by Meg Osborne
“Interesting people.” She nodded sagely. “Such as gentlemen who ruin books and then lead unsuspecting young women on circuitous routes to replace them?” Her tone was gently teasing, and Henry laughed out loud, surprised to realise that this shy, delicate creature in front of him was in possession of a sense of humour, and was not afraid to use it.
“Yes, people like that.” He ducked his head with affected chagrin. “And I see now you will forever hold the ruined book over me.” He glanced up as they drew within sight of the shop he had mentioned. “Ah, here we are. After you.”
Mr Briggs greeted him with a muttered “good morning”, more focused on consulting his ledgers than dealing with his customers, so that Henry and Amelia were free to browse the shelves unmolested. Henry glanced up and down the shelves, wondering where he might locate the desired title, his eyes discovering it before his companion’s. He turned to illuminate his find to Miss Barton, and query which of the two copies on the shelf she would prefer, but her attention was utterly absorbed in scanning the shelves.
“I see my collision with you will cost me dearly!” he said, with a grin. “Do not tell me, you have not found a direct replacement, but three others that would suit just as well...?”
Amelia blushed and shook off his comment.
“Here.” He held out both copies he had found. “Which do you prefer?”
She reached out a hand towards one, then, considering it to be more expensive, switched her allegiance to the other, cheaper book.
“This will be perfect, but you cannot mean to pay for it.” She reached into her reticule.
“I can and will. Mr Briggs!” Henry summoned the bookseller before she could locate her money, intent on putting the item on his account, the one luxury his aunt had permitted, suspecting, he felt, that free access to books might serve him better than money that might be frittered away on gambling or drink. I have to concede her rightness in this instance!
“Mr Crawford.” Mr Briggs glanced from Henry to his companion and back again. “And what might I do for you this fine day?”
“I wish to purchase this book for Miss Barton, here.”
“How generous,” the bookseller said, drily. “And how do you wish to pay for it? Or shall I put it on your account?”
This provoked a raised eyebrow from Amelia, and Henry felt a flair of guilt. He was treating her to the image of Henry Crawford, respectable gentleman. It might be what he wished to be, even more, what he wished her to see, but it was not entirely accurate. He opened his mouth, determined to be truthful and confess that she might want to rethink being seen as his companion, particularly as a new arrival in London.
“Mr Crawford, I wonder if you are familiar with Tom Jones yourself,” she asked, as they collected their purchase and made their way into the street once more.
“I confess I am not,” he said. “Indeed, I have been somewhat lax in my literary pursuits for the past...while.”
“I think you would find some value in it. The hero is not the sort of hero one typically reads about.” She smiled, wryly. “In fact, I ought to be grateful you are not familiar with it, I expect, for it has something of a reputation.” Her eyebrows had lifted again as she spoke, and Henry frowned in confusion. “It is not the sort of novel well-bred young ladies ought to choose to read,” she explained.
“And yet you choose to read it?”
“I am very much capable of separating the actions of a character on the page from the behaviours of an individual in society,” she replied, and he felt certain she had given this response to similar criticism before. “The reason I suggest its worth to you, Mr Crawford, is on account of Tom himself. He is a wayward fellow, and makes many mistakes.”
“And does he learn from them?” Henry had intended his words to be light-hearted, but instead they came out fervently and he began to wonder if he and his companion were indeed talking about the fictional misdeeds of the invented Tom Jones, or the very real activities of a certain Henry Crawford.
“That, I cannot say,” Amelia said, watching him carefully. “For I scarcely know him.”
Henry’s frown deepened, and he opened his mouth to query her response, when she tapped the book’s cover.
“I am but half-way through! But I think -” and here, she looked at him again and he felt certain, this time, that they had left literature far behind. “I think any man who seeks to repent can do so, with enough help. Now, Mr Crawford, I suppose I must invite you to accompany me as I call on my friend. Are you well acquainted with Miss Marianne Parker?”
“Well acquainted?” Henry laughed. “Why, she is my aunt. I was on my way back to her house myself at this very hour!”
“What a coincidence!” Amelia said, smiling in a way that suggested it was not quite coincidence at all. “She invited me at this precise time to join her for tea. I wonder what she will think when we arrive at her door together!”
They neared the house when Amelia turned to him.
“Now, Mr Crawford, I do not doubt you will be utterly bored by our conversation, so I wish to return your gift to you.” She passed him the book, holding it tight until he wrapped his fingers around the small cloth-bound volume. “I really think you must read it. It might afford us something to discuss when next we meet.”
The Rumour of an Engagement
Captain Frederick Wentworth looked around the busy, loud dining table at Uppercross and smiled. It has been a long time since he’d been welcomed at such a table. Longer still since he had felt the affection of family and friends all around him. And the food! He leaned over his plate and inhaled the scent of roast meats and vegetables. It was food he always associated with home, and that was his prevailing feeling as he regarded the conversations swelling around him. After a long time at sea, and many battles won, he was home.
His sister caught his eye and beamed at him from her seat opposite. Sophia Croft was still simply delighted to have her seafaring brother under her roof and had petitioned him not to leave for “quite some time yet”. She had missed him and wanted to make the most of him, now that they were able to enjoy the waning autumn days together.
“Of course, we all wished she might be persuaded to stay, but if waiting on Mary was to be my penance for remaining in Somerset...!”
One of the Musgrove sisters - Louisa, Frederick was sure that was her name - spoke almost under her breath, as if conveying a great secret to him. Frederick blanched. He never had cared for gossip and not being acquainted with half the people the young Miss Musgrove mentioned, he had found his mind wandering as she prattled on, oblivious to his lack of attention.
“Forgive me, Miss Louisa. Who is it you are speaking of? Who did you wish had remained in Somerset?”
“Why, Anne, of course!”
The delicious aroma of dinner suddenly turned stale in Frederick’s nostrils. The cheerful sounds of conversation faded to a vague murmur in the background.
Why, Anne, of course. He had known it would only be a matter of time before she was mentioned. What he had not known was the effect her name would have on him.
She was an Elliot, daughter of Sir Walter Elliot, who owned the very estate his sister and her husband presently called home. Kellynch Hall. When Sophia first wrote inviting him to stay with them there, he had thought she was joking. He had avoided joining them for as long as he could, only coming at last when he was reassured that every Elliot had quit Somerset for Bath. Anne’s sister, Mary, being a Musgrove now, was not included in this assessment. Frederick had been naive to think that Anne’s physical absence would also guarantee no mention of her among these people, her friends and neighbours.
“I did not realise your family and Sir Walter’s was so close,” Frederick remarked, when it became apparent that he had not said anything for a few moments, and was beginning to draw Louisa’s curiosity. “Of course, I realise that with Charles’ marriage to Mary, your families are inextricably linked,” he was babbling, finding any words he could to fill the silence. Any wo
rds that did not directly include the name of his former paramour.
“Oh, we are not close,” Louisa said, hurriedly. She rolled her eyes skyward, in an expression of weary long-suffering. “Anne is the only member of that family we have any time for whatsoever.” She lowered her voice to the tiniest whisper. “In fact, we all rather wish she had married Charles instead of Mary. How much pleasanter she would have been to have for a sister!”
This was a shock to Frederick.
“Had they planned on marrying? Charles and - and Anne, I mean.” There, he had mentioned her name and almost managed to remain impassive doing so. In fact, he was so eager to deduce the truth of Louisa’s words they cared little whether she recognised his agitation or not.
“No, not really,” Louisa admitted, with a sad sigh. “That is, Charles asked. He was half in love with her from the first day they met. And deservedly so, for she is so sweet and kind, so generous.” Louisa’s eyes shone with affection for her absent friend. “But Anne never had any real affection for him. She thought him a friend, only.”
“And was friendship not basis enough for marriage?”
Louisa snorted.
“I dare say it is! Or it might have been, if Charles were just a little wealthier. Lady Russell saw fit to separate them as soon as rumours of Charles’ proposal reached her ears. That was a very long winter, for Anne was spirited away north, and we saw neither hide nor hair of her for three months! Charles settled on Mary and met with little opposition, but I am sure his heart was thoroughly broken.”
Frederick took a great interest in his meal, organising his plate with considerable attention. So his suit had not been the only one Lady Russell despaired of! He did not know whether the notion pleased him or not.
Louisa was engaged in conversation with her sister, and, freed from her vice-like grip on his attention, Frederick began to listen to what other conversations were taking place around him.
“And so there is to be a wedding?” Sophia asked Mary Musgrove, with interest.
“Apparently so,” Mary said, with a superior sniff. “Of course, it will be a very grand affair, for it will unite two disparate branches of our family, and secure Kellynch as the Elliot seat for years to come.”
Frederick resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Sir Walter had found some way to make back his fortune, in that case.
“And it is a very good match,” Mary continued, evidently enjoying the opportunity to discuss a matter that she considered to be very important indeed.
“Well, I trust that your sister will be very happy,” Sophia remarked, lifting her eyes to Frederick’s, and seeing her escape from the conversation she clearly tired of. “Forgive us for boring you, Frederick!” she addressed him directly. “I dare say you have little enough interest in the modes and matters of female consideration. Mrs Musgrove has just been telling me the wonderful news. Her sister is to be married, and soon!”
DINNER AT CAMDEN PLACE was stilted affair. It ought not to have felt so very different from Kellynch, Anne supposed, for the same people were present, the same meals eaten, and the conversation the same dry combination of fashionable comments and unpleasant gossip. Even Mr Elliot’s presence did little to lighten the mood, although Anne credited him with being one of the most interesting gentlemen she had met during their time at Bath. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Mr Elliot was intelligent and interesting, and, having travelled far more than she, offered numerous tales of foreign places and peoples which captured her imagination. This evening, however, he too seemed stifled by the dining room.
“Surely there must be something of interest happening somewhere this week,” Elizabeth remarked, with a reproachful look towards her father. Sir Walter did not notice, intent on his meal.
“There is a concert, I believe,” Anne volunteered.
“A concert?”
How was it, Anne wondered, that Elizabeth could be so scornful of a matter about which she knew little?
“I thought you are of music?” Anne ventured, knowing she ought to remain silent, but feeling a mischievous delight in baiting her sister. She was tired of Elizabeth’s affected manners, which she seemed every day to grow more and more accustomed to displaying, particularly when they had Mr Elliot for company. It was a weary note in her voice, a heavy sigh that suggested even making such observations was utterly exhausting. This new Elizabeth was just as critical as she had been in Somerset, yet somehow, in Bath, Anne was even less able to bear it.
“I never said I was not fond of music,” Elizabeth said, with a sniff. “Merely that I wish for a little entertainment, a little society! Not to sit in a room in silence, surrounded by other people in silence, listening to some dreary performance that we all must remark on as being “really very good” when it is nothing of the sort.” She turned to Mr Elliot, intent on winning him to her side of the argument. “I’m sure you would agree, Mr Elliot!”
Mr Elliot startled at this address, glancing up as if he had quite forgotten they were there in the room with him.
“Forgive me, Miss Elizabeth! What did you say?”
“I was merely lamenting the lack of entertainment in Bath at present, Mr Elliot,” Elizabeth said, sweetly.
“I thought there was some concert or other scheduled soon?” Mr Elliot asked, unaware of the rage his simple observation had provoked in Elizabeth.
Anne congratulated herself for winning an invisible victory, although she did not remark upon it, focusing her intention entirely on the plate before her. Elizabeth had always been possessive of Mr Elliot, since their family had resumed their connection a little while previously. Although Anne was grateful for his friendship, she could not help but wonder at his sudden change of heart. He had come to Bath specifically to reunite with his family, he had said, and Elizabeth had been only too eager to forgive him for his past behaviour. Sir Walter, too, was happy to let bygones be bygones for the sake of the Elliot name. He was delighted with the announcement that Mr Elliot and Elizabeth would marry. Elizabeth, too, was delighted, feeling that her long years’ wait would be rewarded by this particularly propitious match. Anne was pleased to see her sister happy, although she could not help but wonder at the union. Mr Elliot was kind, intelligent, and affectionate. Her sister, although she loathed to admit it, and would never say as much aloud, was none of these things. Yet, Anne thought, who am I to pronounce myself an expert on matters of the heart? Anne had been in love only once and had rejected her chance at happiness. Her eyes lifted to the mantelpiece, where a letter from Mary sat, undisturbed. She had placed it there that morning, after reading its contents aloud, so that Sir Walter might read it again at his leisure, before formulating a reply. Anne did not doubt that the responsibility of writing would fall to her, and she was grateful that Sir Walter was in no hurry. Mary’s letter had not been long, but one sentence felt as if it were burned into Anne’s brain, plaguing her all day, whenever she found an idle moment. Mrs Croft’s brother joins us in Somerset, a Captain Wentworth, who has recently left the Navy. Mary had met Frederick but once when she wrote this, so she had little more to say on his person, which Anne both rejoiced in and despaired at in equal measure. To have the merest hint of information felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Was Frederick well? Did he acknowledge her? Did he remember her? And what of his plans for the future? All this and more rushed upon her when her eyes travelled across Mary’s hurriedly written note. The mention of Frederick by name had shocked Anne, although she knew that to be foolish. She had known the identity of the couple who took possession of Kellynch, after all. She had known Sophia Croft by reputation, although they had never met. Was it to be such a surprise that she might invite her brother to stay with them in the house that had so recently been inhabited by Anne herself?
“Anne!”
This address came directly from Mr Elliot, who regarded her with a warm, sympathetic smile.
She smiled at him, apologetically, and bid him repeat his words.
“It seems you and
I are equally afflicted with inattention this evening, Miss Anne,” he said.
“Yes, Anne. You must not be so rude as to ignore Mr Elliot when he directs a question to you,” Elizabeth said, with a shake of her head. “He has invited us to join him tomorrow in calling on Sir Stephen and Lady Lucas.”
“Tomorrow?” Anne shook her head, ever so slightly. “I can’t. I already have plans to call on a friend of mine, a Mrs Smith.”
Elizabeth’s eyes flashed warningly, but Anne did not feel the slightest hesitation in repeating her intention.
“Surely you can put off your friend for another day,” Elizabeth wailed.
This caught Sir Walter’s ear, and he joined in the conversation.
“Yes, Anne, Sir Stephen and Lady Lucas are very old connections of the Elliot family. It is quite impossible to conceive of your not going with us to call on them.”
“Then perhaps you might rearrange your plans,” Anne insisted. “And we might all go together another day.” She appealed to Mr Elliot, feeling certain that of the three, he was the only one who might possibly see her side.
Elizabeth opened her mouth as if to join in disapproval, but before she could utter a sound, Mr Elliot had spoken.
“I find it admirable, Miss Anne, your commitment to your friends. Of course we might go another day. My dear Elizabeth, perhaps you and I will take a walk around the circus tomorrow, instead.”
THE NEWS OF ANNE ELLIOT’S engagement had haunted Frederick Wentworth half the evening, until, with the first rays of sunlight, he rose, abandoning all attempts at sleep.
I am pleased for her, he thought, though he could not even successfully deceive himself with such a claim. I wish them well, he determined, conjuring an image of the invisible Mr Elliot. He scowled. I despise him. Therein lay the truth. He could not be happy to hear of Anne marrying any man who was not him - indeed he could not be happy to hear of Anne marrying at all. It is just as I have always known, he counselled himself. Man is far more constant in his affections and woman, and Anne Elliot is the worst of her sex. He turned to the window, squinting out at the sunrise and attempting to judge what the day’s weather would hold. I must do something today, have some activity or I shall run mad. He would take one of the Kellynch horses and go for a ride. Reach Lyme, perhaps, and visit Captain Harville, who had put into port there with his family. Harville had not known Anne and there would be no risk, therefore, of hearing her name on his friend’s lips.