A/N: A complex chapter.
Tides of Bath
Chapter Sixteen: Sunday, Bloody Sunday
A rain of tears, a cloud of dark disdain,
Hath done the wearied cords great hindrance;
Wreathed with error and eke with ignorance,
The stars be hid that led me to this pain;
Drowned is reason that should me consort,
And I remain despairing of the port.
— Thomas Wyatt, My Galley Charged with Forgetfulness
Wentworth cursed himself silently: "Bloody d — d fool!"
How could a Sunday have gone so wrong? How?
But he knew the answer — his own bloody foolishness!
It had all started before Sunday. It had started at the concert when had heard the Gluck song that stirred his depths. It had started at the concert when Wentworth overheard Anne talking to that man — Fowler? — behind him, talking about Montaigne and Hamlet. It had started when Miss Ustus read Sonnet 93, as Anne silently spoke the words. It had started when he saw Anne in the Pump Room, still precious Anne. It had started when he encountered Sir Walter on the street and heard Anne's name fall from Mr. Ustus' lips.
Fall. Falling. All falling. Sinking — sink, sank, sunk.
It had started five years ago, the falling, the sinking.
It had started in his quarrel with Sophia. He had not raised his voice to his sister in many years. He regretted doing it. What she said had pierced him, although it took her leaving the room for him to understand. He was still in love with Anne Elliot.
Of course, he was. He had come to Bath in love with her and he had fallen more deeply in love with her since. Falling. Sinking.
His anger, his resentment, all were concealments of his wounded heart, his abiding tenderness, his deep affection for Anne Elliot. Even the enchantments, the blandishments of Miss Ustus could not reorient his heart, despite his wish to be reoriented. He had flailed about, but he had kept sinking.
He had nursed his resentment for five years as a counterbalance to his affection. It kept him from moping, repining. It kept him active: but with an activity that ran mad, — a flight from self-knowledge, from truly facing his feelings, himself. Anne Elliot had been the first — really, the only — significant reversal in his career, his life. Before and after her, he had carried all before him, known only success. But with her, in what he now understood was the profoundest test of his manhood, more profound than any sea battle, any decision at sea, he had failed. His greatest test had been in a garden, not on a deck. His adversary had been his own pride, not a privateer.
Falling, sinking, — failed. No, not just failed: Sophia was right: he had surrendered.
At some level, he knew he had as he watched Anne run into Kellynch that day, her dress blue, his flag white. His constant resentment had not been only of her, it had been of himself. He had allowed his damaged pride to destroy his candor. He had never exerted himself as he should, never worked to see the situation as Anne saw it, to understand her decision in the best light.
It was true that she did not help him, did not explain, but that did not release him from his duty of candor, a duty most pressing of all in the case of the woman he loved. He had not striven for generosity of mind toward her, striven to be good-natured even in his distress.
No, instead of being candid, good-natured, exerting himself, he had been...petulant. Five years petulant. Five years in self-ignorance. Five years refusing to feel what he felt. Five years a fool, a bloody fool. He had been his own cageling. He could have written. He could have returned to Kellynch. Pride and vanity kept him away.
Sophia had exposed him to himself. After she left the room, he sat long at the table, sat long beside that emblematic white table cloth, his still-flying flag of surrender. But his realization was not complete until he found himself explaining Orpheus and Euridice to Miss Ustus. The wrenching tragedy of Orpheus, that haunting song! To lose the woman you love a second time! And as a result of faithlessness.
Wentworth came to himself then, fully, finally. He knew who he was. He was the man who still loved, and who loved more deeply still, Anne Elliot.
He had vowed then to extricate himself from Miss Ustus and to talk to Anne, to apologize, to discover whether Sophia was also right about Anne — to discover whether Anne still loved him.
He was planning and hoping through divine service, unable to keep his mind on the homily, unable to keep his eyes off Anne. Miss Ustus had noticed his distrait state.
After walking Miss Ustus home, Wentworth had returned Gay Street and changed, changed quickly.
He had been about to go out, his plan in place — feeling the wind in his sails at last, an end to five years becalmed — when the Admiral had thrown a hand on Wentworth's shoulder — a grappling iron — and asked him to speak to Sir Walter about letting Kellynch Hall.
It was a duty that Wentworth disrelished but he could not refuse the Admiral.
So, Wentworth adjusted his plan of action. He would speak to Sir Walter. Then he would speak to Miss Ustus. He needed to clarify himself and his intentions to her. And then he would find an opportunity to talk, finally to talk, with Anne.
He would have gone to Miss Ustus' first, but she and her brother had planned to walk after services. They had pressed Wentworth to come, but he had declined. Miss Ustus had been disappointed. It would be another hour before they were home. Wentworth dreaded the conversation with Miss Ustus worse than the one with Sir Walter.
The one with Sir Walter promised to be awkward, but the one with Miss Ustus promised to be harrowing. Wentworth felt himself a functionary in the visit to Sir Walter, a messenger. But he felt himself a supplicant in the visit to Miss Ustus: he had been wrong to allow the degree of intimacy between them. He would have to entreat her forgiveness, confess his errors.
Wentworth left the house and promptly lost himself in the smoke of battle.
The servant at Camden Place showed Wentworth into the drawing-room but evidently did not know that Sir Walter was not there. Only Anne was there. Wentworth heard the servant announce him but the announcement sounded in the distance, faint almost to inaudibility. There was only Anne.
She looked distracted, lost in thought. Her bonnet was clutched in one hand. She stood and then reached out for the back of her chair. She dropped her bonnet. Wentworth saw it fall but could not unmoor himself, act. He stood looking at her in a silence somehow increased by a clock's ticking.
Anne seemed upset. He glanced to the side and saw her reflection in the many mirrors on the wall of the drawing-room — In all external grace you have some part — as her image haunted the chambers of his heart.
He moved his hat from his right to his left hand, held it near his chest. He shifted his feet. His heart was pounding and he fought for self-command.
She found it first. "Captain Wentworth, welcome. I did not expect you. Were we expecting you?"
He felt a trespasser, a stranger. Her expression seemed disappointed. Perhaps she expected someone else? Fowler?
"No, ma'am. I confess I am here unexpectedly. My brother-in-law, the Admiral, sent me here to talk with your father." He fidgeted with his hat, the act of speaking slowing the pounding in his chest. "I find myself tasked with two Sabbath errands today."
He had not meant to say that. The words were spoken ahead of deliberation. But she was here, before him, and alone. He would seize the moment; he had the weather gage. He would confess to Anne how he felt about her, how he did not feel about Miss Ustus. He would overcome his pride and confess it all to her.
"Two?" Anne asked, lost.
Wentworth moved toward explanation cautiously. He asked about her father, if he would be with them soon. Anne said he would and invited Wentworth to sit. She seemed not to notice her fallen bonnet. Fall, falling, fallen.
He declined. His feet felt anchored to the floor. It was silent again. He cleared his throat and roused his courage. But he fell short of his aim. Instead of confessing, he moved slowly again toward explanation. He asked her about the concert.
Anne answered, told him she enjoyed it, particularly the song of Orpheus and Euridice. She told him it was a favorite. His heart swelled, almost burst as she said so. He looked at her, Euridice. He would not lose her twice, not if he could help it. Another slow movement toward explanation: he told her it was his favorite.
"It's a favorite of mine too."
It was time, time to act, to speak, to let his words be the deed. But he could not say it. The words, the explanation, the confession, were on the very tip of his tongue, all-but spoken, but unspoken.
Another slow movement instead. "I...I go from here to see Mr. and Miss Ustus. I...need to speak to her about an important matter." I need to tell her my feelings are engaged elsewhere and have been for five years. He had only to speak the words.
Anne's face fell. She seemed distracted by the mirrors, absent. The warm surprise of her initial greeting cooled. Her eyes became less vulnerable, less dark somehow.
"I see…"
Wentworth was swallowed by the silence. He did not know what Anne was thinking, feeling. He tried to tell her what he wanted to tell her, tried again.
"I wanted to tell you…" He was ready, ready to say it all.
Except she cut him off. It was not like her. Her voice sounded small and strange. Her eyes seemed frightened. "May I ask what you want to speak to my father about?"
The words jammed his mouth. She seemed to shrink from him.
He tried to answer, to chase away the heavy silence that filled the room. He joked of marzipan and warm Bath water. And then he explained what the Admiral wanted.
As he had walked from Gay Street to Camden Place, Wentworth had pondered what the Admiral told him, asked of him.
Word of Sir Walter's finances had somehow reached Mr. Collins, and thus Mrs. Collins, and thus, the Admiral. The Admiral's strong impression was that the Elliots were by no means on the brink, facing retrenchment or worse, but Sir Walter's finances were distressed somewhat, and that had been the real motive for the relocation to Bath. The scheme of letting Kellynch Hall had been all the Admiral's own, a means of securing for himself and Sophia a comfortable place to live for a time, and, at the same time, a means of doing the Elliot's a kindness.
The Admiral had quizzed Wentworth about the house and grounds and what Wentworth told him seemed to increase his desire for it. Wentworth wondered although he did not ask if perhaps Sophia's hand had been involved in all of it.
Wentworth had asked the Admiral again about the Elliot's finances, and again the Admiral assured him that, according to Mrs. Collins, there was no emergency, just a need for caution and prudence.
The thought that he might be assisting Anne by bringing the Admiral's request to Sir Walter helped reconcile Wentworth to his duty.
Anne told Wentworth the name of her father's agent, Shepherd.
She listened as he spoke, surprise returning to her face. She was surprised that her father's affairs were widely known. Her tone suggested offense.
Wentworth stiffened, and told her he had not wished to overstep. The word echoed in his head, its part in the argument with his sister, the argument about the woman, delicately beautiful, standing before him.
She said he had not overstepped, but she went on to warn him about her father. For a moment, his old anger and resentment resurfaced. He reminded her that he had dealt with Sir Walter before.
Her face colored. It took her a moment to respond. "Captain! No, I have not forgotten." Wentworth could barely hear the final two words.
He was unsure how to go on. He wanted to talk about his errand to Miss Ustus, not about the errand to Sir Walter, to make her understand.
And then she gave him the chance: she asked about the second errand. "...Everything is…"
He was going to say, "...at an end…" But Sir Walter entered the room, ending the conversation.
Wentworth looked at Anne, desperate to make her understand what he had been too slow in confessing, but then he had to attend to Sir Walter.
As he did, Anne excused herself. She curtsied to Wentworth and his reverse seasickness gripped him again, a cold wave of nausea.
Anne was gone.
The interview with Sir Walter was brief, brusque. Sir Walter not only seemed offended; he was offended. His manner became icy, brittle. His cheeks were splotchy red. He demanded to know how the Admiral had come by such information about another man's affairs.
Wentworth explained as well as he could, trying to make clear that both the Admiral and he were aware of the forwardness of the request, but also that it was made in a generous spirit. Wentworth told Sir Walter of the Admiral's great eagerness to be at Kellynch, his excitement at hearing it described, his regard for Sir Walter.
Mollified, Sir Walter had told Wentworth he would consider the matter, but he then hastened the interview to an end. An undertone of anxiety that had been present since Wentworth first explained became more pronounced, and Wentworth was hurried from Camden Place, as Sir Walter said "Yes, yes, I will consider the matter, and talk with my agent, Shepherd. Yes, yes…"
A moment later, the servant had closed the door and Wentworth was standing on the sidewalk, hat in hand, with no real answer to the Admiral's request and no further chance of talking to Anne.
Doubly frustrated, he put his hat on his head and started on his second errand. He prayed it went better than the first.
When Wentworth arrived at the Ustus', he found Mr. Ustus about to leave. Wentworth offered to postpone his visit, but Mr. Ustus, with a knowing smile, would not hear of it. The servants were in the house; Wentworth could certainly speak to Miss Ustus.
A moment later, Miss Ustus entered the room. She was in another gauzy grey dress, her hair down, red-gold ringlets around her dimpled smile of welcome. Mr. Ustus left the room and Wentworth was alone with Miss Ustus.
She approached him. The dress was an extension of her eyes, her eyes the focal points of the dress. She stopped, standing very near him. He could smell the flowery scent of her.
"Captain? We are alone, as you can see." Her smile contained hints and promises. "What did you want to say to me?"
Wentworth took a moment to gather himself. He looked at Miss Ustus, opened his mouth...
...And at that moment, Miss Ustus sighed and threw herself into his arms, pressing her body tightly against his.
"Don't be self-conscious, Captain, I know what you are about to say, and you needn't say it! Yes, Captain, yes, I am yours, I have been yours since I saw you from the carriage, and I am more yours this moment, and forever, — your Darby!"
"Darby…" Wentworth said, seizing absently on the name in his blank astonishment at finding the woman filling his arms, speaking the name without meaning.
She trembled at the sound of him saying her first name, spoke her delight. "Yes, dearest Frederick, your Darby!"
Miss Ustus gazed up at him, her eyes full of copious, happy tears. "Oh, Frederick, forgive me, I am so happy I cannot stand it."
She turned and ran from the room; he heard her feet on the stairs. Women seemed always to be running from him...
A moment later he recovered his presence of mind.
Wentworth cursed himself silently: "Bloody d — d fool!"
Darby Ustus believed he had proposed; she had accepted. Wentworth had suffered a cannonade amidships. He felt himself taking on water, sinking fast…
Look-ahoy! Well, hell! Some days…
The ranks of readers continue to swell, and I am grateful, but I really enjoy hearing from folks, so please, don't just read, drop me a line too. I respond to each review if I can, but many reviews are from Guests and, in that case, I have cannot directly respond. My thanks to those Guests!