A/N: So, we sail into the final part of our story, Part Three: To The Lighthouse.
Tides of Bath
Chapter Fifteen: Sunday Callers
Let me pour forth
My tears before thy face whilst I stay here,
For thy face coins them, and thy stamp they bear,
And by this mintage they are something worth,
For thus they be
Pregnant of thee;
Fruits of much grief they are emblems of more;
When a tear falls, that thou falls which it bore,
So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverse shore.
— John Donne, A Valediction: Of Weeping
Sunday midday found Anne seated in the drawing-room of Camden Place, seated this time in view of the mirrors. Her father had gone to his room to change after divine services. Anne was sitting, looking at her reflection.
She put her hand to her face tentatively as if she were touching it in the glass. Was she no longer the woman that Captain Wentworth had loved? Had she changed, faded so much? Had her long heartsickness for him made her less appealing to him? He had looked upon her with tenderness the night before — but then had not looked at her again. Anne would treasure that look.
Perhaps that was the final flare of the old flame, the last warm spark before the fire finally died? — She felt that it was so.
Her bonnet was in her other hand, on her lap, forgotten. Captain Wentworth had been at the morning divine service, seated behind Anne, and beside Miss Ustus and her brother. The Collins' had been seated near them. Mary and Charles and their children were seated with Anne and Sir Walter. Several times during the service, Anne thought she felt the Captain's eyes on her, but each time she dared to look, he was not looking at her. She had not dared look long or often; Miss Ustus had seen her and Anne did not want to meet that woman's gaze; Anne was not sure she could do it.
It was time for Anne to submit to the fact that he was, and undoubtedly soon would officially be, Miss Ustus'. Another in Anne's series of lessons in the art of knowing her own nothingness was required of her. Captain Wentworth and Miss Ustus and their party were gone by the time Anne was able to reach the sidewalk, Mary's oldest son, fond of Anne, had insisted on holding her hand and had thus impeded her progress through the swells of mutually well-wishing congregants.
Mary and Charles were to come to dinner that evening, and they had parted company near the Musgroves' lodging. Anne and her father had walked on in silence to Camden Place. Nurse Rook was with Elizabeth, who had been well enough to leave her room and eat a bite of breakfast with the family before they left for services.
Elizabeth was sleeping now; Anne had looked in on her when they arrived. Nurse Rook had gone home.
Anne heard a knock at the door. She heard the servant open the door and overheard muffled voices. She expected that it would be Mr. Ustus. Anne was still puzzled about Mr. Ustus' joining her father while everyone was at the concert, and she was hoping she might be able to find out what that visit meant.
"Captain Wentworth," the servant said after opening the door, and a moment later the man himself was in the room. The servant left, closing the door behind him.
Anne stood but had to reach out for the back of her chair to steady herself. She dropped her bonnet on the floor. Her surprise was complete; she was unequal to the moment.
There was silence between them and it stretched out. Captain Wentworth shifted his hat from one hand to another, then his weight from one foot to another. He looked at her, waiting, his expression difficult to understand.
She knew she had to speak. "Captain Wentworth, welcome. I did not expect you. Were we expecting you?"
"No, ma'am. I confess I am here unexpectedly. My brother-in-law, the Admiral, sent me here to talk with your father." He shifted his hat back to his original hand. "I find myself tasked with two Sabbath errands today."
"Two?"
"Yes, I would speak to your father, and then I have another errand that I must see to. Will your father be long?"
"No, not long. He should be back at any moment. — Would you like to sit?"
"No, thank you. I cannot stay."
The silence returned, a palpable presence in the room. Captain Wentworth cleared his throat, seemed to be searching for words. "Did you enjoy the concert?"
"Yes, I did. That song, Che farò, is a favorite." She looked at him, looked into his eyes. She saw a flash of the tenderness she saw the night before.
"It is a favorite of mine too."
Neither she nor Captain Wentworth seemed to know what to make of their exchange, their shared favorite. The clock in the room, normally all-but-inaudible, gonged through passing seconds.
The tenderness in Captain Wentworth's eyes was slowly replaced by consternation, frustration.
"I...I...go from here to see Mr. and Miss Ustus. I...need to speak to her about an important matter."
Anne took herself to understand him then. The crushing weight of knowledge settled on her. He was going to make Miss Ustus a proposal. What was so, unofficially, was to become so, officially. He was, perhaps, acting out of residual gallantry toward Anne, letting Anne know ahead of the event. Perhaps it was an homage to what they once were to each other, so full of each other, their hearts so open to each other.
Anne gripped the chair and the mirrored room reflected Captain Wentworth back to her in manifold images. He was everywhere around her, reflected everywhere; he was utterly out-of-reach.
"I see."
The silence returned a third time, more thickly palpable. Captain Wentworth stepped farther into the room, closer to Anne. She could see the act of will it took for him to do it. He spoke, his voice softened. "I wanted to tell you…"
She could not bear to hear it. He would speak it into being. She allowed herself to cut him off. "May I ask what you want to speak to my father about?"
Captain Wentworth's mouth worked soundlessly for a moment as if he had swallowed the words he had been about to speak. He colored a bright red.
"It is a...delicate matter. The Admiral's gout — it brought him to Bath — it is better, and, as he puts it, a man can only eat so much marzipan…and drink so much warm water..."
Captain Wentworth smiled a little, "...And he is ready to quit Bath. He has...heard that your father has faced...financial challenges...and that Kellynch Hall is, as a result, standing empty, closed. The Admiral has tasked me — given our long acquaintance — to ask Sir Walter if he might consider letting Kellynch to the Admiral and my sister. They both would enjoy leaving the heat and crowds of Bath and enjoying the countryside. The Admiral stands ready to accept almost any terms your father would dictate and would be happy to write to your father's agent…"
"...Mr. Shepherd…" Anne volunteered without thinking.
"To Mr. Shepherd, to make official arrangements." Captain Wentworth finished, his momentary smile gone, replaced by a frown of embarrassment. He glanced at the floor, at Anne's dropped bonnet.
Anne stood still for a moment. "I did not know my father's affairs were so widely known." She did not mean to sound offended; she was not. Still, her words were clipped, spoken while her mind was focused on the Captain, on her affliction, not on her father.
Captain Wentworth stood straight. "I hope neither I nor the Admiral has...overstepped."
"No, Captain, no. I was...am...surprised. But I should warn you about my father…"
Captain Wentworth stood straighter still, his bearing all naval. "I hope you haven't forgotten...that I have had occasion to deal with Sir Walter before." His lips compressed into a thin line.
It was Anne's turn to color. She felt the heat in her own face. "Captain! No, I have not forgotten." Her words were soft-spoken, barely audible above the ticking clock.
The silence made its fourth visit. It felt like a demanding third partner, ranging between them in a macabre dance, a confounding, disappointing reel to which only the silence itself knew the steps.
Desperate to banish the silence again, to stop the reeling, Anne spoke. "And so, with Miss Ustus, your second errand, everything is…"
"Captain Wentworth," Sir Walter said as he swung the door open. His voice was cool and formal. "You wished to speak to me?"
Captain Wentworth looked at Anne for a beat before he turned to her father and bowed. "Yes, sir. The Admiral sent me…"
Anne was overcome. "I must beg to be excused. I should check on Elizabeth."
Anne spoke the words as she made her way to the open door. She turned to curtsy to Captain Wentworth and she thought he looked almost ill. She did not envy him the conversation he was about to have with her father. No doubt his dread of it was affecting him.
She went out the door and walked, she knew not how — the hallway became billows of nothingness — to Elizabeth's room. She stood at the door for a long moment waiting for it, for something, to reintegrate, solidify, and then she grasped the knob, turned it, and went inside.
When Anne left Elizabeth's room later, not only had Captain Wentworth left, but so had her father, and without any word as to where he was going or for how long he might be gone.
Anne was about to go to her room, to seek solace and strength in solitude, when she heard another knock at the door. A moment later, the servant opened the door and announced Mr. Ustus.
Anne thanked the servant and asked Mr. Ustus to come in and sit down.
He glanced quickly around the drawing-room. "Miss Anne, is your father at home?"
"No, sir, he has gone. I am unsure where or when he will return." Mr. Ustus nodded and looked perplexed. "You are welcome to wait. Elizabeth will be awake soon and she has a desire to see you, now that she is feeling better, to thank you for your kind concern."
He smiled abstractedly as if he only half-heard. "Good, good. — I mean, no, I cannot stay. I came on...a whim. My sister had...an important appointment," he gave Anne a look, and I...Well, tell Sir Walter I called. I may stop by again this evening."
Anne nodded. "Surely. Will you not take some refreshment? Tea?'
"No, I must be going. Thank you," he bowed and left. Anne followed him to the door of the drawing-room and then watched as he exited the house.
Mr. Ustus must have left Miss Ustus alone with Captain Wentworth. But if so, then clearly Mr. Ustus expected…
Anne turned without completing her thought, turned away from its completion.
She reached the nearest chair and sat down, bewildered and unhappy. She sat for a few minutes, her hands gripping the arms of her chair, her breathing labored.
There was yet another knock at the door.
Anne looked up in stunned disbelief and heard the servant sigh heavily and stomp, muttering, to the door.
A moment later, Lady Russell came in alone; she had sent the servant away.
"Anne, I wanted to talk with you about last night, about Mr. Fowler. I meant to see you at services, but I was late rising this morning." Lady Russell had an expectant smile on her face.
Choking back her emotions, Anne tried to meet Lady Russell's smile with equanimity. But then it was too much and Anne slumped back into her chair, her face in her hands.
"My dear! My dear!" In a moment Lady Russell was beside the chair. She rubbed Anne's back gently and her touch summoned Anne's tears. She wept into her hands.
"Anne, Anne, is it really so bad as that? Can it be? Five years, my precious Anne. Five years is such a long time. Have I caused you so much pain?"
Anne shook her head but could not find her voice. Lady Russell stood and pulled a chair close to Anne's. "What has happened, Anne? You seemed unhappy last night but…"
Anne spoke past the constriction of her throat. "He was here, not long ago. He came on an errand for his brother-in-law, Admiral Croft, to talk to my father. But we talked for a few minutes, our first conversation in five years...only to find that he is on his way to settle matters with Miss Ustus. It is done by now; they are engaged!" Anne gave herself over to sensibility for a little longer, then took her face from her hands. "I am sorry, Lady Russell."
Anne was shocked by the mortification on Lady Russell's face. "Anne, this is my fault. I told you what I believed five years ago; I gave you faithful counsel. But I was wrong, I see. Not just about your Captain, but even more about you."
"Me?"
Lady Russell nodded sadly. "Yes, you know I see your mother in you. She was a woman of depths, her character, her temper, her mind, all of the first rank, the highest caliber. She added to that list of strengths great beauty and delicacy of person. We had been, as you know, friends from girlhood, and...I confess it now, I both admired...and envied her.
"Admiration was chief, always, but I was neither as favored by nature nor as accomplished as your mother. But I counted her friendship my greatest blessing, and I have been grateful for it all my life. You are the blessing she left behind for me, and she asked me to promise to care for you, to watch over you. Because, you see, you were her favorite; she loved Elizabeth and Mary but she reserved a special part of her heart for her Anne, her wonderful Anne." Lady Russell took Anne's hands in hers. "You took up a special place in mine too, Anne."
"But your mother made one serious error in her life, Anne. — Forgive me, but I must say this and we will speak of it no more. Wise and good as she was, she allowed her youthful infatuation with Sir Walter to yoke her to a man who was far below what she deserved. While she lived she lifted him up, covered his foibles, muted his excesses, kept him within his means. You were old enough when she died to know these things to be so. People expected Sir Walter and I to marry after the death of your mother and of my excellent husband. But I had once been happily married and I knew your mother unhappily so. I was not interested in that unhappiness for myself."
Anne nodded mutely, seeing Lady Rusell as a woman as she never had before. Lady Russell paused, changed her tone. "I have ever respected Sir Walter as your mother's choice, and you know I have great respect for rank and title, for distinguishment." Lady Russell looked pained. "When you came to me so effervescent with happiness about Frederick Wentworth, I saw you making your mother's error. I could see that Captain Wentworth was a far better man than...well, that he was, as I have said, a man of brilliancy. But he had nothing to recommend him."
"He was not empty-handed; he had himself."
"Yes, Anne, he did, and in the course of things, that turns out to have been enough. But I did not know it then and I feared seeing your happiness checkered in the way that your dear mother's was. I knew your feelings were strong, but it was a first attachment. I did not think it ran so deep. I thought it a reenactment of your mother's youthful infatuation. I did what I thought was best, thinking that you would recover and find a new man, better able to know your own heart for having escaped the infatuation."
Anne took her hands from Lady Russell's but gave her a soft look. "I do not blame you, Lady Russell. I blame myself if I blame anyone. But I do not blame myself for being persuaded; I mostly blame myself for my weakness in not explaining myself to him. I was a coward at that moment, too full of contradictory emotions to make sense of myself to him." She paused, the bitter taste of self-recrimination in her mouth. "Besides, you know how much I respect your counsel — but, even then, I would never have surrendered him if I had not convinced myself that I was doing it for his good.
"I feared that his going to sea — thus engaged — would retard his career, that I would be a drag, an anchor, slowing or stopping what I was sure would be his brilliant, rapid rise to all he desired. And, perhaps, I cherished the thought that if he did as I expected, after his rise, his heart would still yearn for me, his final prize, and he would return to Kellynch, take me, and make me his wife, — for surely his wife I would have been!"
Lady Russell blinked in the face of Anne's passion. "And you are sure that he has gone to declare himself to Miss Ustus?"
Anne sank back, nodded once, and wiped her eyes.
"I am truly sorry, Anne, for you and for him. And for my part in it all."
Anne sat quietly for a moment and took Lady Russell's hands in hers. They sat together in silent commiseration.
While they were seated, the front door opened and closed, this time with no preludial knock.
A moment later, Sir Walter burst into the room. He saw Lady Russell, spoke her name, and bowed sloppily. Lady Russell looked at Anne. Sir Walter's clothes were a mess, sweaty, his hair mussed. He excused himself and left.
Lady Russell looked at Anne, her eyes a question, shaking her head. She bent over and retrieved Anne's bonnet from the floor. "Tell me, Anne. What did Captain Wentworth talk to your father about?"
Look-ahoy! More to come soon. Thoughts? Writing's a lonely business; I'd enjoy hearing from you.
Some writerly stuff, ignore unless you are interested.
(1) As I like to say, I write fanfiction, not fanfiction. The story's the thing for me. This particular story is not simply an attempt to do something with Jane Austen's characters, it is an attempt to do something with Jane Austen, an attempt to write an alternative to Persuasion that has the global feel of Austen novels (despite certain local differences) and of Persuasion in particular. I suppose you might say that I want to realize a relationship between my story and Austen's novel that bears crucial affinities with the relationship between Ezra Pound's Cathay poems and their Chinese originals.
(2) You never really understand an author until you undertake to emulate him or her, to do what he or she does. Austen's manner is particularly hard to emulate because her comedies of romance eschew any reliance on wonders, any large, frequent deviations from what is probable. She also generally skirts misery and guilt — except at specific moments. Persuasion is the novel that wrestles most with these — call it Austen's most angsty novel.
(3) Anne is the center of consciousness in Persuasion. But Austen handles that in her own way, allowing herself as narrator to enter into Anne's consciousness but also to step away from it at chosen moments. I — for better or worse deeply influenced by Henry James and his theory of fiction — have two centers of consciousness in my story, allowing Wentworth's consciousness equal time. I do not step away from either except to enter into the other. One reason for this is that I wanted to think through Wentworth's reaction to Anne from the inside, to try to word his motivations and hesitancies as he might have worded them. But I also wanted to reckon with Anne's decision to refuse Wentworth, her motivations and hesitancies, and to try to offer a detailed sense of the nature of Lady Russell's influence on Anne.
(4) I have borrowed various devices (and language) from Northanger Abbey and the full shape of my developing plot is indebted to various thematic undertones in that novel.
By the way, the Gluck song about Euridice (from Chapter 14) was a favorite of Jane Austen's, and it is possible that she heard it in Bath.
Z