have some little time to consider.” It was the proper thing to do, to give a question proper consideration before making an answer, was it not? Certainly, that would soften the blow when she—
Yes, consider it.
“That seems reasonable enough.” He nodded as though trying to convince himself. “You know my home and what I am heir to. You know my family, so I suppose there is little you have further need to discover. So then, it should not take you very long.”
“Indeed, I cannot think of anything more I need to know. I just need time to think.”
Why was her heart pounding so hard?
Yes, think, take time to think.
“Shall I leave you to do so then? Perhaps call on you in a few days to receive your answer?” He cocked his head with a look of vague expectation.
“Yes, I think that would do.” She pressed her pounding temples. The burgeoning headache threatened to be a spectacular one.
“Very well then. I shall see you on Friday.” He tipped his hat and sauntered away.
How odd that he should not have even offered to walk her back to the house. Wentworth had done as much when he had taken her by surprise with his—dare she describe it—utterly romantic offer. The eloquence and the feelings he professed—so far beyond what staid Charles was ever likely to experience or admit to.
She watched him until he disappeared among the blossoms and bushes. Charles Musgrove had just made her an offer of marriage.
An offer of marriage.
Tall flowers leaned toward her as though they wished to offer advice. She brushed them aside. No, she would not be persuaded this time. She would consult only her own heart and mind and make the decision for herself alone.
She pressed her temples hard and turned back toward the house. Perhaps she would lie down. That might ease the thundering in her skull.
A very large, colorful bird launched from the bushes nearby, cawing as it went. What kind of a fancy fowl was that? What was it doing out in the garden? Was that the bird Charles thought he had seen? Maybe, when she felt a little less horrid, she would talk with the gamekeeper; he might know something.
An hour or so in bed and her headache had subsided, but that hardly meant she felt well. How could one possibly feel well when wrestling with such a question?
Anne took special care in dressing for dinner. She donned a rose-colored sprigged lawn gown. Elizabeth has discarded it after several seasons as no longer fashionable enough. The cut and the shade suited Anne well, though, and a set of fresh ribbons and new puffed sleeves made it quite her own. Most importantly, Elizabeth seemed to find it a compliment that Anne wore it—or maybe she thought something entirely different, but it did lift her mood to see Anne in it. Anything to make dinnertime conversation easier was to be sought after, especially tonight when there were so many things of which she could not speak.
Dinner was served at a fashionable hour: an hour after sundown just as it always was. What matter that they were in the country? Keeping fashionable hours ensured a baronet would be seen to be living like a baronet. It also required an excessive use of candles—wax, not allow of course—and many platters of food prepared for just the four of them. No matter that most of it would go toward lining Cook’s pocket when she sold the leavings from the kitchen door.
Such a waste. Not the sort of thing that happened when Mama was alive. Then there was moderation and economy at Kellynch.
The hair on the back of Anne’s neck rose. The last time she had suggested that a little economy would hardly be felt, Father carried on as though she had asked him to go begging in the street. The question of who was seeing their private dinners and how anyone would know they were living as a proper baronet’s family did never received an answer.
It was not a conversation worth repeating. Ever.
Anne peeked into the drawing room—empty. How kind of Father and Elizabeth to decide not to wait for her in the sitting room as polite company did. Dare one suggest that it might be what a proper baronet’s family would do? No, one did not dare say it, but she might think it rather loudly.
She set out for the small dining room, slippers whispering along the long marble corridor, and slipped into her seat at the oblong dining table as silverware clinked on dinner china. Her stomach pinched uneasily at the smells of the different platters vying with one another for attention. Broiled trout and stewed apples really did not belong side-by-side at the table.
At least Father had agreed to use the small dining room. Yes, it left them with eight empty places, but that was better than twenty empty chairs in the large dining room. A silver candelabra glittered at each of the table’s corners with two large matching candlesticks in the middle of the table. There was nearly enough light to sew by! Flickering light glittered off the mirrors hanging over the mahogany sideboards against the long walls. Dancing shadows cast by empty chairs cavorted amongst the many serving dishes on the table. Were those empty chairs filled by ghosts of departed generations of Elliots?
“How good of you to finally join us Anne. I was beginning to think we would be eating without you.” Mary, sitting across the table from Anne, tucked her napkin in her lap. Her complexion turned ruddy in the candlelight. That, with her rounded shoulders and tendency to carry herself as rather short and dumpy though not particularly heavy—almost as though to set herself apart from Elizabeth’s elegant columnar figure—almost invariably drew a sour remark from Father. Not surprisingly, dinnertime generally saw her ill-tempered.
“There is no need to be rude. I am sure Anne had her reasons.” Elizabeth, presiding at the head of the table, tipped her head toward Anne, but her green eyes were still narrow and sharp, rather like her shoulders and elbows. Just a mite too sharp to be willowy and elegant. Her leaf-green silk dinner gown matched her eyes.
“Pray do forgive me. I have had a frightful headache,” Anne muttered to her plate—white with a wide red border, a script initial “E” in a lozenge at the top, and a gilt band around the edge. Not that anyone would particularly care why she had been late. Was that a good thing or not?
Likely, it was a good thing. As pleasing as it might be to be taken notice of, the only conversation she wanted to have was definitely not something to share in this company. Or perhaps any. Was there anyone she could discuss such a thing with?
“You are not the only one who has had a headache,” Mary muttered as she tore a bit from her roll.
Father stood to carve the joint, tall and straight in his finely tailored black suit. His hair was arranged in the latest style, something with Caesar in the name, if she recalled correctly. He would be appalled to know she had forgotten the name.
He really was a well-looking man, certainly well enough looking to have found a new wife by now. Especially considering his title and lands. That he had not spoke volumes; volumes that Anne would not—should not—ponder on.
Servants took the carved mutton to the ladies’ plates. They would not have had so far to go had Father permitted them to all sit at one end of the table. But no, he would not give up his honored position at the foot nor insist that Elizabeth relinquish hers.
Nor would he renounce the need for conversation, so they all had to speak loudly—impolitely one might argue—in order to be heard. Was it possible that Father was becoming hard of hearing? No, she would not broach that possibility, definitely not.
Anne forced a pleasant expression on her face. Good thing that no one would be looking closely enough to see through her thin disguise. It was for the best that she was rarely required to actually speak.
“Have you given more thought to a Season in London, Father?” Elizabeth cut a tiny bite from her meat.
“I have, I have, but I am not sure it is the correct move to make just now.” Father took a large sip of wine.
Elizabeth’s face knotted, but she drew a deep breath. Thank heavens she had long since given up petulant tantrums in favor of more ladylike behavior. “Remember, Lady Russell suggested that it would be most advantageous. She assures me that we would be welcomed into the most appropriate circles. Circles in which there are many suitable young men.”
Men with titles and connections, looking for women with connections and fortunes.
“There is that, to be sure. But the issue of who would make introductions remains unsettled and of grave concern.” Why did it sound like a threat to the empire when Father said it?
“I have hardly been able to lift my head all day, and none of you has asked after me.” Mary pushed mutton around her plate, shoulders slumped. Father must be pondering very hard inde
ed not to reprimand her for her posture.
Anne forced herself not to roll her eyes. “I had no idea you were feeling poorly—”
“Do we not know several families who are residing in London during the Season?” Elizabeth turned her face away from Mary’s side of the table.
“We do, but none who are as distinguished as our cousins, the Dalrymples. They do not intend to be in London this Season. We should not risk bad connections, you know. It would be a sad thing for any of you girls to expose the Elliot name to low connections, especially you, my dear.”
Elizabeth blushed prettily. “Do you know what keeps them from London?”
“Perhaps their daughter is ill, as surely I am. I am certain I should see a surgeon or at least the apothecary.”
“I am certain one of Mama’s teas will set you to rights.” Anne leaned toward Mary. “Tell me more of what is troubling you. I am certain I can make you something to help.”
“I am not entirely certain, though I thought I heard something about his gout. Nasty disagreeable stuff that is.” Father cut a large piece of meat and chewed thoughtfully.
“That would probably limit the socializing they could do even if they were to visit town for the Season.”
“I do not want any of your teas.” Mary hissed over her plate, turning her shoulder to Anne.
“Then what do you want?”
“Besides, I think there may be another way for you to meet a suitable young man.” Father smiled, a little smug and self-satisfied. “In fact, we are expecting a visit from such a person later this summer.”
“A visit? Who is coming?” Elizabeth’s features brightened.
“If we have a visitor, I shall need my dresses mended. That is what I hoped to do today and could not because of my headache.”
Anne’s stomach knotted. How soon would she have to start preparing the house for a guest?
“Mr. William Elliot, heir presumptive to Kellynch, is coming to see us at the beginning of September.”
“That is not very much time. I will need to have a new dress made.” Elizabeth plucked at her sleeves. Had she forgotten that particular gown was less than six months old?