A/N: More of our story. We are now halfway through Part 2: Sink, Sank, Sunk.

Tides of Bath

Chapter Eleven: Odd Evening

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this.

— Sir Thomas Wyatt, Forget Not Yet

No forewarning of Mary Musgrove's descent upon Bath had been sent. She and Charles and the boys were just there. Although Anne was glad to see her sister and her sister's family, the addition of Mary created more cares, not fewer, for Anne.

Mary was constitutionally robust, unlike Anne, but she imagined herself ill — or at least ill-used — constantly. She rarely spoke but to complain. She was not a good-humored woman; she was a burden to herself, with no powers or accomplishments or industry to take her out of herself, and she demanded that those around help her shoulder herself, her ownmost burden. That demand had fallen particularly heavily upon Anne. Only Anne could seem to make Mary well, even for a few hours together. Luckily, the excitements of Bath and Camden Place had temporarily seized Mary and so kept her from her normal flutterings and palpitations.

But Mary was not all. There were the two boys, badly managed by their parents and too young to take much in hand, who were in a state of constant need — the need for attention, for amusement, for sweets. Only Anne, again, could manage them; only to her were they tolerably obedient. Whenever Anne was with Mary, Mary simply gave the children to Anne and bothered herself no more about them except to complain of the noise they made.

And then there was Charles Musgrove and Anne's particular history with him. He had, in his plain, yeoman's way, taken a fancy to Anne and proposed to her while Mary was still away at school. But Anne had refused him. She did not love him — her heart was then and still was full of another — but, she reckoned that he did not love her, either. He liked her and esteemed her, although many of her talents and gifts could not be entered into by him, really appreciated, and he judged she would make a sensible wife, that his life would be improved by her. He had, in effect, done her all the justice he could, but the lack of real affection on either side was an absolute veto on the matter for Anne: to marry without love was to do moral wrong. And Anne had been so close to a marriage of love, so close to a partner who could do her complete justice, and who moved and thrilled her, made her better, that Charles' offer, though by no means mean or contemptible, paled by comparison. Anne could, and did, love him as a brother, but she had felt no regret in saying no, other than the short-lived pain she had caused him. Mary returned not long afterward from school, and Charles relocated his ambitions to her, and, in due time, she accepted.

Charles bore Anne no ill-will for her refusal. He had been pained by it, more by embarrassment than by unrequited affection, and the acceptance of Mary ended the embarrassment. Anne believed that he wished that she had accepted, but he was not a man for brooding on the past or on might-have-beens. He was a farmer and a hunter, a man preoccupied with the present, with what was in front of him, the next crop, or the next covey. For a time, Anne was self-conscious around him, worried that he would resent her, but he did not.

In that way, he had succeeded at something that Captain Wentworth failed at — and was still failing at. Captain Wentworth blamed Anne for her refusal; Charles Musgrove did not. True, Charles had known that in proposing to Anne he was reaching up. Captain Wentworth had not felt that at all or at least so keenly (perhaps that had been among the reasons Sir Walter had been displeased when he heard of the proposal) and Anne thought it right that he should not. She rated his claims as high as possible, even if her father, and Lady Russell, did not. Her father would not have rejected Charles Musgrove had Anne accepted him, though he would not have rejoiced in the match. (Much as happened when Mary accepted him.) But Lady Russell was as opposed to Charles Musgrove as she was to Captain Wentworth. Of course, her reasons were different. She could oppose Captain Wentworth as unproven, but she could not reproach his person or genius. She did reproach these in Charles Musgrove, albeit in the most delicate manner. Captain Wentworth was not Anne's equal in status or rank, and might never be. Charles Musgrove was not her equal in any way, particularly not in understanding. Anne's mind was active, limpid, quick and deep. Charles' mind was none of those. He was neither a stupid nor a thoughtless man, but he would never have been able to meet Anne on the plane of reflection or have been able to delight in her peculiar turns of mind, her devotion to poetry, her disinterested observation.

Everything had eventually been settled — without hard feelings on either side, at Kellynch or Uppercross, the Musgrove home. It was a testimony to the satisfied conceit of Kellynch and the ungrasping geniality of Uppercross. No one spoke of the proposal and so Mary was not reminded that she was the second choice, and, it was clear, that whenever it crossed her mind, she assured herself that Charles was so clearly better off with her that his second choice must seem to him, in hindsight, as his proper first choice. Anne was, after all, only Anne. Anne had made a mistake and both Mary and Charles were the beneficiaries of it.

Anne fretted some about the proposal and the refusal, in part because of the proximity of Captain Wentworth. Charles did not know Anne had been proposed to before, or that she had first accepted, then rejected that proposal. She thought it unlikely that finding it out, if he did, would cause any problem or trouble, but she could not be sure. She was also unsure how Captain Wentworth would take the news. Would he think it another case of her jilting a man, rejecting him upon Lady Russell's persuasion? Her comfort was that she was unlikely to see Captain Wentworth and that he was unlikely to become acquainted with Charles and Mary.

Mary, unsurprisingly, turned out to be an absent helper. She was more interested in sitting among the mirrors in the drawing-room with her father, or in walking about in Bath, shop to shop, than she was in sitting in Elizabeth's room. That was a blessing, since, when Mary was there, she seemed jealous of the attention — the care — given Elizabeth and the little notice given to her complaints.

Nurse Rook was Anne's savior. The square, efficient woman took all of a half-an-hour to be out of humor with Mary, and she hastened her ungently from the room. Any time she came back, at the first since of complaint, Nurse Rook chased Mary away again.

"That you belong to this family, Miss Anne..." Nurse Rook said one day while wiping Elizabeth's brow, fresh from chasing Mary away, and still panting, "...pr'haps it proves indeed that from nothing, nothing comes ain't so, but, of course, I did not know your poor mother, pr'haps she explains you…"

Nurse Rook had then become self-conscious and begged Anne's forgiveness for such free speech. Anne, pulled three ways among laughter, and sadness, and shame (for herself, her father and sisters), smiled wanly, shook her head, and made no comment.

Charles had the good sense to find lodgings for himself and his family near Camden Place. So, after their first night in town when Mary had demanded to sit with Elizabeth but ended up asleep on a couch in the drawing-room, Mary gave up any ambitions to night nursing.

On Wednesday, Elizabeth's fever spiked. Fear gripped Camden Place.

But the crisis came and went in a couple of daylight hours. When it ended, Elizabeth's pulse regularized, as did her breathing, and, shortly after that, the first pink of color showed in her cheeks, ever-so-faint but real. Mr. Murray was pleased and relieved, as was Nurse Rook, although both cautioned that Elizabeth was still in a weak and delicate state, and that she would likely need attention for many more days as she recuperated.

Anne, exhausted but thankful, was explaining Mr. Murray's recommendations for Elizabeth's recuperation to her father and Mary, when the servant announced Mr. Ustus.

He had continued his regular visits, and had continued to seek out Anne for conversation whenever her father was not available. Anne was growing perplexed by the man, by his growing intimacy with her father, but also by the intimacy he seemed to hope to create with her. He came to find out about Elizabeth's condition. He asked after Elizabeth dutifully — and yet, if his feelings were much involved, he was remarkably good at hiding that fact. His interest had something in it that was impartial, objective, odd.

But she had little time for such perplexity; her hands were full, despite the help of Nurse Rook.

The worst of Mr. Ustus' visits, though, was not the perplexity he occasioned, it was his insistence on sharing details about Miss Ustus' growing acquaintance with Captain Wentworth, Admiral and Mrs. Croft. They had dined with Mr. and Miss Ustus on Monday night, and Captain Wentworth had again danced with Miss Ustus, her first two dances at the Tuesday ball. Anne was at a loss to explain why, after dancing with Miss Ustus three times the week before. Nothing Mr. Ustus had to say of the dinner or the ball suggested any diminution of Captain Wentworth's attentions. Mr. Ustus, although he said nothing explicitly, clearly regarded the two of them as on their way to an eventual understanding.

After a bow, Mr. Ustus took off his hat and produced a handkerchief. He wiped his brow and put the handkerchief away. "Good afternoon, Sir Walter, Miss Anne, Mrs. Musgrove. I hope I find you well, and that Miss Elliot is still recuperating?"

Sir Walter answered. "Yes, she is making progress. It is, of necessity given the seriousness of her illness, slow, but it is genuine. One proof is that the doctor is no longer here twice a day, although the nurse remains." Sir Walter sniffed in showy dissatisfaction. "But one must tolerate inconveniences, invasions, and simply remain above it all."

Mr. Ustus, moving to a chair, bowed again. "Too true, Sir Walter, but you tolerate with such effortless grace, such tact."

Sir Walter stretched to his full height. "It is the result of good breeding, sir, and a ceaseless study of how to make myself pleasing to others."

Mr. Ustus nodded at Sir Walter but cast his gaze for a moment at Anne. He sat and sighed, looking at Mary. "I must say, Mrs. Musgrove, how much of an addition you have been here at Camden Place."

Mary beamed. "I thank you, sir. I like to think that I am also useful."

"No doubt," Mr. Ustus said agreeably, "and that will have to serve as my way of introducing an invitation, My sister longs to see you again, Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, and to meet the Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove. I have come to invite you to dinner with us tomorrow evening at Marlborough Buildings. It will be a large group, for I have also invited Captain Wentworth and the Crofts. I know that Miss Elliot, being convalescent, cannot attend, but I am hopeful that perhaps Nurse Rook would suffice to care for her. I know that Miss Anne has not left Camden Place in many days, and that Mrs. Musgrove has also been kept close by her sister's needs. So, may you not join us tomorrow?"

Anne was certain her father would say No, certain that he should say No.

"Yes," Sir Walter said, smiling, "yes, I think it would do us good to get out, and do Elizabeth good not to have quite so many overwatching her recovery. I will speak to Nurse Rook," Sir Walter looked at Anne and she knew the task would instead be hers, "but I believe I may say yes already."

Mary was all smiles. Only Anne was hesitant. Mr. Ustus, if he noticed, did not remark on it. He made conversation about the weather and the increasing dust of Bath, and then he left.

Sir Walter and Mary began to talk about the planned dinner. Mary was all eagerness to see Miss Ustus, given her father's talk of the woman. She pressed him for information on Captain Wentworth and the Crofts, but Anne left the room rather than hear what her father was likely to say about them.

She went to ask Nurse Rook if she would mind being alone to care for Elizabeth the next night. She did not. And so Anne would have to face all she feared: seeing Captain Wentworth and Miss Ustus together and having to introduce Charles and Mary to the Captain. Her devout hope was that the past would not be a subject of conversation. She consoled herself with two thoughts: one, that after many years, she would at long last meet the Crofts, the family that might have been hers, and two, that by being forced to see Captain Wentworth and Miss Ustus together, she would have no choice but to submit to it, accept it — and while that would afflict her, it would work toward her eventual happiness, by teaching her that the Captain was taken, that he belonged to another.

Wentworth took a deep breath. Mr. and Miss Ustus had set a beautiful table, the service gleamed in the light of many candles. Miss Ustus' hair seemed itself a kind of flame, and the grey and gauzy gown she wore seemed woven somehow from the sea itself. But Miss Ustus was not the only woman in the room who attracted his attention.

Anne Elliot was there too. Her blue gown, though of a different style, was of the same color as the one she wore the day he proposed to her. Her dark hair framed her face, her soft dark eyes. As usual, she was otherwise without ornament. He was careful not to look at her when she might see him, or when Miss Ustus might observe his object, but he could not keep his eyes away. Anne was not a creature of candlelight, as Miss Ustus was, but she looked lovely nonetheless, slender and delicate. He could see that she was tired: the candlelight was enough to reveal the effects of her exertions on her sister's behalf, her family's behalf. Nurse Rook judged Anne an angel, and she had passed that decided judgment on to Mrs. Collins, and so it wound a path to Wentworth's ears. Wentworth was not sure if angels could tire, but he remembered how kind and solicitous and selfless Anne could be. That knowledge had made her decision to end their engagement even more galling to him, more puzzling. She was above worries of narrow prudence, he believed, but somehow Lady Russell had impressed such worries on Anne and she had given him up, given him up when she knew she was his heart's fondest hope.

Wentworth shook his head internally. He would not dwell on such things. He would control his eyes; he would attend to Miss Ustus, as everyone, including Anne, seemed to expect him to do.

Dinner passed lively enough, with Mr. Ustus complimenting Sir Walter, Sir Walter complimenting Miss Ustus, Miss Ustus smiling dimpled smiles at Wentworth, and Wentworth filling silent moments with stories of sea battles. Miss Ustus was transported by them, hanging on every word and cheering as the Royal Navy proved its worth in the person of Captain Wentworth. Anne listened, Wentworth knew, but she seemed to shrink from the tales, to be frightened by them.

After dinner, as they still sat at the table, Miss Ustus turned to Wentworth. "Captain, you and I have talked of poetry, and I was reading a poem, a sonnet, recently, and I was wondering if you would read it aloud. I would like to hear it in a man's voice, and my brother is reticent about reading poetry aloud. He claims that there is no surer revelation of the misunderstanding of a poem than a poor reading-aloud of it. What say you, Captain, will you do it," she gave him a dazzling, dimpled smile, "for me, will you indulge me?"

Wentworth nodded. "Surely, it will be my pleasure. But if your brother is right, I may do little more than show my ignorance. I am only late-come to poetry and do not pretend to understand it, as you know."

Miss Ustus was delighted by this remark, the reference to their growing knowledge of each other, and she glanced at Anne. She rose from the table and disappeared into another room. As they waited, Anne spoke softly, a question for the Captain. Other than their formal greeting when she arrived, it was the first words she addressed to him since the Pump Room.

"You say you are lately come to poetry, sir. How did that happen?"

Wentworth felt his throat constrict. "I became a more serious reader after I was made Captain. I will not claim to have read extensively, but what I have read I have tried to read well. And now I have Benwick, one of my officers, who is a reading man, a thinking man, and he has broadened my reading." Wentworth thought of Overbury's Wife in his room at the Croft's and he found himself stammering. "I have...I have tried...I have tried to read...seriously.."

Anne looked closely at him. He recalled her reading to him in the days of their courtship, how beautifully she read, with such sweetness and comprehension. "I am glad to know it, Captain. The marital virtues are not the only virtues, and some virtues have forms that are not martial at all."

Wentworth was about to ask for an explanation when Miss Ustus reappeared, a slim volume in her hands. She sat down and opened the book to a ribbon-marked page. "It is a sonnet of Shakespeare's, Sonnet 53." She handed the book to Wentworth.

He took it and looked around the room. His sister and the Admiral, along with Anne and Mr. Ustus, were looking at him, attentive. Sir Walter stifled a yawn and he saw Mary Musgrove turn over a piece of the dinner setting to see its manufacture. To this varied audience, he hazarded a sight-reading of the sonnet.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you.
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new.
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear,
And you in every blessèd shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
 But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

Wentworth finished, his voice dropping low on as he read the couplet. He glanced up and Miss Ustus, who was giving him a look of deep significance. And then he glanced at Anne, whose face and eyes were down.

"Thank you, Captain," Miss Ustus said enthusiastically, softly lit with pleasure, "that was moving, lovely. The striking change from talk of shadows, an emblem of the changeable, to talk of constancy. Do you not find it moving?"

Wentworth hardly knew how to answer or where in the room to look. Miss Ustus was waiting for an answer. "Yes," Wentworth confessed, "I do. I assign great value to resolution, constancy, to the faithful performance of a promise."

Miss Ustus nodded her complete agreement, and, down the table, Wentworth saw Anne's head lower further. It was true: he thought her inconstant. But he had not chosen the poem, had not read it to wound her. Miss Ustus reached for the volume. Wentworth had closed it and put it on the table. She picked it up and looked at Anne. "Miss Anne, my brother has told me that you are a reader too. Have you read the Sonnets?"

Anne looked up, her face pale in the candlelight. "Yes, I have read them. They are a favorite."

"What one do you prize most?"

Anne smiled sadly. "It is hard to choose. Shakespeare knows no equal. Even his worst overtops the best of others."

"But, surely, there is one you especially like?"

Wentworth was about to intervene; Anne was shifting uncomfortably in her chair. But then she answered. "Sonnet 97."

Miss Ustus turned the pages until she found it, and then, after delicately clearing her throat, she read Anne's favorite aloud.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease.
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
But hope of orphans, and unfathered fruit.
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute.
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
 That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

Wentworth affixed his gaze to Miss Ustus as she read, but he stole a glance at Anne at Miss Ustus finished. Anne's eyes were closed. He saw her silently speak the final words as Miss Ustus spoke them aloud. He returned his gaze to Miss Ustus, but not before he thought he saw Anne's eyes open and saw her look at him.

The poem had thrown him into confusion. There was no reason to take it as a communication from Anne to himself, but it felt as if it had been, as if she had spoken through the mouth of Miss Ustus. He upbraided himself. That was egotism! She had given him up, never contacted him again. She had not been pining away for him as he had for her.

Before he could think further, Sir Walter, suppressing a yawn, stood. "My thanks to you, Mr, Ustus, Miss Ustus, for a fine meal and a very pleasant evening. But we must return to Camden Place, to my convalescent daughter. We must not leave her for too long."

Wentworth stood too, as did Admiral Croft, and a general leave-taking occupied the room. Once, and only for a brief moment, Wentworth's eyes met Anne's and saw them darker than he had ever known them.

And then she was gone.

Wentworth left a few minutes later with the Crofts, and only after Miss Ustus had insisted that Wentworth take her Sonnets with him. He tried to refuse in good grace but could not.

As the three of them walked home, and Admiral Crawford chattily reviewed the various dishes that comprised the dinner, Wentworth felt Sophia's eyes on him more than once, her look thoughtful, knowing. "An odd finish to our evening, Frederick. A sort of litany of sonnets..."

Wentworth nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Look-Ahoy! I hope you are enjoying the story; I am.