Captain Wentworth's Diary

Monday 13 February

A smile broke out on my face this morning as I read my letters.

‘What happiness!’ I said. ‘Louisa is to marry Captain Benwick! They fell in love during her convalescence. It is all here, in this letter from Harville. Splendid fellow! He wrote to me as soon as he heard the news.’

‘Captain Benwick is a friend of yours, I collect?’ said Eleanor.

‘Yes, he is indeed.’

‘And Louisa? Was she not the girl who had the accident at Lyme?’

‘Yes, she was.’

‘Then it is a very happy outcome to a sad event,’ said Eleanor approvingly.

‘And so it is!’ I cried.

I was glad that I had ordered my horse before opening my letters, for within half an hour I was able to leave the house and ride out in the frosty morning, with my breath clouding the air in front of me. When I had ridden far enough, and was out of sight and sound of any house, I reined in my horse and shouted, ‘Free!’ at the top of my voice. ‘Free! I am free!’

I laughed with the joy of it. After all these weeks of anguish, I was free at last to go to Bath! Free to find Anne! Free to marry her, if she would have me.

Doubts assailed me. I patted my horse’s neck and rode on, trying not to listen to them, but they would not be denied. She might not have me. She might refuse me. But despite my fears, there was room for hope. She had turned down at least one man of better pretensions than myself, when she refused Charles Musgrove, and over and over I had asked myself, Was it for me? I knew there was only one way to be sure. I must go to Bath at once and then I would know, once and for all.

Over luncheon, I told Eleanor and Edward of my intentions. Eleanor was not surprised, assuming I was going to see Sophia, but Edward guessed my true reason. He spoke to me about it after dinner when Eleanor had withdrawn.

‘You are going to see Anne?’ he asked.

‘I am.’

‘Then I wish you luck.’

‘Thank you. I will need it. I scarcely dare see her, for in her looks, her words, will be comprised my future happiness.’

‘You have never lacked courage, Frederick. You will bear it, whatever the answer is, but I hope for your sake it is a happy one,’ he said.

I thanked him for his good wishes, and told him that I meant to set out first thing tomorrow morning.

I spent the rest of the day thinking of what I would say to her when I saw her again.

Wednesday 15 February

And so here I am, in Bath, ready to face the future.

Thursday 16 February

I called on Sophia and Benjamin this morning. They were surprised to see me, but made me very welcome, and insisted I remove from the inn where I had taken a room, saying I must stay with them. I could not stand out against such kindness and I did as they suggested. I was pleased to find that their house was comfortable, and in a good part of town.

After giving them Edward’s compliments, I asked them, casually, if they had seen the Elliots.

‘No, we have not yet found out where they are living, but as soon as we discover their address we mean to call on them,’ said Sophia.

I could not rest, and making business my excuse, I left the house soon afterwards with the intention of discovering where Anne was living for myself. I had not gone far before I fell in with another party of my acquaintance just before Milsom Street. They suggested we should walk on together and I agreed.

‘My brother is renting the estate of Sir Walter Elliot,’ I said. ‘He is in Bath at present. Do you happen to know him?’

‘Yes, we have been introduced. He is here with his daughter, Miss Elliot,’ said Mr Lytham.

‘His other daughter is here as well. She has newly joined them. A Miss Anne Elliot,’ remarked Mrs Lytham.

I asked if they knew where Sir Walter was living, and, as we turned into Milsom Street, Mrs Lytham informed me that the Elliots were renting a house in Camden Place.

It began to rain, and I was glad of the umbrella I had purchased. I was about to open it to shelter the ladies when Mrs Lytham remarked that she would like to buy some ribbon. We agreed to go to the shop together, in an effort to avoid the rain. We had only just entered when I saw ... Anne, right there in front of me!

I started, and felt the colour flood my face. After rehearsing our first meeting so many times, I had never imagined it like this, for I had not foreseen an unexpected encounter. All my practised speeches went out of my head and I could do nothing but stand and stare at her, as a range of emotions flooded over me: surprise on seeing her, relief that I had found her, pleasure on seeing her and chagrin that she was not alone.

She, on the other hand, seemed perfectly composed. Was I nothing to her, then, that she could see me unexpectedly with such equanimity? Had she forgotten me, and forgotten what we once were to each other? Had those feelings died in her breast? Had she come to regard me as nothing more than an old acquaintance?

I had thought ... hoped ... that her rejection of Charles Musgrove meant that there was a chance for me, but what if it meant only that she did not like him, or that she did not think him good enough, or that, as Miss Musgrove suspected, Lady Russell had not liked him?

‘Miss Anne,’ I said, embarrassed, and suddenly tongue-tied. ‘It is an honour and a pleasure to see you again.’

She smiled and made me a curtsey.

The smile gave me hope that my presence was not entirely unwelcome, and I wanted to say more, but as one of my party happened to speak to me at that moment, I had to go to the counter. As soon as I was free, however, I approached Anne and spoke again, scarcely knowing what I said, but determined to say something. I asked her about her father, I believe, and spoke about the weather, but I was not comfortable, I was not easy, I could not assume that manner which we had had before, of perfect understanding, because there was not a perfect understanding between us.

I saw her sister; her sister saw me; I was ready to speak; but Miss Elliot turned away. So different from Anne!

‘Where is the carriage?’ Miss Elliot asked. ‘Lady Dalrymple’s carriage should be here by now. Mrs Clay, go to the window and see if you can see it.’

I recognized in Mrs Clay, the daughter of Mr Shepherd, now married and widowed, as I had heard. She went over to the window as commanded, and I was seized with a fear that Anne was about to leave. I turned to speak to her, eager to make the most of my opportunity, but I was too late! Lady Dalrymple’s carriage was announced. Miss Elliot and Mrs Clay immediately made for the door, and I took what opportunity I could, by offering my arm to Anne. I hoped that we might be able to continue our conversation as I escorted her to the carriage.

‘I am much obliged to you, but I am not going with them,’ she said. ‘The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer walking.’

‘But it rains,’ I said.

‘Oh! very little. Nothing that I regard,’ she returned.

An inspiration hit me, and I offered her my umbrella. Then I thought of a better suggestion, and begged to be allowed to get her a chair.

‘I am very much obliged to you, but the rain will come to nothing, I am sure,’ she said.

I was about to offer her my arm as well as my umbrella and walk her home, thanking Providence for the opportunity that had been thrown in my way, when she dashed my hopes by saying that she was waiting for her cousin, Mr Elliot, who had just gone on an errand and would be returning at any minute.

So Elliot was in Bath, and she preferred walking with him to walking with me. I was downcast. What had he been saying to her whilst they had been in Bath? Had he been making love to her? Winning her affections?

At that moment, I saw him walking down the street, and I felt my spirits sink. He would not have any difficulty in winning her family’s approval, if he wanted her for his wife. Her sister might be jealous, it was true, and this might distress Anne for a while. But other than that, in age, appearance, birth and fortune he was an excellent match.

Was that how she would see it? I asked myself, glancing at her profile. I could not believe it. No, not Anne, who had a heart as deep as mine, and who would not marry without love, I was sure.

But perhaps she loved him. Perhaps she could see in him everything she had seen in me eight years before.

At that moment, Elliot walked in. I recollected him perfectly. There was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she passed, except in his air, because, whereas before he had looked at her as an admiring stranger, now he looked at her in the manner of a privileged friend. He appeared to see and think only of her, apologized for his stay, and was grieved to have kept her waiting. He was anxious to get her away without further loss of time, and before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off together, her arm under his, saying only a ‘Good morning to you!’ before they left.

As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies in my own party began talking of them, saying that Mr Elliot appeared to like Miss Anne very much. Mrs Lytham said that her friend Mrs Veer had told her that Mr Elliot was always with her family, and that it was easy to see how it would end.

I was devastated. To lose Anne to a man like Elliot, when I had been so close to speaking to her myself!

‘She is pretty, I think, Anne Elliot; very pretty when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister,’ said Mrs Lytham.

‘Oh! so do I,’ replied Miss Stanhope.

‘And so do I,’ replied another. ‘No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them. What do you think, Captain Wentworth? Do you not think her the handsomer of the two?’

I was about to reply truthfully, and to say that indeed I did, when I recollected my manners and said that I thought both ladies extremely beautiful.

‘Very politic!’ said Lytham with a laugh.

‘Ay,’ said Mr Runcorne. ‘Never be drawn on the relative beauty of ladies, for you may be sure it will come to their ears, and though you will have the smiles of one for ever more, you will have the other’s frowns.’

The men laughed heartily, and the women continued to talk of Anne.

‘A pretty woman, and not as proud as her father and sister,’ said Miss Stanhope. ‘She has an old school friend, a Mrs Smith, you know, who lives in poverty in Westgate Buildings. Many people would drop such an acquaintance, for it is not a nice neighbourhood, but Miss Anne visits her friend assiduously.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Mrs Lytham.

‘I am, for I have seen her there myself as my carriage was driving through the neighbourhood.’

‘Then that is another thing in her favour. Mr Elliot will be getting a good, as well as a pretty, wife,’ said Lytham.

‘A spring wedding, I think,’ said Mrs Lytham.

A spring wedding! I could not bear to think of it! To lose Anne, so soon, to another man?

‘Impossible!’ I broke out.

The whole party looked at me, startled, and I felt myself redden with embarrassment. I sought around for an explanation for my outburst, and luckily, one was to hand.

‘He was wearing crêpe around his hat. He is in mourning,’ I said.

‘Ah, yes, very true. A summer wedding, then,’ said Mrs Lytham.

‘He might not care to marry again,’ I said, more to convince myself than Mrs Lytham.

‘He does not seem to be inconsolable,’ she remarked. ‘Quite the reverse. He seems very interested in Miss Anne. What kind of woman was his wife?’

‘Not a woman of any birth, but intelligent, accomplished and an heiress, by all accounts,’ said Miss Stanhope.

‘Ah.’

‘She fell in love with him—’

‘I am not surprised, for he is a fine-looking man.’

‘—and she was determined to have him.’

‘Really? I heard it was he who pursued her,’ said Lytham.

‘Not a bit of it. He was destined for Miss Elliot,’ said Miss Stanhope.

‘Then Miss Elliot should have fixed him when she had the chance,’ said Mrs Lytham.

‘She tried, on more than one occasion. She and her father sought him out in London some ten years ago. They made much of him, and invited him back to Kellynch Hall, but he was a young man at the time, I might even say a very young man, and country relatives were not to his taste, so that he slipped the net.’

‘My dear, where did you hear all this?’

‘At the Pump Rooms, where else?’ said Miss Stanhope.

‘Ah, of course.’

‘And, now that he is a widower, it appears he prefers Miss Anne,’ Miss Stanhope finished.

‘She will be the future Lady Elliot, then, and mistress of Kellynch,’ said Mrs Lytham. ‘That will be hard for her sister to bear. But I am glad of it. I like her. She will fill the role very well.’ She turned to me. ‘Your brother has rented the Elliot’s house, I believe, Captain Wentworth?’

‘That is so. He took it at Michaelmas.’

‘A good time of year for a remove. Does he mean to stay there?’

‘For the time being, yes.’

‘Then he had better hope that Sir Walter does not meet with an accident, or Sir Walter’s heir will be wanting it back again!’

‘Is his fortune very large?’ asked Lytham.

‘Certainly,’ said Mrs Runcorne. ‘He is now a man of means, and lives with liberality—my cousin was acquainted with him in town.’

They began to ask me about Kellynch Hall. I did not want to speak of it; it held too many memories; but the ladies would not be satisfied without a minute description of the principal rooms.

To my relief, that seemed to satisfy them, for the conversation then turned away from Anne and moved on to their other acquaintance.

I dreaded the topic returning, however, for I could not trust myself to be silent if Mr Elliot was mentioned again, and so I took my leave.

I was engaged to dine with Sophia and Benjamin, but I found it difficult to keep my mind on the conversation at dinner. I found myself trying to decide what I would say to Anne when I saw her, but I could think of nothing that satisfied me. I decided to rely on the genius of the moment, and I only hope my wits do not desert me.

Friday 17 February

I set out for Camden Place but, as was the case yesterday, I saw Anne quite by chance, this time whilst walking down Pulteney Street. To my dismay, I saw that Lady Russell was with her. To my further dismay, I saw that, as soon as Anne saw me, she looked immediately at her companion.

Is she, then, still swayed by Lady Russell? I asked myself.

I did not know, but if she was, I feared my hopes would soon be dashed, for I had no reason to suppose that Lady Russell liked me any more than she had done eight years before. I might have made my fortune but Lady Russell, once she had made up her mind, was unlikely to change it.

Lady Russell looked in my direction but our eyes did not meet. I tried to catch Anne’s eye, but she had cast her gaze down, and would not look at me. I wanted to cross the road and speak to her, but the presence of Lady Russell, and Anne’s own downcast gaze, deterred me. I strengthened my resolve ... but the moment had passed.

I cursed myself inwardly, wondering when and where I had become such a coward. I had never been frightened when taking a ship into battle; but talking to Anne, finding out whether or not she still loved me ... that terrified me.

Saturday 18 February

I was persuaded to go to the theatre tonight by a party of friends. The play was very good but I did not enjoy it because Anne was not there, and if Anne was not there, I could see no reason for being there myself.

I was invited to a concert on Tuesday evening and, unable to think of any reason to refuse, I was forced to accept.

I hope I will have an opportunity to speak to Anne before then. I might see her at church tomorrow, or I might see her in the Pump Rooms. If not, I will have to call in Camden Place, welcome or not, and pay my respects to Sir Walter.

Sunday 19 February

I hoped I might see Anne at church this morning, but she and her family must frequent a different church, for I saw nothing of her.

Tuesday 21 February

I spent a fruitless day hoping to see Anne in the public buildings, and returned to my sister’s for an early dinner.

‘Have you called on Sir Walter yet?’ I asked her.

‘No, not yet,’ came the reply.

‘I think I will call tomorrow. I feel I should pay my respects.’

‘A good idea. I will go with you,’ she said, ‘and I will persuade Benjamin to come, too.’

Having arranged matters to my satisfaction, I felt more able to relax, and, after dinner, I went out to the concert in a happier mood. I arrived early, and decided to wait for the rest of my party inside. I went into the Octagon Room ... and I was astonished to see Anne. She was with her father, sister and Mrs Clay. I received a cold look from her father, and so I made up my mind to bow and pass on, hoping to speak to Anne later in the evening when her father and sister were not nearby. But Anne stepped forward and said, ‘How do you do?’

With those simple words my spirits lifted, for she had made an effort to speak to me, and perhaps all was not lost.

I stopped next to her, and enquired after her health, and the health of her family and friends. I heard a whispering between her father and sister, and then, to my surprise, Sir Walter acknowledged me. More slowly, and more grudgingly, Miss Elliot did the same. I made them a slight bow in return— slight, because their own acknowledgement had been slight— and then gave my attention back to Anne.

‘You did not get wet, I hope, the other day when you walked home in the rain?’ I asked her.

‘No, not at all.’

There was a silence and I felt I should move on, but I could not do so.

‘Perhaps I was a little wet,’ she said.

‘It must have been uncomfortable for you.’

‘Oh, no, not really.’

We fell silent again, and I searched my mind desperately for something else to say, for I did not want to leave her, nor did she seem to want to leave me.

‘Are you enjoying your visit to Bath?’ I asked.

‘Yes, it is most agreeable, thank you.’

I had so much I wanted to say to her I hardly knew where to begin, but I could not say anything of importance in the Octagon Rooms, in full view of her father and sister, with other people liable to enter at any moment. I wished I was at Kellynch Hall, walking by the river, with Anne by my side, so that I could say everything that was in my heart. But instead, I had to content myself with trivialities.

‘The Rooms are very fine,’ I said.

‘Indeed they are,’ she said, greeting my words with more warmth than they deserved.

I took courage from it, for she was not disgusted by my banalities. However, I could not think of anything else to say. I cursed myself inwardly for my stupidity.

‘The fire is hot,’ she said, rescuing us both from silence.

‘You are standing too near,’ I said, immediately solicitous. ‘Pray let us move aside.’

‘No, I am not too hot at all, it is just ... the fire is a little warm,’ she ended lamely.

We fell silent again. She would not meet my eye but looked past my shoulder, and I could not complain for, having managed one glance at her, I found myself looking at the ceiling.

What did it mean? I asked myself. She was embarrassed, that much I could tell, but why? Was she longing to open her heart to me and tell me that she had missed me? It seemed too much to hope for. Perhaps she was ashamed of her father and sister for not taking proper notice of me, and wanted to make it up to me by taking notice of me herself. Or perhaps she was ashamed of Lady Russell, who had walked past me in the street without saying a word. Perhaps she was trying to smooth over our past differences, so that we could meet in the future without embarrassment. Or perhaps ... my spirits quailed ... perhaps she was trying to find the words to let me know that she and Mr Elliot were betrothed.

I knew I must give her an opening to speak, and I thought I could do so by raising the subject of Lyme, for it was at Lyme she had first seen Mr Elliot.

‘I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme,’ I said. ‘I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more so from its not overpowering you at the time.’

‘No, I assure you, I was not overcome. I was only glad to be of service to Louisa and Henrietta.’

‘It was a frightful hour,’ I said, remembering it in all its detail: Louisa’s fall, my guilt and remorse, the fear I had felt when I thought she was dead. But things had turned out far better than I had, at one time, thought possible, and, smiling again, I said, ‘The day has produced some effects, however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery.’

She agreed, but said she thought it would be a happy match, for they both had good principles and good temper.

‘With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it,’ I said, and my words were heartfelt.

But as I spoke of the Musgroves, and their true parental hearts that were anxious to promote their daughter’s comfort, I found myself gradually losing sight of Louisa and James, and thinking more of myself and Anne, for Anne had had no such parental goodwill.

I stopped as I realized where my words were tending. I glanced towards Anne and saw that her thoughts had been following mine, for she was blushing. Moreover, she had fixed her eyes on the ground and would not look at me. I remembered how it had been for us: many difficulties to contend with, opposition, caprice—everything Benwick would not have to endure.

Searching around for another subject I found I could no longer bear idle talk, I had to give her an intimation of my thoughts. I had to let her know they were unchanged, for perhaps—perhaps, if she was not irrevocably settled on Mr Elliot—she could still love me. I cleared my throat and went on, although I spoke haltingly, not sure what to say, afraid of saying too little, or too much.

‘I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind,’ I said. ‘I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but Benwick is something more. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation! With a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny Harville was a very superior creature,’ I said, looking at Anne, and hoping to convey with my eyes that I found her a very superior creature, ‘and his attachment to her was indeed attachment.’ Again, I looked at Anne, and sought to convey that my attachment to her was indeed attachment. ‘A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman!’ I said. ‘He ought not; he does not,’ I finished.

If ever a man could speak of love with his eyes, I spoke of my love then. I waited breathlessly for Anne’s reply, but she said nothing. I wondered if I had gone too far, and said too much? And then I wondered if she had understood me, or if she had really thought I was speaking of Benwick, and Benwick alone. She did not seem to know what to think, or what to say.

At last she spoke.

‘I should very much like to see Lyme again.’

I was astonished.

‘Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust.’

‘The last few hours were certainly very painful,’ she admitted, ‘but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short,’ she blushed slightly, ‘altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable.’

I felt my emotions pulled in two directions. Were her recollections of it agreeable because of me? If so, what happiness! Or were they agreeable because of her seeing Mr Elliot for the first time there? If so, what misery!

I longed to ask, to find out, but at that moment there was a stir in the room. It had become fuller and fuller whilst I had been speaking to Anne, and it was now energized by the entrance of Lady Dalrymple. Anne moved away to greet her, and I was left alone, to wonder whether Anne’s eagerness to greet her was caused by the fact that she was attended by Mr Elliot.

They formed a happy group: Lady Dalrymple enjoyed the fawning of all about her; Sir Walter and Miss Elliot basked in the honour of her acquaintance; Mr Elliot was much taken with Anne; and Anne ... Anne seemed to welcome him. My heart ached and, unable to bear it, I left the room.

When I was at last sensible of my surroundings again, I found myself in the Concert Room. Mrs Lytham soon found me and began talking about the music that was to come. I was incapable of rational speech, but fortunately she was very fond of music, and talked enough for both of us.

‘Lady Dalrymple is here, I see,’ said Mrs Lytham.

I looked round—I could hardly help it, as Lady Dalrymple’s party entered with a bustle that was designed to catch every eye. I turned away, but not before I had seen Anne— radiant Anne, whose eyes were bright and whose cheeks were glowing with a light that came from within—sit on one of the foremost benches, next to Mr Elliot.

I took myself off to the farthest side of the room, so that I would not have to see them together, but I could not take my eyes away from her. I kept glimpsing her through the sea of feathered headdresses, her face close to Mr Elliot’s, and in the interval succeeding an Italian song, I had the mortification of seeing her speak to him in a low voice, intimately, to the exclusion of all others, with their heads almost touching.

There was a break in the performance, and I was hailed by Cranfield. He and a group of other men were discussing music and politics, and I was forced to join in. I could barely keep my mind on the conversation, however, and my gaze kept returning to Anne. She was still with Mr Elliot; still talking to him; still enjoying his company.

I heard my name, and realized that Sir Walter and Lady Dalrymple were speaking of me. I could not hear their conversation, but I imagined Sir Walter saying, Captain Wentworth once had pretensions of winning my daughter, but, as you can see, she has made a better choice, and means to marry the next baronet. He had never liked me, and he must rejoice in my total rout.

The room began to fill again in preparation for the second act, and I noticed that Mr Elliot did not return to his place by Anne. Despite my fears, I made the most of my opportunity and stepped forward with a view to sitting next to her, but others were quicker, and her bench soon filled up. I watched it; I could not help myself; and to my great good fortune, they soon tired of the music and left the room. There was a space next to Anne. I hesitated, tormented by doubt once more. Should I go to her, and discover once and forever that she regarded me as nothing more than an acquaintance from the past? Or to do nothing, and perhaps miss my opportunity with her?

I took my courage in both hands and went over to her.

‘I hope you are enjoying the concert. I expected to like it more,’ I said, thinking that, if Mr Elliot had not been present, I should certainly have been better pleased.

‘The singing is not of the first quality, it is true, but there are some fine voices, and the orchestra is good,’ she said.

I was heartened by the fact that she was disposed to talk to me, and that she did not appear to look round for Mr Elliot whilst we spoke. I was just beginning to enjoy our conversation, and was about to take my seat in the vacant space next to her, when Mr Elliot tapped her on the shoulder.

‘I beg your pardon, but your assistance is needed,’ he said to Anne. ‘Miss Carteret is very anxious to have a general idea of what is next to be sung, and she desires you to translate the Italian.’

There was something so intimate in his gesture of touching her, and something so confiding in his manner of speech, that all the joy drained out of me. I could not sit there and listen to song after song of the agonizingly beautiful music, with its romantic Italian lyrics, whilst Mr Elliot was behind us, ready to touch her shoulder again at any moment with the air of an acknowledged lover, and to bend his head close to hers, and talk to her in a low voice, their thoughts as one. I could not bear it. I knew I had to leave before the second act began, before I found myself trapped in the acutest misery. I excused myself hurriedly, saying, ‘I must wish you good night; I am going.’

‘Is not this song worth staying for?’ she asked in surprise.

‘No! there is nothing worth my staying for,’ I said bitterly.

And with this, I hurried out of the room.

I arrived back at Sophia’s house in time for supper, but I could not pay attention to her. Declaring myself exhausted, I retired to my room, where I thought of nothing but Anne and Mr Elliot, Mr Elliot and Anne.

Wednesday 22 February

I awoke to find the winter sun shining through my curtains, but the brightness, which would usually have cheered me, could not restore me to happiness, for the memory of the concert was too clearly etched on my mind.

Friday 24 February

I went out for a walk after breakfast and, to my surprise the first person I met when I set foot out of the door was Charles Musgrove! There was a start on both sides, and then a smile of recognition, which was quickly followed by a moment of awkwardness on Charles’s part. I could tell that he was thinking of Louisa, and wondering if I had been wounded by the news of her engagement. I hastened to put his mind at ease.

‘I am delighted to see you, Musgrove,’ I greeted him warmly. ‘We have not seen each other since Lyme. Who would have thought that the incidents there would have had such a welcome outcome? I was so pleased to hear of your sister’s engagement. Such a beautiful and courageous young woman deserves every happiness in life, and I believe Benwick is just the man to give it to her. He is an excellent fellow, with a steady character, and I am heartily glad for them both.’

‘It is good of you to say so, Wentworth,’ he said, shaking me warmly by the hand, as a look of relief spread across his face. ‘I thought ... but there now, that is all in the past, and I know my sister will be pleased to learn that you wish her well.’

‘I do, with all my heart,’ I assured him.

Having established matters satisfactorily between us in this respect, we fell into step, and I asked him what he was doing in Bath.

‘I am here with my family. My mother is here, and Mary of course, and the Harvilles are with us. I do not know if you are aware of the fact, but my mother invited the Harvilles to Uppercross when Louisa was well enough to come home. My mother wanted to thank them for all they had done for Louisa. I believe I may say they have enjoyed their visit, and their children have enjoyed playing with my younger brothers and sisters. It was Harville who gave us the idea of visiting Bath, for he needed to come on business, and I decided to come with him, for the country is very dull at this time of year. Then Mary decided she could not bear to be left behind, and my mother declared that she would like to visit some friends here, and Henrietta thought it an excellent opportunity to buy her wedding clothes. So here we are, all six of us, ready to enjoy ourselves in our various ways.’

‘A splendid idea. I am glad that Henrietta and Hayter have decided not to wait before getting married. Long delays are an evil, in my opinion. If two people love each other, they should formalize their affections straight away.’

As I spoke, I thought of myself and Anne. If only we had had a chance to formalize our affections in the year six!

‘I suppose so, though I do not believe they would have gone ahead if not for a great piece of luck,’ said Musgrove. ‘What do you think, Wentworth? Hayter has acquired a living.’

‘Indeed? I am very happy for him. Where is it?’

‘Only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, in Dorsetshire. It is not his forever; he holds it for a youth who is at present too young to take it up; but it will be his for many years, and by the time the boy is old enough, Hayter is sure to have found something else.’

‘It seems eminently suitable.’

‘Yes, I am happy for them.’ Then, turning to matters nearer to hand, he said, ‘I have just secured a box at the theatre for tomorrow night. I hope you will join us?’

I expressed myself delighted.

Harville joined us at this point, having undertaken a commission for one of the ladies, and we went on, all three of us together.

‘You will come and pay your respects to my mother?’ asked Musgrove, as we approached the White Hart.

‘With the greatest of pleasure.’

We went into the inn. As we did so, Musgrove went on ahead, and I was left to walk behind with Harville. It seemed a long time since we had been in the Navy together. Life at sea had its problems, but I found myself thinking that it was a great deal more straightforward than life on land.

‘Tell me about Louisa Musgrove,’ I said. ‘Has she completely recovered?’

‘She is well, but not as lively as formerly, or so I understand,’ he said. ‘Of course, I did not know her before the accident, but her family has often mentioned that she was always singing or dancing or running about.’

‘Yes, she was,’ I said.

‘Whether her languor will pass, I do not know. Perhaps, as she continues to improve, her vigour will return.’

‘It was good of you and Harriet to look after her.’

‘We were only too happy to do it. Any friend of yours, Wentworth ... I did think, at one time, that you intended to marry her. It appears I was wrong.’

‘I was a friend of the family, but nothing more,’ I said. ‘I am pleased that she and Benwick are happy.’

He was silent.

‘You do not like the engagement?’ I asked.

He hesitated.

‘I do, of course. James is a good man, and she seems a delightful girl. Only ... it is selfish of me, I know, but I do not like the idea of him forgetting Fanny. They were engaged for years, Wentworth, and she has only been dead for seven months.’

‘She was a wonderful girl, superior in every way,’ I said gently.

‘Yes, she was. I am partial, of course, because she was my sister, but I truly think she was special. And James thought so, too. But now ... I miss Fanny,’ he said with a sigh.

I spoke of her beauty and her good nature, recalling the times we had all three spent together, and Harville was cheered.

‘You are right, of course. James has a right to happiness, and I am pleased he has found it. It just seemed too soon ... but better too soon than too late. I am glad for him. Yes, I am.’

We went up to Mrs Musgrove’s rooms, and as soon as I walked in, I saw Anne!

I was taken aback, and yet I should have expected it, for this arrival of the Musgroves would inevitably bring us together at some point. She was connected with them, being their friend, and so was I. Nevertheless, I could not trust myself to do more than greet her politely. She looked as though she would like me to draw close and I wondered, fleetingly, if I could be mistaken in thinking there was something between her and Mr Elliot, after all.

My hopes were dashed before they had time to take root, however, for Mary, standing at the window, called our attention to a gentleman standing below.

‘Anne, there is Mrs Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now. They seem deep in talk. Who is it? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot himself.’

‘No, it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till tomorrow,’ said Anne.

So she was aware of all his comings and goings! I thought, turning my eyes towards her.

‘I am certain it is him,’ said Mary, adding, affronted, ‘I am sure I may be expected to know my own cousin. He has the family features; he is the same man we saw in Lyme. Only come to the window, Anne, and take a look!’

Anne appeared embarrassed, and I was not surprised, for all eyes had turned to her, but as she said nothing, the room fell silent.

It was an uncomfortable pause.

‘Do come, Anne,’ urged Mary, ‘come and look yourself. You will be too late if you do not make haste. They are parting; they are shaking hands. He is turning away. Not know Mr. Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all about Lyme.’

At last, Anne moved to the window. What did her hesitation mean? That she did not want to see him? Or that she did not want to appear to be eager to see him? I wished I could read her thoughts.

‘Yes, it is Mr. Elliot, certainly,’ said Anne calmly. ‘He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may have been mistaken.’

This spelled hope. If she was mistaken, then she could not have been attending to him when he told her of his plans.

What torture it was to examine every sentence, to see if it proved a love affair between them, or the reverse!

‘Well, Mother,’ said Musgrove, when Mrs Clay and Mr Elliot had disappeared from view, ‘I have done something for you that you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for tomorrow night. I know you love a play, and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play.’

‘A play! The very thing,’ said Mrs Musgrove. ‘As long as Henrietta likes the idea—’

‘Good heavens! Charles, how can you think of such a thing?’ broke in Mary. ‘Have you forgot that we are engaged to go to Camden Place tomorrow night? And that we were most particularly asked on purpose to meet Lady Dalrymple, her daughter, and Mr. Elliot, all the principal family connections, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be so forgetful?’

Whilst she and Charles argued the point back and forth, he declaring no promise had been given, and she declaring it had, I watched Anne, to see if I could tell by her face whether she looked forward to meeting Elliot again.

Charles’s final words, ‘What is Mr. Elliot to me?’ brought my eyes to Anne again, as I wondered, with all my soul: What was Elliot to Anne? I could read nothing from her expression, nor did it seem to change when Mrs Musgrove said that Charles had better go back and change the box for Tuesday.

‘It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Anne, too, if there is a party at her father’s,’ she said. ‘I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play if Anne could not be with us.’

I awaited Anne’s reply with bated breath.

‘If it depended only on my inclination, ma’am, the party at home (excepting on Mary’s account) would not be the smallest impediment. I have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you,’ she said.

But Mary was adamant that the party could not be missed, and it was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day.

I left my seat, overcome by what I had heard. She had no pleasure in that sort of meeting! No pleasure in Mr Elliot’s company! She would rather go to the play!

I went over to stand by her, going by way of the fireplace so as not to draw attention to the fact, and tried to think of something to say.

‘You have not been long enough in Bath to enjoy the evening parties of the place, then?’ I asked.

‘Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player,’ she replied.

Here was my opening, no matter how slight, and I seized it. ‘You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes,’ I added significantly.

‘I am not yet so much changed,’ she said, and her words, too, seemed significant.

She was not so much changed. And yet ...

‘It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a half is a period!’ I said, not knowing I had spoken out loud.

I would have said more, but Henrietta urged Anne to go with her in order to fulfil her commissions.

‘I am perfectly ready to go with you,’ said Anne, but she did not look it. She looked as though she wished to stay.

And then something happened to delay her. Sounds were heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot had arrived.

I felt an instant oppression, and I could tell that Anne felt the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to match the elegance of her father and sister.

I was surprised that they acknowledged me, and that they did so a little more graciously than before. I wondered what could have raised me in their estimation. Perhaps Lady Dalrymple had spoken well of me, for I was sure nothing else would have satisfied their pride.

‘Captain Wentworth,’ said Miss Elliot, smiling.

I made her a cold bow: I had not forgotten how she treated Anne.

It turned out that she and her father had called to give out invitations to their party.

‘Tomorrow evening, to meet a few friends: no formal party,’ Miss Elliot said.

She laid her cards on the table—Miss Elliot at home—with a courteous smile, and included me in the courtesy; indeed she made a point of handing me an invitation. I acknowledged it politely, but felt only disdain. They had not valued me eight years previously; would not value me now, if others had not shown them the way; and I knew their friendship would be lost the moment Lady Dalrymple, or some such other person, spoke against me. And yet it was an invitation, and it would give me a chance to see Anne, I thought, as I turned the card over in my hand.

‘Only think of Elizabeth’s including everybody!’ whispered Mary very audibly. ‘I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card out of his hand.’

I felt myself growing red with contempt and, as I caught Anne’s eye, I knew that her feelings echoed my own. That decided me. I would go to the party. It was not certain that Anne loved Mr Elliot; and I would not count her lost until an engagement was announced.

I made my bow and, feeling there was still hope, I left the ladies to their shopping.

Saturday 25 February

It was raining heavily when I awoke, but it would have taken more than rain to keep me from the White Hart this morning. I escorted my sister and Benjamin and we arrived there immediately after breakfast. To my disappointment, Anne was not there. Sophia was soon talking to Mrs Musgrove, and I fell into conversation with Harville. Mary and Henrietta kept walking over to the window and exclaiming on the rain. As soon as it cleared, Henrietta said, ‘At last! Come, Mary, let us be off.’

‘Will you not wait for Anne?’ asked Mary.

‘I will not wait for anyone, I am eager to be about my business. There is some lace I saw yesterday that I must procure, and a new bonnet that I must have. Mama, you must make sure Anne does not leave. Once she has arrived, you must keep her here until we return. I would not miss her for anything.’

I was gratified to see how much Henrietta valued Anne. She evidently had not forgotten that Anne had lent her her assistance at Lyme.

The two young ladies set out, and not long afterwards Anne arrived. I was immediately aware of her, but I could not break off from Harville as he had asked me to help him with a letter of business. I wanted it out of the way, and suggested I write it at once.

Paper and pen were laid out on a table at the side of the room, so I went over to it, and began to write. I consoled myself with the fact that I was not missing any conversation of great import, for Mrs Musgrove was telling Sophia about Henrietta’s engagement, and was going into such detail that I am sure it took all of Sophia’s patience to seem interested.

‘And so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement,’ finished Mrs Musgrove.

‘That is precisely what I was going to observe,’ said my sister. ‘I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. I always think that no mutual—’

I no longer heard her for I had to pay attention to my letter, but when I had come to the end of it, Sophia was still abominating long engagements.

I sanded the letter, and as I did so Harville left his seat, moved to the window, and invited Anne to join him with a smile. They had moved so close to me that I could not help overhearing what was being said.

‘Look here,’ he began, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, ‘do you know who that is?’

Anne took it and looked at it, and declared it to be Captain Benwick.

He agreed, and said it was for Louisa.

‘But,’ he went on sadly, ‘it was not done for her. It was drawn at the Cape, in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, and he was bringing it home for her. And I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it,’ he said, looking at me and referring to the letter I was engaged upon. ‘He is writing about it now.’ His voice dropped. ‘Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!’

‘No,’ replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice, ‘that, I can easily believe.’

Her ready sympathy won Harville’s gratitude. I, too, was grateful to her, for giving solace to Harville’s spirits.

‘It was not in her nature,’ he said, drawn on by Anne’s manner. ‘She doted on him.’

‘It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved,’ said Anne.

I started, and I was glad at that moment that there was no one near enough to see it. Could I believe what I was hearing? Could Anne really be saying that a woman who truly loved would never forget a man so soon? And could she mean something by it? For I thought she glanced in my direction. Did she mean that she had not forgotten me? I felt my hopes stir—and then sink. The two cases were not alike. Fanny had been dead for less than a year, but Anne and I had been separated for eight years. That was a difference in time indeed.

Even so, I strained to hear what she would say next, for I felt sure there was more to her words than Harville could know, and my every nerve was on fire. I glanced at her, too, in the mirror that hung over the table, so that I could catch her expression. Next to her, I saw Harville smile and shake his head.

Anne spoke out more decidedly.

‘We certainly do not forget you so soon as you forget us,’ she told him. ‘It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.’

Is that what she thought? I wondered. Did she believe that occupation and exertion had weakened my impressions? That I had forgotten her in the press of other concerns?

It was a new idea to me, and one that troubled me greatly.

‘Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant),’ said Harville, his words putting new heart in me, for he was speaking up for all men, ‘it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since.’

‘True,’ said Anne, ‘very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man’s nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick.’

I longed to speak but I could not, for I feared what I would say; that I would blurt out my feelings before everyone, astonishing them with the fervour of my passion.

‘No, no, it is not man’s nature,’ said Harville. ‘I will not allow it to be more man’s nature than woman’s to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather.’

‘Your feelings may be the strongest,’ replied Anne, ‘but the same spirit of analogy will authorize me to assert that ours are the most tender. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be too hard, indeed, if woman’s feelings were to be added to all this.’

As she spoke, she faltered, overcome with emotion, and I dropped my pen on the floor, so agitated was I, and nearly bursting with all I wanted to say.

‘Have you finished your letter?’ Harville asked me, his attention attracted by the noise.

I was about to admit that I had when an idea occurred to me, and saying, ‘Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes,’ I pulled another sheet of paper towards me, picked up my pen, dipped it in the ink, and began to write. My pen scrawled across the paper in my haste as my feelings poured out of me.

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever.

And as I wrote, I heard more and more words that almost overpowered me.

‘I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman’s fickleness. But perhaps, you will say, these were all written by men,’ Harville was saying.

‘Perhaps I shall,’ said Anne. ‘Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. I will not allow books to prove anything.’

Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story, I thought. And I was determined to tell Anne mine:

I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.

‘But how shall we prove anything?’ Harville asked.

‘We never shall,’ admitted Anne. ‘We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or, in some respect, saying what should not be said.’

With every word, I was more and more convinced that she had not forgotten me, that she loved me still, for what else could her talk about betraying a confidence mean?

Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?

‘Ah! if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, ‘ “God knows whether we ever meet again!”’ said Harville.

‘Oh! I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman,’ said Anne.

Then she knew that men could be constant! And, knowing it, must know that I could be constant, too!

My pen responded to her, as my voice, at the present time, could not:

I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

I was about to put down my pen when I realized that Anne was still speaking.

‘I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives,’ she said. ‘I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as—if I may be allowed the expression, so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one: you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone!’

Is that what she thought? That she loved longest when hope was gone? Nay, for I would love her forever, with or without hope.

‘You are a good soul,’ said Harville affectionately.

A good soul, indeed.

Sophia was taking her leave, saying that we would all meet again at the Elliots’ party, and I added a postscript in haste.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or followyour party, as soon as possible. A word, a look will be enough to decide whether I enter your father’s house this evening or never.

I folded my letter, made some answer to Sophia, though I had not caught her question, and told Harville I would be with him in half a minute. I sealed the letter, slid it under the scattered paper—for I had time to do no more—and hurried from the room. She would find it there, I was sure.

But a minute later I was not sure, and I decided I must find a way of delivering it into her hand. I returned, saying I had forgotten my gloves, and to my relief I found Anne standing by the table. So she was curious as to what I had been writing, as I had hoped! Standing with my back towards Mrs Musgrove, I pulled out the letter and gave it to Anne, and was out of the room in an instant.

What would she think when she read it? I asked myself. I had written in such haste, I scarcely knew if it was intelligible. I had blotted the ink once to my certain knowledge. Would she be able to make out the words?

I went out into the street. I walked, I turned, I walked again, until at last I found myself in Union Street, and there in front of me was Anne! She was going home, then, and I might have a chance to speak to her. But she was accompanied by Musgrove. I wished him a hundred miles away. I joined them, hoping that, by a word or a look I could read her thoughts, and yet she did not look at me. What did it mean? Was she embarrassed? Yes. But embarrassed because she was pleased with my letter, or embarrassed because she was alarmed by it? I did not know.

I was irresolute. I did not know whether to stay or pass on. I looked again, and this time Anne returned my look. It was not a look to repulse me. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed. I had seen that look before, when we had walked by the river in the first days of our courtship, and it encouraged me to walk by her side.

And then Musgrove said, ‘Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?’

‘I hardly know,’ I said, surprised.

‘Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father’s door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow’s in the market place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance.’

‘It sounds too good to be missed. I should be glad to escort Anne; it will give me the greatest pleasure to be of service to her,’ I said, hoping I did not sound too rapturous, for my spirits had soared at the thought of being alone with Anne.

Musgrove left us, and we bent our steps to the gravel walk, where we could talk to our hearts’ content. As soon as we reached it, the words tumbled out of me, for I could contain them no longer.

‘I cannot be easy ... I cannot be still ... Anne, tell me, is there hope for me?’ I said, scarcely daring to breathe.

‘Yes, there is hope, more than hope,’ she said, in accents as breathless as my own. ‘I have been so wrong ...’ she said.

I wanted to shout for joy, but I said only, ‘Not wrong, never wrong.’

‘If you could only know what my feelings have been since the day you left Somerset eight years ago.’

‘Did you regret me at once?’ I asked.

‘I did, though at the time I still thought I was right to have refused you.’

‘How could you have done it, when you were so much in love with me? The times I spent with you that summer were the happiest of my life. Do you remember them, too?’

‘Every day. I remember the way my heart lifted every time I saw you, looking so much more alive than anyone I knew. Your spirit captivated me, and so did your tales of foreign shores, your zest for life, and your love of me,’ she added with a blush. ‘No one had ever looked at me like that, and if they had, I would not have wanted them to. But with you, everything was different. With you, the world was a bright and wonderful place.’

‘I asked you once before if you would marry me. I ask you again. Will you marry me, Anne?’

‘I will,’ she said.

A slight shadow crossed my face.

‘You need not be afraid that I will change my mind,’ she reassured me. ‘Then I was a young girl, persuaded by friends who knew more of the world than I did, who told me that it would lead to unhappiness; that I would stand in your way; that you would not be free to pursue your goals; that your ambitions would be frustrated because of me; that you would come to regret your decision; and that I, worn down by anxiety, would come to regret mine. Now I am a woman who knows her own mind and heart, and a woman who knows yours. I have no fears, no apprehensions, and I will not be persuaded out of my future happiness by anything anyone can say to me.’

I clasped her hand in mine, oblivious of the passersby as we paced the gradual ascent.

‘When you came back to Bath, was it to see me?’ she asked.

‘It was. I came only for you.’

‘I wanted it to be so, but at the same time I thought it was too much to hope. Your affection for Louisa ...’

‘Do not say any more. My conscience upbraids me. I should never have sought to attach myself to her, but I was angry with you, and full of wounded pride. After you rejected me, I told myself I would forget you. I gave my attention to my career and put my energies into defending my country. I commanded some fine ships and I made my fortune, but all the time you were there, like a heart’s bruise that would not fade. When I met you again, I was still angry. I was unjust to your merits because I had been a sufferer from them. It was only at Uppercross that I began to do justice to them, for you shone there as you had shone before. And at Lyme, I learnt a painful lesson: that there is a difference between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will; and that you had the former and Louisa the latter.’

‘I will never forget the moment she fell,’ said Anne.

‘Nor I. I was in an agony of despair, for I felt I was to blame, for I had told her how much I valued a resolute character.’

‘You could not have known where it would lead.’

‘No, but I was overcome all the same. Yet whilst Henrietta swooned and Mary was hysterical, you, Anne, kept your head, and arranged for practical matters to be attended to.’

‘I was the least affected,’ she said. ‘It was easier for me than for the rest.’

‘Only you could say that,’ I returned with a smile. ‘But you saw to everything. And when we eventually reached Harville’s house, and Louisa was put to bed, then the full force of my thoughts hit me, for I had nothing else to do in the succeeding days but think. I began to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment which had kept me from trying to regain you at once, as soon as I had discovered that Benjamin had rented Kellynch Hall.’

‘My feelings when I heard that he had done so ...’

‘Yes?’ I asked, eager to hear.

She shook her head.

‘I was almost overpowered. I listened to every detail, then left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air, for my cheeks were flushed. I walked along my favourite grove, thinking that, in a few months, you might be visiting there.’

‘And did you want me to come?’

‘More than anything. When you left Somersetshire, after I had told you I could not, after all, marry you, I could not forget you. My attachment to you, my regrets, clouded every enjoyment. My spirits suffered, and everything seemed dull and lifeless. I did not blame Lady Russell for her advice, nor did I blame myself for having been guided by her; but I felt that, if any young person in similar circumstances were to apply to me for counsel, they would never receive any advice which would lead to such certain immediate wretchedness for the benefit of such uncertain future good.’

‘Then you wished the choice unmade!’ I said, much struck. ‘And so soon.’ My heart was warmed. ‘I never knew. I was angry and I could see only that you had betrayed me. I was a hotheaded young man, though I thought myself so experienced. Did you, then, believe that even with the disadvantages of your family’s disapproval, and the uncertainties of a long engagement, that you would yet have been happier with me than without me?’

‘I did.’

‘And did you hope my professions might be renewed when I came to Kellynch?’

‘I hardly dared hope for anything of the kind, but I longed to see you, to discover how you looked, and if you remembered me. I told myself it could not be, and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. I told myself it was folly, that we would meet as strangers, that we could never be to each other what we once had been, but still, I could not be easy. I thought of you constantly.’

Better and better!

‘I was relieved that the past was known to so few people— only you, myself, Lady Russell, my father and my sister—for I could not have borne conscious looks from others. Your brother I supposed you would have told, but he had long since moved out of the neighbourhood, and I was sure that his discretion could be relied upon, so I was spared the trouble of it being common knowledge, at least.’

‘And so you thought of me, even on that first day,’ I said, pleased and yet angry with myself at the same time. ‘If I had only spoken ... if I had only put aside my pride and my anger, we could have been spared all that followed.’

‘When did you put it aside?’ she asked.

‘That day at Lyme. I saw myself in a different light, because I saw that you had been right to be cautious, and to listen to the counsel of those older and wiser than yourself. I do not say that their counsel was good, only that you had been right to listen to it. I was about to tell you so, to go to you as soon as Louisa was out of danger, and tell you of my feelings, but no sooner had she been pronounced out of danger than Harville made it clear he thought that Louisa and I were engaged. That was a bitter time,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘for if those about us thought we were engaged, and if Louisa herself felt it to be so, then I knew I could not in honour abandon her. I would have to marry her. Never had I regretted my foolish intimacy with her more. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide by the consequences. I decided to leave Lyme, for I decided I could, in all honour, try to weaken her attachment, if it could be done by fair means.’

‘I knew nothing of this. I thought you were in love with Louisa. I thought her youth and gaiety had captivated you. I knew that, beside her, my looks were faded and my spirits were low. You did not return to Kellynch, and I presumed it was because you were worried about Louisa.’

‘And so I was, but only in the way I would worry about any girl who had had such an accident. I stayed with Edward. He enquired after you very particularly, and it gave me some relief to talk of you. I believe he guessed my feelings, for he even asked if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter.’

She smiled.

‘And then, I was released from my torment by Louisa’s engagement to Benwick. Within the first five minutes I said, “I will be at Bath on Wednesday,” and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come? And to arrive with some degree of hope? You were single. It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as I did: and one encouragement happened to be mine. I could never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, ’ "Was this for me?”’ I turned to look at her. ’Was it, Anne? Did you refuse Charles Musgrove for me?’

‘Yes,’ she acknowledged, and the thought made me very happy. ‘Lady Russell liked the match, but I was older by then, and wiser, and I did not take her advice. I had been persuaded by her out of marrying the man I loved. I was not going to be persuaded by her into marrying a man I did not love.’

I smiled.

‘I was jealous of him, when I met you in the year six.’ I shook my head as I remembered the feeling. ‘You seemed fond of him, but once I learned he was a family friend, I forgave him! But I had someone else to be jealous of this year. Mr Elliot. I could not help but see that he admired you when we saw him in Lyme, and once I discovered who he was, and how eligible he was, and how desirable the connection, I was afraid. I had come to Bath to speak to you, to tell you I loved you, and yet, when I saw you, you were always with Mr Elliot. You smiled at him—’

‘Through simple courtesy.’

‘I did not know that. I thought you favoured him, and so I was silent. The meeting in Milsom Street was exquisite in its pleasure and its pain, and the concert was worse. You stepped forward to greet me, which gave me hope, but then you sat with Mr Elliot. Your heads were always together, as though you were having a private conversation—’

‘I was translating the words of the songs for him. Mr Elliot does not speak Italian.’

‘Ah,’ I said, much gratified.

‘Is that why you left?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I could bear it no longer. To see you so close to him ... I had to leave, for to see you in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see Mr Elliot close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match, was terrible for me! To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared? How could I look on without agony? Was not the very sight of Lady Russell, who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immovable impression of what persuasion had once done—was it not all against me?’

‘You should have distinguished, you should not have suspected me now; the case so different, and my age so different,’ said Anne. ‘If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated.’

‘Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus, but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could not bring it into play: it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year. I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me. I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had no reason to believe her of less authority now. The force of habit was to be added.’

‘I should have thought that my manner to yourself might have spared you much or all of this.’

‘No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to another man would give. I left you in this belief; and yet, I was determined to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here.’

We had by this time reached Camden Place, and I was forced to relinquish Anne.

‘I do not want to part from you,’ I said.

‘It is only until this evening.’

‘Ah, yes, your sister’s card party. I am surprised she invited me.’

‘You are well spoken of in Bath. She has at last, through the opinions of others, discovered your worth,’ she said.

I let her go, reluctantly, and watched her go inside, then I returned to my rooms, more happy than I had ever been.

As I dressed for the evening, I thought I might have spared myself much misery by speaking to Anne as soon as I came to Kellynch Hall.

I finished dressing and made my way to Camden Place.

The party was insipid, as all such parties are, but it gave me an opportunity to see Anne. I watched her as she moved amongst her father’s guests, glowing with happiness, and knew her happiness was for me.

I talked freely to Mr Elliot, my jealousy banished, and replaced with an excess of goodwill. I ignored the superior attitude of Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, and instead I talked to them of the sea. I even exchanged pleasantries with Sir Walter and Miss Elliot. The Musgroves were there, and Harville, and we had free and easy conversation. Louisa engaged, Anne and I coming to an understanding—I had had no idea, at the start of the year, that such a happy conclusion could be reached.

I saw Anne talking to my sister and brother-in-law, and I was delighted to see how well they all got on together, for even though I had not told Sophia my news, I knew she would be pleased.

And every now and then I managed to snatch a few moments with Anne. Her shawl slipped, and I helped her with it. A fly settled in her hair, and I wafted it away, feeling the soft strands of her hair brushing my fingers.

And when I could not talk to her, I watched her.

But I could not bring myself to talk to Lady Russell. Anne noticed it, and joined me by a fine display of greenhouse plants. Pretending to admire them, so that she could speak to me without drawing watchful eyes, she asked if I had forgiven her friend.

‘Not yet, but there are hopes of her being forgiven in time,’ I said. ‘I trust to being in charity with her soon. But I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady?’

I told her of the time, in the year eight, when I had almost written to her, but that I had been held back by fear.

‘I had been rejected once, and I did not want to take the risk of being rejected again,’ I told her, ‘but if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?’

‘Would I?’ she answered, and her accent told me all.

‘Good God! you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive everyone sooner than myself. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me. I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards. Like other great men under reverses, I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve.’

She smiled, but could do no more, for she was borne away by the Musgroves, and I had to make do with Harville’s company until the party came to an end.

Monday 27 February

I rose early and went to Camden Place where, once again, I found myself asking Sir Walter for Anne’s hand in marriage. He was a little more gracious than last time, for his friends esteem me. He expressed his surprise at my constancy and then enquired as to my fortune. On finding it to be twenty-five thousand pounds he said that it was not as large as a baronet’s daughter had a right to hope for, but declared it to be adequate. I was angered by his attitude, but I resisted the urge to say that my fortune was at least better than his, for he had nothing but debts. He gave his consent at last, then our interview was at an end.

I smiled at Anne as I returned to the drawing-room. Anne smiled back at me, and we told her sister the news. Miss Elliot showed no more warmth than formerly. She managed only a haughty look, and a slightly incredulous, ‘Indeed?’

I was angered on Anne’s behalf, for it was ungenerous of her sister not to congratulate her, but I soon saw that Anne did not care. And why should she? We had each other, so what did we care for anyone else’s approval?

‘And when will you tell Lady Russell?’ I asked Anne, as her sister left us alone.

‘Soon. This afternoon,’ she said. ‘She has a right to know, indeed, I am longing to tell her. It will be very different this time, and I hope she will be happy for me.’

‘I hope so, too, but tell her tomorrow instead. For the rest of the day, I want you to myself.’

She agreed, and we spent the time in free and frank conversation, opening our hearts to each other as we had done in the past, until it seemed that we had never been apart.

We spoke to no one, except at mealtimes, when it could not be avoided, and parted at last, reluctantly, at night.

I was longing to tell Sophia and Benjamin about my engagement, but they were away, visiting friends, and so I nursed my secret to myself.

Tuesday 28 February

I arrived at Camden Place early this morning and found that Anne was out. I waited for her, and when she returned, she told me that she had been visiting Lady Russell.

‘And how did she take the news?’ I asked Anne.

‘She struggled somewhat, but she told me that she would make an effort to become acquainted with you, and to do justice to you.’

‘Then I can ask for no more,’ I said. ‘I know she wanted to see you take your mother’s place. I cannot give you a baronetcy, but I can give you the comforts I could not provide you with eight years ago. And how has Mr Elliot taken the news? Has he heard it yet?’

‘I neither know nor care. I have just learnt that he is not the man we thought he was. We have been sadly deceived in Mr Elliot,’ she said.

I was astonished, and asked her what she meant.

‘He did not seek us out in order to repair the breach that had come between us as he claimed. Instead, he came to Bath in order to keep watch on my father. He had been warned by a friend that Mrs Clay, who accompanied my sister to Bath, had ambitions to be the next Lady Elliot.’

‘He knew that if Sir Walter married and had a son, he would lose his inheritance,’ I said, nodding thoughtfully.

‘He did. He declared that he had never spoken slightingly of the baronetcy, as my father had heard, and protested that he had always wanted to be friends. He made himself so agreeable that my father and sister were completely taken in, cordial relations were restored, and he was made welcome in Camden Place at any time.’

‘So he achieved his object of keeping a close watch on Mrs Clay.’

‘And put himself in a position to intervene if he felt it necessary.’

‘But are you sure?’ I asked.

‘I am. I learnt it from an old school friend, a Mrs Smith, who is in Bath at present. She was, once, a wealthy—comparatively wealthy—woman, and she and her husband knew Mr Elliot in London, but now she has fallen on hard times.’

I thought that this must be the same friend Mrs Lytham had told me about, and I honoured Anne for her continued friendship, even through adversity. I thought how fortunate I was to be marrying a woman who knew as well as I did that the important things in life—love, affection, friendship—had nothing to do with wealth.

‘It is largely because of Mr Elliot that my friend has suffered. He borrowed money from her husband, which he did not repay, and, even worse, he led her husband into debt. When Mr Smith died, he should have seen to it that she was able to claim some property to which she was entitled in the West Indies, for he was the executor of the will, but he ignored his duties, and as a result, my friend is living in poverty,’ she said with a sigh.

‘But this is terrible!’

‘It is indeed. If he would only bestir himself, the money raised from the property could provide her with a degree of comfort that would improve her life immeasurably.’

‘I am very sorry to hear it,’ I said. I thought for a moment, and then said, ‘I am indebted to her for opening your eyes about Mr Elliot, and I owe her my friendship because she is your friend. I have some knowledge of the West Indies, and I would be glad to help her.’

She gave me a look of heartfelt gratitude, and expressed her desire that we should go and see Mrs Smith this afternoon. This I agreed to, and when we arrived at Westgate Buildings, I was shocked to see how Anne’s friend was living. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour and a dark bedroom behind. She was now an invalid, with no possibility of moving from one room to the other without assistance, and Anne told me her friend never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath.

I was sorry for her indeed. However, I soon found that her spirits had not been crushed, for she expressed her pleasure at meeting me, and she congratulated me heartily on my engagement.

‘Anne was good enough to visit me this morning and tell me the news,’ she said. ‘I am delighted for her, and for you, too. You are lucky to have won her.’

I assured her I knew my luck, and she declared that she was sure we would be very happy together.

‘I have brought Frederick here for more than one purpose,’ said Anne. ‘I have brought him here to help you. You mentioned a property in the West Indies?’

‘Yes, indeed. If you could do anything to help me I would be most grateful,’ she said to me.

I asked her for particulars and on hearing the details I felt she had a good chance of success. I offered to act for her, and we parted with goodwill on both sides.

I walked back to Camden Place with Anne, and there I left her, for I had promised to look into Mrs Smith’s affairs right away. We did not meet again until later that evening, when we went to the theatre with the Musgroves.

They were, as always, a happy family party. Benwick was missing, for he had promised to dine with an acquaintance, but the rest of the party was there. As we assembled in the box, Henrietta and Louisa were full of their forthcoming marriages; Musgrove was eager to talk of the gun he had seen; Hayter was talking of his living, and Mr and Mrs Musgrove were wanting to talk about their children, the shops and their delight at being in Bath. When there was a pause in the conversation, Anne and I gave them our glad news. They looked stunned, but Mary recovered almost at once and congratulated us heartily.

‘I always felt you were meant for each other,’ she said, though it was obvious the idea had never occurred to her before that moment. ‘I am sure you have me to thank, for I was greatly instrumental in bringing you together.’

‘Ay, a happy chance,’ said Mrs Musgrove, beaming with delight. ‘I am very happy for you. You would have always been welcome in our family, Captain Wentworth, for your kindness to Richard, but you will be doubly welcome as the husband of Anne.’

Whilst Anne accepted everyone’s congratulations, and sought to answer Henrietta’s and Louisa’s questions about wedding clothes, Mary, who was sitting next to me, turned to me and said, ‘If I had not kept Anne with me in the autumn, she would have gone to Bath with Lady Russell, and you would never have met. You owe it all to me. I will be very glad to have a sister married. I do not see why Charles should have two sisters married this year, and I not one. And Anne has caught the best husband, after all, for you are far richer than either Captain Benwick or Charles Hayter. Yes, I am glad that my own sister has won the best husband of the three.’

I could not help my grimace, and later, when Anne joined me, she asked what my expression had meant.

‘One member of your family is glad to have me, at least, but it is only because I am richer than either Hayter or Benwick,’ I told her.

She was embarrassed, and blushed, but she was too happy to be troubled by Mary’s vulgarity for long, and we passed a joyful evening. The play, I believe, was good, but neither of us paid any attention to it, for we were too busy looking at each other.