Amanda Grange - Captain Wentworth’s Diary

I went to Uppercross this morning and I found that I had been missed. The Musgroves complained that I had not been to see them for two whole days, and Louisa teased me about it, saying I no longer cared for them. I explained why I had not been able to call, and I was honoured for my attention to my friend.

‘I have never been to Lyme. What is it like?’ she asked.

‘The countryside is very grand. There is a long hill leading into the town and the main street is steeper still. The bay is small but pleasant, and there are cliffs stretching out to the east of the town. In the summer there is plenty to do, with sea-bathing and assemblies, though everything by the way of amusement is shut up now for the winter.’

‘I am longing to see it,’ she said. ‘We should all go.’

Her suggestion met with an enthusiastic reception, and before long the visit was being planned. The first idea was to go in the morning and return at night, but this was thought to be too arduous for the horses, and when the matter was considered fully, it was apparent that there would not be enough daylight to see the town at this time of year if travelling had to take place in the same day as well. In the end, it was decided we would travel there tomorrow, stay overnight, and return on Friday.

I left the party in high good humour, for they were all looking forward to it.

We met at the Great House for an early breakfast, and then set out. Mary, Henrietta, Louisa and Anne took the coach, whilst Charles and I went in the curricle. The journey was long, and by the time we arrived it was well past noon. We made straight for an inn, at which we secured accommodation and bespoke our dinner, and then we walked down to the sea. Although the public rooms were shut up, there was enough in the grandeur of the landscape and the splendour of the sea to interest the ladies. As we walked, I told them of the neighbouring areas: Charmouth, with its high grounds and its small bay backed by dark cliffs; the village of Up Lyme; and Pinny, with its green chasms and dramatic rocks.

We lingered on the seashore, looking at the ocean, and then I went to call on Harville whilst the others walked on to the Cobb.

Harville was delighted to see me again, and when I told him of my party, nothing would do for him and his wife, and Benwick as well, but that they should come out and meet my friends.

Harville pressed us to dine with him, and Harriet added her entreaties. Only the fact that we had already bespoken dinner at the inn made them accept, reluctantly, that we could not join them. They consoled themselves by inviting us back to their house at once, and we were happy to accept.

It was a time of good cheer and, my gaze being drawn to Anne, as so often happened, I saw something of her former animation, for she was engaged in lively conversation with Harville. Her eyes were bright, and I discovered that the tone of her mind had not changed, for every word she uttered was a word I could have uttered myself.

I found myself once again torn between frustration with her for rejecting me, anger with myself for not writing to her in the year eight, and hope that she might yet be in love with me.

When we left, Louisa was in raptures.

‘How friendly they all were, and how industrious,’ she said. ‘Did you see the toys Captain Harville had made for his children? We never had finer toys ourselves. It seems to me that sailors are the only people who know how to live. They have given us so much, they should be respected and loved by every one of us.’

Her speech was unaffected, but, after Anne’s conversation, it seemed to belong in the schoolroom.

To Anne herself I said little, for I did not know what to say. I could not speak to her intimately in such surroundings, amongst so many people, and yet I could scarcely bear not to speak to her.

All through dinner I was aware of her, and I stole glances at her whenever I could. What was she thinking? What was she feeling? I was longing to speak to her after dinner, but we had a surprise visit from Harville and Benwick, so it was out of the question.

Harville and I gave in to the entreaties of the Miss Musgroves and entertained them with stories of our adventures aboard the Laconia, but again and again I found my glance wandering to Anne. She had gone to sit by Benwick, who had retreated to a quiet corner, for his spirits were still low and would not easily stand such a noisy gathering.

It was like her kind and generous spirit to bear him company, and from what little I heard of their conversation, I could tell they were talking of poetry. I wished that I was the one sitting in the corner with her, talking to her in such a free and open way, instead of being forced to entertain the other ladies.

Harville and Benwick left at last, and once again I hoped I might have a chance to speak to Anne, but the ladies retired straight away.

As I followed them some half an hour later, I felt myself growing increasingly frustrated at the insipidity of the general conversation and wanting something more; something I had always found with Anne.

I rose early and I was eager to be out of doors, for it was a fine morning, with the tide rushing in before a south-easterly breeze. I hoped to meet Anne in the parlour, but, on going downstairs, I discovered that she had already gone out. Louisa was there, however, and, breakfast not being ready, she suggested that we might go for a walk upon the Cobb. We went out and walked down to the sea. It was grey, flecked with white, and overhead wheeled the squawking gulls.

We had not been out of doors for very long when we saw Anne and Henrietta. Anne was blooming. The fresh wind had lent colour to her cheeks and a brightness to her eye, and she looked as she had looked eight years ago, when I first knew her. The day faded into nothingness, and I stood in a cloud of silence, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, nothing except Anne. She was laughing, for the wind was whipping her hair across her face, and, as I watched her, she raised her hand and pushed it back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. Then her eyes met mine. How long we stood thus I do not know, but however long it was, it was not long enough. I drank her in, her mild dark eyes, her laughing countenance, and her soft brown hair; all held me entranced.

And then a sudden gust of wind blew against us, and Louisa clutched at my arm, bringing me back to the present. I tried to reclaim the moment, but Anne had turned away, and it was gone beyond recall.

‘You are out early,’ said Henrietta.

I said nothing, for the vision of Anne, restored to loveliness, had rendered me speechless.

‘But not as early as you,’ said Louisa. ‘I thought Captain Wentworth and I were the only two people awake.’

‘We have been out a full half hour, have we not, Anne?’ said Henrietta.

Anne seemed to be having as much difficulty as I in replying. The silence was covered by Louisa saying that there was something she wanted at the shop, and she invited us all to go back into town with her. We declared ourselves willing to accompany her and walked back across the beach.

As we came to the steps leading upwards, we saw a gentleman at the top, preparing to come down. He drew back and gave way so that the ladies could pass. Anne and Henrietta ascended first, and as they reached the top, I saw the gentleman looking at Anne, and then looking again. I was hit by a wave of jealousy, for he had no right to look at her in that way. I contained myself, and we walked on to the shops in peace.

Once Louisa had made her purchases we returned to the inn, where we found breakfast waiting for us. Mary and Charles were there and, when we had rid ourselves of our outdoor clothes, we joined them.

We had nearly finished when we heard the sound of a curricle outside. Charles jumped up to see if it was as fine as his own and we all collected at the window to look. The owner of the curricle came out, and I perceived him to be the same gentleman who had passed us on the steps up from the beach.

I saw Anne smile, and once again I felt a hot rush of jealousy, this time worse than before. Why had she smiled on him, and not on me?

On a sudden impulse, I asked the waiter, ‘Pray, can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?’

‘Yes, sir, a Mr Elliot.’

‘Elliot?’ I asked in astonishment, whilst there was a general murmur all around me.

‘A gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth,’ the waiter went on. ‘Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, on his way to Bath and London.’

‘Bless me!’ cried Mary. ‘It must be our cousin.’

So this was Mr Elliot, the man Miss Elliot had assiduously pursued, and lost, all those years ago, the man she had deemed worthy of her hand—and who was now evidently in mourning, for he wore crêpe around his hat. I wondered who had died and, making discreet enquiries of Charles, I discovered that Mr Elliot had married some years before, but that he had recently been widowed. There were no children, he told me, but Sir Walter had not made overtures to him again, on account of some slighting remarks he had made about his relatives, which had reached Sir Walter’s ears.

But what a man for Anne to meet, here, now! I thought in dismay.

‘What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other!’ went on Mary. ‘Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance. I wonder the arms on the carriage did not strike me!’