As quiet and melancholy as he was, Captain Benwick was not unaware of the soft and heartwarming charms of Miss Anne Elliot. They sat together at the Harville's table in Lyme, kindred spirits in loss, sensing that their tender feelings for at least one evening would not be held in contempt. At first the young captain ascribed her nature to poetry and prose, but as her party's visit continued he began to sense another motive entirely. This suspicion arose further, as his good friend Wentworth persisted in behaving an uncommon fool with the young ladies who currently made up the large part of energy in their little party.
Benwick watched Wentworth with disappointment now, recalling the early years of their deployment and the bitter disappointment which had been an awkwardness between them. He himself had been happily in love, deeply in love, with Fanny. Benwick recalled with a subtle wince the many evenings he'd described Fanny and their dreams for the future to the Admiral and Wentworth. It had been many months of stilted conversations and silent compatriotism before the clues made the story clear - his friend had been jilted, crossed in love. The lady, who had seemed so worthy, would not endure the risk inherent in naval profession.
Miss Anne had proved a different creature than he'd expected, he thought now as he glanced sheepishly at her patient expression. All temperance, all careful consideration. 'It is clear to me now,' he thought to himself, 'how a brash young Wentworth could have misconstrued a suggestion for delay in engagement. This wise soul would have followed the advice of her elders and suffered for it.' She reminded him of his late beloved - it seemed the party would linger a while, and Benwick fully intended to establish himself as a long-lasting friend. His hopes for a marriage of meaning was dashed but that did not mean he could not seem a lifetime of quality acquaintance.
The chaos on the Cobb had shed a sharp light upon the nature of his new companions, Benwick thought to himself. The little house bustled around him in the dark night, preparing Henrietta, Wentworth and the most esteemed Anne for a miserable ride with the ominous news of Louisa's mishap. Benwick sat in the foyer, his gaze falling on the doorway where he could catch glimpses of Miss Anne in her traveling clothes, checking each detail with a frustrated crease between her eyebrows.
In the moments between sights of his kindred spirit, Benwick allowed his thoughts to drift towards Wentworth. 'The utter fool, and now he has come to realize the reality of things.' Wentworth had gone from one unguarded opinion to the other in a flash - at first bull-headedly encouraging the childish will of Louisa, to a degree which had insinuated a trajectory towards a binding commitment, and now passionately extolling the virtues of Miss Anne in her capacity as caretaker.
Benwick had watched Anne as Wentworth entreated her to stay to nurse the careless girl, her cheeks flushing and her eyes growing wide. Her entire demeanor was trembling at his unconscious flattery, yet she held her composure. Anne's pride would never allow her to stay just as a favor to man she esteemed - every word of advice she had passed made clear that where duty and affection were in conflict, she would chose duty. He almost blushed with her at Wenworth's fervour, especially as the man's wild gaze cast around the room. The tension and disgust as Mrs. Musgrove threw her fit was almost as palpable, in retrospect.
Benwick could remember a similar feeling - similar to Wentworth's bald admiration - when first petitioning for Fanny's hand. He remained confident that he would never have stooped to such petty games as it had become clear Wentworth enjoyed. Had Fanny Harville turned him down it would have been a time for stern internal reflection, none of this self-righteous and indulgent farce. All that aside, he wondered how their carriage ride would transpire. How cognizant would Anne become of the turbulent emotions which to him were so obviously warring under Wentworths facade?
Louisa Musgrove, his near constant reading companion, had healed slowly but steadily not to the credit of the constant visits from her riotous family. Sadly Anne had not returned to visit, and Benwick mused to himself that she had likely had her fill - enduring her sister's family, the mercurial attitude of her former love, and the ghost of a life by the sea which she could have shared with Wentworth - no, it would be past all bearing. Instead he bade Mrs. Croft share his hopes to see her again, and soon, as they were to soon return to Kellynch Hall.
Wentworth appeared on a gloomier day recently after the Crofts departure. The Harvilles were out among friends, and the Musgroves had settled themselves for the day in the sitting room while Louisa lounged in her room reading. She had cunningly pretended to be fast asleep when they had first arrived, sparing herself from their well-intentioned chatter. Benwick watched as Wentworth knocked softly on Louisa's door. Hearing no reply, he turned his head down the hallway and caught Benwicks' eye.
'Ah, my friend, how does Miss Musgrove fair today?' Wentworth softly entreated, a measured gait bringing to the quiet corner where Benwick sat.
'She seemed alert, although still muted where she once was bright. I'm sure in the next few weeks she will be well enough to return home.' Benwick mused, watching Wentworth carefully for his reaction. It seemed to be relief flickering across his friend's face, but there was a tightness around his eyes and mouth that seemed unspoken. 'Wentworth, your expression is similar to that of when our vessel risked taking on water. Sit down and tell me the brunt of it.'
Wentworth's face relaxed, but into the pale tinge of surprise. He abruptly sat, taking a moment before turning to meet Benwick's eyes. 'I think you know, then, that the Musgroves have long considered Miss Louisa and I to be engaged.' Wentworth's face returned to the floor, at which he spat '-despite the fact that at no point did I communicate such intention, or break even the most basic rule of propriety.' He exhaled, his frustration apparently easing. 'And yet, how can I escape it now, when I was party to the injury that has impacted her in such a subtle but recognizable fashion?' Here, he seemed to rest his case. Benwick watched the slumped shoulders of his friend, waiting for another salvo. It seemed to be stuck, and so he prodded.
'But what dissatisfaction could there be, Wentworth? She is a lovely young girl, whom you've favored especially for her determined nature.' Wentworth's back stiffened, his hands gathering into fists. The sullen face turned to Benwick.
'You cannot be serious. You have spent the majority of that week before the tragedy ensconced in the company of the only worth woman I have ever met - you cannot be insensitive to it.' At this Benwick allowed himself a small smirk.
'You refer to Miss Anne, then? The same Miss Anne that you swore to me was a blackened mark on your heart, a burn that time had healed.' Wenworth glowered back at him.
'I know I was a fool, you need not point it out with such satisfaction.' At this Benwick sighed.
'Do you mean it now? Are you feeling for Miss Anne in earnest, or is it merely the fear of a life with Miss Louisa that has you such distress?' Benwick could feel himself glaring - he attempted to soften his expression lest his friend take the question for an accusation. Wentworth's response surprised him - the expression of annoyance shifted into shame.
'Perhaps you will not believe me, but I do suspect that I never fully escaped her influence and that I never will. If I was free to pursue happiness by the most direct route, I would take it. Sadly, that is no longer the case.' Benwick winced at his bold friend's resignation.
'Perhaps,' he ventured, 'if you were to visit your brother. Allow some distance. I'm sure as Louisa rests her feelings and expectations could be swayed. As we both know, her family is not strictly ruled by propriety.' Wentworth finally looked Benwick straight in the eye, seemingly in an effort to gauge Benwick's sincerity.
A mumbled 'perhaps' was Wentworth's only reply, as he stood and took his leave.
'Fanny, forgive me.' Benwick murmured to himself as he left Louisa Musgrove's chamber for the 4th time in the last week. He had begun a steady integration of poetry into the repertoire in their reading sessions. He had begun them at first to keep her mind active in the early stages of recuperation. Then it was to distract her from her family, and finally to alleviate the pain of Wentworth's unexplained departure.
The Musgroves feelings on said departure were not disguised in any fashion - it was single-minded disappointment. Of course no formal conversation would allow the admission, but the whispers of it echoed from every corner. Soon, the Musgroves would leave Lyme with their full party, and then any change Wentworth had of securing his happiness without interference of societal expectations would disappear. Miss Anne - and more importantly her family - would never consent to an engagement with a man that had jilted her relative.
Benwick made his move.
He flexed his hand over the spine of the volume he had read to Miss Louisa today. She had responded to the love poetry well in this particular session. He had started this week timidly, as though nervous for her approval. Now that she had caught on to the shift in tone, this week's' content was of a more obvious and fervent flavor.
It pained him to see Miss Louisa's face slowly lighten at the intrigue of the situation. Fanny would never have tolerated the indiscretion, and furthermore if she had sensed it she would have called him out quite abruptly. That was a quality which had made their connection fast in the early days. No, none of this love of intrigue.
But, he consoled himself, Fanny would want any love of similar vein to theirs to be unencumbered. He was sure she would be proud of him in this, and that over time he would come to be a civil and tender partner for Louisa. At least Miss Louisa enjoyed the poetry, even if the grasp of subtlety and nuance needs be taught.
Tomorrow, he braced himself, would be the day. The asking.
Frederick read the letter from the Harville's in disbelief. He knew Benwick, knew the love the man carried for Fanny. This couldn't be possible - no man who loved so would fall for and woo the likes of Miss Louisa Musgrove. How disappointing for the memory of Fanny Harville to be treated so. The shock of it was only washed away by the presence of a single, glorious truth.
He now had an opportunity, one last chance to seize that happiness he'd thought gone forever. The letter was crushed in his hand as he alit from the desk in his brother's study.
Now, to Bath.