A/N: We are heading into our final chapters.
Tides of Bath
Chapter Nineteen: Brothers and Sisters
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence,
He hides a smiling face.
— William Cowper, from Olney Hymns
Wentworth made himself stand straight and face Mr. Ustus, but he did not take the man's hand. "Sir, please enter." Wentworth stepped aside and Mr. Ustus came in, his broad smile narrowing at Wentworth's reception. Sophia stood and curtsied stiffly. She seemed unsure exactly what else to do.
Wentworth felt in command of himself. He had spent a bad night, sitting awake, fretting, cursing himself, and then lying awake, fretting, cursing himself. Seated or supine, he had seemed to himself equally, colossally foolish.
But the morning sun, uncountably many cups of tea, and the vigil by the window had steadied him. He no longer felt nauseated, land sick. True, his fears about being a true dunce, the fears he had mentioned to the boy and his mother on the stagecoach to Bath, had been humiliatingly realized. He had failed, both where Anne Elliot was concerned and where Miss Ustus was concerned. The failures were different but they were equally failures. He had slept as he went; his thoughts had not reached further than his eyes. Donne had done Wentworth in.
But Wentworth was fully awake at last and thinking past his eyes.
Perhaps he could not save himself, perhaps he had ruined his chance at felicity with Anne, but he would not allow himself any longer to blunder blindly about Bath, the eyes of his mind shut by pride and resentment. If he was to face a grave loss, there on land, if he was to surrender his hopes, he would surrender with grace and dignity. He owed it to himself, to his sister and brother-in-law. He owed it — he felt it strongly if he could not perfectly explain it — to Anne.
Whether she loved him still or not, he had wronged Anne, been too weak for candor, too small for generosity. She was much stronger, much larger than he. To lose the love of such a woman! Her choice five years ago — despite her lack of explanation — had been the result of her candor, her generosity, her willingness to sacrifice for the man she loved; Wentworth was beginning to understand that now as his resentment left him and his vision improved.
"So…" Mr. Ustus said, taking off his hat, "my sister has shared with me the wonderful, good news!" The broad smile returned.
Wentworth squared up before Mr. Ustus. "Sir, I left a note, a note on my card, on your tray. I trust that Miss Ustus saw it, that she conveyed its contents to you."
"A note, Captain? No, there was no note. When I got home yesterday, Miss Ustus —" he paused deliberately, "— Darby — was in raptures. Her girl was with her. They were already talking of bridal clothes...What is wrong, Captain? What were the contents of the note?" A tone of alarm crept into Mr. Ustus's speech, and his smile vanished altogether as he finished. He waited.
"Your sister is laboring under a mistake, sir. She believes I proposed to her, but I did not. I did tell her I needed to speak to her, but it was to tell her...well, sir, — it was to tell her the opposite. I was going to...lessen the degree of our acquaintance."
Mr. Ustus reddened. His jaw clenched and worked silently. "But, sir, my sister's girl, she was present for it all. She says that you proposed, that then you called my sister by her Christian name and allowed her to call you by yours." He drew himself up in outrage but spoke softly. "What can that mean, sir, but that you proposed, —and my sister cannot be thought to mistake her acceptance?!"
"I did say your sister's name, but only out of shock at her misunderstanding," Wentworth omitted mention of the embrace, "I merely repeated it, I was not calling her by it."
"You draw very fine distinctions, Captain, perhaps you are more lawyer than navy man? These sound fatuous to me. I will not be taken in an empty hoop of sophistries! No man of honor would deploy such." Mr. Ustus had reddened more.
"But, Mr. Ustus," Sophia intervened softly, "surely you recognize that people can misapprehend one another, one another's intentions…"
"Intentions, indeed!" Mr. Ustus's face was now nearly the color of his hair. "You now want to bandy about intentions when you began your acquaintance with my sister by dancing with her three times? What were your intentions then? All who were there formed expectations given your attentions, not least of which was my sister. Can you deny those attentions, so markedly, so publicly paid to her?"
Wentworth stood still. "No, sir, I cannot. I did dance with her those three times. And I concede my error in so doing. I am not suggesting that your sister has simply hallucinated everything. I have made...mistakes. They no doubt contributed to what your sister thought she heard, what her girl thought she heard. Their expectations…"
"Yes," Mr. Ustus all-but shouted, "that is the operative word, Wentworth, expectations. My sister had expectations, expectations created by you, expectations not unreasonable. An honorable man would not have created such expectations — and he certainly would not seek to disengage himself from them once they had been created. Not by mincing about words, names repeated but not called!"
"But, Mr. Ustus, surely you, — surely your sister, cannot want to be engaged where there is confessedly no proper feeling on the part of the man engaged. A loveless marriage is immoral."
Mr. Ustus shook with anger. "So you deny all feeling for my sister? In truth, you deny all feeling for her?"
"No, Mr. Ustus. I like your sister. I admire her. Anyone may know how much I admire her. But matrimony…"
"Sir, your brother, the Admiral, spoke to me not long ago of his belief that you came to Bath to find a wife…"
Sophia, moving closer to Wentworth, stopped and shut her eyes.
Mr. Ustus saw it and a look of victory crossed his face. "Can you deny that has been your intention in coming to Bath, that it was your intention in paying attentions to my sister?"
Wentworth was lost. He heard Sophia sigh his name softly. He felt like a novice sailor, his foot caught in the anchor rope, watching the rope play out too fast for freedom from it.
Wentworth shook his head.
Mr. Ustus stepped very close to Wentworth. He was not as tall as Wentworth, not as powerfully built, but his outrage seemed to add inches and pounds.
"You are bound to my sister in honor, Captain, whatever else is true, and if you try to refuse that bond, we will ruin your good name, not just in Bath, but everywhere we can. A captain in the Royal Navy is expected to be a man of honor, not a — a jilt." The word, contemptuous, rang in the room. "I expect to hear from you tomorrow and to hear about wedding arrangements. My family will not be mistreated, sir."
Mr. Ustus put his hat on, still staring at Wentworth, then he left Gay Street, slamming the door behind him.
Sophia jumped at the sound, Wentworth cringed at it, then Sophia put her arms around Wentworth's shoulders. "I'm sorry, Frederick, the Admiral, he…"
"The Admiral meant no harm, Sophia, I know that. He did none. My undoing is only my doing. I do not blame your husband in the least."
They stood together looking at the slammed door as if it held an answer.
Anne and Elizabeth had watched the silent door all afternoon but Mr. Ustus never arrived.
As it grew dark outside, Anne gently encouraged Elizabeth to return to her room. Elizabeth had grown paler as the sun reddened and dropped to the horizon. She obeyed Anne and went to her room. Anne undressed her in silence and helped her to bed.
"Do you think he will come tomorrow, Anne?"
Nurse Rook bustled into the room at just that moment.
"I'm sure, Elizabeth, yes."
Elizabeth nodded in uncertainty. "I would like to see him."
"Who're we talking about ladies?" Nurse Rook asked in a loud whisper as she fanned her face.
"Mr. Ustus," Anne said.
"Oh, I saw Mrs. Collins today. Perhaps Mr. Ustus must be at home today. Mrs. Collins says that she called at the Ustus's, but was told Miss Ustus is confined with a bad headache. "
"Is this true?" Anne asked with an obvious eagerness she immediately regretted.
A repressed smile caused Nurse Rook's eyes to crinkle in the corners. "Mrs. Collins tells more than she should, I admit. She is a tattle-tale — but she is not a liar. She says Miss Ustus has been in her house all day."
Anne's heart beat hard. Perhaps it had not happened, the proposal? Not yet, anyway. After a few moments of conversation about Elizabeth with Nurse Rook, Anne excused herself and went to her room. She prepared for bed slowly, thinking all the while.
She would go and take tea with Lady Russell tomorrow, and then she would pay a visit to Miss Ustus, to see about her health.
Anne was becoming more and more sure that her growing suspicion of the Ustus siblings was not a metastasis of envy. It was an independent state, caused by slowly mounting but credible evidence. There was something disingenuous, something artificial, something worldly in Mr. Ustus, lurking beneath the too-agreeable surface of his manners. And there was something deep, something odd, in Miss Ustus's liberty of manner with Captain Wentworth, her awareness of Anne.
Although Anne could not define them, she felt the maneuvers of duplicity, of cunning. Anne knew the wildness of the imagination where dear self was concerned, but she was not imagining these things, even if she only felt them, felt them without being able exactly to name them. Her father, Captain Wentworth — Anne felt them both to be in the toils of unguessed machinations.
She eventually fell asleep but she tossed and turned all night, never deeply asleep, and she benefitted little from the restless hours.
The next day passed wearily. Elizabeth had been strained by the day before, and although her fever did not return, she spent the day in bed, in a fit of lassitude. Nurse Rook had to leave early to care for a sick child of her own, and so Anne spent the morning and much of the afternoon with Elizabeth.
Nurse Rook returned – her child was much improved —and in ample time for Anne to be picked up by Lady Russell's carriage and taken to Rivers Street.
Lady Russell awaited Anne outside her door, at the top of her steps, in agitation. Anne was taken aback; Lady Russell did not receive guests in this fashion. She was all decorum. But there she stood, her cheeks slightly flushed, an eager look on her face, that turned more serious as Anne climbed the steps.
"Anne, my dear, you look tired. You are not feverish, are you? Perhaps Elizabeth's infection…"
"No, Lady Russell. No, thank you. I did not rest well last night but I am not ill. Elizabeth, while she has not relapsed, weakened herself yesterday, and I was much with her today. As a result, I am fatigued."
Anne said all this as they moved through the door, and then into the drawing-room, where the tea-things were out and ready. The sight of them made Anne's mouth water. "I also just realized that I did not eat anything today. I have been...distracted."
Lady Russell nodded. "So, too, have I, Anne. Sit, let me pour tea. Take this strawberry tart and eat it. You may eat and drink while I read you my letter."
"Your letter, Lady Russell?" Lady Russell was talking quickly and Anne thought perhaps she misheard.
Lady Russell's face became conspiratorial. "I have been...a busy-body, Anne. Again. But I have done it for the best of reasons. I have done it for you." Lady Russell smiled. "After meeting Captain Wentworth's sister, and feeling her mettle, and after seeing the two of you together, I began to realize that I had indeed underestimated Captain Wentworth, but, even worse, that I had underestimated the true depth and true constancy, the truth altogether, of your feelings for him, — after that, I began to wonder about Miss Ustus, what my friend meant by using such a particular word to describe her, 'vulpine'. So I wrote to my friend and simply asked. Other than the embarrassment of asking, I did not see what it could hurt. I expected a letter from her today and it came."
Lady Russell picked up a letter that was on the table and brandished it.
Anne was perplexed. "You wrote to her about Miss Ustus, even before you arranged my meeting with Mr. Fowler."
Lady Russell shrugged delicately, and then her conspiratorial look returned; her eyes twinkled. "I was...working both sides of the street...is not that the cant phrase?"
Anne bowed her head, surprised. "Yes, I believe so." Anne took off her bonnet, trying to cope with all the unexpected features of her reception.
Lady Russell put on her glasses and held the page close.
"Here, Anne, is the relevant section. Out of respect for my friend, I will omit names from her account.
...The woman you ask about, Miss Ustus, is an adventuress. She assists her brother, a sharper, and a setter, in the low phrases, in his schemes — although they sometimes work alone, or so I have discovered.
I would have made their perfidy more widely known in Bath, except that my own brother, Mr. —, was one of her unfortunate victims, and my family has done all it can to shield him from any hint scandal, expecting, as they do, a successful political career for him.
With her brother's aid — he introduced them — she made my brother — he was in Manchester at the time — fall in love with her, and her manner with him encouraged him to take certain liberties.
Miss Ustus is, as you have seen, a genuinely beautiful woman, and she is cunning; she can manage such things with remarkable speed and her looks make what happens seem believable, understandable, to onlookers. She was able to manipulate my brother into a precipitate proposal, which she immediately accepted. And then, once all was announced, official, she took my brother aside and confessed to a black and wanton past.
My brother was horrified but, of course, he could not break the engagement. After a few days of allowing him to torture himself with the thoughts of her past and what it might do to his future, she then told him that she would break the engagement herself, but only if he paid her for her pains. It cost my brother five thousand pounds to get her to break the engagement. He paid and she did break it.
I do not know where the brother and sister are really from, if there is, in fact, a Dunwoody, an aged father. But whether gentle-born or not, Mr. Ustus is no gentleman and Miss Ustus no lady. Perhaps the past she confessed my brother to was itself false, imaginary, but my brother believed her. That is why I called her vulpine. I could imagine better words, or worse, if you understand, but they are words I do not say..."
Lady Russell put the paper down with a flourish of triumph. "There, Anne, that is what I have found out."
Anne had the strawberry tart in her hand but she had not taken a bite of it.
She put it down and stood up. She bent and quickly kissed Lady Russell's cheek. "Thank you, Lady Russell, thank you! But I cannot stay." Anne put on her bonnet.
Lady Russell smiled indulgently and waved as Anne left the room. "I did not imagine you could. It means more tart for me, and perhaps it means happiness for you, my daughter."
Anne heard the last words as she went out the door, tying her bonnet.
Anne left Rivers Street without a glance back. She was down the steps like a dancer, energized, and then she was walking quickly toward Marlborough Buildings, determined, a woman on a mission.
She was going to call on Miss Ustus.
Look-ahoy! More soon.