‘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?’