A/N: Our cast of characters continues to assemble. We reach an early pivot point.

Tides of Bath

Chapter Five: Hot Water

But vastness blurs and time beats level. Enough! the Resurrection,
A heart's-clarion! Away grief's gasping, joyless days, dejection.
Across my foundering deck shone
A beacon, an eternal beam. Flesh fade, and mortal trash
Fall to the residuary worm; world's wildfire, leave but ash:
In a flash, at a trumpet crash,...
— Gerard Manley Hopkins, That Nature Is a Heraclitean Fire and of the Comfort of the Resurrection

The small Sir Walter-led parade to the Pump Room did not take long. Anne was watchful, while careful not to be easily seen to be so. Fortunately, both her father and Elizabeth were too busy seeing themselves being seen to see much else; no one noticed Anne's searching glances as she walked along, half parade's end, half first-follower of the parade.

Along the streets, she saw no sign of Captain Wentworth. None. Not one. She was relieved by that, but her relief had an undertone of grief. Anne badly did not want to see him. Yet, she did badly want to see him. She was perplexed by her contradictory self. It would all be so much easier if she did not see him, if she somehow managed to avoid seeing him until he was gone from Bath.

But to be so close and not to see him! It had been five years, lonely and difficult years, and she was almost willing to condemn herself to five more such years for the happy misery, the miserable happiness that seeing him would cause. She walked along encased in anticipatory dread.

Ahead, she saw the Ionic pillars of the Pump Room, the busy, noisy crowd outside foretokening a busier, noisier crowd inside. Anne was not eager to enter, to have to endure the heat and flavor of such a crowd, the hum, and buzz of countless nothing conversations. It often gave her a headache, vertigo. She worried that it might overpower her today, given her difficult night and her stretched spirits. When she made the mistake of thinking about drinking the heated water, its chalybeate taste, and peculiar odor, she felt her stomach rebel.

And then they were in the outer crowd, and through it, and then they were in the Pump Room. The orchestra was playing in the gallery and below them, the milling gentlemen and ladies of Bath were all dressed superbly, their finery filling the very large and grand room. It struck Anne, perhaps because of the sunshine outside, how much gold — lace, cord, tassels, and chains — was displayed, almost as if it were lighting the indoors as the sun had the outdoors. Despite the many people in motion, her father and Elizabeth saw the Mr. and Miss Ustus straightaway, and the two parties united. Once greetings were accomplished, they all moved to take water. Or all did except Anne, who was able to omit drinking any without occasioning comment. They had all turned to watch as people went by when Anne felt a hand on her arm. She turned, alarmed, to find Lady Russell standing beside her, looking cool and well-dressed as ever.

"Lady Russell! However are you come to Bath?" Anne asked in a surprised whisper.

Lady Russell smiled. "It was too quiet at home with you away, too lonely, so I decided to come to Bath early. I hope you will forgive me for surprising you. I thought to write, but was decided and gone so soon I feared overtaking my letter. And surprising you, seeing the sudden brightening of your countenance, is a pleasure to me. I hope you will forgive me; as a rule, I do not like to surprise or be surprised, but this once…"

Despite her memory dream of the night before, Anne was happy to see Lady Russell. Among Anne's family and acquaintance at Kellynch, only Lady Russell valued her. She was nothing to her father or Elizabeth, and, as a result, it was good to be something to Lady Russell. Anne took her hand and squeezed it. "I am most happily surprised!"

By this time, Sir Walter and Elizabeth had noticed Lady Russell, and they came to greet her, excited by her unexpected appearance, and to pleased introduce Mr. and Miss Ustus.

As the introductions were taking place, Anne looked back toward the main entrance of the Pump Room. The crowd chanced to part, just enough for even Anne to see, and she saw him.

She saw him. He was framed in silhouette, the sun shining from behind him, outside. Anne would have known the silhouette at any time, any place; his tall, erect form was just as she remembered, unmistakable. For a moment, because of the framing light, she was unable to make out his face, the details of his features, and then he stepped further in, others passed behind him, and she saw.

He was leaner than she remembered, his features more chiseled. But they were just as appealing as before, more so, and something about his carriage as he moved suggested a man who had been through trials and acquitted himself honorably. Experience, skill, power harnessed, all radiated from him and reached her despite the crowd: she felt his hands on hers the day of their parting. He bowed his head for a moment and then the crowd blocked her view of him He had not seen her. He had not.

Anne felt her knees weaken beneath her, felt a stinging blush rise to her face. She stumbled back a step. Suddenly, she could hear the orchestra again. It had seemed to stop playing, as time itself seemed to have stopped passing.

"Anne?" Lady Russell cried softly, "Anne?"

Anne was determined not to give herself away, to draw any attention. She looked at Lady Russell and forced a smile. "It's fine, Lady Russell. I did not have much breakfast and I feel slightly weak. Or I did. It has passed."

Her father, more for the benefit of Lady Russell's regard than concern for Anne's health, peered at her. "Do you wish for a chair? Do you wish to return to Camden Place?"

Anne waved the suggestion away. "No, thank you, father. It was just a...flutter. I am entirely well."

Lady Russell turned to get two glasses of the water. As she did, Anne scanned the crowd. She could no longer see him — Captain Wentworth, she made herself say silently — anywhere. She was unsure how he could be hidden from her, but so he was. She turned toward the counter that held the glasses and hoped her bonnet and her size would obscure her from Captain Wentworth's eyes. True, he might see her father, Elizabeth or Lady Russell, but he might not, and the Ustus siblings were standing in front of her father and Elizabeth.

Anne carefully stepped a pace or to away from her father and sister, and Mr. and Miss Ustus, and Lady Russell, not noticing, followed. The gap between them made them seem more two parties again than one, although newly apportioned. Anne turned to the room again but kept her face down as best she could while still able to see. Again, she could not find him.

"Anne," Lady Russell asked in a whisper, leaning in, "are you sure there is not something the matter? You look and you act, peculiarly." Just as Lady Russell finished speaking, Anne saw Captain Wentworth again. He had his back to her and was walking toward the door, his hat under his arm. Perhaps it had been there before but she had not noticed.

Anne watched him go as he must have watched her go five years before: in a tumult of emotions. She forced herself to attend to Lady Russell, to smile again — as difficult a smile as she could ever remember donning. She took the water Lady Russell offered.

"No, thank you most kindly, but as I said, I am well. It is fine, Lady Russell, do not concern yourself. A momentary disturbance and nothing more — quickly got over."

When Lady Russell glanced away, Anne replaced the glass of hot water on the counter, untasted.

Wentworth left Sophia and the Admiral outside the Pump Room, talking to friends, Mr. and Mrs. Collins. The Admiral had introduced Wentworth, and he had stood with them all long enough to pass the required pleasantries. But when the topic turned to mutual acquaintances that Wentworth did not know, he excused himself and went inside.

As he entered, he took off his hat and put it under his arm. Just inside, he paused to look up into the gallery at the orchestra. He knew the piece of music they were playing, Beethoven's Minuet in G. Often as practicable, aboard ship, he and Benwick would play music together. Wentworth was a supportable violin player; Benwick an accomplished cello player. Wentworth bowed his head for a moment and listened to the music; the orchestra was good; the music did him good. The resentment he had translated from dreaming to waking seemed to be dissipating at last. He stepped forward.

The crowd pressed around him and he let it decide his direction. He moved as the slow but restless crowd moved. He eventually saw the visitor's book, and, stepping aside, he waited among a small throng of people to sign it, and finally did. Then he picked a path back toward the entrance and he left to find Sophia and the Admiral.

Anne followed Lady Russell the two or three steps necessary to rejoin her father and the others. She could not quite distinguish what they were talking about; their voices sounded like she heard them from another room. She managed two clandestine glances toward the entrance, the spot where she last saw Captain Wentworth. He seemed to be gone. The crowd had claimed him.

"So, Mr. Ustus," Lady Russell said as Anne applied her mind once again to the conversation, "where is it again that you are from? Did Sir Walter say Dunwoody?"

"Yes, Lady Russell, he did. Dunwoody."

Lady Russell's brow creased. "I do not know it. Where is it located?"

Mr. Ustus smiled. "I do not wonder that you have not heard of it, for it is not well-known, sequestered deep in the Northumberland hills as it is. My father relishes isolation, the quiet of his quotidian life, his domestic comforts. Or he did before his illness. His life at Dunwoody was a life apart, a monkish life. We are quite alone at Dunwoody and have few visitors."

"But," Lady Russell continued, "your sister just comes from Dunwoody? That must indeed have been a long journey."

"No, madam," the woman in question replied in a soft, modulated voice, the audible equivalent of the grey of her eyes, "perhaps my brother did not make that clear. I come from London. The things he sent for were there, at our house in the city. He and I have been in London for a considerable time. Our father does not require us to enjoy or even to endure isolation as he does. But he is not alone. Our aunt, our father's younger sister, and a widow, stays with him at Dunwoody and keeps him comfortable, keeps the house a going concern."

"I see, Miss Ustus. I was once, long ago, in the Northumberland hills. Not deep into them, I suppose, but far enough to have some sense of your country. It was sublime."

Mr. Ustus, bowing, responded. "Thank you, Lady Russell. My brother and I may not choose always to live there, but our hearts lodge there."

"That does you credit, sir. A sense of the beauty or the sublimity of nature forms a crucial part of any good character, I believe. What are those lines of Samuel Johnson's Anne, the closing lines of The Natural Beauty?"

Anne was recovered enough to be equal to the quotation.

"I those charms alone can prize,
Which from constant Nature rise,
Which nor circumstance nor dress
E'er can make or more or less."

Anne finished the lines with a puzzled look. She faced Lady Russell. "But, Lady Russell, Dr. Johnson was praising the natural beauty of a woman, not the beauty of nature."

Lady Russell chuckled. "Yes, well, leave it to Anne not only to remember the lines but to understand them. Most people manage at best to retain items in their memories — but never in their understandings. Still, though Anne is correct, I think the lines will serve. The natural beauty of a woman is one of the beauties of nature, is it not?"

Anne nodded, helpless to prevent herself from recalling Captain Wentworth's silhouette. "Yes, of course, it is. I suppose we too often contrast the human and the natural and so sometimes forget the degree to which the first must be comprehended in the second."

Mr. Ustus gazed at Anne. "You must be a most serious and reflective reader."

Anne smiled softly. "I have had much time for reading. But I am unsure Lady Russell's praise of my understanding is just. It is more than I deserve."

Mr. Ustus returned Anne's smile. "I suspect Lady Russell has been exact in her praise."

Elizabeth sighed in the pause that followed this exchange and put her hand to her head. Mr. Ustus redirected his attention to her. "Miss Elliot, perhaps we have been standing here too long?"

"I am finding the crowd stifling. The music. This talk of poetry. May we not move outside? Perhaps we could walk by the Crescent?"

Mr. Ustus was obliging and they readied to leave the Pump Room, all except Anne and Lady Russell. "We will catch up with you," Lady Russell told Sir Walter. I am still of a mind to take a turn around the room, to see if any of my acquaintances from the Philosophical Society are here. Anne, will you accompany me?"

Anne slipped her hand into Lady Russell's arm. "Yes, I will."

The others left. Lady Rusell and Anne began to walk around the crowded room.

Wentworth found Sophia and the Admiral still engaged in conversation. He rejoined them.

"Have you been inside, Frederick, you have signed the book?" Sophia asked.

"I have. I am now officially of Bath, entitled to enjoy its delights."

Mr. Collins, a tall, thin man with a florid face, looked at Wentworth. "So, the Admiral tells us you are freshly ashore?"

"I am. Still trying to acquire my land legs, as it were. I hardly know what it is to walk on a surface that does not move beneath me."

They all laughed. Mr. Collins nodded his head and bowed. "You Navy men are a credit to our country, sir."

Wentworth bowed, acknowledging the compliment. He looked at the others. "It is quite crowded inside. Do you intend to enter or should we walk and enjoy the day?"

Sophia answered. "The Admiral needs to take his daily water, but there is no need for anyone to accompany us. Mr. and Mrs. Collins?"

"We will remain here with the Captain, and wait for you," Mr. Collins said, "no need to add to the crowd."

Sophia let the Admiral take her arm and lead her inside. Mr. Collins turned to Wentworth. "They are a capital couple, are they not? My wife and I find them delightful."

"Yes, sir, they are. They are truly devoted to one another." Wentworth was about to leave on when he saw Sir Walter leading a group out. Elizabeth was with him, as was the man Wentworth saw when he encountered Sir Walter on the street the day before. On that man's arm was the beautiful woman from the carriage.

To Wentworth's surprise, Mr. Collins stepped forward and spoke to the man. "Mr. Ustus, very good to see you." Mr. Ustus stopped, and so did Sir Walter, Elizabeth, and Miss Ustus.

"Ah, Mr. Collins, yes it is very good to see you. I did not know you were in Bath."

Mr. Collins nodded. "We have been for a while, but my wife was ill for a time, influenza, and we have waited to be out until she was returned to health to be out."

Mr. Ustus looked at Mrs. Collins. "I am sorry to hear of your illness. But you look quite well today."

Mrs. Collins, plump, pink-cheeked and short, laughed. "I am extremely well, thank you. I have been much better for several days. The doctor pronounced me fit for human company again."

Mr. Collins turned to his wife. "So, I am not human company?"

With a mischievous smile, Mrs. Collins responded. "Human? Lord, no, Mr. Collins, you are my husband."

After the laughter quieted, Mr. Collins turned to Wentworth. "Mr. Ustus, this is Captain Wentworth."

Mr. Ustus bowed, and, although his eyes showed that he remembered Wentworth, nothing in his manner did. "Captain, very good to meet you."

Wentworth returned the greeting. Mr. Ustus then presented his sister. "This is my sister, Miss Ustus. Sister, this is Captain Wentworth, Mr. and Mrs. Collins."

Miss Ustus curtsied. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." She looked up and held Wentworth's gaze a moment. She remembered him too. She bestowed upon him a small, mysterious smile.

Sir Walter and Elizabeth had been standing apart from the rest, watching, and Mr. Ustus seemed uncertain about introductions. But Elizabeth moved closer and Sir Walter followed. Each looked at Wentworth. Mr. Ustus introduced them. Sir Walter stopped Mr. Ustus as he was about to introduce Wentworth.

"I know the Captain. He was in our part of the country some years ago." Elizabeth nodded as she cooly looked Wentworth up and down. "It has been very good to meet you all," Sir Walter continued, "but my daughter needs to be free of the crowd."

"I hope to see you again sometime soon, Collins," Mr. Ustus said as he allowed his sister again to take his arm.

"Yes, Ustus, I hope so too. You will be in Bath for a while?"

"Yes, I plan to be." He led his sister away, but she looked back over her shoulder at Wentworth, her grey eyes intent.

Mr. Collins, after they left, addressed Wentworth. "Well, Captain, my wife and I must be going too. It was very good to have met you. Perhaps we will see you at the ball this week."

Wentworth shifted his eyes from Miss Ustus, where they had lingered unbeknownst to him. "Um, yes, Mr. Collins, we plan to be there, my sister, the Admiral, and I."

"Good. Very good." His wife said goodbye and they walked away arm-in-arm, leaving Wentworth standing alone in the crowded sunshine.

Wentworth stood for a while, watching people pass, but he began to wonder about Sophia and the Admiral. It was likely they had met other acquaintances inside. His sister and her husband were favorites of all who knew them. He could hear the music from inside, faint — Over the Hills and Faraway. He decided to enter again, to look for his sister and the Admiral, and to hear the rest of the song.

He went back through the entrance, the music becoming distinct. He found himself singing the words beneath his breath.

"When duty calls me I must go
To stand and face another foe
But part of me will always stray
Over the hills and far away — "

He stopped, stopped singing, and stopped walking, stopped. Standing before him, her mouth open and cheeks red, her hand on the arm of a staring Lady Russell, was Anne Elliot.

It was her. Anne. His past was present.

Look-ahoy! Keep watch for Chapter 6. It will likely post this weekend. Thoughts?