A/N: We now begin Part Two, Sink, Sank, Sunk.
Tides of Bath
Chapter Eight: Temporal
All problems come back again to time.
— Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace
The rain continued the next morning, the weather grew more unseasonably cool. Bath was a moving river of dark waves, umbrellas, as the citizens and guests of Bath streamed outside after their interminable Monday imprisonment. The delights of the Sunday sun were a dimming memory.
Anne was standing again at Elizabeth's window. The physician, Mr. Murray, tsked-tsked his way through his thorough examination, and, despite her liking the doctor, the sound and the procedure combined to stretch Anne's already strained nerves. During the night, Elizabeth had grown more feverish, fitful. Bad dreams, fever visions, lingered even after Elizabeth's eyes opened.
Anne had done her best to respond to Elizabeth's rapidly changing demands — now overheated, now chill, now exhausted, now restless. Anne had slept only in snatches. She had urged her father to send for the physician yet again when the morning came. It had taken her less argument than she expected: her father was beginning slowly to grasp that Elizabeth's illness might be serious. Although he continued to rail against Mr. Murray's dress and manners, he did send for with tolerable dispatch. Surprisingly, he even exerted himself enough to ask that Mr. Murray secure a nurse to assist Anne. Her father seemed almost as frightened by Anne's exhausted looks as he was by Elizabeth's feverish ones. Her father had done and said these things while gazing at himself in one of the drawing-room mirrors.
He glanced from his reflection to Anne's and frowned. "You must be careful, Anne, and not exhaust yourself into contracting Elizabeth's...complaint. When the nurse comes, I require you to yield your place at your sister's bedside. I do not want both my daughters ill at once. The illness must not be allowed to spread."
Anne, while glad of the assistance, had no intention of yielding her place, at least not for long. A brief rest, a proper meal, would help. The worry and work of caring for her sister had taken a great toll, greater still because of the continuing emotional upheaval of her encounter with Captain Wentworth.
Mr. Murray cleared his throat and Anne turned away from the window. "Miss Elliot, your sister's condition defies me; I do not understand it or its cause. All I am sure of is that her fever is a danger. As it is now, she is safe, but if it increases again, especially if, increased, it lingers, I fear for the outcome. I am glad your father asked for the nurse. It was a good notion. I sent for a woman of real skill, Nurse Rook; she will be a great help, although I warn you that she rattles on a great deal. She is the sort of woman...what is that phrase in scripture, about the Athenians?" He did not wait for Anne's answer. "Oh! I know, that they 'spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new thing'."
"The nurse has an ear for gossip, Mr. Murray?"
"She does, but she is one of those rare people — men or women — whose interest in gossip is more...theoretical than practical." Anne showed her surprise and incomprehension; Mr. Murray poured water into a basin and washed again his hands as he had when he came in. He looked up and away, then went on. "What I mean is...she does not gossip to tear down or to take pleasure in the misdeeds or misfortunes of others — no, her interest is in the study of the human character itself, but she does it, not as philosophers are wont to do, from their armchairs and at a distance from their fellow-creatures, but while standing with and moving among them, enduring and not just observing them." Mr. Murray stopped speaking and seemed to be recounting his own words to himself. "Yes, yes, so it is — well, all that aside, she is quite the mistress of a sick room, a most knowledgeable woman. You may trust her implicitly."
"Thank you, Mr. Murray. Will we see you again today?"
Mr. Murray was rolling down his sleeves. "Only if Nurse Rook sends for me. Your sister's condition may well be much improved by tonight. But I caution you not to expect it." He put on his coat. Anne noticed, annoyed with herself for so doing, that his coat was stained and dirty. "But I encourage you not to expect it worsen.
"This is the sort of case doctors dread, the kind that is beyond the sure reach of their diagnostic powers. The human constitution, despite centuries of medical investigation, remains...dark...it fails and improves in mysterious ways. — Perhaps that is how we are made in God's image."
Again, Mr. Murray seemed to pause to re-hear his words, and, as he glanced at Anne, smiled, nodding. "Yes, yes, amusingly put — but I mean no blasphemy, Miss Elliot, no blasphemy, Lord, no. The divinity, to be sure, is impassible. No, I mean only to beat back the shadows of the sick room…"
Anne smiled at Mr. Murray. "I thank you for your efforts to cheer me, as well as heal my sister, Mr. Murray."
Before Anne could add more, there was a quick, soft knock on Elizabeth's door. A servant entered, followed by a woman nearly as wide as tall. But despite her equality of breadth and height, she moved with a noticeable grace, light on her feet. She had a quick, wide smile and she shared it with Anne and Mr. Murray before she became grave and stepped to Elizabeth's bedside.
Mr. Murray grinned at Anne and waved ceremoniously toward the woman. "This is Nurse Rook. Nurse Rook, this is Miss Anne Elliot."
The woman turned and gave Anne a remarkably elastic curtsy. "Good to meet you."
"And you," Anne said, "we are pleased to have you here."
Nurse Rook nodded once then turned back to Elizabeth, picking up Elizabeth's arm and pressing a finger against her wrist. Mr. Murray began to leave the room, but looked back at Anne, his glance beckoning her to follow him.
She did. He seemed to have something more to say. He shuffled his feet in the hallway then spoke. "I took the liberty of asking Nurse Rook to consult you about your sister. Your father — I am unsure that he...I thought that you might be best to consult. But propriety...I hope I have not overstepped."
Anne, embarrassed for them both because of her father, and appreciating Mr. Murray's attempt at delicacy, responded quickly, eager to leave the topic. "I thank you again, Mr. Murray."
Mr. Murray continued to the door after a soft Good, good and he put on his hat. He bowed, Anne curtsied, the servant, who had followed them from Elizabeth's room, shut the door, and Mr. Murray was gone.
Wentworth dusted the sleeve of his jacket although the action was unnecessary. It was spotless and crisp, as was all he had on. His boots were lustrous. Wentworth was no dandy but he did not mind finery — and making sure that all he had was at its best for the evening was a bit of naval-like discipline that appealed to him. Shipshape. The preparations also distracted him from thoughts of Anne Elliot, from the small but insistent feeling he had that he had been, or was about to be, disloyal to her.
It was not so. No promise, no promise still effectual, bound them. Once there had been such a promise but it had been voided by Anne herself. Wentworth owed her nothing; he was not obliged to her beyond the obligations of common decency among strangers — because strangers now they were, despite their past. That she would not look at him! He relived the moment of her passing him, her bonnet hiding her face.
His Sunday anger with himself returned. These feelings were intolerable! To feel the compulsion of duty where no duty existed! He was a captain in the Royal Navy. Duty regulated his life. He knew duty intimately. He was not duty-bound to Anne. He sat down on the bed in his room and sighed silently.
Wentworth's only sure path to freedom was to bind himself to another. His heart, it seemed, would not surrender Anne until it lost itself to someone new. Someone like Miss Ustus. Perhaps it would not be Miss Ustus in the end, but she was to be his partner for the first two dances at the ball and that gave her certain possibilities as a replacement for Anne. He would endeavor to fall in love with Miss Ustus if Miss Ustus were of a mind to be fallen in love with. And fallen in love with by him. She certainly did not seem hostile to him, not hostile at all.
He stood and adjusted his jacket, wound his watch. It was time to forget the past and to face the future. He could hear his watch ticking as he examined himself one last time.
Wentworth followed the Admiral and Sophia through the throng of men by the door, and entered the struggling assembly inside the ball-room. The chill dampness of the evening outside became the lukewarm dampness of the crowd inside as he entered.
Wentworth, taking advantage of his height, scanned the crowd, looking for either Miss Ustus or Anne. He felt eagerness and dread at the thought of each, although the eagerness preponderated over the dread in Miss Ustus' case, the dread over the eagerness in Anne's. Wentworth was in no hurry to be ignored by Anne again or to have to pretend to ignore her. It would be better if she were not present. He was unsure whether he could dance creditably with Miss Ustus if he felt he was under Anne's observation.
He saw neither woman. He had paused as he scanned and when he refocused, he found the crowd had swept The Admiral and Sophia up and away from him. Unsure what to do with himself, he made a tactical decision and sought higher ground. He worked laboriously toward the passage behind the highest bench. From that vantage point, enhanced by his height, he commanded a perspicuous overview of the crowd below.
The sight was impressive, and for the first time, the music, already playing, seemed to call for dancing, and not merely to add to the drone-fly hum of the assembly. After a moment, he saw that people were standing to begin the ball.
And then he saw the red-gold of Miss Ustus hair, saw her looking around, into the crowd. She happened to look up and he made a small gesture with his hand. Somehow, she saw it and she gave him her deep-dimpled smile. He hurried down to her, making apologies but not remaining to hear how they were taken as he made his way to her.
When he reached her, he bowed deeply. She curtsied and her dimples deepened. "I believe we are engaged, Captain."
For a moment, Wentworth felt the ball-room spin around him but then he forced it to stabilize. "Yes, Miss Ustus, so we are." He held out his arm to her and turned toward the gathering dancers. She rested her hand on his arm.
She was wearing a grey dress, a shade nearly but not quite that of her eyes. The effect of, as it were, being caught between shades of grey put Wentworth in mind of the open water, of its swirling shades of grey.
They began to dance, and for the first few moments, Wentworth focused only on the dance and on attuning his steps to Miss Ustus'. But after those first moments, his memory of the dance returned and he felt he knew his partner. Miss Ustus, evidently seeing him relax, began to converse with him beneath the volume of the music.
"How is your reverse seasickness this evening, Captain? I was a bit afraid you were suffering from it again when you first approached me."
"No, no, Miss Ustus. Forgive me if I seemed hesitant. If I may say so, I was struck by the beauty of your gown."
She smiled, pleased. "I thank you, sir. So, you survived the long, wet day?"
"I did. The Admiral and I always have much to talk about, because of our shared profession, and my sister and I too, because of our shared past. I did look into a volume of Keats at one point, my sister's book, but I confess I was soon back to talking with the Admiral."
"You are not generally a lover of poetry, then, Captain, or is Keat's a special trial?"
Wentworth laughed. They parted and then came back together. "Neither, Miss Ustus. I admire poetry, although I rarely have the time necessary to devote to it to possess a full understanding. I have known one...or two people who I thought did understand poetry. My first lieutenant on the Laconia understands poetry, I think…"
"Ah, but you said two?" Miss Ustus' look was teasing.
Wentworth felt himself color. "I did so say, but I meant it only in the way one does when unsure how many to count."
Miss Ustus' grey eyes flashed for a second. "I see, Captain. I tend to believe women are often those who best understand poetry." Her dimples reappeared for a second then vanished.
"They certainly inspire it," Wentworth said, hoping subtly to change the uncomfortable direction of their conversation.
They parted again, came back together. "So, you are not averse to Keats? I was reminded of a poem of his, a poem inspired by a woman." The music ended and Wentworth walked with Miss Ustus across the room to her brother.
Wentworth had not noticed him standing there before. They greeted each other cordially.
"Have you heard the news, Captain?" Mr. Ustus asked. "Our mutual acquaintance, Miss Elliot, has taken ill."
Wentworth colored again. "Miss Elliot? You mean Miss Elizabeth Elliot?"
"Yes. Mr. Collins…" — Mr. Ustus searched the crowd for a moment — "...was just here and told me. The doctor is not sure what her illness is, but it involves fever."
Wentworth was not fond of Elizabeth Elliot but he did not wish evil upon her. "I am sorry to hear this. Most sorry. And rest of the family, Sir Walter, Anne Elliot?"
"Both well, according to Mr. Collins. Anne Elliot has been much at her sister's bedside, but she is now being helped by a nurse. Mr. Collins knows the nurse and was told of all this by her, but he seems to believe her trustworthy."
Wentworth felt Miss Ustus' looking at him. He nodded to her brother. "I heartily wish Miss Elliot a full return to health, and I pray that the illness does not overtake anyone else in the family."
Mr. Ustus agreed and then continued. "May I ask, Captain, how you came to know the Elliots?"
Wentworth answered, "I was a visitor near Kellynch Hall, the family seat, some years ago. My brother had at the time the curacy of Monkford, and I became a little acquainted with the family."
Mr. Ustus seemed curious to ask more, but the music began again and Wentworth extended his arm to Miss Ustus. "I believe we are still engaged?"
She laughed, warm and throaty, and Wentworth no longer felt that he was failing in his duty. The woman was charming, entirely charming, in person, countenance, in every way. He began the next dance in spirits much higher than he had known in Bath.
"Would you like to hear the poem I remembered, Captain Wentworth?"
He nodded and smiled. She glanced at him. "It is entitled, To A Lady Seen For a Few Moments at Vauxhall. But perhaps you do know it? It mentions the sea — in a way.."
"No," Wentworth admitted, "I do not."
"I will share it after the dance."
When they finished, Miss Ustus stopped them a few paces from her brother and, in a half-whisper, she recited the poem:
Time's sea hath been five years at its slow ebb,
Long hours have to and fro let creep the sand,
Since I was tangled in thy beauty's web,
And snared by the ungloving of thy hand.
And yet I never look on midnight sky,
But I beheld think eyes' well-memoried light;
I cannot look upon the rose's dye,
But to thy cheek my soul doth take its flight;
I cannot look at any budding flower,
But my fond ear, in fancy at thy lips
And hearkening for a love-sound, doth devour
Its sweets in the wrong sense: — Thou dost eclipse
Every delight with sweet remembering,
And grief unto my darling joys dost bring.
She finished and Wentworth was forced to look away to regain his composure. The poem had pierced him. Five years. Time's sea at slow ebb. Tangled in thy beauty's web. Grief unto my darling joys.
His mind returned to that moment, five years ago, days before he proposed, when Anne, at a party, had ungloved her hand and allowed him to hold it bare for the first time. It had been the briefest moment, deliciously surreptitious: the touch of her hand vibrated through him.
"Captain?" He heard Miss Ustus say softly, "I hope...I did not presume too much. I thought of the poem...in part because of the other day, when we chanced to see each other — for a few minutes."
Wentworth faced her and forced a smile. She had blushed and her eyes were lowered. "Of course, the title does make me think of you."
They stood and looked at each other for a moment. Her lips were parted, her eyes had darkened. And then Mr. Ustus stepped to them, and, a moment later, another man asked Miss Ustus to dance.
Wentworth found an empty spot along one wall and stood there, waiting for the room itself to stop dancing.
Just when he had thought himself safe from Anne, when his time had become fully pleasant...
It took him a moment, but when the music for that dance ended, and her partner excused himself, Wentworth approached Miss Ustus. She was visibly pleased that he asked her to dance again. He took forcible command of himself and allowed himself no thoughts but of the dance and his current partner.
He would not be sunk by Keats, sent to the bottom by a poem. He had promised himself he would rise, rally. And so he would.
Look-ahoy! I hope you will return later this week for Chapter 9. In the meantime, I'd enjoy hearing from you.
By the way, the appearance of Keat's poem is an anachronism. It was not published until 1844, although the date of composition is unsure (there is conjecture that it was written in 1818). But when the first line came to me as I was writing, I couldn't resist it.