by Susan Kaye
“I shall see to her. In fact, I insist.” Mrs. Harville had rejoined them. “My nursery-maid is as experienced as I, and between the two of us, she will be well cared for, have no fear.”
“You’ve left us nothing to do. I have to say thank you on that score,” Musgrove said.
Looking at Wentworth and Musgrove, Harville said, “We’ve done what we could, but I think you still have some things that can only be decided by the family.” He and his wife left them in privacy.
“Someone must return home, and tell Mother and Father,” Henrietta said, her voice low and strained from crying.
Musgrove reached for the cordial decanter Harville left on the table. “I must confess that I have no stomach for the task.”
Wentworth knew that, short of Musgrove declaring his intentions of being the one to break the news, there was only one solution. “It is getting late. They will worry, as it is now impossible to be in tolerable time.”
“Dear Louisa. It is usually Henrietta who makes us late,” Musgrove sighed.
“We must be decided and without loss of another minute. Every moment is valuable. Some must resolve on being off for Uppercross instantly. Musgrove, either you or I must go.” Wentworth dreaded the answer he knew was to come.
“You’re right, Captain. Nevertheless, I cannot go. I’ll sleep on the floor if need be, but I can’t, nay, won’t leave her alone.”
“And I shall stay as well,” Henrietta declared. “She will need me when she wakes up. And that will be at any time now.” There was nothing in her voice to hint true belief in her statement.
“Sister, please, I think it best you go home.” Mary Musgrove looked her in the eye as she straightened her bonnet. “Henrietta, the Captain practically had to carry you down the stairs for all the weeping. It will not do, in a sick-room, to have someone about who hasn’t the nerves for it. There are others much better suited to the task.”
Miss Musgrove was convinced that her staying was worse than useless, and that she would be much more comfort to her mother and father. Wentworth could see her relief and that now she was anxious to be home.
“Then it is settled, Musgrove, that you stay, and I take care of your sister home. As to the others—” He would tread carefully here. Though Mrs. Charles showed good sense in convincing Henrietta to leave, there was no guarantee she would do the same when it came to her own leaving. “If one is to assist Mrs. Harville, I think it need be only one. Mrs. Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne!”
Musgrove and his sister both brightened at this suggestion. A glance in the direction of Mrs. Charles warned him that these congratulations were by no means unanimous. Nevertheless, as she said nothing, he was convinced she would go along with the plan.
“So, Anne, what do you think of the Captain’s proposal?” Musgrove asked.
He turned to the doorway, and there she stood. “You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her.” The words were loud and bleating to his own ears; he hoped they sounded less so to her.
Smiling, her cheeks grew pink. He too felt suddenly warm and could say nothing.
“I am most happy to remain. I had been wishing to be allowed to do so. A bed on the floor of Louisa’s room will be sufficient for me, if Mrs. Harville would but think so.”
Wentworth looked out the window, considering what was to be done next. Upon hearing Anne speak about staying, he could only remember his outrage when he realised she slept on a chair in order to care for her nephew. Now he must own the outrage and direct it where it belonged. If he had the chance, he would speak with Harville and insist she be given more than a palette on the floor. However, this would have to wait—there was still much to do.
“Musgrove, your parents will be alarmed that we are so late. Taking the travelling coach will only extend the time. I propose to rent a chaise from the inn to take your wife and sister home.” Musgrove nodded his agreement. “You can send the carriage home in the morning, along with an account of how Louisa passed the night.”
It was all agreed upon, and he left them to see to his part of the plan. The walk from Harville’s was his first chance to recount the events of the past few hours. Out of the company of the others, he was acutely aware where the blame for the wretched events should rest.
After a short explanation, the innkeeper gave orders that the blue rig and the best horses should be readied immediately. Wentworth passed the room the sisters had occupied on the way to retrieve his bag. Hesitating, he considered retrieving Miss Musgrove’s luggage but soon dismissed the idea. Musgrove would have ample time to see to such incidentals. Grabbing his satchel, he glanced out the window. The sun was shining, and everything looked distinctly normal. He thought how, thank God, the world does not reflect the individual’s calamity. Surely our blood would freeze were we to realise how quickly change can come.
The keep directed him to the yard and the promised blue rig. It was a first-rate outfit, and the horses were, to his inexpert eye, quite fine. As if preparing to make sail, Wentworth walked up and down the carriage, shaking, tugging, wrenching, scrutinizing every bolt, hinge, peg and seam for anything that might give way and slow their progress home. He made his way around the team, keeping a watch for the ladies.
Seeing Musgrove approach, he gave the seat one last shake and waited. As the group drew closer, he could see Musgrove had the arm of his sister. However, to his surprise, following behind was Benwick, not accompanied by Mrs. Charles, but Anne. While shoving a length of rope under the seat, he grew cold remembering Mary Musgrove’s look when he made it known that Anne’s nursing skills were preferred over her own.
For a moment, he was certain the plans had changed. But surely Musgrove would not be so easily persuaded when his sister’s well-being was at stake. The far simpler explanation was that Mrs. Charles expected him to drive down and fetch her from the house. “Too far to walk for the daughter of a baronet,” he muttered. No doubt Benwick had come to assist Anne in retrieving her belongings from the inn. The situation was not so desperate as he first thought. Taking his gloves from his pocket, he put them on and waited.
They drew closer and he could not help but see that all the faces of the party were grim. No one spoke, save Anne. “She will be all right, Henrietta. Mrs. Harville and her nurse will see to it. You and I will be of better use at Uppercross.”
“Damn,” he said quietly. So much for his feelings of relief. Regardless of the kindnesses he had witnessed earlier, it was clear that Mrs. Charles was fully prepared to put her own desires before the needs of her sister-in-law. He had to wonder what devilry was at work to make Musgrove agree to the exchange.
“Ladies. Benwick. Musgrove. I thought we were agreed that your sister and wife would be returning home—that Anne is the most use to Louisa.”
Musgrove glanced to the others, then beckoned Wentworth step away, out of their hearing. “I know I agreed. But after you left, we all got to talking and decided that it would really be better, as Louisa and Mary are family, that she would stay and that Anne would return—”
“You mean that after I left, Mrs. Musgrove made it clear she would stay. Never mind she is no nurse, by her own admission.” Glancing up at the rest of the party, he saw them all looking tactfully away. “Never mind it was Anne who nursed your own son.” He had no wish to batter the already grieving brother, but such folly made him white-hot with anger.
“You have no wife and don’t understand how things stand. She is terribly grieved and wishes to stay by me. I will send her home tomorrow—”
“I understand better than you know, sir. I understand that you are willing to send away the most capable and practical woman to care for your sister, all to keep peace with your wife.” Musgrove looked away in shame. Wentworth cursed himself for his unguarded tongue. In a lower, though forceful tone, he continued: “I shall go to Uppercross and tell your parents the unhappy news. It is my duty to do so, but if
there is further mischief because of this decision, you shall have the burden of bearing the message.” There were no more opinions to exchange; he was done. Giving the seat a second, violent shake, he said as politely as he could manage, “Ladies, please make haste. We must be off immediately.”
Miss Musgrove reluctantly bid her brother farewell and spoke, half-heartedly, of remaining.
Glancing towards Wentworth, Musgrove smiled weakly and reminded her that they all had a duty in this and she would be the best comforter for their parents. She nodded as she hugged him. Trying to maintain a smile of her own, she clung to him and began to cry.
Again, everyone looked away, and it was left to Wentworth to rescue Musgrove. “Miss Musgrove, please come. The sooner we are off, the sooner you can be united with your parents,” he said quietly.
Letting go of her brother, she allowed herself to be handed into the carriage. Musgrove stepped back and Benwick brought Anne forward. “Thank you again for all your help, Commander,” she said. He merely nodded, though smiling, and stepped back.
Turning to Wentworth, she took his offered hand. Their eyes met for an instant. While he was angered by the exchange of the sisters, he could not help feeling relief that Anne would be making the journey home instead of Mrs. Charles. Certainly, Miss Henrietta’s emotions would benefit from her calm influence. Though, to be honest, he welcomed her comforting presence, too.
When she gained her seat, the mild look of earlier changed markedly. Now, as she looked away, it was replaced with a troubled expression. It took only seconds for him to consider the large number of offences he had committed that day. Any one of them could explain her dismay.
Bidding farewell to those staying behind, he hoisted himself into the carriage, placed himself between the ladies, and commanded the horses to walk on. A quarter-mile had not been travelled when he knew the journey would be exhausting to them all. Poor Miss Musgrove could not resist indulging in wild speculation as to the condition of her sister. In one breath, she proclaimed full recovery a certainty. In the next, she nearly consigned Louisa to the grave and crumbled into tears.
Saying little, he kept a close watch on her. When he did speak it was only to bolster her optimism; aught else only served to remind him of his part in the mischief. While his own opinion was strongly for Louisa’s recovery, he knew even robust improvement in the ill or injured could turn bad in just a few hours. There was nothing to be relied upon in this case except fervent prayers to what seemed a distant and disinterested God, and firm faith in the medical knowledge of the red-vested surgeon.
~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~
He estimated they had been on the road for nearly two hours. His shoulders ached from rigidly holding the reins and avoiding touching Anne. He longed to rest. He was about to suggest they stop when a rut caught the wheel and violently pulled the carriage to starboard. Miss Musgrove cried out as he lurched into her. Turning to see how his other passenger fared, he freed Henrietta by hurriedly reaching out to pull Anne back from a fall.
“Whoa.” Bringing the horses to a halt was simple enough. They seemed as anxious for a rest as the passengers.
“Miss Musgrove, are you injured?” She said she was well and set to straightening her cloak and bonnet.
“I, too, am unharmed.”
Turning to Anne, he was embarrassed to realise how closely and tightly he held her. Releasing her, he said, “I’m sorry. I saw you falling forward—”
“And I thank you for catching me. It would not do to have another fall.” She gave him a nervous smile and slid as far away as the crowded seat would allow. He wondered if she condemned him for not doing so much for Louisa Musgrove. He manoeuvred out of the rut, and they were back on their way.
Thankfully, there was no more conversation. As much as he dreaded the possibility Miss Musgrove would agitate herself, it was better for his state of mind that she remain quiet. Unfortunately, the quiet could only be filled with thoughts of the morning. It was impossible not to relive their final walk on the Cobb. He could not help regretting being angry with Louisa for her insistence on being jumped one last time. It was impossible not to remember her face as she realised he would not reach her in time.
After a bit, he checked his watch and was heartened. By his estimation they would arrive at Uppercross before dark. A glance at the gathering clouds undid his joy. It was his plan to return to Lyme that night, and he did not relish a three-hour drive in the cold rain.
“I wonder how she is.” Miss Musgrove interrupted his thoughts.
“I am sure she is all right. She has no doubt had her dinner and is now resting.” The statement rang false even as he said it, but he wished to head off any contrary thoughts that might be forming in her head.
He felt her shift in the seat. She was looking at the sun setting through the clouds. “It is lovely. I’m sure it is very beautiful from the Cobb.”
He said nothing at the mention of the wretched place.
“If only we had known what was to happen and never returned. Had we only gone straight back to the inn when we left the Harvilles!” In vain he listened to her choked regrets. Every word inched her closer to tears. “Oh that she had not been allowed to jump. Why was she allowed to—”
“Don’t talk of it, don’t talk of it,” Wentworth exclaimed, his guilt rising at her words. “Oh, God! That I had not given way to her at the fatal moment. Had I done as I ought! But so eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!”
Miss Musgrove bit her lip and looked shocked. Anne did not look in his direction at all. Though he saw her only from the side, the set of her mouth proclaimed her not in sympathy with him. The only appropriate words were of confession but his guilt was still too new and too overwhelming to allow those words voice. He muddled through an apology then retreated into silence.
The last miles dragged on. In time Miss Musgrove tucked herself into her little corner of the seat and drew her shawl over her face. She cried softly for a while. Before long, she was silent. Asleep, he assumed. Finally, the last hill was before them, and his agonizing duty lay only minutes ahead.
Quietly, he spoke. “I have been considering what we had best do. She must not appear first. She could not stand it. I have been thinking whether you had better not remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break the news to Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove. Do you think this a good plan?”
“Yes, yes I do.” Her reply was unreserved, and though he could not look at her, he thought it encouraging.
They drove up to a yard and house lit in anticipation of a merry return. Pulling the horses to a halt, he gave himself no time to ruminate. Stepping over Anne, he exited the carriage. He leant over to toss the reins into the seat. Anne reached out and took them, lingering a moment on his hand. She said nothing, but looked kindly at him.
He walked to the door and thought about the numerous letters he had written to families over the years. Over one-hundred of them were to tell mothers and fathers and wives that their loved one was dead. Most of these deaths occurred by accident or illness. Very few of his men were killed in battle; they were not a part of the fighting war, but men died nonetheless. As much as writing those letters pained him, it was nothing to the dread he felt approaching the Mansion-house.
The door opened to him, and his hat and coat were taken. Waiting to be shown to the family, he wondered if he dreaded dealing with their grief, fear, and doubts; or feared the accusations that would surely follow when his part in the evil was discovered.
Upon entering, he was seen by the master of the house. “Captain, welcome home.” Mr. Musgrove rose and extended a hand. “I hope the trip went well. I was just telling Mrs. Musgrove that she should stop worrying. Whenever a group of young people gets together, there is no such thing as arriving home on time.”
“Where is Charles? That is not his curricle.” Mrs. Musgrove had gone to the window and seen the unfamiliar chaise parked in the drive. “And who is it that remains in the carriage?”
“Don’t tell
me there was a problem with the coach?” Mr. Musgrove began to join his wife at the window. “I was hesitant to let it go, and if there has been any trouble, I will certainly regret allowing the scheme to proceed.”
There was no way to soften the blow—telling them straight out was best. “There is nothing wrong with the coach, sir. However, I have bad news. There has been an accident. Your daughter, Louisa, has taken a fall and is injured.”
Mrs. Musgrove let out a strangled cry, and her husband helped her to a chair.
“How bad is it?”
“A surgeon was called, and he is of the opinion that she will, most likely, be as good as new.”
“Most likely. But there is a chance of her not recovering fully.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, I must make for Lyme tonight.” He had already called for a servant by the time Wentworth could say, “Sir, I have brought home your other daughter and she is very much in need of you both. She witnessed the accident and is greatly distressed. I have also brought Miss Anne home. Your son and his wife stayed behind to see to their sister.”
He went on to explain that the coach would be sent home the following day with a report on Louisa’s condition.
“I realise it is not my place, but might I advise you to stay home for now and wait. It is darkening fast, and it looks like rain tonight. Please, sir, I would beg you to stay home, comfort your daughter, and wait for word from your son.”
His natural authority was to his advantage, and he used it. Both parents were pale from shock, and he ordered the servant to bring some brandy. He also ordered that the ladies in the carriage were to be brought in immediately.
Miss Musgrove entered leaning on Anne, but when she saw her mother, she flew into her arms and began to cry. The Captain and Anne stood together, apart from the parents and child mourning for their injured one. He would have given anything in his possession to be in another place just then. There was no comfort to offer. The family was scattered, and there were only the words of a faceless man, in a far-off county, to repeat for hope. Letters were difficult to write but were infinitely to be preferred over witnessing the personal turmoil.