A/N: And on we go.

Tides of Bath

Chapter Eighteen: Becalmed

The archer, when he misses the bullseye, turns and seeks the cause of error in himself.

— Confucius, The Unwobbling Pivot (Pound translation)

Wentworth was lost, dumbfounded. He knew and did not know what had just happened. One moment Miss Ustus had been in the room, indeed, in his arms, the next, like a vapor, a gauzy grey vapor, a dispersing fog, she was gone.

Five years ago Anne Elliot had vanished in a dress of blue air.

Wentworth stood, blinking, his pulse pounding as if he was about to lead his men to board a privateer. He turned in the room to discover a servant, a young woman, standing there, looking at him. She smiled and he thought he saw calculation in the smile.

"Can you please go, summon your mistress, bring her back downstairs? I must speak to her."

The young woman looked at him a moment longer without any apparent awareness of his words, then she curtsied, a smirk of a curtsey, and left the room.

Wentworth paced the length of the room, fighting his land sickness. It was all a blunder, a colossal misunderstanding. Vexing in the last degree, yes: but he could put it right. He only needed to speak to Miss Ustus.

He paced interminably. Neither the servant nor her mistress put in an appearance. The house was hot and silent. Wentworth went to the door of the room, pushed it open, looked up the stairs, listened. He saw and he heard nothing, no one.

He returned to the room, resumed pacing. He took his watch from his vest pocket and checked the time, annoyed to find that his watch told him the same thing the small, ornate clock on a table told him, striking the hour with its silver sounds.

With a sigh, he made himself sit down. He crossed his legs and waited. He picked up his hat, dusted it, removed a small piece of lint from it, and waited. He waited and waited.

He stood up. He had a few of his calling cards in his interior jacket pocket. He took one out and found a pen and an inkwell on a small desk in the corner of the room. He bent over and wrote on the back of the card.

Miss Ustus,

I have waited to talk to you but you have not returned. There has been a miscommunication. I was not asking what you thought I was asking. I am deeply sorry for the error. The fault is my own. Please let me know when we may talk and amend the error. Causing you this pain was the last of my intentions.

Sincerely,

Frederick Wentworth

Wentworth left the room with the card in his hand. He looked up the stairs again and listened, but saw again and heard nothing. He put the card in the card tray by the door and left.

He was unsure of what else to do. He could not just sit alone that room but leaving seemed wrong too. He was not engaged to Miss Ustus — was he? Her belief that he had asked her did not entail that he had asked her. Had he led her to think that he was about to propose? Had he been so careless? He had allowed her certain liberties of manner; they seemed her way — and they had flattered Wentworth's vanity. But he had not allowed himself any similar liberties of manner. Well, other than the third dance — that was an error in hindsight. His d — d mission! That Keats poem Miss Ustus recited! The two combined to make him reckless. He had not really been dancing that final time with Miss Ustus as such: he had been dancing with Not-Anne-Elliot, trying to dance away five years of time's slow-ebb, five years of longing. All he had done was whirl and reel himself into a maze of grey eyes and grey dresses.

He stumbled blindly from Marlborough Buildings toward Gay Street without knowing footfalls or landmarks. Bath had become grey-on-grey. Nothing that had happened on that Sunday seemed to make sense, but the last part was the most nonsensical of all, although to call it nonsense missed its gravity. It had all been...too bad for language.

If Miss Ustus claims I proposed, then how am I to deny it? A woman may, in great distress, break an engagement, but a man? No. — But how can a man break an engagement that never was? — Did the servant see? If she did, then she will know that no proposal was made. — Except that I spoke Miss Ustus' Christian name, and she mine. — If the servant heard that, would the lack of other words matter? Even if he was not engaged by the letter of the law, so to speak, was he by its spirit, was he bound in honor?

Wentworth's mind whirlpooled in confusion; it was all in a spin, Charybdis-like. He entered the lodgings on Gay Street wobbling like a drunken man. His sister was seated in the front room, near a window, reading. When she saw him she stood at once, dropping her book to the floor.

"Frederick! Where have you been? What has happened?"

Wentworth fell into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. He hardly knew how to answer. A moment later, Sophia was on her knees at his feet, her hands on his shoulders, attempting to sit him upright.

"Frederick, no! Don't tell me that I was wrong! I know it is not our way to descend to arts, but I thought that sending you to Camden Place might finally put all to right!"

Wentworth looked at his sister's face, grave and pale as a judge's. "The scheme to send me to let Kellynch was yours?"

She nodded, her eyes guilty. "Did I do wrong, Frederick? I would not hurt you for the world, nor Miss Anne either. I meant only to help. The two of you — each so afraid of losing the hope of the other that neither would reveal the truth! What happened Frederick?"

Wentworth shook his head. "I hardly know. But not quite what you think. Sir Walter did not agree to let Kellynch, but I believe he will. And I spoke to Anne, but I failed to say what I needed to say."

Sophia looked both disappointed and relieved. "But you spoke to her at least. Finally!"

The word struck Wentworth a keelson blow. It vibrated through him. "Yes, but then I went to see Miss Ustus, to speak to her, to make it clear to what my feelings are — and are not."

"Good, Frederick," Sophia said as she stood and sat in the chair next to Wentworth's. "That was the honorable thing to do, and it had to be done."

"But it is not done. I made things worse." Sophia's eyes grew and she repeated his last word in a whisper.

"Yes," Wentworth said, collapsing in on himself in the chair, "I — "

He told Sophia what had happened, excruciating second by excruciating second. When he finished, she was utterly silent, stunned. After a long interval, she opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, opened it, and closed it again. And then she collapsed in on herself in her chair with a drawn-out sigh. "Oh, Frederick!"

Eventually, after going to retrieve her book, Sophia asked Wentworth to tell it all to her again, the entire scene at Marlborough Buildings. He did.

"And so," Sophia began, "she ran up the stairs never to return. The servant went after her and disappeared too?"

"Yes, just so."

"And you waited over an hour?"

"I did."

"And then you left your card, with a notation on it?"

"Yes."

"I have known women so overcome by a proposal that it took them a good half-day to recover from it, to become rational again. But they were rational for long enough to be sure of their lovers and themselves. This is behavior most impenetrable! — What could she be playing at? She gave no sign of being a senseless woman, or a woman who would be thrown into agonies of sensibility! She always seemed mistress of herself. I do not understand it."

"Nor do I, Sophia, but what have I done? Am I engaged or not? You made me know myself, my feelings for Anne, their constancy. But am I now to lose her again, not out of faithlessness but out of folly?" His mortification was complete.

Sophia reached out and patted her brother's hand. "Be calm, Frederick. Let us see what Miss Ustus does in response to your note. Until we know that, we will not know how to proceed." Sophia inhaled slowly. "And you really spoke her Christian name?"

Wentworth nodded sadly. "Oh, Frederick!"

Monday morning came with no response to the Wentworth's note, no communication from Miss Ustus of any kind. Wentworth positioned himself next to the large front window, his dry land crow's nest, and waited in perplexed agitation for the arrival of Miss Ustus, Mr. Ustus, or a note of some kind.

But the sunny morning passed slowly, with no knock at the Gay Street door. Finally, at almost noon, Wentworth saw Mr. Ustus walking toward the door. A moment later, he knocked. Wentworth went and opened the door.

Mr. Ustus was wearing a broad smile and he immediately extended his hand: "Brother!"

Anne returned to Camden Place to find Mr. Murray there. He had stopped by without an appointment; another patient was lodging nearby and he took the opportunity to check on Elizabeth.

When he finished, Anne walked him to the front door. Nurse Rook trailed behind them.

"Although she still needs time to regain her strength, your sister has returned to health. She should be allowed to resume her ordinary at-home activities as she wishes, but monitor her to make sure that she does not overtire herself. Next week, she may be able to venture abroad."

Anne thanked him. The servant showed him out and Anne turned to Nurse Rook, who had gathered her things. "I am going to go now too, Miss Anne. I'll come back tonight, but Mr. Murray seems to think after tonight Miss Elliot'll no longer need nighttime supervision. — I must say, me and Miss Elliot pr'haps had our first ever productive chat today."

The nurse winked at Anne and then gave her a quick, solid hug. Anne hugged her back.

"I will see you this evening, Nurse."

The nurse nodded. "Yes, ma'am, and may I say, that walk must've done you good. You are very much in looks now, Miss Anne." The servant opened the door for her and Nurse Rook stepped out into the sunshine.

Anne went to Elizabeth's room and was helping her to sit in a sunny chair next to the window when the servant came in with a note. It was from Lady Russell – and brief.

Dearest Anne,

Please come to see me tomorrow for tea. I have an important matter to discuss with you — or so I expect to have.

Lady Russell

Anne was puzzled by the note. She put it away and sat down with Elizabeth.

"And who has written to you, Anne?" Elizabeth asked.

"Lady Russell," Anne answered.

Elizabeth sat silent for a moment. "Do you expect Mr. Ustus today?"

"I do, Elizabeth." The prospect made Anne nervous. "He has been here daily since you took ill, so I do expect him today."

"Can you help me to change, put on one of my better dresses, and make myself presentable? I would like to be in the drawing-room if he comes. Perhaps he is...reticent about a sickroom. Some are, you know."

"Yes, that's is true, Elizabeth. And yes, of course, I will help you." Anne was surprised by the meekness of her sister's request. Ordinarily, Elizabeth made only imperial demands.

Anne spent the next hour or so helping Elizabeth, not only with her dress, but also with her hair. By the time they finished, she looked much like the woman she had been before the fever, except that her countenance seemed softer. She even smiled her thanks to Anne, and, as Anne took her hand to walk her to the drawing-room, Elizabeth squeezed it.

"Thank you, Anne, for all you've done for me since I took sick. Thank you."

Anne hardly knew how to respond; sisterly affection was at best a dim memory from girlhood days of play. But she squeezed Elizabeth's hand in return and told her she was welcome.

They went to the drawing-room to wait on Mr. Ustus.

Anne's father sat with them, turning over the pages of his newspaper with a frequency that made his reading any of them unlikely. After a few minutes, he folded the paper and put it aside.

"Anne," her father asked after a moment's hesitation, "did Captain Wentworth say anything to you yesterday about the reason for his visit?"

"Yes, father, a little."

Sir Walter stood up and walked along the wall of mirrors, looking at himself in each as he passed. He turned and looked at both his daughter's, then focused on Elizabeth. "The Crofts want to let Kellynch since we are not there. I was at first most opposed to the idea, but I am now beginning to think it might be acceptable. I do not forgive the impertinence of the request, the taking of liberties it represents...but, — I believe I will agree to it. I have written Shepherd...to ask him to prepare what is necessary."

Elizabeth looked at Anne, incredulous. "Let Kellynch? Must we?"

"I believe it for the best, Elizabeth," Sir Walter said in a tone that was intended to end the discussion.

Anne prepared herself for an onslaught of outrage but, although Elizabeth's cheeks reddened, she was quiet. After a moment, she nodded. "Well, I imagine the Crofts would keep the place in order. And we are comfortably settled here, and there are...matters that should be allowed to play themselves out."

Anne looked out the window, surprised to find herself now hoping to see Mr. Ustus — Elizabeth's anxiety made Anne wish him to arrive for Elizabeth's sake. And, surprisingly, she wished it for her own sake too, somewhat. She was anxious about the news he might bring with him, but she was determined to find out more about Mr. and Miss Ustus.

Sir Walter, relieved, returned to his chair and his newspaper, this time turning the pages slowly enough to read them.

The afternoon wore on.

Look-ahoy! If you would like more, drop me a line and let me know.