Amanda Grange - Captain Wentworth’s Diary

Louisa has continued to improve over the weekend, and she sat up for the first time today, a source of great joy to all of us.

There seems hope, real hope, that she will make a full recovery, and I think, at last, everyone in the house is beginning to believe it.

Life has returned to something resembling normal. Mary spent the morning at the library, and this evening she quarrelled with Harriet about precedence at supper. Charles Musgrove suggested an outing to Charmouth and his idea was met with approval.

I took advantage of the opportunity to say that I, too, thought of going away for a few days. As they had all accepted the idea that I did not want to see Louisa because I did not want to excite her, no one saw anything strange in my suggestion and I said I would go next week.

Louisa sat up again today and had a conversation with her mother. Her lucidity delighted them both. Mrs Musgrove was all smiles as she told us about it, and her other children were greatly relieved, for it sent them off on their visit to Charmouth in good spirits. I remained behind, but made my plans for my trip to Plymouth, and declared my intention of leaving on Tuesday.

The younger Mr and Mrs Musgrove returned to Uppercross, satisfied that Louisa was making good progress, but the elder Musgroves are still here as they are reluctant to leave their daughter. They hope she will soon be able to make the journey to Uppercross and are looking forward to having her at home, but I doubt if she will be able to return before Christmas, and it could indeed be some weeks more before she is ready to make such a long journey.

I took my leave of the Musgroves this morning. First I said good-bye to Mr and Mrs Musgrove so that, if they were displeased by my actions and demanded to know my intentions towards their daughter, I could reassure them and, if necessary, stay. However, they showed no displeasure, but instead they thanked me for all I had done. I then took my leave of all the rest. It was a melancholy affair, but once done I felt a sense of release. I must consider myself bound to Louisa if she has attached herself to me, but if my absence can lessen that attachment I will rejoice to be free.

I wrote to Harville, as I had promised to do, giving him my direction. He promised to keep me informed as to Louisa’s condition.

I saw Jenson by chance this morning and we fell into conversation. He invited me to dine with him and I agreed readily enough, for I was afraid of the thoughts that tormented me whenever I was alone.

He was in high spirits as he told me all about his progress in the wine trade, after which the conversation naturally turned to the battles we had seen. He mentioned our triumphs of the year eight, when, for the first time, we found ourselves with several thousand pounds, and as he talked, my thoughts drifted back to that time. I had been on shore after my early success, and I had been tempted to write to Anne and tell her of my good fortune, and to offer her my hand once more. I had gone as far as taking up my pen, but pain and doubt had assailed me, and I had let them have their sway. Pride, wounded dignity, fear that she had forgotten me, fear that I would make myself ridiculous, fear of rejection—all these had held me back. But if I had mastered my fears, if I had written, as I wanted to do, then what would she have said? Would she have said yes?

‘... must come and see the ship tomorrow. What do you say?’ asked Jenson.

His words brought me back to the present.

‘The shipyard is not far from here. You can see the hull, and I can show you the plans,’ said Jenson.

I realized that he had invited me to see his new ship, which was in the process of being built, and I gave my consent to the idea. But as he talked on, telling me of the ship’s design, my thoughts returned again to the year eight. If I had asked Anne to marry me then, what would she have said?

An interesting day. Jenson showed me his ship and she was a beauty. It was good to hear his cheerful conversation, and his high spirits raised my own, so that I was able to pay attention to everything he said. I dined with his family this evening, and found them to be sensible and agreeable people. They have invited me to dine again next week, and I have decided to extend my stay so that I may accept.

I wrote to Edward, apologizing for not keeping to our earlier arrangement but telling him I would like to see him, for I was now free to travel. I suggested I should visit him for Christmas, if he found it convenient, and gave him Jenson’s direction.

A letter came from Harville this morning, telling me that Louisa continued to make good progress, and that they were now quite a cheerful party. He mentioned that Benwick entertained Louisa by reading her poetry when she was well enough, and I was glad to think of them both finding pleasure in each other’s company.

I had a letter from Edward, saying he was delighted with the idea of my spending Christmas with him and his wife, and so it has been settled, I am to go to him.

I dined with Jenson’s family again this evening, and after dinner, he and his father suggested that I might go and work for them as a captain of one of their vessels. I thanked them, but told them that my seafaring days were over, unless my country had need of me. They took no offence and wished me well, but as I returned to the inn, I found myself thinking that, if Louisa did not imagine herself engaged to me, and if Anne no longer loved me, then I might change my mind and accept Jenson’s offer.

But if she no longer loved me, then why had she never married?

And so, at last, I am in Shropshire. It was a relief to my spirits to be with Edward again, indeed, I did not know the full extent of their oppression until I arrived. I was delighted to meet Edward’s wife, a lovely young woman, full of gentle humour and sense, with engaging manners and personal elegance. Her spirits are just those to suit him: lively enough to make her an attractive companion, but quiet enough to enable her to help him in his work; and I believe they are very happy. And why should they not be? They have each other, their house is a gentleman’s residence of ample proportions, and the living is prosperous.

They made me very welcome, and set an excellent dinner before me. We spoke of their marriage and my time at sea; of their neighbourhood and neighbours; of Sophia and Benjamin; and then of generalities.

Once dinner was over, Eleanor withdrew, leaving us to our port. I congratulated Edward on his wife, and he smiled and told me he was a lucky man.

‘I have a beautiful wife, and I have done well in the church,’ he said expansively. ‘Not as well as you hoped—I have not become a bishop!—but I like the life I have.’ Then he turned astute eyes on me and said, ‘But all is not well with you, it seems. You must have sustained a shock when you found that Sophia had taken Kellynch Hall.’

I said nothing, for I was afraid his sympathy might unman me.

‘Come, there is no need to hide it from me. It is eight years since Anne rejected you, and in all that time you have never spoken of another woman. You still think of her.’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘I do. And you are right in supposing I was shocked when Sophia and Benjamin took Kellynch Hall. Of all the houses in Somersetshire, for them to settle on that one.’

‘And how is Anne? She remained in the neighbourhood when her family went to Bath, I understand?’

‘Yes.’ And then, before I knew what I was doing, I was telling him everything. It was a relief to my spirits to be able to speak at last, for I had never mentioned my short-lived engagement to another living soul, kept silent by a desire to protect Anne’s reputation as well as my own pride. Edward was the only person in the world I could talk to, and now that I found myself in his company again, out it all poured: my meeting with Anne, the Musgroves, our trip to Lyme, and Louisa.

‘Well,’ he said, when at last I had done. ‘You always liked action, Frederick, and it seems you have managed to find it here as well as at sea.’

I shook my head.

‘That poor girl,’ I said.

‘You cannot blame yourself. She wanted to jump, you tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen. It is not your fault. Besides, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it would not have led to any great ill. You would have caught her anyway; or she would have fallen and sprained her ankle, and nothing more. It was unfortunate she hurt herself so badly, but it was not something you could have foreseen.’