Amanda Grange - Captain Wentworth’s Diary

Mrs Musgrove spoke, in a low voice, and took me by surprise by saying something about it being a lucky day for them when I was made captain of that ship. I did not understand her and I did not know how to reply.

‘My brother,’ whispered Miss Musgrove. ‘Mama is thinking of poor Richard, who died.’

I was none the wiser and waited expectantly for more to follow, and follow it did. It seemed that Richard Musgrove had been, for a time, under my command. I searched my memory and remembered him eventually, a troublesome youth, with little aptitude for the sea.

‘Poor dear fellow!’ continued Mrs Musgrove, ‘he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy thing if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you.’

I remembered the difficulty I had had in making him write even one letter to his family; that is, one letter that was not begging for money, and I could not echo her sentiment, but I did not say so, for I saw that she was suffering. Instead, I joined her on the sofa, and entered into conversation with her about her son. I did everything in my power, by sympathy and a listening ear, to soothe her pain.

By and by, she calmed herself, until she was ready to join in the general conversation once more.

‘What a great traveller you must have been, ma’am!’ she said to my sister.

My sister told her of her travels, saying, ‘But I never went beyond the Straits, and never was in the West Indies. We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies.’

Mrs Musgrove did not disagree, indeed I would have been surprised if she could accuse herself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her life!

As Sophia spoke of her life at sea, I was pleased to see that Mrs Musgrove’s tears had dried, and that she was absorbed in the conversation.

‘But were you not frightened at sea?’ asked Mrs Musgrove.

‘Not a bit of it. When I was separated from Benjamin, I lived in perpetual fright, not knowing when I should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me,’ she said.

Mrs Musgrove heartily agreed with this sentiment, saying, ‘Yes, indeed, oh yes! I am quite of your opinion, Mrs Croft, there is nothing so bad as a separation, for Mr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are over, and he is safe back again.’

I caught Anne smiling at this, and I was reminded of the way our minds had always run together. It seemed as though they still did, on occasion, for we were both amused at the idea of Mr Musgrove being in as much danger when attending the assizes as Admiral Croft when he was sailing the North Sea!

‘Mama, let us have some dancing,’ said Miss Musgrove, growing tired of a conversation in which she had no part, and, still in high spirits, being eager for some exercise.

‘Oh, yes, we must!’ said Miss Hayter.

‘I was just about to suggest it myself,’ said Miss Louisa.

‘What an excellent idea,’ said Mrs Musgrove. ‘And, see, we have Anne to play for us, and no one ever plays better, for I am sure her fingers fly over the keys!’

I was taken aback at this, for Anne had been relegated to the pianoforte without a by-your-leave.

‘Does Miss Elliot never dance?’ I asked Miss Louisa, troubled, as she claimed me for her partner.

‘Oh, no! never; she has quite given up dancing. She had rather play. She is never tired of playing,’ came the quick reply.

I did not believe it, for Anne had always loved to dance, and I was torn between a desire to defend her and to say she must have her share of the dancing, and exasperation that in all this time she had not learnt how to defend herself. Overlooked when her father and sister had gone to London without her; overlooked now, when her friends danced; but if she had had a little more spirit, a little more strength of character, she, too, could have had her share of the entertainments.

I danced twice with each of the Musgrove girls, and twice with each of the Hayter girls, and it was impossible not to be cheered by their enjoyment, though somehow it was not as cheering as it should have been, for I was ever conscious of Anne at the pianoforte.

At last the dancing came to an end. Anne left her seat and went over to the sofa to join Mrs Musgrove, and I went over to the instrument and tried to pick out an air for Miss Musgrove. I had got no further than the first line, however, when Anne returned, and saying, ‘I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat,’ I relinquished it.

I hoped to see some spark of the former Anne, some light in her eye, but there was nothing.

‘No, not at all,’ she said, drawing back.

And that was all I said to her. But although I continued to talk to the Miss Musgroves and the Miss Hayters, now and then sharing a word with Charles Musgrove or Charles Hayter, all the time I was conscious only of Anne: Anne talking low to Mr Musgrove, Anne moving over to the table, Anne taking a seat next to Miss Hayter.

Anne, always Anne.

I had been at home so little this week that Benjamin feigned astonishment to find me in the drawing-room just before dinner.

‘What, not going to Uppercross?’ he asked.

‘I am not there every day, you know!’ I replied.

‘As near as makes no difference! I cannot say I blame you. The Musgrove girls are very pretty, and the Miss Hayters are almost as well-looking. And none of them is averse to being wooed by a captain home from the sea. Or do you go there for the pleasure of Mr and Mrs Musgrove’s company?’ he asked.

‘But of course! They are most agreeable people.’

Sophia smiled, then said, ‘And when are you going into Shropshire? The Musgroves are not the only agreeable people in England, you know. Your brother is very agreeable, too. He is longing to introduce you to his new wife.’

‘A country parson cannot hope to compete with the joys of a house full of young women, even if he has a wife!’ said Benjamin jovially. ‘Frederick has been spoiled by the flattery of those girls.’

I cried out against it, but he is right, I am very fond of their society. They never tire of hearing about the naval battles I have passed through, or my life on board ship, or my promotion, or the ports I have visited. And in return, they never tire of telling me about their friends, their family, their neighbours, their gowns and bonnets. And when all has been said, there is dancing and music to occupy us in a most enjoyable way.

‘Come, Frederick, tell us, have you still not decided between them?’ asked Benjamin teasingly.

‘I am in no hurry,’ I said.

‘Miss Musgrove is the prettiest,’ said Benjamin, ‘and I like the eldest Miss Hayter, but I think I like Miss Louisa more. She is as spirited a girl as I ever hope to meet.’

‘When you have finished finding Frederick a wife, perhaps you would turn your attention to encouraging him to visit his brother. You should not neglect Edward,’ said Sophia to me. ‘He wants you to meet his wife, you know, for she is a very fine young lady, and you promised him a visit.’

‘Never fear, I will go and see him before very long, but for now, I will have to take her virtues on credit.’

‘He wants to show you the house, too,’ said Benjamin. ‘You are not the only one who has been lucky in your advancement.’

‘No, indeed, he has been fortunate to achieve his own living, particularly such a good one,’ said Sophia.

‘Ay, it is not easy to find preferment in the church,’ I said, ‘far less easy than in the Navy, where a man’s battles will speak for him. Even with some interest it is difficult. I was speaking to Charles Hayter about it only yesterday. You know Charles Hayter? He is brother to the Miss Hayters, and cousin to the Miss Musgroves. He lives with his family at Winthrop, just over the hill from Uppercross.’

‘Yes, we have met him,’ said Sophia.

‘He has a curacy, but it is six miles distant. Fortunately, residency is not required, so he lives with his father at Winthrop. There was talk last night of his getting the curacy of Uppercross, a very good thing, for it would mean only a two mile journey to attend to his duties instead of his current six-mile trip.’

‘You must talk to Edward about it when you visit him,’ said Sophia. ‘I will be writing to him tomorrow. Shall I give him notice of your arrival?’

‘Tell him, if it is convenient for him, I will call in a fortnight,’ I said.

She was pleased, and we went into dinner.

This morning when I went to visit the Miss Musgroves I found them from home. Mrs Musgrove assured me they had gone to the Cottage to see their nephew so I followed them, but when I was shown into the drawing-room I was taken aback to find Anne there instead. She was quite alone, apart from the little invalid Charles, who was lying on the sofa.

‘I thought the Miss Musgroves would be here,’ I said, walking over to the window to rid myself of my sudden agitation. ‘Mrs Musgrove told me I should find them here.’

‘They are upstairs with my sister. They will be down in a few moments, I dare say,’ she replied.

She did not seem comfortable; no more was I; but fortunately the child called to her and we were able to escape our embarrassment, she by kneeling down by the sofa to tend to Charles, and I by remaining at the window.

I did not know what to say. Were we destined to treat each other coldly, because of what had passed between us? Could we not put it behind us and be civil, at least? I almost suggested it, but such a tide of feeling rose within me at the thought of mentioning the past, or even alluding to it, that I remained silent.