Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “Oh, but I am afraid…that is, you know I will be in Bath, Elizabeth.”

  Bath! Dear, dear Lady Russell!

  “Do you know,” said Sir Walter to his wife, offering her his very best smile, “I, too, have long been considering a visit to Bath.”

  Her own smile faded. “Bath? Oh, but the expense…”

  “Bah, expense! You are always worrying about expenses, my dear. Would you not prefer to spend the next several months with your dearest friend?”

  “Oh, do come to Bath!” cried Lady Russell. “It will restore your spirits.”

  “I did not suppose my spirits were in any need of restoration.”

  “But you said you lacked purpose,” said Sir Walter. “In Bath, you will find proper stimulation.”

  Their gazes locked.

  “Ah.” The gentle smile returned. “I see.”

  Lady Russell, who had resumed glancing between them, did not see—but that suited Sir Walter just fine. She had served her purpose, that dear lady. She had helped him see just how to save his wife, once again, from the influence of that man. The hold he had over her—it was not something Sir Walter understood. He knew it was not intimate or improper; there was no scandal in the making. He never once doubted his wife’s judgement or conduct—only the strength of her affections.

  “And what,” said Lady Elliot, “of the children?”

  “They will go with us, of course,” said Sir Walter.

  “No, not our children, Walter.”

  “The gypsies?” He waved a hand. “Tell Grant he may have a sizable gift from Kellynch to supplement the donation from the Dalrymples.”

  “The Dalrymples!” Lady Russell raised her eyebrows so that her forehead became a jumble of wrinkled flesh. “I had no idea that Mr. Grant had found such noble patrons!”

  “Yes, it seems my wife has great influence with those who matter most.”

  This inspired a breathy laugh from Lady Elliot who said, “Not so much influence as I might have hoped. I am grateful, Sir Walter, that you have offered to aid Mr. Grant in his work.”

  He cringed (inwardly only) at the idea that he was aiding Mr. Grant in anything at all, yet said, “Of course, my dear. Tell me only what is required, and I shall see to it—after our visit to Bath.”

  She stared out the window for a long moment and then named a rather large sum. Before he could protest (at both the amount and the idea of discussing such things in company), she kissed him on the cheek, her lips cool against his skin.

  “You always said,” he told her, “I was a kind and generous man.”

  “Indeed.” She smiled and patted his hand. “You have not changed a whit.”

  * * *

  She had humored, or softened, or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called upon to quit them. —Persuasion, Chapter I.

  KELLYNCH, SEPTEMBER 1800

  Her breath was so weak, so raspy that he had to put his ear near her mouth to hear her. He closed his eyes to block the sight of those dry, peeling lips; he held his breath so as to keep her noxious breath from his lungs. In that dark, suffocating moment, he knew the truth: the woman who had been his wife had already died.

  “Letter,” this corpse whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “Must give letter.”

  He could not speak, could not even nod. He felt her grab at his hand, but he pushed it blindly away.

  Some minutes later, when his breathing slowed and his eyes finally opened, she was gone, leaving behind only that gentle, reproving smile.

  * * *

  It was nearly a fortnight after the funeral that he found a half-finished letter to Lady Dalrymple. It had fallen on the floor next to her dressing table.

  “Sir Walter has been so ill and required such care,” she had written, her hand so perfectly even and elegant that Lady Dalrymple could not have supposed the author to have been in the throes of illness herself, “that I have hardly had a moment to send our deepest condolences on the death of your most beloved husband.”

  So many deaths. First the viscount’s, now dear Lady Elliot. Sir Walter himself had almost succumbed, and yet here he stood, her vanity mirror informing him of his restored good health. He took one of her shawls, still hanging on the back of the chair, and draped it across the glass.Why could she not have at least been allowed to finish this letter? He held the paper close to his eyes, his hands trembling so violently that he could hardly make out the words. He ought to finish it on his wife’s behalf, to keep up the correspondence with Lady Dalrymple. Such a connection was not to be ignored, not even in mourning. Yet when he slumped into the chair at her dressing table, he found no room to write; the surface was cluttered with all those used up bottles: hand cream, face cream, tooth powder, hair tonic. “Father,” said a quiet voice from the doorway. He looked over at Anne, nearly toppling from the chair when he saw her. She could have been her mother: small, delicate, fair of complexion, striking in the color black. Yes, the black shroud he had buried her in had made her appear almost pretty again. But no. This other version of her had red-rimmed eyes. Lady Elliot’s eyes had never been so red, no matter how teary she became. “We will not discuss the matter again,” he said to Anne, suddenly tempted to bury his head in his arms and pretend this middle daughter did not exist. All Mary’s wailing had been bad enough, but then she was younger—and had such pretty curls. “You will go to school in Bath, and that is that. It is what your mother would have wanted,” he added softly.

  She made a guttural noise, a half-aborted sob, and then turned away. But she did not leave. With her back to him, she said, “It is not about Bath, Father. There is a Mr. Grant in the drawing room.”

  He jumped up, knocking the chair backward. “Grant? Send him away!”

  “He says it is a matter of great urgency, sir.”

  Pushing past his daughter, he raced down the corridor. “Urgency! What can be urgent to him now? She is dead!”

  He had neither heard from nor seen Grant after sending the funds (about half the sum his wife had suggested; women were not good at sums, he found). Sir Walter had heard from others in the neighborhood of Mr. Grant’s efforts, but his wife had never again mentioned them, and so he had considered the entire matter behind them.

  To see Grant in his drawing room now—well, it was not in fact so bad as he had feared. The man had lost weight, though he was still fat, and the silver hair on his head softened the ugliness of his features. More than that, he appeared miserable—dark circles beneath his eyes, stubble on his cheeks—and Sir Walter felt some pity for the man. After all, she had chosen Sir Walter, time and again; she had, whatever moments of doubt may have come over her, loved him. So, when the vicar stepped forward and said, with a respectful bow, “May I offer you my deepest condolences?” Sir Walter found it easy enough to respond with a gracious nod of his own.

  Grant looked behind him then, his lips parting slightly, and Sir Walter turned to see Anne, standing in the doorway of the drawing room. “Anne,” said Sir Walter, “you may leave us.”

  But before she could, the vicar said, “You look so much like your mother, Miss Anne.” His daughter smiled, and it was her mother’s smile—not the one pasted on her face at death, but the smile she had given him, the vicar, at the assembly in Bath.

  “What do you want, Grant?” asked Sir Walter, all sympathy gone.The vicar held out his hands, and it was only then that Sir Walter realized Grant had been holding a folded quilt all this time. “A blanket?”

  “The women and children at the workhouse made it, as a gift to honor your…your late wife.”

  “A blanket?” Sir Walter was on the verge of waving it away when Anne rushed past him, taking the quilt into her arms and hugging it fiercely to her chest.

  “How,” she asked, nose red and eyes strea
ming, “did they know of my mother?”

  “She was their benefactor,” said Grant.

  “I was their benefactor,” Sir Walter said, feeling only a little shame when Anne turned to stare at him. “She had nothing to do with your work, Grant, not for many years now.”

  “That is true,” said Grant, “but I do not think she ever forgot them. They most certainly never forgot her.”

  Anne gazed up at the vicar. “Do you suppose I might help in this work, Mr. Grant? If it meant so much to my mother, I—”

  “No, you will be in Bath.” Sir Walter turned to the vicar. “Is there anything else, Grant?”

  The vicar looked between father and daughter, and then smiled sadly. “You will always be welcome at Monkford, my dear.” And before Sir Walter could express his outrage, the ugly vicar was gone.

  * * *

  Three girls…an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath; an awful charge, rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father. —Persuasion, Chapter I.

  KELLYNCH, MAY 1805

  It was Elizabeth—his Elizabeth—who brought him the letter. “I found this in the drawer of my dressing table,” she said, handing him the paper before snapping her fingers at the nearest servant. “A cup of tea, for goodness’s sake! One would think, when I sit down to the table, tea might be waiting for me.”

  Normally he would have agreed—Elizabeth possessed a very precise understanding of order and hierarchy—but his attention was on the words beneath his fingers. “Did you read this?” he asked, his heart pounding at the sight of that name next to his ring finger.

  “Hmm? No, of course not,” she replied, stirring sugar into her teacup. “You know how I avoid reading small print, as it causes me to squint. I supposed it rubbish, and was about to throw it out, when Anne said you should have it.”

  He stared down at the thin sheet of paper. Two letters on the same page, one side half-written (“Dear Lady Dalrymple”), the other, fully completed. Once, twice, three times—he turned the piece of paper in his hands. He could hardly make sense of it. He had given such close examination to that unfinished letter! He had held it in his hands, studied it with his own eyes. How then had he failed to see this other side?

  “I wondered,” said Anne, from across the table, “if it might be in Mother’s hand?”

  “Anne would have read the entire thing herself if I had not snatched it back from her.” Elizabeth sipped at her tea, then let the cup fall with a clatter into its saucer. “This tea is cold! Get me another cup!”

  “My tea is cold, too,” said Mary, who sat on the other side of Sir Walter, “but you do not see me complaining about it! No, I suffer in silence.”

  “Yes, silence,” said Sir Walter absently, his fingers tracing her pretty, precise handwriting. His name was indeed on the half-finished letter to Lady Dalrymple, the letter he had seen and forgotten five years earlier. But it was this other letter, the words on the other side of the page, that he stared at now. This handwriting, while still hers, was more haphazard, harder to decipher. It seemed as if she had, in her delirium (for delirious she must have been), grabbed the closest sheet of paper, turned it over, and scratched out the following letter:

  Dearest Anne,

  I will be gone soon. I feel it in every aching breath, every difficult moment. The physical pain is nothing to the deep sadness that comes with knowing that I leave you alone in the world. Yes, you will have your father and sisters; you will have dear Lady Russell to guide you, as well. And I shall miss them all.

  But you, Anne—you are different. You are my daughter, not just in looks but in spirit. And because I have neither the time nor the breath to tell you in person, let me leave you with this advice: keep to your convictions, my dearest daughter. When it matters most, do not be persuaded—not by reason or tradition, and most especially not by appearances.

  And please, when you are old enough to understand, will you find Mr. Grant, the vicar at Monkford, and tell him what I learned?

  God bless you, my daughter! I send all my love, with all the hope in the world that you may find happiness in my stead.

  Your loving mother,

  E. Elliot

  “Are you unwell, Father?” said Anne.

  “What?” He glanced up, saw that complexion, those eyes, even the dull brown hair, and quickly looked away.

  “Your face has gone all red,” said Mary, patting her own pale cheeks. “I hope you are not coming down with a cold; I believe I am.”

  “You are always coming down with something,” said Elizabeth, and Sir Walter found some relief by looking at his fairest daughter.

  “Is it something in the letter, Father?” asked Anne.

  Panic replaced relief. He still could not look at her. “Did you read this?”

  “No, Father, it is as Elizabeth said. I thought you ought to read it first. But if it is in Mother’s hand, might I possibly be allowed—”

  “No, absolutely not.” Sir Walter stood abruptly and went to the hearth. He felt inexplicably chilled, though it was May and the fire roared. Perhaps Mary was correct; he was getting ill. That must be why the words swam before his eyes, why he had misread them. He must have misread them.

  “Father,” said Anne from behind him.

  “Oh, what can be of such interest in an old letter?” asked Mary. “I received a letter from Miss Barton, who lives near Taunton, just yesterday, and she shared news that I suppose none of you knows.”

  Elizabeth blew air through her lips. “I doubt that very much, Mary. All this talk of letters, when what one really wants is a warm cup of tea!”

  “Well, Father, do you not wish to know what Miss Barton had to say?” asked Mary. “I hardly suppose you care, Anne, for she says nothing at all about books or other such dull things. No, her news has to do with the new curate at Monkford.”

  Sir Walter spun to face the table. “Monkford? Did you say Monkford?”

  “Father,” said Anne, standing now and coming toward him, hand outstretched. “If I could only see Mother’s hand…”

  “Yes, Monkford,” said Mary, flipping the curls from her shoulders. “I knew that might be of some interest to you.”

  “Why should Monkford,” said Elizabeth, “be of any interest to anyone? Ah, tea! About time!”

  “His name is Wentworth,” said Mary, “and Miss Barton says he is tolerably handsome.”

  “Wentworth!” said Elizabeth. “A curate named Wentworth? Has he any connection to Governor Strafford’s family? If not, I have no interest in him at all.”

  “Well, he is certainly a good deal better looking than their ugly vicar, or so says Miss Barton,” continued Mary. “Did you ever see him, Father? The vicar, I mean? I cannot recall his name—”

  “Grant,” whispered Sir Walter. His lips felt dry; his mouth tasted terrible.

  “Yes, that is it! I remember seeing him once, from afar, and nearly falling off my horse at the sight of him.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Elizabeth, laughing. “I recall the man now. As fat as a whale, was he not?”

  “Mr. Grant,” said Anne, “is a kind man. He has done much for the people in his parish.”

  “Yes, well, now he may do much good in India, where he has gone off to start a mission,” said Mary. “Miss Barton writes that he is likely to scare the natives more than they scare him!”

  The oldest and youngest laughed, and Sir Walter wondered where his own voice had gone.

  “Father,” said Anne. She reached for the letter, her fingers (as soft as her mother’s ever were) brushing the base of his wrist before gripping the bottom corner of the page. “May I see the letter now?”

  He yanked his arm back so quickly, and with such force, that the paper sliced a thin line into her finger. For a moment, they both watched the blood pool on the tip of her finger. Then, before she could speak, he tore the letter into pieces and threw the scraps into the fire. “Rubbish, just as Elizabeth suspected,” he said, forcing himself to look at Anne. But t
he fire began to smoke then, bringing tears to his eyes, and he could not see her through the blur.

  CHRISTINA MORLAND spent the first two decades of her life with no knowledge whatsoever of Pride and Prejudice—or any Jane Austen novel, for that matter. She somehow overcame this childhood adversity to become a devoted fan of Austen's works. When not writing, Morland tries to keep up with her incredibly active seven-year-old and maddeningly brilliant husband. She lives in a place not unlike Hogwarts (minus Harry, Dumbledore, magic, and Scotland), and likes to think of herself as an excellent walker. Morland is the author of two Jane Austen fanfiction novels: A Remedy Against Sin and This Disconcerting Happiness. Click to connect with: Christina Morland

  Novella VIII

  The Lost Chapter in the Life of William Elliot (moderate) Jenetta James

  WILLIAM ELLIOT

  The heir presumptive of Sir Walter of Kellynch, William Elliot was a master of altering his manners to suit his circumstance. As a rich widower, and as his social standing became more vital to him, he appeared to make strides to repair the breach within his family connections. Mr. Elliot was rational, discreet, polished—but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. —Persuasion, Chapter XVII. And yet, it was not until the last pages that her first impressions were justified and he was revealed to be an indifferent, scheming player.

  She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped. Mr. Elliot was too generally agreeable. —Persuasion, Chapter XVII.

  THE LOST CHAPTER IN THE LIFE OF WILLIAM ELLIOT