by Maria Grace
“I do not suppose I am to have a new gown, though it would be very nice. Mine should at least be mended. Anne, you will help me, will you not?” Mary’s tone made it clear—it was not a question.
“Of course, you shall have a new gown, probably two, just to be certain. We must make the most of the opportunity,” Father said.
Elizabeth beamed and nodded. It must be pleasant to receive more than one asked for.
“Anne? Are you listening? You will help me with my gowns, yes?”
Something snapped, like a corset lace breaking, and everything seemed to come loose and unraveled. Anne set down her fork and knife and stared at Mary. “No, I will not.”
“What do you mean you will not?”
Anne winced. Usually, she would have agreed, merely to make Mary happy and stop her from complaining. But not today. How could she comfort Mary and still keep inside all those things she could not possibly speak aloud?
“What do you mean you will not help me?” Mary’s voice became a whine, an invisible hand reaching out to strangle her.
Anne clutched edge of her seat and fought for breath.
“Anne … Anne, are you listening to me?” Mary rapped the table.
Anne stood. “Pray excuse me.”
“This is most unusual.” Father cleared his throat.
Elizabeth glowered at Anne. “It would be pleasing to have a fourth for dinner.”
“Perhaps tomorrow. Pray excuse me.” Anne curtsied and hurried upstairs to her chambers.
Mary would be quite put out; she would probably keep to her bed all the next day and blame it on Anne. Tonight, it would be Mary’s problem, not hers.
She would likely feel guilty for it, but that would wait for morning. Tonight, she needed—and would have—quiet and solitude.
Chapter 3
She closed her door behind her and turned the key. No, not even servants were welcome tonight. Unlike her sisters, she was perfectly capable of attending the fire, turning down her bedclothes and undressing without a maid. Father would call it a foolish sentiment, but it was hers. For the moment, she would embrace it with all that she had as proof she was capable of making a decision and holding to it, unpopular though it might be.
Perhaps it was stupid, but she would draw strength where she could. She had to make a decision, and she had to do it quickly—before the weight of it suffocated her.
Why had she bothered to go downstairs for dinner at all? It was not as though she had expected sympathy or any sort of advice. Habit, force of habit, that was the only reason and clearly not a good one.
She pressed her back to the paneled door and slowly slid to the polished wood floor. How odd the room looked from this vantage point. Two stubby candles in pewter candlestick on either end of the mantel lit the room with just enough light, but no more. Shadows danced on the wall behind the four-poster bed, reaching the chest of drawers on the near wall and the small round table and overstuffed burgundy armchair near the window opposite her. If only the shadows had answers to offer. The faint scent of beeswax and old flowers hung in the air. The soft green walls yellowed in the candlelight making her room feel tired and aged.
Drawing her knees to her chest she hid her face in her hands. Her chest tightened until she could hardly breathe, her eyes burning. Tears should have followed. It would have been a relief if they had, but no, they too, were a comfort to be denied her.
She was alone.
It had been that way so long now, it felt normal, even right most of the time. Since Elizabeth had taken over the household, Anne eschewed seeking out the mistress of the house for anything resembling comfort or wisdom. Elizabeth had none to give. There was no point in becoming upset about that; one could not squeeze blood from a stone.
Self-sufficiency proved hard at times and lonely almost always. Doubly so right now.
There had been only one to whom she could have turned who would have understood and been able to help her make sense of the churning confusion. The one who tried to stand in that stead now, Lady Russell, would certainly have been willing to try… no that was not going to happen.
Not again.
She did not resent—or at least she thought she did not resent—Lady Russell for her advice two—now it was nearly three—years ago. No! What point was there in rehashing it yet again?
Wentworth’s career and future—he had no fortune and no sure promise of one. The casualty rate of naval men was hardly a secret. Once she left her father’s house, there was no certainty that Father would have her back, much less any children who might come with her, should something befall her husband. Not that Lady Russell had said as much directly, but she did hint at it rather strongly, and sadly, it was a just point.
Yet, looking back on it now, just a few years later, different conclusions seemed more appropriate: little in life was certain, and while fortune and security were good things, perhaps, just perhaps, those were not the only ones to be considered. There was a great deal to be said for warm affections and attachments that were sure.
A very great deal.
Without a doubt, Lady Russell would not have agreed, and she would have found a thousand reasons to support her point. So, that conversation, like so many others, would never happen.
Anne lifted her head and bounced it off the door with a dull thud. It hurt, but in a sort of clarifying way—did that even make sense or was she finally going daft?
She pushed up from the floor and forced her feet into motion. Eight steps across the room took her to the upholstered chair near the window whose rose-and-vine printed curtains were now drawn against the evening chill. She curled up in the chair, arms around her legs, rested her chin on her knees, and watched the dancing shadows.
Lady Russell and her opinions were not her concern right now. Charles Musgrove was.
What was one to do with one Charles Musgrove?
Oh, Charles.
He was an excellent young man to be sure. Steady, kind, of unquestionable character. And his family—such delights! His mother and sisters all excellent company and so welcoming of her—more so than her own were. It was tempting to accept him just on the basis of his relations who seemed to relish her company. What a change that would be to Kellynch.
The corner of her lips lifted. To enjoy the companionship of a mother again, her advice, her tutelage, her doting. Her throat grew too tight for breath. What would Mama think of that?
One did not marry a man for such reasons.
No, perhaps some did, but it hardly seemed like a good idea.
There was Elizabeth to consider. She would not be pleased. Though she had no designs on Charles herself, to be sure, the Musgrove family was not nearly high enough for her liking. She might consider it a very hard thing to have such low connections thrust upon her.
Moreover, the eldest daughter should marry first. That was how it was done and how it would be done in a proper family like the Elliots. Then again, Elizabeth had not “taken” despite being out several years. Did that not give her sisters, now out themselves, the right to marry if an offer came to them? That, too, was how it was done in proper families.
The hair on the back of Anne’s neck stood on end. Oh, Elizabeth would not like to hear that.
Even with Elizabeth’s censure, Father would not disapprove. Uppercross, the Musgrove family lands, were not as extensive as Kellynch, but they were a close second in the county. The Musgroves were by no means poor. The family did not have a title, but only Elizabeth had any right to expect to marry into such rarified company. Surely Father would not care if her own husband was a Mister or a Sir. He would probably be pleased just to have her safely married off and entered into the Baronetage, and not to be thought of after that.
Was that thought harsh or merely realistic?
In truth, there was no valid reason to refuse. Charles was companionable enough; they could expect to live in harmony and warmth. It was more than many young women in her circumstance could anticipate.
She la
ced her hands behind her head and huddled into herself.
It should be enough. It should be and for more reasons than the assets of his home, his family and his fortune. Charles was a good sort of man. A kind man, a regular sort of dependable man.
A dull man with common interests and pursuits. He had little curiosity, no sense of adventure, no desire for more than what he already knew and had. He was boring.
Very boring.
But his fortune and his future were secure and she would remain near to her family home.
Those were the very that Wentworth did not have in his favor when he had made her an offer of marriage … and ruined her for any other.
She stood and paced the room. Once around, twice, thrice. That was it—this was not about Charles at all. It was about Wentworth!
Heavens above it should not be.
But it was.
Something like cool water—perhaps relief or was it clarity?—spread from the top of her head, slowly toward her feet.
Of course, the answer was so obvious and clear.
Charles was not enough, not nearly enough. He had not Wentworth’s wit, his charm, his intelligence, his active mind and interests.
Charles Musgrove was not a stupid man, but he was staid and predictable … and dull. In his presence, she was secure in knowing, at least most of the time, precisely what he would say and do. And she hated it.
Wentworth never bowed to such predictability, but yet, she always felt safe; his character would never permit harm to come to her. While Charles was hardly a danger to her, he had not Wentworth’s protective nature.
And after years in Father’s house, to know she might be protected and—dare she say it—cherished—yes! That was what she desired above all else. But it was something Charles would—could—never do. Was it worth settling for that to merely escape Father’s household?
Her heart hammered so hard she could barely hear her own thoughts. But there it was, the whisper she had refused to acknowledge for so long. Wentworth had loved her. He loved her.
Love, a silly, frivolous emotion that had little place in the business of marriage.
Charles did not. Charles liked her, esteemed her. Found her comfortable and easy—what was it Lady Russell had called her? Pretty enough, well-connected and convenient? No, Charles had not said that, but it certainly sounded like something he would say.
Still, he did not love her. He might grow to love her, but then again, he might not.
She had been loved once and turned aside from it. Settling for less than that now was simply and utterly impossible. What more was there to say?
As good and kind as Charles was, she would have to disappoint him.
It would be a difficult conversation. But not more awful—and far more correct—than telling Wentworth the same thing.
And she would not mention it to Lady Russell until all was said and done.
The following morning, Anne rose early and donned a comfortable roller-printed morning gown, a dark green and puce striped affair. Elizabeth had stripped it of its fancy trims—they now adorned one of her walking dresses—and passed it to Anne. Without all the fuss, it was much prettier and more wearable now, another sentiment probably best kept to herself.
She made her way to the sunny morning room, Mama’s commonplace book tucked under her arm. A maid bustled in with the tall white-and-rose-vine patterned chocolate pot—it was not the sort of morning for tea—and whisked it hard with the chocolate mill, raising a lovely froth. Anne set a chocolate cup in its railed saucer, and the maid filled it, fragrant, spicy vapors rising from the froth. Lovely notes of nutmeg and a hint of chili.
Balancing the lid on the cup, she carefully made her way to the chair nearest the windows. There she would enjoy the quiet room, the warmth of the morning sun and pretending to read Mama’s commonplace book over her morning chocolate. Acting as though everything were normal might just tide her through until everything became normal again.
Sky-blue paper hangings with fluffy white clouds and odd-looking small birds decorated the wall, interrupted in places by Mama’s watercolor landscapes—and Elizabeth’s which stood out in unfavorable comparison. None of the five empty places around the small round morning table would likely be filled before she left. Still too early for the rest of the family. A mite lonely with only the company of the rather plain dark oak table, chairs and sideboards, but Mama had decorated this room to her simple and cozy tastes. In her lingering presence, any real loneliness faded away.
What would Mama say to her current dilemma? Doubtless, she would agree that Anne should not delay delivering her news to Charles. But he did not intend to revisit Kellynch until Friday, and calling upon him at Uppercross was hardly proper.
How was she to tolerate the weight of her answer that long? Was there not some way to make that meeting happen sooner?
“Miss Anne?” Mrs. Trent, the housekeeper, curtsied at the doorway. “Lady Russell just arrived for you.”
“Lady Russell?” It was awfully early for her to call. Their acquaintance was such that it was not improper, but still, she was hardly apt to visit before noon. Something was not right. “I will see her in the parlor. Prepare a cup of chocolate for her. You know the way she prefers it.” Anne tucked her book under one arm and picked up her chocolate in the other hand. The cup rattled against the saucer rails, clinking in time with Anne’s pounding heart.
She arrived in the parlor just ahead of Lady Russell and opened the double doors to the light and airy, pale yellow room, her slippers padding softly along the sand-colored tile. A wall of tall windows looked out over Mama’s favorite garden. All the furniture—pale oak, upholstered in tones of gold and orange—had been arranged to encourage one to look out over the bevy of blossoms, making it feel like an extension of the garden itself. Floral paintings and vases and bowls of fresh, sweet flowers that perfumed the air only reinforced the sensation.
“I hope I have not caught you at a bad moment, my dear.” Lady Russell, clad in her trademark blue, strode in—such a long, unusual gait for a lady—and settled on her favorite rust colored chair, the plump overstuffed one nearest the window. Odd, how she always liked to sit near a window, particularly an open one, and the way she sat was rather reminiscent of a bird on a nest. It was probably not complimentary to think that.
“No, no, not at all.” Anne pulled a small lyre-back chair near Lady Russell.
“You look troubled. Is there something with which I might be able to help you?” Lady Russell cocked her head just so, the large feather on her hat bobbing against her forehead. Such an odd little habit she had, decidedly wren-like, especially when one considered how her dark eyes glittered in the sunlight.
“Not really. I have come to a decision, and I am quite content in it. There are just some situations for which no decision, even the right one, feels very good.” Anne sipped her chocolate—too much nutmeg and it could do with a touch more chili—and gazed at the colorful little birds diving and weaving amongst the garden blossoms—so bright and gay. Perhaps that answer would be enough.
“What sort of decision have you been wrestling with? It sounds like a very serious one.”
“Truly it is nothing. I have already satisfied myself. You need not be worried.”
Lady Russell leaned in close and touched Anne’s hand. “But I am worried, most concerned in fact. As your friend and your departed mother’s, it is my duty to try and help you in any way I can.”
“I know that. You have always been a very great support to me.” Though not one that had always been correct.
“Then allow me to support you now.”
“I have made my decision. There is no need to discuss it.” Anne set her chocolate cup firmly into its railed saucer that balanced on her lap.
“At the very least then, tell me what you have decided.” There was an odd tone in Lady Russell’s voice. Whispery and grating, like rubbing sand across one’s face.
Tell her! Tell her!
Anne
sighed. She would know soon enough, so what point in obfuscating? “I was made an offer of marriage.”
“Marriage? By whom?” Her eyes grew wide, feigning surprise. How kind of her.
“How many young men do I know?”
“Charles Musgrove, as I expected?” Lady Russell bit her lip. Why was she playing this game? “What was your decision?”
Anne nodded and shifted her gaze to the window, away from Lady Russell’s piercing eyes. “I do not expect to be changing my name anytime soon.”
“You will reject him?” Now she sounded genuinely shocked. Her knee knocked against the small table, rattling her chocolate cup.
“Indeed, I shall. I am quite content with my decision—”
“How can you be? Why on earth would you reject him?” There was that peculiar sound again, stabbing at her ears like a sharp quill.
You are making a mistake!
Anne pressed her palms to the side of her head. “I have weighed it all out very carefully. I am quite certain it is the right thing to do.”
“I am quite certain it is not.” Lady Russell huffed and sat up very straight, her chest puffing out just a bit, rather like Father’s when he was making a point.
“Pray excuse me. Whatever do you mean?” Anne gripped the sides of her chair.
“He is an excellent young man. His fortune is secure; his connections are good; his reputation first-rate. And you would be settled within such an easy distance of Kellynch. We might continue as we always have with one another. What more does a young man need to convince you?”
“I notice that you do not ask: what does a young woman need? I am not certain that his offer is enough.”
“Of course, it is.” Lady Russell bobbed her head as though that settled the matter.
“He is a good sort of man to be sure, but I do not think he is what I want.”
“How would you know what you want? He is an excellent match.”
Accept him.
Anne ducked her head and shook it sharply against the aching buzzing in her temples that grew sharper at Lady Russell’s every word. “He may be, but I hope for more than he can give me.”