Read Captain Wentworth's Diary Online
Authors: Amanda Grange
Captain Wentworth's Diary (21 page)
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 NovemberLouisa 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 NovemberLouisa 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 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 NovemberA 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 NovemberMrs 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 NovemberI 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.
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