A/N: On we go.
Tides of Bath
Chapter Nine: Patient Discontent
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
— John Burroughs, Waiting
Anne rose early and dressed, walking silently to Elizabeth's room. Elizabeth's condition had changed little before Anne went to bed. Nurse Rook had left a little before noon, Anne sat with Elizabeth during the afternoon and early evening until Nurse Rook returned to the house. Anne had then gone to bed and, after a few moments of staring at the ceiling, she had fallen asleep.
Nurse Rook was dozing in a chair next to Elizabeth's bedside. Anne entered quietly and walked to the opposite side of the room, glancing out at yet another wet morning. Nurse Rook blinked and yawned.
"Good morning, Miss Anne," she whispered with a wake-unawake smile, "there was no need for you to be here so early this morning. I say the sun ain't hardly up himself, and he keeps those grey clouds pulled over his head."
"True, he has been in hiding since Sunday," Anne whispered, and rested the back of her hand to Elizabeth's brow, careful not to disturb her sister. "She is still feverish," Anne said.
Nurse Rook wiggled to free her width from the chair and stood. "Yes'm. She is. I checked her not long ago, but she ain't worse. The fever's there, but steady. No increase."
"Perhaps today it will decrease?" Anne asked, continuing their whispering.
Nurse Rook shrugged gently. "Pr'haps. These cases sometimes linger. We'll know more later."
"She passed the night in peace?"
"Yes'm, mostly, although there was a moment when she talked to me as if I was her — your — mother. But the spell passed. I pretended to be your mother and it seemed to comfort her. I hope I didn't do wrong?"
Anne shook her head. "No, not at all, Nurse Rook, that was a kindness. No doubt it eased her feverish mind."
Nurse Rook gazed down on the patient. "If you don't mind me saying so, Miss Anne, your family is monstrous handsome. Even sick, Miss Elliot is very pretty," Nurse Rooked looked up at Anne, "and you are so lovely, like an angel."
Anne felt herself blush. It had been a long time since anyone other than Lady Russell had called her attractive. She was sure that Captain Wentworth had found her sadly altered, unattractive. Anne had not looked at him as she passed him partly because of that — her fear of seeing his shock at her failing bloom, the blight of five unhappy years. "Thank you, Nurse Rook. Will you be staying long enough this morning for me to bring you tea, some breakfast?"
Nurse Rook nodded. "I'll stay a little while longer. Go and eat, Miss Anne, and pr'haps send me tea and a slice of bread and butter?"
Anne agreed and left the room. She found her father at breakfast, the paper open. He lowered it when she came in and sat down. "Good morning, Anne. Is...that woman still here?"
"That woman? Do you mean Nurse Rook, sir?"
He nodded.
"Yes, she is here." Anne leaned down and took a plate from the table, buttered some bread, poured a cup of tea, and then put the plate and cup on a tray that rested on the sideboard. "I am going to send her something to eat."
"You should eat first, Anne. That woman can wait. A bit of fasting might not be out of order for her." Sir Walter smirked.
Anne let the remark pass and her father returned to the paper. In the kitchen, Anne found the servant and gave him the tray, asking him to take it to Nurse Rook straightaway.
When Anne returned to her father, he had folded the paper and was concentrating on a spoon. It took Anne a moment to realize he was checking his reflection in it. He put the spoon down, atop the paper. "Do you think, Anne, that this coat looks well with my hair, my complexion?"
"Yes, father, it is an agreeable color — periwinkle?" Anne sat down.
Her father withdrew his chair a distance from hers. "Um...Yes. If the day will be dull, I will be bright. — Good, my man declared it to suit me well, but I wanted another opinion. — How is your sister this morning?"
"Much the same, but since that means she is not worse, I deem that good news. Not the best news, of course, but good."
Sir Walter frowned. "It is most hard, most hard, suffering someone sick in the house. Most hard indeed. I have been consumed by worry, worn almost to distraction. Much more and I fear my face will begin to show it, lines of worry, crow's feet..." He shuddered and fell silent.
Rising from the table, he walked to the window and looked into it, half-turned left, half-turned right, then looked out of the window. "Ah. More rain. It is too absurd to pay for water where endless amounts fall for free! But no one in Bath seems to recognize absurdity!" He stared a little longer, agitated. "And the faces of the people in this rain! Especially women. Every one so pinched and damp looking!" He turned to Anne as if waiting for agreement but she only poured her tea in silence.
Sir Walter used the silence to sigh sulkily, and then to look down at his coat, his sulk slowly periwinkled into a small smile of self-satisfaction.
There was a knock at the door. Anne looked at her father; he seemed surprised. He glanced at the clock.
A moment later, the servant entered the room. "Mr. Ustus." Mr. Ustus appeared as the sound of his name disappeared. He bowed to Anne and her father and they returned the courtesy, Anne by curtsy.
"Please, Sir Walter, Miss Anne, forgive me for intruding at this early hour, but I heard the news last night that Elizabeth was ill and I have been...uneasy since. May I inquire, how is she this morning?"
"She remains feverish," Anne said, gesturing for Mr. Ustus to sit down. "Please, sir, sit. May I pour you tea, or supply something to eat?"
"No, thank you, Miss Anne. I was up very early and have breakfasted already." He turned in his chair to face Sir Walter. "I heard about Elizabeth in a roundabout way. Your nurse is, it seems, a near neighbor and acquaintance of Mr. Collins and they spoke last night. She mentioned being hired by you…"
Sir Walter held up his hand. "I see how it was. Nothing stays quiet in Bath for long, I know, Mr. Ustus, particularly not the affairs of Camden Place." He gestured to the window. "The eyes of Bath are ever fixed upon the Elliots."
Mr. Ustus smiled in compliance. "Indeed, Sir Walter, indeed."
"No doubt, our absence from the ball last night did not go unnoticed?"
"No, sir. I heard many lamenting that the Elliots were not present."
Sir Walter shook his head indulgently. "It is a heavy responsibility to be among those who establish and maintain tone. But life's stage is, of course, unequal. Some were assigned to more lofty places, and it would be unbecoming to fail to acquit oneself properly."
Mr. Ustus nodded and glanced at Anne. For a moment, she thought she saw amusement in the man's eyes, but she was uncertain. He dropped his eyes and took a sip of his tea. Sir Walter sat down at the table.
"Tell us of the ball, Mr. Ustus. Was everyone there, even in the rain?"
"Yes, almost everyone. The music was good and there were many pleasing dancers, among them my sister."
Sir Walter sighed. "I am most sorry to have missed seeing Miss Ustus dressed for a ball and dancing!. No doubt she was in beauty?"
"Very much so, but, as partial a judge as I am, I am sure that her beauty improved during the evening."
Sir Walter leaned toward Mr. Ustus. "Why so, sir?"
"I believe my sister has made a conquest," Mr. Ustus paused, and Anne thought she saw something in his expression shift for a moment, saw her father take note. "She danced three times with a man you know, Sir Walter, Miss Anne: she danced three times with Captain Wentworth."
Sir Walter immediately glanced at Anne. She tried to keep her composure but she was unequal to his glance and she glanced away. Mr. Ustus seemed to notice the exchange.
"Captain Wentworth," Sir Walter said, his tone all superior generosity. "Well, well. No doubt they made a handsome couple. I do wish I had seen it. And you say that the Captain has been taken prize?"
Before Mr. Ustus could respond, Sir Walter slapped his leg. "How do you like that, Mr. Ustus, taken prize?"
Mr. Ustus forced a smile. Anne was grateful for her father's weak pun: it kept Mr. Ustus focused on him, and kept either from looking at her. A cold knot of envy had formed in Anne's stomach. Captain Wentworth and Miss Ustus. Despite her effort at composure, her attempt to bridle her imagination, it slipped her control: she imagined them together, the music, the dancing, the shared smiles. Her imagination sounded, colored, supplied the scene, imposed it on her. She closed her eyes, willed the scene away, and when she opened her eyes again, as the scene vanished, she discovered Mr. Ustus was talking.
"...But it is not just that my sister has made a conquest. — And I ask for some latitude for that phrase, conquest, I do not mean that she has been anything but simple and natural. She abhors the arts by which women fix men to themselves. She has no more conquered than been conquered."
The knot of envy tightened. Anne spoke as it did, unable to keep her question to herself. "Do you mean, Mr. Ustus, that your sister returns what you take to be Captain Wentworth's regard?"
Mr. Ustus gave Anne a conspiratorial nod. "I do. But, pray, do not let on to Darby, that is, to my sister. She would be displeased by my laxness in sharing this with you. I do so since you both know the gentleman, and since I thought that it might divert you a moment from worry for Elizabeth."
"Speaking for myself, I appreciate the diversion, Mr. Ustus," Sir Walter said. "I am overcome with concern for my eldest daughter." Sir Walter seemed to have a thought, and he addressed Anne. "You should write to Mary today, Anne, so that she may know what is happening, know about her sister."
Mr. Ustus interjected. "Ah, yes, you have a third daughter, your youngest, I believe?"
"Yes, she is married to Charles Musgrove. An old, highly respectable family, the Musgroves. Charles is the heir. — Do not forget to do this, Anne."
"No, father." Anne stood. "Good day to you, Mr. Ustus. I must see to my sister and the letter."
Mr. Ustus stood and bowed agreeably. "If it may be done, please let Elizabeth know of my concern for her."
"I will." Anne left the room and, when she had gently closed the door, she stood for a moment, her hand on her stomach. She heard her father and Mr. Ustus begin to speak again but too softly for her to understand what was being said. Anne had felt envy before where Captain Wentworth was concerned, but it had been notional, distant. She had imagined him meeting and falling in love with some woman. But it was always some woman, not any particular, actual woman. Certainly not the stately, lovely and sparkling Miss Ustus, a woman who was not just a particular, actual woman but a lively, self-possessed, most agreeable young woman, a contrast to Anne in almost every feature, from her hair to her feet.
Anne entered Elizabeth's room full of unfavorable comparisons, but the sound of Elizabeth's groan put the comparisons from her mind. "Mother, is that you?" Elizabeth was sitting up in bed, looking past Nurse Rook to Anne. Her eyes were upon Anne, but unseeingly. "Mother?"
Nurse Rook, hearing Anne enter and following Elizabeth's gaze, nodded softly at Anne.
Anne understood. "Yes, Elizabeth. Be still, sweet girl."
"Mother, I thought you were...gone," Elizabeth said hoarsely. She reached out for Anne's hands and Anne gave them to her sister. Elizabeth's grasp was cold, damp, trembling. But Anne's touch quieted her immediately. She sank back among her pillows but did not surrender Anne's hands. "Mother, you have come…"
Anne sat down beside Elizabeth. Elizabeth closed her eyes and, a moment later, drifted off. Nurse Rook had wet a cloth and she went to the other side of the bed and put the cloth on Elizabeth's forehead.
"I'm glad you came when you did, Miss Anne. My ruse from last night did not satisfy the Miss in daylight. But you must look like your mother; she thought you were…"
Anne dropped her head sadly, her sadness making her less reserved for a moment. "Yes, our mother has been dead these many years. When she lived, my father was...better, my sister less...demanding."
Nurse Rook smiled in sympathy. "Losing a mother's the loss of a limb, Miss Anne, if you'll forgive my manner of speaking. Just as they that lose a limb never forget the loss, and sometimes feel it as if it were there still, so too the children who lose a mother. I'm powerful sorry for you all."
Anne extricated her hands carefully from Elizabeth's. "I take it her fever is worse?"
Nurse Rook nodded. "Yes'm, a little, but not so much."
She consulted the small watch pinned to her ample bosom. "Mr. Murray will be here soon, I expect." Nurse Rook removed the cloth and dipped it in the basin of water, then, after wringing it out, replaced it on Elizabeth's head.
"I am sorry I was slow returning, Nurse Rook, but we had a visitor, Mr. Ustus."
Nurse Rook shook her head. "I do not know the gentleman."
"I think you know a friend, an acquaintance of his, Mr. Collins."
Nurse Rooks' square face was divided by a smile. "Ah, Mr. Collins. Yes, I know him, and his wife, Fanny. Fanny and I have become very well acquainted. Do you know the Collins?"
"No, I have not had that pleasure. What does Mr. Collins do?"
"He is a lawyer. A good one, if Fanny's to be believed, and I do believe her. Mr. Collins seems to be a man of wide acquaintance."
"Has Mrs. Collins ever mentioned Mr. and Miss Ustus to you? They are both young, about Elizabeth's age and mine, respectively. Each is handsome, quite handsome."
"Do they have a reddish coloration to their hair, his dark, hers light?"
"Yes, they do."
"Then," Nurse Rook said with a slightly abstracted look, "I have seen them — but never been introduced to them. They make a memorable pair, although handsome as he is, she is the handsomer, I say."
The knot in Anne's stomach tightened again. "Yes, she is a beautiful woman." Anne could hear the tightness in her voice.
Nurse Rook gave Anne a close look. "Yes, pr'haps, if that's your style of beauty. For myself, I like the beauty that sneaks up on you a little, that seems a secret, better than the beauty that's available to all, just for having eyes."
Nurse Rook took up the cloth and dipped it in the basin again.
Wentworth slowed his pace so that Admiral Croft could easily match it. They were walking in the remains of the rain, a cool, fitful mistle, on a shop errand for Sophia.
"So, Frederick," the Admiral began, a twinkle in his eye, "has Sophia attacked you about your infamous behavior with Miss Ustus?"
"No. Infamous? I was all gallantry. We danced three times."
The Admiral wagged his head. "Yes, but that's the rub, Frederick, three times. You quite distinguished the young lady. A trinity of dances, two angels on the head of a Bath pin."
Wentworth turned an astonished look on the Admiral. "What," the Admiral scoffed, "you think your sister reading at me all these years has produced no change? Even the rock can be weathered by the wind, Frederick."
Wentworth chuckled. "That comparison seems kind neither to you nor to my sister, sir."
The Admiral's eyes continued to twinkle. "Be that as it may, it is apt. But what are you about, Frederick? You have made it public knowledge that you are...interested by Miss Ustus."
Wentworth began to protest but the Admiral went on, giving him no chance. "It is true that we have often wondered at you, Frederick. All these years and no serious attachments. Sophia believes perhaps there was one in the past, one that did not end well and one you have kept to yourself, but, you should remember that although Bath is less...bent on propriety than other places are, your behavior last night was marked by many, as was Miss Ustus' warm acceptance of your prolonged attentions."
"So," Wentworth complained, "all of Bath has hastened us from three dances to a couple standing before an altar, hastened us to matrimony?"
"Sophia says that matrimony has been your purpose here all along. — Not, Frederick, that I quibble with your choice. Miss Ustus shines, and she seems a woman of spirit."
"She is, sir. And I am hoping to become better acquainted with her, but to hear wedding bells at this juncture is to hear an echo where nothing sounds. I will say only this: she is one of the most agreeable women I have met, and one of the most handsome of my acquaintance."
The Admiral stopped and put his hand out from beneath his umbrella. After a thoughtful moment, he closed the umbrella. Wentworth closed his too. The rain had stopped.
"At last," the Admiral sighed, "I was beginning to think the only way to leave Bath would be by boat. — No, Frederick, do not fuss. I am teasing you — somewhat. I do not doubt that you know what you are about. But remember, a courtship is like a dance — and I no longer speak of angels, who I doubt are much engaged in dancing or courting — it takes two, and each partner begins the dance and continues it with his or her own views about what is happening and why. Take care that you do not commit yourself any further than your feelings in honor will allow. Miss Ustus seemed to me already taken with you at our dinner, and even more so after your dance. Perhaps you could not tell, but her high color was present even before the dancing began. It was produced by your appearance."
"Do you mean to tell me, sir," Wentworth expostulated, surprised by such a long speech from the normally laconic Admiral, "that you were in sight of us while we danced. I looked and never saw you. Were you and my sister spying on me, had you a glass so that you could discover me from the distance?"
"No, no, we were there, but there was such a crowd. We did watch you dance with Miss Ustus the first two times. Of the third, we only heard a report. We were not eyewitnesses to that folly…" A slow grin spread across the Admiral's weathered face, "but reports spread in the ball-room like cannon smoke during a broadside."
Wentworth laughed and they walked on. He did not resent the Admiral's hint. Wentworth knew that he was not in love with Miss Ustus. He was not even falling in love with her. Perhaps though, if there were a falling into falling in love, that described his current state.
He needed to be careful of Miss Ustus and her feelings, and not give rise to expectations that outstripped what he felt. He wanted to be committed, but not before that commitment was justified by a reality of affection. Patience was the order of the day, patience with himself, and with Miss Ustus.
Still, he was pleased by the ball, pleased by Miss Ustus. Their final dance unwove the spell of the Keat's poem, and Wentworth had not thought about Anne Elliot for the rest of the evening.
He had not thought about her all day. He had noticed that several times. And he was not thinking about her now. His thoughts were of Miss Ustus, and only Miss Ustus. Anne Elliot was not on his mind, no, not at all. That anchorage was at last giving way.
Look-ahoy! Teaching begins for me soon, so I don't know how regularly I will be updating the story. I'm pleased that the number of readers has grown so much — but I would enjoy hearing from you too!