As soon as they were as comfortable as possible, I returned to Lyme, so that I would be on hand in case I should be of any assistance.
And now here I am at the inn once more, in my own room, but unable to sleep. As I sit here, I can think of nothing but Anne: our meeting, our courtship, our separation, and our meeting again.
I have acknowledged at last, what I believe I have known all along, that I am still in love with her. I have never stopped loving her. In eight years I have never seen her equal because she has no equal.
As soon as Louisa is out of danger, I must tell Anne how I feel and ask her, once again, to be my wife.
Saturday 12 November
Louisa passed a good night, and, to my enormous relief, there had not been any turn for the worse. The surgeon called again and pronounced himself satisfied, saying that a speedy cure must not be looked for, but that everything was progressing well, and that if she was not moved or excited, he had hopes of a full recovery.
My relief was profound. If only she could be restored to full health and spirits, I would be a grateful man.
As soon as the surgeon left us, Charles went to Uppercross to give his parents an account of Louisa’s progress. He promised to return, however, and at last he did so, bringing with him the Musgroves’s nursery-maid. She, having seen the last of the children off to school, spent her days in the deserted nursery, patching any scrape she could come near, and she was only too pleased to visit Lyme and nurse her beloved Miss Louisa.
And so, twenty-four hours after the accident, I find that things are as well as can be expected. Louisa is being nursed by her own Sarah; Mr and Mrs Musgrove have been relieved of the worst of their fears; and, if all goes well, I will soon be with Anne again.
Monday 14 November
Louisa regained consciousness several times today, and when she was conscious, she knew those about her. We were all heartened by this, so much so that Harville and I took a walk this afternoon. We went outside, turning our steps away from the Cobb, for neither of us could bear to visit it, and headed into town.
‘I cannot tell you what I have felt for you over these last few days,’ said Harville. ‘I have been so sorry, Frederick, knowing what agonies you must be suffering. It was terrible to see James lose his fiancée last year; I could not bear to see you lose yours, too.’
I was horrified, for it was clear that Harville believed Louisa to be my fiancée. I was about to put him right when I remembered my conduct towards her, recalling the way I had accepted, even encouraged, her attentions. I felt myself grow cold. I had thought no harm in it, for both she and her sister had flirted with me, but as soon as Henrietta had made her preference for Charles Hayter plain, I should have taken less notice of Louisa. I should have called at Uppercross less, gradually withdrawing my attentions so that no slight should have been perceived. But instead I had proceeded on the same course of conduct, out of . . . what? Love? No, for I had never loved her. I saw that clearly. Out of what, then? Pride? Yes, angry pride. I was ashamed to own it, even to myself, but so it was. I do not regret you, I had been saying to Anne. Your rejectiondid not hurt me. See, I am happy with another.
I felt all the wrongness of it, and wished it undone, but the wish was a vain one. I had paid Louisa too much attention; Harville had mistaken her for my fiancée; and I could not now ruin her reputation by saying that there had never been an engagement between us. I was bound to her, if she wanted me, as surely as if I had asked her to be my wife.
‘You are downcast,’ said Harville, noticing my change in mood, and ascribing it to the wrong cause. ‘Stay hopeful. The surgeon does not despair of the case. He believes she will make a full recovery. She is welcome to stay with us for as long as necessary, and so are you. Perhaps it would do you good to see her?’
‘No!’ I said.
He was taken aback by my vehemence.
‘That is, the sight of me might excite her, and she needs to rest,’ I said. ‘I had better not go near her, for the sake of her health. I must not do anything to jeopardize her chances of recovery.’
He honoured me for it, and, to my relief, said no more.
We returned to the house but, as I sat in the parlour, my heart was heavy. I had learnt, gradually, over the last few months, that Anne was the only woman I could ever love, and at the very moment when I had hoped to declare myself, the chance had been snatched away from me. If Louisa recovered, I might soon find myself married to a woman I did not love. And if she did not . . . it was too terrible to think of.
I occupied myself with Harville’s children, and found that their chatter lifted my spirits out of their black mood.
As for the future, I could do nothing to change it, so I made an effort to put it out of my mind.
Tuesday 15 November
A welcome surprise occurred this morning. The Musgrove family arrived at the inn, where they quickly established themselves before going to see Louisa. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were eager to see their daughter, and were greatly relieved when she regained consciousness for a few minutes and recognized them. They thanked the Harvilles over and over again, and were particularly grateful for the fact that Harriet was an experienced nurse, which made her the best person to tend the invalid. They took it upon themselves to help her in any way they could.
‘As soon as Louisa is well enough to be moved, we mean to take her to the inn, where we can care for her entirely,’ said Mrs Musgrove to me, ‘but until such time we are grateful to your friends for taking her in.’
It was another anxious day, but as there was no relapse, and as Louisa continued to gain strength, it passed as well as could be expected.
Wednesday 16 November
Mrs Musgrove asked me this morning if I would like to go in and see Louisa, but I replied in the way I had replied to Harville, saying that I was afraid the shock of seeing me might be injurious to her, and that it might produce a setback. Mrs Musgrove said no more about it, and I was relieved, for I had decided that I would do everything consistent with honour to disentangle myself from Louisa. I would not desert her if she felt herself engaged to me, but neither would I encourage any tender feelings in her if they did not already exist.
Thursday 17 November
I returned to Kellynch Hall today, to let Sophia know how Miss Louisa went on, and to give her all the details of the accident that she did not already know. She was very distressed, as was Benjamin, that such an accident should have befallen such a well-loved young girl.
I could not stay long, for I had promised to return to Lyme, and I wanted to drive as far as possible in daylight, but I gladly stayed for luncheon and, hungry from exhaustion of body and spirits, I made a hearty meal.
Afterwards, I enquired after Anne.
‘If not for Miss Elliot, we would all have found it much harder to bear,’ I said. ‘She is none the worse for her exertions, I hope?’
Sophia assured me that she was calm and composed.
‘You relieve my mind,’ I said, and my words were heartfelt, ‘for her exertions were great. It was she who kept her head and lent assistance, when the other ladies were overcome; indeed, when I myself was overset. I cannot praise her too highly.’
And indeed I could not.
After writing to Edward to tell him I would not be able to visit him I left Sophia and set out once more. On my way past Lady Russell’s house I left a note for Anne, telling her that Louisa was as well as could be expected, for Anne had started her visit to her godmother. Then, having left her the note, I returned to Lyme.
Friday 18 November
Louisa’s recovery continues slowly but steadily. Her periods of consciousness are longer and more frequent. God willing, she will continue to improve.
Monday 21 November
Louisa has continued to improve over the weekend, and she sat up for the first time today, a source of great joy to all of us.
There seems hope, real hope, that she will make a full recovery, and I think, at last, everyone in the house is beginning to believe it.
Tuesday 22 November
Life has returned to something resembling normal. Mary spent the morning at the library, and this evening she quarrelled with Harriet about precedence at supper. Charles Musgrove suggested an outing to Charmouth and his idea was met with approval.
I took advantage of the opportunity to say that I, too, thought of going away for a few days. As they had all accepted the idea that I did not want to see Louisa because I did not want to excite her, no one saw anything strange in my suggestion and I said I would go next week.
Thursday 24 November
Louisa sat up again today and had a conversation with her mother. Her lucidity delighted them both. Mrs Musgrove was all smiles as she told us about it, and her other children were greatly relieved, for it sent them off on their visit to Charmouth in good spirits. I remained behind, but made my plans for my trip to Plymouth, and declared my intention of leaving on Tuesday.
Friday 25 November
The younger Mr and Mrs Musgrove returned to Uppercross, satisfied that Louisa was making good progress, but the elder Musgroves are still here as they are reluctant to leave their daughter. They hope she will soon be able to make the journey to Uppercross and are looking forward to having her at home, but I doubt if she will be able to return before Christmas, and it could indeed be some weeks more before she is ready to make such a long journey.
Tuesday 29 November
I took my leave of the Musgroves this morning. First I said good-bye to Mr and Mrs Musgrove so that, if they were displeased by my actions and demanded to know my intentions towards their daughter, I could reassure them and, if necessary, stay. However, they showed no displeasure, but instead they thanked me for all I had done. I then took my leave of all the rest. It was a melancholy affair, but once done I felt a sense of release. I must consider myself bound to Louisa if she has attached herself to me, but if my absence can lessen that attachment I will rejoice to be free.
DECEMBER
Monday 5 December
I wrote to Harville, as I had promised to do, giving him my direction. He promised to keep me informed as to Louisa’s condition.
Tuesday 6 December
I saw Jenson by chance this morning and we fell into conversation. He invited me to dine with him and I agreed readily enough, for I was afraid of the thoughts that tormented me whenever I was alone.
He was in high spirits as he told me all about his progress in the wine trade, after which the conversation naturally turned to the battles we had seen. He mentioned our triumphs of the year eight, when, for the first time, we found ourselves with several thousand pounds, and as he talked, my thoughts drifted back to that time. I had been on shore after my early success, and I had been tempted to write to Anne and tell her of my good fortune, and to offer her my hand once more. I had gone as far as taking up my pen, but pain and doubt had assailed me, and I had let them have their sway. Pride, wounded dignity, fear that she had forgotten me, fear that I would make myself ridiculous, fear of rejection—all these had held me back. But if I had mastered my fears, if I had written, as I wanted to do, then what would she have said? Would she have said yes?
‘. . . must come and see the ship tomorrow. What do you say?’ asked Jenson.
His words brought me back to the present.
‘The shipyard is not far from here. You can see the hull, and I can show you the plans,’ said Jenson.
I realized that he had invited me to see his new ship, which was in the process of being built, and I gave my consent to the idea. But as he talked on, telling me of the ship’s design, my thoughts returned again to the year eight. If I had asked Anne to marry me then, what would she have said?
Wednesday 7 December
An interesting day. Jenson showed me his ship and she was a beauty. It was good to hear his cheerful conversation, and his high spirits raised my own, so that I was able to pay attention to everything he said. I dined with his family this evening, and found them to be sensible and agreeable people. They have invited me to dine again next week, and I have decided to extend my stay so that I may accept.
Friday 9 December
I wrote to Edward, apologizing for not keeping to our earlier arrangement but telling him I would like to see him, for I was now free to travel. I suggested I should visit him for Christmas, if he found it convenient, and gave him Jenson’s direction.
Saturday 10 December
A letter came from Harville this morning, telling me that Louisa continued to make good progress, and that they were now quite a cheerful party. He mentioned that Benwick entertained Louisa by reading her poetry when she was well enough, and I was glad to think of them both finding pleasure in each other’s company.
Tuesday 13 December
I had a letter from Edward, saying he was delighted with the idea of my spending Christmas with him and his wife, and so it has been settled, I am to go to him.
Wednesday 14 December
I dined with Jenson’s family again this evening, and after dinner, he and his father suggested that I might go and work for them as a captain of one of their vessels. I thanked them, but told them that my seafaring days were over, unless my country had need of me. They took no offence and wished me well, but as I returned to the inn, I found myself thinking that, if Louisa did not imagine herself engaged to me, and if Anne no longer loved me, then I might change my mind and accept Jenson’s offer.
But if she no longer loved me, then why had she never married?
Thursday 22 December
And so, at last, I am in Shropshire. It was a relief to my spirits to be with Edward again, indeed, I did not know the full extent of their oppression until I arrived. I was delighted to meet Edward’s wife, a lovely young woman, full of gentle humour and sense, with engaging manners and personal elegance. Her spirits are just those to suit him: lively enough to make her an attractive companion, but quiet enough to enable her to help him in his work; and I believe they are very happy. And why should they not be? They have each other, their house is a gentleman’s residence of ample proportions, and the living is prosperous.
They made me very welcome, and set an excellent dinner before me. We spoke of their marriage and my time at sea; of their neighbourhood and neighbours; of Sophia and Benjamin; and then of generalities.
Once dinner was over, Eleanor withdrew, leaving us to our port. I congratulated Edward on his wife, and he smiled and told me he was a lucky man.
‘I have a beautiful wife, and I have done well in the church,’ he said expansively. ‘Not as well as you hoped—I have not become a bishop!—but I like the life I have.’ Then he turned astute eyes on me and said, ‘But all is not well with you, it seems. You must have sustained a shock when you found that Sophia had taken Kellynch Hall.’
I said nothing, for I was afraid his sympathy might unman me.
‘Come, there is no need to hide it from me. It is eight years since Anne rejected you, and in all that time you have never spoken of another woman. You still think of her.’
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘I do. And you are right in supposing I was shocked when Sophia and Benjamin took Kellynch Hall. Of all the houses in Somersetshire, for them to settle on that one.’
‘And how is Anne? She remained in the neighbourhood when her family went to Bath, I understand?’
‘Yes.’ And then, before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him everything. It was a relief to my spirits to be able to speak at last, for I had never mentioned my short-lived engagement to another living soul, kept silent by a desire to protect Anne’s reputation as well as my own pride. Edward was the only person in the world I could talk to, and now that I found myself in his company again, out it all poured: my meeting with Anne, the Musgroves, our trip to Lyme, and Louisa.