As I followed them some half an hour later, I felt myself growing increasingly frustrated at the insipidity of the general conversation and wanting something more; something I had always found with Anne.
Friday 11 November
I rose early and I was eager to be out of doors, for it was a fine morning, with the tide rushing in before a south-easterly breeze. I hoped to meet Anne in the parlour, but, on going downstairs, I discovered that she had already gone out. Louisa was there, however, and, breakfast not being ready, she suggested that we might go for a walk upon the Cobb. We went out and walked down to the sea. It was grey, flecked with white, and overhead wheeled the squawking gulls.
We had not been out of doors for very long when we saw Anne and Henrietta. Anne was blooming. The fresh wind had lent colour to her cheeks and a brightness to her eye, and she looked as she had looked eight years ago, when I first knew her. The day faded into nothingness, and I stood in a cloud of silence, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, nothing except Anne. She was laughing, for the wind was whipping her hair across her face, and, as I watched her, she raised her hand and pushed it back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Then her eyes met mine. How long we stood thus I do not know, but however long it was, it was not long enough. I drank her in, her mild dark eyes, her laughing countenance, and her soft brown hair; all held me entranced.
And then a sudden gust of wind blew against us, and Louisa clutched at my arm, bringing me back to the present. I tried to reclaim the moment, but Anne had turned away, and it was gone beyond recall.
‘You are out early,’ said Henrietta.
I said nothing, for the vision of Anne, restored to loveliness, had rendered me speechless.
‘But not as early as you,’ said Louisa. ‘I thought Captain Wentworth and I were the only two people awake.’
‘We have been out a full half hour, have we not, Anne?’ said Henrietta.
Anne seemed to be having as much difficulty as I in replying. The silence was covered by Louisa saying that there was something she wanted at the shop, and she invited us all to go back into town with her. We declared ourselves willing to accompany her and walked back across the beach.
As we came to the steps leading upwards, we saw a gentleman at the top, preparing to come down. He drew back and gave way so that the ladies could pass. Anne and Henrietta ascended first, and as they reached the top, I saw the gentleman looking at Anne, and then looking again. I was hit by a wave of jealousy, for he had no right to look at her in that way. I contained myself, and we walked on to the shops in peace.
Once Louisa had made her purchases we returned to the inn, where we found breakfast waiting for us. Mary and Charles were there and, when we had rid ourselves of our outdoor clothes, we joined them.
We had nearly finished when we heard the sound of a curricle outside. Charles jumped up to see if it was as fine as his own and we all collected at the window to look. The owner of the curricle came out, and I perceived him to be the same gentleman who had passed us on the steps up from the beach.
I saw Anne smile, and once again I felt a hot rush of jealousy, this time worse than before. Why had she smiled on him, and not on me?
On a sudden impulse, I asked the waiter, ‘Pray, can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?’
‘Yes, sir, a Mr Elliot.’
‘Elliot?’ I asked in astonishment, whilst there was a general murmur all around me.
‘A gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth,’ the waiter went on. ‘Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, on his way to Bath and London.’
‘Bless me!’ cried Mary. ‘It must be our cousin.’
So this was Mr Elliot, the man Miss Elliot had assiduously pursued, and lost, all those years ago, the man she had deemed worthy of her hand—and who was now evidently in mourning, for he wore crêpe around his hat. I wondered who had died and, making discreet enquiries of Charles, I discovered that Mr Elliot had married some years before, but that he had recently been widowed. There were no children, he told me, but Sir Walter had not made overtures to him again, on account of some slighting remarks he had made about his relatives, which had reached Sir Walter’s ears.
But what a man for Anne to meet, here, now! I thought in dismay.
‘What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other!’ went on Mary. ‘Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance. I wonder the arms on the carriage did not strike me!’
Charles remarked that the greatcoat had been hanging over the panel, and Mary exclaimed that, if the servant had not been in mourning, she should have known him by the livery.
I, on the other hand, was vastly relieved that we had not known his identity sooner, for then introductions must have been made, and Anne would have come to know him further.
‘Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,’ I said, trying to hide my agitation, ‘we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence that you should not be introduced to your cousin.’
I looked at Anne, hoping she would see it as such. To my relief, she seemed to have no wish to pursue the acquaintance, for she said that their father and Mr Elliot had not spoken for many years, and that an introduction was not desirable.
I was heartened but, without knowing her mind, I could not know her full reasons for not wanting to pursue the acquaintance. Was it because of her father, as she said, or was it . . . could it be . . . that her feelings were already engaged— by me?
I tried to read the answer in her face, but I could detect nothing. I wished I knew why she had refused Charles Musgrove; I wished I knew if she was indifferent to me, or whether she was merely reserved; if she had ever missed me; and if she regretted her decision to reject me.
We were soon joined by the Harvilles and Benwick, for we had arranged to take a last walk with them before departing. Harriet gave it as her opinion that her husband would have had quite enough walking by the time he reached home, and so we determined to accompany the Harvilles to their door, and then set off home ourselves.
We parted from the Harvilles as planned, and were about to return to the inn when some of the party expressed a wish to take one final walk along the Cobb. Louisa was so determined to have this last pleasure that we gave in to her, and Benwick came with us.
There was too much wind on the high part to make the walk enjoyable so we decided to go down the steps to the lower part. Louisa insisted on being jumped down them by me, as she had often been jumped down from stiles.
I tried to discourage her, saying the pavement was too hard for her feet, but she insisted. I gave in to her demands but, as I did so, I began to think that a determined character was not so very desirable after all. If it was firm in its pursuit of right, then it was estimable, but if it was firm in pursuit of its own desires, it was simply wilful.
I had done the damage, however, and must, for the time being, abide by it. I jumped her down the steps with no harm done, and there it should have ended, but she ran up the steps to be jumped down again.
Again, I tried to persuade her to abandon the idea, but I spoke in vain.
‘I am determined I will,’ she said.
She jumped with no further warning. I put out my hands; I was half a second too late; she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb . . . and I looked at her in horror, for she was dead.
A thousand thoughts went through my mind, tormenting me for my folly: I should not have made so much of her; I should never have jumped her down from a stile; I should not have encouraged her to think that being headstrong was a virtue; I should not have brought her to Lyme. A thousand thoughts, whirling round as I caught her up, my body reacting to the crisis as it had reacted to countless crises at sea, taking charge, doing what was necessary, looking for a wound, for blood, for bruising . . . but there was nothing. Yet
her eyes were closed, she breathed not, and her face was like death.
‘She is dead! She is dead!’ screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband.
Henrietta fainted, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them.
‘Is there no one to help me?’ I cried, borne down by a weight of guilt and despair, and feeling my strength gone.
‘Go to him, go to him, for heaven’s sake go to him.’
It was Anne’s voice; Anne, who could be relied upon in a crisis; Anne rousing Charles and Benwick, who were at my side in a moment, supporting Louisa. As they took her from me, I stood up, but, underestimating the effect the shock had had on me, I staggered, and once more catching sight of her pale face, I cried, ‘Oh God! her father and mother!’
I could not bear to think of them at Uppercross, imagining us happy, and trusting me to bring their daughter safely home again.
‘A surgeon!’ said Anne.
Her common sense restored me to sanity.
‘True, true, a surgeon this instant,’ I said, and I was about to go and fetch one when Anne said that Benwick would know better where one was to be found.
Again, her cool, calm common sense prevailed. Benwick gave Louisa into Charles’s care and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity.
‘Anne, what is to be done next?’ cried Charles, and I realized that everyone was looking to her in their extremity.
‘Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn,’ said Anne.
Her words roused me once again and, eager to be doing something, I took Louisa up myself. Her eyes fluttered, and I felt a moment of wild, surging hope as they opened and I knew her to be alive! What joy! What rapture!
‘She lives!’ I cried.
There was a cry of relief from all around. But then her eyes closed, and she gave no more sign of consciousness.
We had not even left the Cobb when Harville met us, for he had been alerted by Benwick on his way for the surgeon, and had run out to meet us. He told us we must avail ourselves of his house, and before long we were all beneath his roof. Louisa, under Harriet’s direction, was conveyed upstairs, and we all breathed again.
The surgeon was with us almost before it had seemed possible, and to our great relief he declared that the case was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from.
‘Thank God!’ I said. ‘Thank God!’
My cry was echoed by her sisters and brother, and I saw Anne silently giving thanks. But my thanks were the most heartfelt of all. I had not killed her, I who had encouraged her recklessness and taught her not to listen to others. But I had injured her. It was burden enough. I sank down into a chair and slumped across the table, my head sunk on my arms, unable to forgive myself.
By and by I roused myself. I could not leave the arrangements to Anne—Anne, who had done so much, who had kept her head, and proved herself superior to all others in every way.
It was quickly arranged that Benwick would give up his room so that a member of our party could stay, giving Louisa the comfort of a familiar face in the house with her, and Harriet, an experienced nurse, took it upon herself to nurse her.
‘And Ellen, my nursery-maid, is as experienced as I am. Together we will look after her, day and night,’ she said.
I tried to thank her, but she would not take thanks, saying that she was glad to repay me for my kindness in breaking the news of Fanny’s death to Benwick. Then she returned to the upstairs room, where Anne was sitting with Louisa.
I was glad that Anne was with Louisa. It was always Anne people turned to in a time of crisis. It was Anne who had managed matters when her nephew had dislocated his collar-bone; it was Anne who had directed us when Louisa had taken a fall. Anne, always Anne who, without any fuss, showed the strength of her mind by her ability to know what was best, and to see it brought about in a quiet, calm manner. I had tried to forget her, but it had proved impossible, for she was superior to any other woman I had ever met.
‘This is a bad business,’ said Charles.
His face was white with worry.
‘My poor father and mother. How is the news to be broken to them?’ said Henrietta.
There was a silence, for no one could bear to think of it. But it must be done.
‘Musgrove, either you or I must go,’ I said.
Charles agreed, but he would not leave his sister in such a state.
‘Then I will do it,’ I said.
He thanked me heartily, and said I must take Henrietta with me, for she was overcome by the shock.
‘No, I will not leave Louisa,’ Henrietta said.
‘But think of Mama and Papa. They must have someone to comfort them when they hear the news,’ said Charles.
Her heart was touched, and she consented to go home. It was a relief to all of us, for at home she would be well taken care of, and we would not have to worry about her as well as her sister.
‘Then it is settled, Musgrove, that you stay, and that I take care of escorting your sister home,’ I said. ‘But as to the rest, your wife will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne.’
It was at that moment that Anne appeared. Anne, collected and calm. Anne, the sight of whom filled me with strength and courage.
‘You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her,’ I said gently, longing to take her hands in mine as I had done once before, marvelling how I could fold both of them in my own. Such small hands, and yet so capable.
She coloured deeply. I wanted to speak to her, to ascertain her feelings, and to tell her mine, but now was not the time, so I made her a bow and moved away.
She turned to Charles, saying that she was happy to remain.
Everything was settled, and I hastened to the inn to hire a chaise, so that we could travel more quickly. The horses were put to, and then I had nothing to do but wait for Henrietta to join me. At last she came, but, to my surprise, Anne was with her. The reason was soon made clear to me. Being jealous of Anne, Mary had demanded to be the one to stay and help with the nursing, and had said that Anne should return to Uppercross.
I was angry at the arrangement, but it could not be helped, and so I handed the ladies into the chaise. I looked at Anne, but she avoided my eyes, and then, I, too, climbed into the chaise, and we were away.
We spoke little on the journey, for our spirits were low, and I had plenty of time to think about how I should tell Louisa’s parents.
When we reached the neighbourhood of Uppercross, I said to Anne, ‘I think you had better remain in the carriage with Henrietta, while I go in and break the news to her parents. Do you think this a good plan?’
She did, and I was satisfied.
I left the chaise at the door and went into the house. I was welcomed warmly, though with some anxiety, for Mr and Mrs Musgrove had become worried owing to the lateness of the hour. I felt a moment of sick apprehension as I was reminded of the nightmare of breaking the news of Fanny’s death to Benwick, but this news was not so bad. This news had hope. I took courage from the thought, and I began to speak.
There was alarm. How could there not be? But though I did not seek to lessen the seriousness of the situation, I told them, many times, that the surgeon did not despair, and that he had seen worse injuries recovered from. Mr Musgrove, after the first shock, comforted his wife, and when she was sufficiently calm, I escorted Henrietta and Anne indoors.