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!’