Captain Wentworth's Diary

Tuesday 1 November

Sophia had a letter from Edward this morning, saying he would be away next week, but inviting me to visit him on the 19th. I wrote back and confirmed the arrangement. I am looking forward to meeting his wife and to seeing him again.

Saturday 5 November

Charles Musgrove and I had arranged to spend the morning together and I set out for Uppercross Cottage in good spirits, for it was a beautiful morning with the copper leaves shining in the autumn sunshine. As I drew near the Cottage, however, my steps began to drag, for I did not want to find myself in another embarrassing situation. I need not have worried because I found Musgrove out of doors, ready and waiting for me. Our sport was good for the first half hour, but no sooner had we really begun to enjoy ourselves than we had to return, for the young dog with us was not fully trained and had spoiled our sport.

When we returned to the Cottage, we found that the Miss Musgroves were about to set out on a long walk, accompanied by Mary.

‘Come with us!’ Louisa pleaded.

‘We do not want to spoil your exercise,’ I said.

She laughed at the idea, and cajoled and entreated, until Charles and I gave in, and we all set out together. I walked ahead, with Henrietta on one arm and Louisa on the other, and Anne fell behind with Mary and Charles.

We soon came to a stile and, as it was rather high, Charles helped both Anne and Mary down. It was left to me to help Henrietta, and then Louisa. As she was the smallest of the party, she had to jump, and I caught her round the waist to assist her when she landed. She found the experience so delightful that she climbed back onto the stile and then did it again. We all laughed, and when we reached the next stile, nothing would do for her but that I should jump her down again.

We spoke of generalities and then I mentioned that my sister and her husband had gone on a long drive. As we walked on together, I told Louisa about their habit of overturning, saying, ‘But my sister indulges her husband, and does not mind.’

‘I should do just the same in her place,’ said Louisa gaily. ‘If I loved a man as she loves the admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him than driven safely by anybody else.’

‘Really?’ I said with a laugh, catching her tone. ‘I honour you!’

But as we fell silent to negotiate a steep hill, I thought over what she had said, that she would not let anything part her and her husband. She was a resolute young woman, one with plenty of strength, and the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that she would not let anyone tell her what to do. I glanced at Anne and then looked away, though why I should still feel so strongly about something that happened eight years ago I could not imagine.

We reached the top of the hill and below us we could see the Winthrop estate. As we were so near, Charles Musgrove professed his intention of calling at the farm and paying his respects to his aunt. Mary declared she could not walk so far and, after some conferring, it was at last arranged that Miss Musgrove should go with him whilst the rest of us would stay behind.

We sat down to wait. Mary was fractious, and Louisa soon asked me if I would help her glean some nuts. I agreed. We made a good beginning, for there were plenty of nuts to be had. We went up and down the hedgerows and, as we did so, I learned that there was an understanding between Henrietta and Charles Hayter.

At once I understood why he had been annoyed to find me at Uppercross Cottage, and why he had not spoken to me: he had seen in me a rival for his lady’s affections. It seemed that my presence had made an estrangement between them, and that Henrietta had intended to call upon him to set things to rights, but had almost changed her mind when Mary had declared herself too tired to go.

‘What! Would I be turned back from doing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person, I may say?’ she asked. ‘No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded. When I have made up my mind, I have made it. And Henrietta seemed entirely to have made up hers to call at Winthrop today; and yet, she was as near giving it up out of nonsensical complaisance!’

‘She would have turned back, then, but for you?’

‘She would, indeed. I am almost ashamed to say it.’

‘Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand! Your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see. Let those who would be happy be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind.’

I realized, when I had finished, how strange my words must have sounded to her, for they reflected on much of my life that had gone before. She was, indeed, silent for a while, but at last she spoke again, turning the conversation. She could not have hit upon a theme closer to my heart.

‘Mary is good-natured enough in many respects, but she does sometimes provoke me excessively by her nonsense and her pride—the Elliot pride. She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride.’

I silently agreed.

‘We do so wish that Charles had married Anne instead.’

I was dumbfounded. Charles had wanted to marry Anne? I had never suspected it.

‘I suppose you know he wanted to marry Anne?’ asked Louisa.

I could not command myself immediately, but at last I said, to be quite clear, ‘Do you mean that he proposed to her and she refused him?’

‘Oh! yes; certainly.’

‘When did that happen?’

‘I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time; but I believe it was about a year before he married Mary. I wish she had accepted him. We should all have liked her a great deal better; and Papa and Mama always think it was her great friend Lady Russell’s doing, that she did not. They think Charles might not be learned and bookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that, therefore, she persuaded Anne to refuse him.’

Could it be true? Could Lady Russell once again have persuaded Anne to refuse another suitor?

‘When were Mary and Charles married?’ I asked nonchalantly.

‘Four years ago, in 1810,’ said Louisa.

I was left with much food for thought. Had Lady Russell persuaded Anne to turn down another suitor, or could there be some other explanation? A part of me felt there must be, for I did not believe Lady Russell would be set against Charles Musgrove. He had a respectable home, good prospects, and she had appeared to like him when I saw her with him in the year six.

Could it be that Anne had turned him down on her own account?

I stole another glance at her, trying to read the answer in her face, and I was still trying to solve the riddle when I was startled by the sight of Sophia and Benjamin in their one-horse chaise. They pulled up beside us and asked if any of the ladies would like to be driven home.

‘There is room for one more, and, as we are going through Uppercross, it will cut a mile off the journey,’ said Benjamin.

The ladies declined, but as we crossed the lane I noticed that Anne looked fatigued. I spoke in an aside to my sister, and she said, ‘Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired. Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You must, indeed, you must.’

Benjamin added his voice to his wife’s, and I assisted Anne into the carriage. As I touched her hand, I felt all the power of my previous emotions. I recalled the times I had touched her before, dancing with her, walking with her, embracing her, and I could not understand how we had grown so estranged.

Had I been wrong to leave in the year six? Had I been wrong not to go back? Had I been a fool not to write to her, as I had almost done, in the year eight, when I found myself with a few thousand pounds? Pride had held me back, and the fear of being rejected again. But if I had conquered my pride and routed my fear of another rejection, then might the last six years have been different?

I watched her as she drove off, still puzzling over what I had heard. She had had a chance to marry respectably, and yet she had declined it. Why? What did it mean? Did it mean that he did not match up to another love?

But no, such thoughts were folly. She had shown neither interest nor enjoyment in my company since my arrival in the neighbourhood; indeed, she had done everything in her power to avoid me and to make any intimate conversation impossible. She had made her feelings clear.

Monday 7 November

I was unsettled to learn that Anne and I were to be thrust into closer acquaintance, for over breakfast my sister informed me that Anne would shortly be leaving her sister’s house and staying at Kellynch Lodge with Lady Russell.

‘The news is all around Uppercross. Lady Russell will soon be returning from an engagement that has kept her absent for several weeks,’ said Sophia. ‘I hear very good things of her. An intelligent, sensible woman, by all accounts. Did you meet her when you were here before?’

‘I believe so.’

‘And was she as amiable as the reports would have her be?’

‘I saw very little of her,’ was all I would say.

‘It will be good to see some new faces about the place, at church and so forth,’ said Benjamin. ‘Lady Russell and Miss Elliot will add variety to our evening gatherings. Living in our neighbourhood as they will be, we must have them to dine with us.’

I was not sure whether I liked the idea or not. To see Anne again, to be with her, was a strange kind of torment. Why did she turn down Charles Musgrove? Was it for me? The thought plagued me. Yes, she was cold with me. Yes, she avoided me, but could that not be through awkwardness? I wished I knew.

A letter was brought in and I seized it, eager to distract my thoughts from the unanswerable problem of Anne. As I began to read, I found it to be from Harville.

‘Capital!’ I said, as my eyes went down the page.

Sophia looked at me enquiringly.

‘At last, Harville has found a bigger house, in Lyme. He and Harriet are to stay there for the winter. This is a stroke of luck, for it is not twenty miles away! I will ride over there today.’

‘Splendid,’ said Benjamin. ‘You can see how that poor fellow—what was his name?’

‘Benwick.’

‘That’s it, Benwick, you can see how he goes on. Poor man, to return home, only to find his fiancée dead. It is not the way a man expects it to happen. That he might not return he knows, but that the ones on shore should die is a sad blow.’

‘It was a bad business,’ said Sophia.

‘If I can render him or Harville any assistance, I will be happy to do so, for you know that Harville is now lame, wounded badly two years ago. A visit will give me a good opportunity to learn all their news.’

‘You might have some news of your own to give him before long,’ said Sophia.

‘Ay, it is about time,’ said Benjamin. ‘You are lagging behind. Harville unfurled his sails years ago and has outraced you, Frederick. He has three children now, has he not?’

‘He has, fine children all of them.’

But whilst he continued to tease me, I refused to be drawn. I set out soon afterwards and rode to Lyme. As I saw the sea, I reined in my horse and feasted my eyes upon it. I let my gaze wander over the pleasant little bay and the line of cliffs stretching out beyond it. I let my eyes drop to the Cobb and thought how useful it was, for it formed an excellent sea wall and provided a place for fishing boats to be tied up.

At last I rode on, going down into the town. I followed the main street as it went down to the sea, until I came to Harville’s house. It was small and dilapidated but it had a splendid location, for it was in a sheltered spot near the foot of the pier and had an unrivalled view of the sea.

I was made very welcome, with Harville and his wife greeting me warmly and the children running round my feet. They had grown since last I saw them, the baby most of all, for he was not a baby anymore, rather a fine lad of three years old who ran along behind the older children, eager for his share of the fun.

‘Well, what do you think of our new home?’ asked Harville.

‘It is almost like being on a ship,’ I said appreciatively.

‘We chose it for that reason,’ he said.

We went in and I saw Benwick sitting by the fire. He welcomed me cordially, but his spirits were low. They brightened a little as the three of us reminisced about out experiences on the Laconia, however.

‘That was a fine ship,’ said Benwick.

‘And with three of the Navy’s finest officers aboard!’ I said.

But as Harville and I relived one adventure after another, Benwick became quiet, and he retired early. Harville and I sat up talking and, as we did so, Benwick’s past became a subject for us.

‘I am forever grateful to you for breaking the news to him,’ said Harville. ‘Nobody else could have saved poor James. I am only thankful you stayed aboard with him for a week, helping him over the worst of it.’

‘I was glad to do it, though it was little enough.’

I fell silent, thinking of Harville’s sister, the girl I had met back in the year six, and Harville’s hints that he would like us to marry. A pretty girl, with a superior mind, the sort of girl that is not met with every day. I thought sorrowfully of her early death.

‘Do you mean to keep Benwick with you?’ I asked at last.

‘Yes. He has no family, and his health being poor it is difficult for him to set up a home by himself. Besides, Fanny’s memory unites us.’

Tuesday 8 November

The children woke us early and we were soon out of doors, for the morning was fine and the winter sunshine beckoned. We walked down to the Cobb.

‘It is much busier in the summer months,’ said Harville, as the gulls cried above us. ‘The town is full of visitors, and the boarding houses are full. The assembly rooms are open, and there is plenty to do. It is rather quiet over winter, but it suits us.’

I looked at the bathing machines drawn up on the beach and imagined them full of people in the summer.

We reached the Cobb and the two eldest children pleaded to be allowed to go on to the high part.

‘Please, Papa, there is no wind today to blow us off.’

‘Very well,’ said their father. ‘But you must take my hands.’

They did as they were bid. Harriet held little Thomas’s hand, and we all went up together. The air was still and the sun warmed our faces. Benwick quoted poetry, and I thought how much Anne would have enjoyed walking along the Cobb, with such a view, quoting Byron. I thought of the house we had planned to have by the sea, and I was angry with her again for rejecting me. We could have been happy, as Harville and Harriet were happy.

We came to the end of the Cobb and turned back. A breeze sprang up and I could see why Harville would not let the children walk there without holding his hand, for a sudden gust of wind could have blown them over. We reached the end of the Cobb and went down the steps, then returned to Harville’s house in time for an early luncheon.

I set out soon afterwards, for I had a long ride ahead of me, and I wanted to be home before dark. This I almost achieved, and I found that I was ready for my meal.

Sophia and Benjamin were eager to hear about my day, and I, in turn, was eager to hear about theirs. They had spent it exploring the countryside to the north, and Sophia was delighted that they had taken only one tumble!

Wednesday 9 November

I went to Uppercross this morning and I found that I had been missed. The Musgroves complained that I had not been to see them for two whole days, and Louisa teased me about it, saying I no longer cared for them. I explained why I had not been able to call, and I was honoured for my attention to my friend.

‘I have never been to Lyme. What is it like?’ she asked.

‘The countryside is very grand. There is a long hill leading into the town and the main street is steeper still. The bay is small but pleasant, and there are cliffs stretching out to the east of the town. In the summer there is plenty to do, with sea-bathing and assemblies, though everything by the way of amusement is shut up now for the winter.’

‘I am longing to see it,’ she said. ‘We should all go.’

Her suggestion met with an enthusiastic reception, and before long the visit was being planned. The first idea was to go in the morning and return at night, but this was thought to be too arduous for the horses, and when the matter was considered fully, it was apparent that there would not be enough daylight to see the town at this time of year if travelling had to take place in the same day as well. In the end, it was decided we would travel there tomorrow, stay overnight, and return on Friday.

I left the party in high good humour, for they were all looking forward to it.

Thursday 10 November

We met at the Great House for an early breakfast, and then set out. Mary, Henrietta, Louisa and Anne took the coach, whilst Charles and I went in the curricle. The journey was long, and by the time we arrived it was well past noon. We made straight for an inn, at which we secured accommodation and bespoke our dinner, and then we walked down to the sea. Although the public rooms were shut up, there was enough in the grandeur of the landscape and the splendour of the sea to interest the ladies. As we walked, I told them of the neighbouring areas: Charmouth, with its high grounds and its small bay backed by dark cliffs; the village of Up Lyme; and Pinny, with its green chasms and dramatic rocks.

We lingered on the seashore, looking at the ocean, and then I went to call on Harville whilst the others walked on to the Cobb.

Harville was delighted to see me again, and when I told him of my party, nothing would do for him and his wife, and Benwick as well, but that they should come out and meet my friends.

Harville pressed us to dine with him, and Harriet added her entreaties. Only the fact that we had already bespoken dinner at the inn made them accept, reluctantly, that we could not join them. They consoled themselves by inviting us back to their house at once, and we were happy to accept.

It was a time of good cheer and, my gaze being drawn to Anne, as so often happened, I saw something of her former animation, for she was engaged in lively conversation with Harville. Her eyes were bright, and I discovered that the tone of her mind had not changed, for every word she uttered was a word I could have uttered myself.

I found myself once again torn between frustration with her for rejecting me, anger with myself for not writing to her in the year eight, and hope that she might yet be in love with me.

When we left, Louisa was in raptures.

‘How friendly they all were, and how industrious,’ she said. ‘Did you see the toys Captain Harville had made for his children? We never had finer toys ourselves. It seems to me that sailors are the only people who know how to live. They have given us so much, they should be respected and loved by every one of us.’

Her speech was unaffected, but, after Anne’s conversation, it seemed to belong in the schoolroom.

To Anne herself I said little, for I did not know what to say. I could not speak to her intimately in such surroundings, amongst so many people, and yet I could scarcely bear not to speak to her.

All through dinner I was aware of her, and I stole glances at her whenever I could. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? I was longing to speak to her after dinner, but we had a surprise visit from Harville and Benwick, so it was out of the question.

Harville and I gave in to the entreaties of the Miss Musgroves and entertained them with stories of our adventures aboard the Laconia, but again and again I found my glance wandering to Anne. She had gone to sit by Benwick, who had retreated to a quiet corner, for his spirits were still low and would not easily stand such a noisy gathering.

It was like her kind and generous spirit to bear him company, and from what little I heard of their conversation, I could tell they were talking of poetry. I wished that I was the one sitting in the corner with her, talking to her in such a free and open way, instead of being forced to entertain the other ladies.

Harville and Benwick left at last, and once again I hoped I might have a chance to speak to Anne, but the ladies retired straight away.

As I followed them some half an hour later, I felt myself growing increasingly frustrated at the insipidity of the general conversation and wanting something more; something I had always found with Anne.

Friday 11 November

I rose early and I was eager to be out of doors, for it was a fine morning, with the tide rushing in before a south-easterly breeze. I hoped to meet Anne in the parlour, but, on going downstairs, I discovered that she had already gone out. Louisa was there, however, and, breakfast not being ready, she suggested that we might go for a walk upon the Cobb. We went out and walked down to the sea. It was grey, flecked with white, and overhead wheeled the squawking gulls.

We had not been out of doors for very long when we saw Anne and Henrietta. Anne was blooming. The fresh wind had lent colour to her cheeks and a brightness to her eye, and she looked as she had looked eight years ago, when I first knew her. The day faded into nothingness, and I stood in a cloud of silence, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, nothing except Anne. She was laughing, for the wind was whipping her hair across her face, and, as I watched her, she raised her hand and pushed it back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Then her eyes met mine. How long we stood thus I do not know, but however long it was, it was not long enough. I drank her in, her mild dark eyes, her laughing countenance, and her soft brown hair; all held me entranced.

And then a sudden gust of wind blew against us, and Louisa clutched at my arm, bringing me back to the present. I tried to reclaim the moment, but Anne had turned away, and it was gone beyond recall.

‘You are out early,’ said Henrietta.

I said nothing, for the vision of Anne, restored to loveliness, had rendered me speechless.

‘But not as early as you,’ said Louisa. ‘I thought Captain Wentworth and I were the only two people awake.’

‘We have been out a full half hour, have we not, Anne?’ said Henrietta.

Anne seemed to be having as much difficulty as I in replying. The silence was covered by Louisa saying that there was something she wanted at the shop, and she invited us all to go back into town with her. We declared ourselves willing to accompany her and walked back across the beach.

As we came to the steps leading upwards, we saw a gentleman at the top, preparing to come down. He drew back and gave way so that the ladies could pass. Anne and Henrietta ascended first, and as they reached the top, I saw the gentleman looking at Anne, and then looking again. I was hit by a wave of jealousy, for he had no right to look at her in that way. I contained myself, and we walked on to the shops in peace.

Once Louisa had made her purchases we returned to the inn, where we found breakfast waiting for us. Mary and Charles were there and, when we had rid ourselves of our outdoor clothes, we joined them.

We had nearly finished when we heard the sound of a curricle outside. Charles jumped up to see if it was as fine as his own and we all collected at the window to look. The owner of the curricle came out, and I perceived him to be the same gentleman who had passed us on the steps up from the beach.

I saw Anne smile, and once again I felt a hot rush of jealousy, this time worse than before. Why had she smiled on him, and not on me?

On a sudden impulse, I asked the waiter, ‘Pray, can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?’

‘Yes, sir, a Mr Elliot.’

‘Elliot?’ I asked in astonishment, whilst there was a general murmur all around me.

‘A gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth,’ the waiter went on. ‘Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, on his way to Bath and London.’

‘Bless me!’ cried Mary. ‘It must be our cousin.’

So this was Mr Elliot, the man Miss Elliot had assiduously pursued, and lost, all those years ago, the man she had deemed worthy of her hand—and who was now evidently in mourning, for he wore crêpe around his hat. I wondered who had died and, making discreet enquiries of Charles, I discovered that Mr Elliot had married some years before, but that he had recently been widowed. There were no children, he told me, but Sir Walter had not made overtures to him again, on account of some slighting remarks he had made about his relatives, which had reached Sir Walter’s ears.

But what a man for Anne to meet, here, now! I thought in dismay.

‘What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other!’ went on Mary. ‘Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance. I wonder the arms on the carriage did not strike me!’

Charles remarked that the greatcoat had been hanging over the panel, and Mary exclaimed that, if the servant had not been in mourning, she should have known him by the livery.

I, on the other hand, was vastly relieved that we had not known his identity sooner, for then introductions must have been made, and Anne would have come to know him further.

‘Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,’ I said, trying to hide my agitation, ‘we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence that you should not be introduced to your cousin.’

I looked at Anne, hoping she would see it as such. To my relief, she seemed to have no wish to pursue the acquaintance, for she said that their father and Mr Elliot had not spoken for many years, and that an introduction was not desirable.

I was heartened but, without knowing her mind, I could not know her full reasons for not wanting to pursue the acquaintance. Was it because of her father, as she said, or was it ... could it be ... that her feelings were already engaged— by me?

I tried to read the answer in her face, but I could detect nothing. I wished I knew why she had refused Charles Musgrove; I wished I knew if she was indifferent to me, or whether she was merely reserved; if she had ever missed me; and if she regretted her decision to reject me.

We were soon joined by the Harvilles and Benwick, for we had arranged to take a last walk with them before departing. Harriet gave it as her opinion that her husband would have had quite enough walking by the time he reached home, and so we determined to accompany the Harvilles to their door, and then set off home ourselves.

We parted from the Harvilles as planned, and were about to return to the inn when some of the party expressed a wish to take one final walk along the Cobb. Louisa was so determined to have this last pleasure that we gave in to her, and Benwick came with us.

There was too much wind on the high part to make the walk enjoyable so we decided to go down the steps to the lower part. Louisa insisted on being jumped down them by me, as she had often been jumped down from stiles.

I tried to discourage her, saying the pavement was too hard for her feet, but she insisted. I gave in to her demands but, as I did so, I began to think that a determined character was not so very desirable after all. If it was firm in its pursuit of right, then it was estimable, but if it was firm in pursuit of its own desires, it was simply wilful.

I had done the damage, however, and must, for the time being, abide by it. I jumped her down the steps with no harm done, and there it should have ended, but she ran up the steps to be jumped down again.

Again, I tried to persuade her to abandon the idea, but I spoke in vain.

‘I am determined I will,’ she said.

She jumped with no further warning. I put out my hands; I was half a second too late; she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb ... and I looked at her in horror, for she was dead.

A thousand thoughts went through my mind, tormenting me for my folly: I should not have made so much of her; I should never have jumped her down from a stile; I should not have encouraged her to think that being headstrong was a virtue; I should not have brought her to Lyme. A thousand thoughts, whirling round as I caught her up, my body reacting to the crisis as it had reacted to countless crises at sea, taking charge, doing what was necessary, looking for a wound, for blood, for bruising ... but there was nothing. Yet her eyes were closed, she breathed not, and her face was like death.

‘She is dead! She is dead!’ screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband.

Henrietta fainted, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them.

‘Is there no one to help me?’ I cried, borne down by a weight of guilt and despair, and feeling my strength gone.

‘Go to him, go to him, for heaven’s sake go to him.’

It was Anne’s voice; Anne, who could be relied upon in a crisis; Anne rousing Charles and Benwick, who were at my side in a moment, supporting Louisa. As they took her from me, I stood up, but, underestimating the effect the shock had had on me, I staggered, and once more catching sight of her pale face, I cried, ‘Oh God! her father and mother!’

I could not bear to think of them at Uppercross, imagining us happy, and trusting me to bring their daughter safely home again.

‘A surgeon!’ said Anne.

Her common sense restored me to sanity.

‘True, true, a surgeon this instant,’ I said, and I was about to go and fetch one when Anne said that Benwick would know better where one was to be found.

Again, her cool, calm common sense prevailed. Benwick gave Louisa into Charles’s care and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity.

‘Anne, what is to be done next?’ cried Charles, and I realized that everyone was looking to her in their extremity.

‘Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn,’ said Anne.

Her words roused me once again and, eager to be doing something, I took Louisa up myself. Her eyes fluttered, and I felt a moment of wild, surging hope as they opened and I knew her to be alive! What joy! What rapture!

‘She lives!’ I cried.

There was a cry of relief from all around. But then her eyes closed, and she gave no more sign of consciousness.

We had not even left the Cobb when Harville met us, for he had been alerted by Benwick on his way for the surgeon, and had run out to meet us. He told us we must avail ourselves of his house, and before long we were all beneath his roof. Louisa, under Harriet’s direction, was conveyed upstairs, and we all breathed again.

The surgeon was with us almost before it had seemed possible, and to our great relief he declared that the case was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from.

‘Thank God!’ I said. ‘Thank God!’

My cry was echoed by her sisters and brother, and I saw Anne silently giving thanks. But my thanks were the most heartfelt of all. I had not killed her, I who had encouraged her recklessness and taught her not to listen to others. But I had injured her. It was burden enough. I sank down into a chair and slumped across the table, my head sunk on my arms, unable to forgive myself.

By and by I roused myself. I could not leave the arrangements to Anne—Anne, who had done so much, who had kept her head, and proved herself superior to all others in every way.

It was quickly arranged that Benwick would give up his room so that a member of our party could stay, giving Louisa the comfort of a familiar face in the house with her, and Harriet, an experienced nurse, took it upon herself to nurse her.

‘And Ellen, my nursery-maid, is as experienced as I am. Together we will look after her, day and night,’ she said.

I tried to thank her, but she would not take thanks, saying that she was glad to repay me for my kindness in breaking the news of Fanny’s death to Benwick. Then she returned to the upstairs room, where Anne was sitting with Louisa.

I was glad that Anne was with Louisa. It was always Anne people turned to in a time of crisis. It was Anne who had managed matters when her nephew had dislocated his collar-bone; it was Anne who had directed us when Louisa had taken a fall. Anne, always Anne who, without any fuss, showed the strength of her mind by her ability to know what was best, and to see it brought about in a quiet, calm manner. I had tried to forget her, but it had proved impossible, for she was superior to any other woman I had ever met.

‘This is a bad business,’ said Charles.

His face was white with worry.

‘My poor father and mother. How is the news to be broken to them?’ said Henrietta.

There was a silence, for no one could bear to think of it. But it must be done.

‘Musgrove, either you or I must go,’ I said.

Charles agreed, but he would not leave his sister in such a state.

‘Then I will do it,’ I said.

He thanked me heartily, and said I must take Henrietta with me, for she was overcome by the shock.

‘No, I will not leave Louisa,’ Henrietta said.

‘But think of Mama and Papa. They must have someone to comfort them when they hear the news,’ said Charles.

Her heart was touched, and she consented to go home. It was a relief to all of us, for at home she would be well taken care of, and we would not have to worry about her as well as her sister.

‘Then it is settled, Musgrove, that you stay, and that I take care of escorting your sister home,’ I said. ‘But as to the rest, your wife will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne.’

It was at that moment that Anne appeared. Anne, collected and calm. Anne, the sight of whom filled me with strength and courage.

‘You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her,’ I said gently, longing to take her hands in mine as I had done once before, marvelling how I could fold both of them in my own. Such small hands, and yet so capable.

She coloured deeply. I wanted to speak to her, to ascertain her feelings, and to tell her mine, but now was not the time, so I made her a bow and moved away.

She turned to Charles, saying that she was happy to remain.

Everything was settled, and I hastened to the inn to hire a chaise, so that we could travel more quickly. The horses were put to, and then I had nothing to do but wait for Henrietta to join me. At last she came, but, to my surprise, Anne was with her. The reason was soon made clear to me. Being jealous of Anne, Mary had demanded to be the one to stay and help with the nursing, and had said that Anne should return to Uppercross.

I was angry at the arrangement, but it could not be helped, and so I handed the ladies into the chaise. I looked at Anne, but she avoided my eyes, and then, I, too, climbed into the chaise, and we were away.

We spoke little on the journey, for our spirits were low, and I had plenty of time to think about how I should tell Louisa’s parents.

When we reached the neighbourhood of Uppercross, I said to Anne, ‘I think you had better remain in the carriage with Henrietta, while I go in and break the news to her parents. Do you think this a good plan?’

She did, and I was satisfied.

I left the chaise at the door and went into the house. I was welcomed warmly, though with some anxiety, for Mr and Mrs Musgrove had become worried owing to the lateness of the hour. I felt a moment of sick apprehension as I was reminded of the nightmare of breaking the news of Fanny’s death to Benwick, but this news was not so bad. This news had hope. I took courage from the thought, and I began to speak.

There was alarm. How could there not be? But though I did not seek to lessen the seriousness of the situation, I told them, many times, that the surgeon did not despair, and that he had seen worse injuries recovered from. Mr Musgrove, after the first shock, comforted his wife, and when she was sufficiently calm, I escorted Henrietta and Anne indoors.

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.