by Susan Kaye
Edward’s recent letters were the most cheerful he’d ever received from him, and there was nothing to account for it aside from his marriage. No matter what sort of woman she turned out to be, she made him happy; and that was really all that mattered.
“I was but a shadow before my dear Catherine’s touch…” It was common wisdom that the touch of a woman could make all the difference in the life of a man, and his brother’s marriage certainly bolstered the case. Was Wentworth’s life but a shadow? He did not think so. His life felt as substantial as Gibraltar; yet, like his brother, he too longed for the love and companionship of a woman worthy of his affection.
“…it was her great friend Lady Russell’s doing…” He could not help despising Lady Russell for making Anne the shadow she had become. It did not seem, at least, that the woman had gone so far as to poison her goddaughter against Musgrove the way she had poisoned everything between Anne and him. Before he could stop himself, he again saw Anne’s face as she protested his insistence that she accept the Croft’s offer of a ride. It had been the briefest of looks, but it spoke volumes. She wanted nothing from him. The flesh and blood Anne of his past had disappeared and, like a shadow, was beyond his touch.
The final meeting between Anne and him was a muddle. When he saw the scene in his head, it was all tears on her side and anger on his. Her first argument had been that for him to succeed in the Navy, it was best he be single and have no worries about supporting a wife and household. It had taken no time to smash such a weak line of reasoning, and, to his shame, he ground her down until the true reasons were revealed: connexions, fortune, and his very temperament. He had not enough of the first two and far too much of the third. Anne had spoken the words, but he knew who had placed them in her mouth.
Musgrove, on the other hand, had more than enough of fortune and local connexions to satisfy the most fastidious concerns for security, and the man’s temperament was just the thing to suit a woman like Lady Russell—just enough push to meet the barest requirements of being a man but biddable enough to manage easily. If Charles Musgrove was the perfect match according to Lady Russell’s previously stated qualifications, why had she sunk him in Anne’s eyes? Was she so cruel as to want the girl to live out her life unmarried, perhaps dependent upon her and her beneficence? Was she grooming a companion for her old age?
He had to laugh at himself. He was becoming ridiculous in his mental wanderings. At one time he’d thought the meddlesome harpy had been placed upon the earth to be a thorn planted firmly in his side. Age and time forced him to see that being at cross-purposes with someone did not necessarily award virtue to one and evil intent to the other. The woman was Anne’s godmother and saw everything from that vantage. She had seen nothing in him she liked and had told Anne as much. Regardless of the lady’s opinion, it has been Anne who made her choice.
Now there was no Lady Russell to be seen, and though Anne was her own mistress, she still chose to have little to do with him. Their past was obviously nothing to her. A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Harkness entered, bearing a tray of spirits.
“Mrs. Croft thought you might care for something as you read, sir.” Given leave, he poured a glass and handed it to the Captain.
“How far is Lyme from Kellynch, Harkness?”
“About fifteen, sixteen miles, I believe.” Excellent! You settled in a very convenient spot, Timothy: not too long a ride, but far enough to get the blood moving.
“Do you know anything about horses, Harkness?”
The man capped the decanter and frowned. “Other than they always smell, no sir, I do not.”
Wentworth rose and went to the desk. Dashing off a quick note, he said, “I wish this to go to Crewkherne. Wait for a reply.”
“That might take above two hours, sir.”
“That is quite all right, Harkness. It seems I have nothing but time.”
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
Many men would not have chosen to buy a horse and take the opportunity of a long and unknown ride to familiarize themselves with their newly acquired beast, but Frederick Wentworth was not most men; and he was pretty certain nearly all things would go his way. Again, he was right. He took it as a good sign when his note was answered double-quick that the horse-coper in Crewkherne had two animals fitting the Captain’s requirements. He told his sister his plans to buy a horse and travel to see his friend, begged a ride to Crewkherne from his brother-in-law, and packed his bag in anticipation of the journey to visit his good friend, Harville.
Coming to an agreement on a horse had been simple enough; he paid the man what he asked. The melancholy of the previous evening lifted with the sunrise, and he was determined that such a trifle as haggling for a horse should not invite it back.
Setting off from Crewkherne later than he cared for, Wentworth decided to push on to Lyme though it was late afternoon and he was sharp-set. There would be time to refresh himself when he arrived.
As the steps of the horse drew him closer to his destination, his thoughts were of the beautiful countryside. Several large hedges entangled with hazelnut trees reminded him of Louisa’s unquestioning acceptance of his flippant rhetoric of the day before. His previous experience of bright, nineteen-year-old women obviously could not help him understand Louisa Musgrove.
Of course she took his banter seriously. That’s precisely what he liked about her. She gave him her undivided attention and hung on every word. Just as it should be. He laughed. This was the sort of thing his brother had scolded him about years ago. Edward had seen Frederick’s good opinion of himself galloping out of control and warned him to rein it in. He had not then. Little, it seemed, had changed.
Such sinking thoughts could not be borne, and to banish them, he dismounted and allowed the horse a short graze. Taking a post under a tree, he removed his gloves and fished in his pocket for a bag of peppermint candy the coper had given him for the horse. “She likes her sweets,” he told Wentworth. “You rattle a twist of peps and she’ll be at your side in a flash.” He found it, and the man was right; the mare was snuffling at his pocket immediately.
“Back, you greedy beast,” he muttered. In her excitement, she pinned him against the tree as he tore open the paper. “Damn, you’re heavy,” he said, offering her a sweet as far from him as his arm would stretch. Taking one of the candies for himself, he gave her two more and put the others away.
It would take time to get to know her eccentricities. Horses were little different than people, he suspected. It struck him as ironic that the mare was not the only female in his sphere he was coming to know better. He recalled Louisa and her somewhat changed manner as they had returned to Uppercross.
After seeing Anne away, he had returned to the field, and the six remaining walkers continued on. Again the natural groups formed, but now the conversation between Louisa and him became more personal, more intimate. He learnt even more about the immediate Musgrove family and their dealings with the vast Hayter clan and other families in the area.
At first, he was uncomfortable with being drawn into such matters, and when he voiced his concerns to Louisa, she laughed. She was surprised, she said, that he was not aware of it all by now anyway, considering how much a part of the family he had become over the past weeks. It was a claim he could not deny. He spent far more waking hours in the company of the Musgroves than he did his own flesh-and-blood. What a shock it would be when they discovered he was gone from the area without a word. The thought caused a twinge of guilt.
He remounted and continued on to Lyme, but it was not long before his thoughts returned to their previous subject. Besides the intimate family knowledge being imparted to him, Louisa’s dependency on him for a hand or an arm was becoming more pronounced. Again and again, she wished to be jumped down from the top step of a stile or stone wall edging a field. It seemed such familiar behaviour was generally accepted by the Musgrove family. And accepted is certainly how it would be if he were to allow things to continue on their present cou
rse. Nothing would be said; the calm waters of this country life would easily drift into marriage. Louisa would obviously not object to it. The family would welcome him as another son. He chuckled when he thought of claiming the spot left vacant by the lately lamented Richard Musgrove. The irony of such a thing was too amusing.
Checking his watch, he was happy to know the ride to Lyme was neither extraordinarily long nor taxing. Setting up house in Uppercross would keep him close to Harville and the sea. There was no telling how long he might be without a posting. Once thrown ashore, it was not unheard of for a Post Captain to go years before getting another ship. Unless another war was declared or a fever thinned out the Admiral’s List, he could be on land for some time. Moreover, when he did resume his life at sea, escaping occasionally to the country would be a welcome change. There would be no worries of leaving a wife at the mercy of a squalid port city. She would be under the protection of her family and his while he was away. All things considered, an alliance with the Musgroves was most advantageous. There was nothing about marrying Louisa Musgrove that he could see would be a hindrance. Nothing except Anne.
“…I was but a ghost…” The phrase from Edward’s letter resurfaced. Anne was herself little more than a ghost. Each day that passed, her cool manner made it apparent she had no interest in him. Perhaps she was merely counting the days until she could join Lady Russell at the Lodge, and he would be out of her sight. This made all the memories he carried in his mind and heart no better than ghosts as well. The spectre of Anne Elliot had kept him single and alone for too long. Dropping down a little hill, he decided that when he returned the next day and rejoined the Musgroves, he would more carefully consider Louisa in light of his future.
Descending into Lyme was as challenging as the ride got. The mare did not appreciate the cobbles, but she had a tender mouth and responded well to his gentle management of the reins. There was no traffic to speak of, and it seemed he would have his choice of accommodations. It appeared that all the inns carried names relating to the sea, and he chose The Binnacle.
While tying up his mount, the stable-boy told him he could have nearly any room in the house and that a little haggling might just get it at a bargain price. It was well past his customary dinner, and he was not after a bargain, only a hot bath and a little something to pry his stomach off his backbone.
“You come just at the end of the season. There’s not much on right now and not many to watch.” Despite what the stable-boy thought, the innkeeper seemed little interested in trying to squeeze him for a room. He asked to be placed on the highest floor so that he might have a view of the sea.
“Sure thing, sir,” the keep said, sliding a key to him.
“I would like a bit of bread and cheese sent up, along with small beer. And might you have paper and pen?” The man again obliged him. Folding the note he’d written, he said, “I need this delivered to this address.” He showed the direction to the keep.
“Sorry, sir, I don’t read myself, but if you just tell me the place, I’ll see it gets there.” Wentworth read off the address. “Don’t know just the spot, but the boy I send will. I do know it to be close to the oldest part of the pier. Not the best of places, mind; but you’ll know it right off. Just ask around. Most anyone down there could tell ya right where ya need to go.”
“Thank you,” Wentworth said, pocketing the much-read letter.
“By the way, sir, will ya be needin’ a meal tonight? We serve until nine. Things is a little sparse ’round here and me wife, she takes care of the cookin’, needs to know much she should get ready.”
“Uh, yes, for three in fact. And might I reserve a private dining room, if you have one?”
“Yeah, I gots a small one. Cosy as you please.”
The extras were agreed upon and paid for; then he was able to set his mind to relieving his hungry belly.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
After only asking once, he was directed to Harville’s new home. He made his way off the beaten track to the small row of houses crammed under the decaying pier and was moved with compassion for his friend. When first they met, Harville was doing quite well and living in a small but respectable house on a decent street in Portsmouth. This new place was a great reduction indeed.
He knocked and was greeted by a slight young woman drying her hands. He introduced himself and she brightened. He was gratified that his message had been delivered, and his appearance was not a complete surprise. Repeating his name to make sure she got it right, the girl announced him.
“Captain Wentworth, ma’am.”
He was brought into a small room where every bit of space was occupied. A quick glance told him the place was no different from most other rooms or houses to let. It had suffered or prospered under the carpentry skills of numerous previous tenants. It was easy to recognise pieces of good furniture from better times; they were highly polished and glowed with care. A few things he recognized to be foreign and, no doubt, from Timothy’s many voyages. Crammed into the remaining space were extra bits and bobs that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever. Across the room a small blond woman he suspected to be plump with child rose from a chair in the corner nearest the fire. She had a little blond girl in her arms.
“Captain. It is so good of you to visit us.” With her greeting, he was reminded how strange Elsa Harville’s accent always sounded to his ear. Her family was Norwegian, and even though she was born in England, her accent was an odd amalgam of highs and lows.
She let the girl down, and both came to him. As she drew closer, he noticed the age that just a few months had drawn on her face. Despite this, her smile and words were genuine. He bowed and she scolded, “You know there is no propriety here, Frederick.” It amused him the way she always called him, “Free-rich.” He leant down to receive a kiss on the cheek.
“I just received Timothy’s letter. I fear it went astray and ran aground in Plymouth after I left.”
“But it has reached you now. Timotee is resting. I did not wake him when your note arrived, but I think he’s rested enough.” She held out her hand for the little girl to follow her up the stairs. “Come, Fanny.”
She was staring at the Captain and continued to do so even as she shook her head no.
“Fanny, come with Mama.”
He’d forgotten her name, but now remembered her from their short voyage in the spring. “I think the young lady and I will be all right, Mrs. Harville. We are old mates, aren’t we Miss Fanny?”
She gave him the barest of nods.
“All right, but I shall be back right away.” She moved to an open stairway. She took the first step, turned, and said, “Oh, my manners. Please have a seat.”
“Remember, there is no propriety here,” he said. She smiled and left.
He intended to take the seat vacated by Mrs. Harville and so moved to the fireplace. The chair’s upholstery was familiar, but now shiny and threadbare. The slow decay of his friend into poverty was difficult to see. Why should Harville have been the one to have his leg crippled and his career torn from him and not Wentworth?
He took a seat and tried to coax Fanny to him. She continued to stare but would move no closer. Before long there was a low murmur of voices up the stairs, and soon someone was coming down. Expecting Timothy, he rose and said, “I know there was no fair warning, but—” When he looked up, he was looking not into the eyes of his friend Timothy, but those of James Benwick. He felt again the hurt and anger under which they parted, but he still had perfect understanding, and compassion for his friend. He hoped Benwick felt the same.
“Captain, I’m pleased to see you again.” The words were measured and polite. Coming down into the room, he held out his hand and added, “Elsa said you were in town for a visit.”
There was still an air of suffering about him. Wentworth wondered if his coming was not a mistake and if his presence might not inflict upon his friend the burden of past, painful memories. “I, too, am glad to see both my good friends on this visit.”
The handshake began as perfunctory, but as it continued, Benwick’s grasp became stronger and more genuine. Little Fanny came up to Benwick and raised her hands to him. Without hesitation, he took her in his arms. It was odd to see his friend holding a child, particularly as she snuggled herself in the crook of his neck. It was clear both were comfortable with the arrangement.
“How is Timothy?” Wentworth asked.
Benwick looked away. “Not as well as we would like. The infection is always there, never quite leaving his system. He’s just gotten over a cold and rests several times a day. It is my responsibility to entertain you until he comes down.” The young woman he’d met at the door entered, and Benwick asked that refreshments be brought.
“Mrs. Harville looks well.”
Benwick smiled. “Yes, she is as ever, and she proves that Timothy is not always under the weather.” The breath required for the statement no sooner passed his lips than he realised what he’d said. Lightly putting his hand over Little Fanny’s ear, he said, “That was quite unforgivable, Captain. I’m sorry.”
The comment was completely out of the bounds of good taste, but he was not shocked. “It is forgotten. Just pray Mrs. Harville never gets wind of it. Besides, it is good to hear something of your old, wry self.”
“Elsa is convinced I shall overcome these blows. I am not so sure.”
Wentworth hesitated to respond. He did not wish to aggravate emotions that he was certain were healing but still obviously tender. “You are resilient, James. I believe she is right. How do you like Lyme?”
“It is a scruffy little place that suits us just fine,” a voice from above them said. Timothy Harville, with the help of his wife, descended the stairs and joined the two men.
“Captain,” was the call of children’s voices that accompanied loud thudding descending the stairs.