For You Alone (Frederick Wentworth, Captain: Book 2) Read online

  “I suppose I shall meet her eventually. Bath is much like the Navy—small and everyone eventually finds themselves connected to everyone else. Because a woman such as your Annie—”

  “Don’t call her that. Please.” He could not stand the thought of McGillvary, feeling as he did about Anne, calling her the endearment Frederick longed to use.

  “Your Miss Anne Elliot,” McGillvary said, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Anywise, they live behind the eyes, dear boy. They live so much in their brains that you can never possibly know all the machinations and thoughts and dreams and desires that go on up there. And you will likely never be enough to satisfy her mind. Or satisfy her in numerous other ways, either.”

  Frederick had known his friend was not happy in his marriage. When McGillvary’s wife, Claire, had died years before, little of Patrick’s behaviour changed. He’d not been faithful to their vows in life; grief held no spell over him, either. If Wentworth stayed much longer, he feared he would know more about the failure of the marriage than he cared to.

  “No, they are all smiles when in your presence. Nothing is ever amiss; they endure bravely, never saying a word that might let you know they are unhappy. I should have known, though. After each commission it took longer and longer for us to become...reacquainted. I suspected nothing until after our daughter was born and returned to find that Claire had become a patroness of the arts.” McGillvary kicked off his pumps and slouched in an armchair. The wool of his breeches slipped a bit against the glossy red leather. Wentworth held his breath for a moment, concerned that Patrick would fall to the floor, but his friend was still sober enough to right himself and continue philosophising. “The last fellow she was patronising was a poet—a very young poet. The rascal showed up at the funeral. He sat in the backbenches and sobbed into a huge blue handkerchief; I saw it as I was leaving. The sniffing echoed through the church. And there I was, ramrod straight in the front pew, shedding not a tear.”

  He had been talking in the general direction of his feet but now looked straight at Wentworth. “Whom do you think everyone pitied? Which of us presented the perfect picture of a man mourning the woman he loved?”

  “But you were her husband. Surely no one faulted you, and no one denied you the consolation you deserved.”

  McGillvary began to laugh. He laughed very hard, at one point slapping the arms of the chair. “You are such an idealist. No, no, you are a Romantic through and through.”

  There was that damnable notion again. It had come from all directions and from various sorts of men. Wentworth grew warm, not at the suggestion of it but at the idea that one day he might have to come to grips with it being true. To lure Patrick away from his hilarious opinion, Wentworth asked why he thought Miss Elizabeth Elliot would be much better as a wife.

  “It is quite simple. Women like Miss Lizzie Elliot measure everything by its presumed value. The more places to the left of the decimal in the price of any gift, the more heartfelt and meaningful. They are highly practical and never sentimental. The arithmetic is quite simple, my friend. Being given things and being taken places in which to show them off mean happiness. If they are sad, refer to the previous and voila! Everything is alright.”

  There would be nothing gained trying to refute Patrick’s logic, for it was flawless except that it applied only to some women, not all. Knowing Patrick’s opinion of the likes of Anne and Claire, Wentworth forgave him his sweeping accusation and felt he understood his friend’s amoral behaviour better now.

  “They are like a maze, you know. They keep you going round and round, down blind alleyways and retracing your steps endlessly. All for what? To reach the centre and be devoured or to be put aside by spotty-faced poets with big blue hankies.”

  The Admiral was not passed out, but was not far from it. Wentworth rang for the butler. As he waited for the man, he watched the rain pelt the window glass. In his mind, he resolved to see Anne again.

  “Yes, sir?” the butler asked.

  “I am off. Call his man. He’s done for the night.”

  “Yes, sir. The Admiral said to make his carriage available to you. It is waiting out front.”

  That was Patrick. He always knew himself and always planned accordingly.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  Rain was sheeting down causing progress to Gay Street to be protracted. There was more traffic than any sensible person might expect on such a dirty night. Not only did the denizens of Bath attack their entertainments with ferocity, he thought, they are quite willing to risk life and limb as well. A party letting out from a large, private residence had ground any forward movement to a halt. Wentworth’s amusement at watching the hunched figures dodging around the carriages, puddles, and each other wore off quickly.

  He wondered how Anne would be getting home. She had arrived apart from Lady Russell but might have plans to leave with her. Worse yet, she might have plans to allow Mr. Elliot to take her to Camden Place in his fine new barouche. This thought was dangerous and caused even more havoc in his tense and disappointed emotions. As the thoughts were his to command, he immediately installed Sir Walter and Miss Elliot into the carriage as well. Unfortunately, both disappeared nearly as quickly as they took their places, leaving Anne and her cousin, sitting side by side, enjoying the comfort of the finely appointed seats.

  “The bricks feel wonderful, Cousin.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they do. Ladies slippers are so thin and the pavement is freezing cold. Here,” Elliot said as he reached across and pulled the curtain closed. “The thick brocade will keep out the chill from the windows. Is that lap robe enough, or do you need another?”

  “This is fine, thank you. You certainly spared no expense in outfitting your carriage,” she said.

  “Why should I? I have the money. And it is my hope one day to have a wife who appreciates the finest things in life.” Elliot reached down and pulled a small hamper into his lap. “I took the liberty of seeing to a late dinner. I hope you don’t mind, Anne.” He opened the lid.

  “You must have been confident that I would accept your offer to take me home...and confident that Father would allow it.” She took a breath. “Your little repast smells delicious. I must admit that you seem to know me very well.”

  “Cousin, you are a true gentlewoman of grace and beauty. Only a complete imbecile could misunderstand you.” They studied one another for a long moment. Elliot broke the spell by turning his attention to the hamper. “You must taste some of this smoked quail.” He held up a tiny leg. She reached to take it, but he moved it out of her grasp. “No, I shall hold it for you.”

  Anne delicately nibbled at the delicacy. She smiled in approval. “It is delicious.”

  When she’d finished, Elliot carefully wiped his hands and said, “I think you will like this as well.” He uncovered a small crock of pungent, creamy cheese. “You must never tell.”

  She sniffed it. Her eyes opened wide. “It is French, surely.”

  “Surely,” he said, taking a knife to spread it. “Tell me about Wentworth. That was the name of the fellow at the concert?”

  “Yes, Captain Frederick Wentworth. An old acquaintance.”

  “You must have known him when he was a more amiable fellow. I found him to be rather disagreeable and not very appreciative when it comes to music.”

  Anne took a little round of bread with a minute wedge of cheese perched on it. “Let us not speak of him or his ill-mannered ways. I spoke to him only out of politeness. He looked so out of place when he arrived.”

  “That is another mark of your superior character, my dear Cousin, gracious even to the undeserving.” He offered her a slice of an orange. “They are Spanish and bitter, of course, but a real treat this time of year. And then, we have wine.” He held up a bottle. “The white is appropriate. Dry and refreshing to the palate.” He then lifted another. “But, as we are taking liberties this evening, perhaps we should be wild and try this red.” Elliot did not wait for an answer, opening the second bottle imm
ediately.

  They each took a drink and discussed its many pleasing qualities. After the bottle was nearly finished, Elliot corked the rest and took Anne’s glass. He leaned against the seat, facing as much towards her as possible. She followed suit.

  “Anne, I have to tell you something. Though I am still in mourning for my dear, late wife, I already know that her love spoiled me terribly and that when my time is ended, I want to be quickly married again.”

  She sat up. “This is wrong to speak of, Cousin. Not now. Not yet.”

  He sat up beside her. “Anne, please hear me.” He was silent and merely looked at her. Anne looked away, but he touched her chin and gently pulled her back facing him. “I desire a woman’s touch again. I desire...” Elliot merely stared.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “The wine has tinged your beautiful lips the tiniest bit. They are lovelier than ever...” His voice faded and he moved closer.

  Thankfully, the carriage jerked. Wentworth’s preposterous fantasy ended and he was headed to Gay Street once more.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The night was miserably spent tossing and turning, endeavouring at first to outrun a dream featuring Anne and her cousin. They approached him, smiling, arm in arm, and begged him to join them at the church, for it was their wedding day. The pews were far from full and occupied only with her family, but wherever he tried to sit, he was refused and told roughly to “push off.” The ceremony was beginning and his dream self was becoming overwrought when an unseen hand gave him a shove. He found himself leaning against a wall to the side and rear of the chapel. From this distant vantage, he was forced to watch as the couple exchanged vows. As a long, postnuptial kiss was blatantly played out before all those in attendance, the scene madly shifted to a hazy, chaotic wedding feast. Again, he was excluded by the guests and forced away from the main body of events, straining to observe from afar. Another abrupt shift brought him into the centre of everything. In this new and unfamiliar situation, contorted and contemptuous faces, some very familiar and others completely unconnected to Anne, surrounded him. An unseen someone roughly put a glass of sparkling champagne into his hand. He was commanded to make a heartfelt toast to the health and prosperity of the bride and groom by a threatening voice in his ear. As he raised the glass, he woke with a start and was relieved to find nothing more menacing nearby than the flowery, lace-trimmed bed curtain he was grasping.

  In another fine frenzy of a nightmare, Anne was by his side. They were in the room where the concert had been held. They were alone, but Italian music loudly filled the space. She was dressed as she had been at the concert, and she smiled brightly at him. Her gloved hand touched his arm, and they drew close together. She spoke very softly to him. “I wish to name them all after you, Frederick, even the girls. For, had I not broken our engagement, I would not have been free to be joined to the man who truly loves me.” Before he could answer, she handed him a squirming bundle to add to the armful he was now juggling. To his consternation, the swaddled wads were chirping. He soon realised their little voices were calling his name. Anne kept smiling and thanking him; the bundles increased in number and began to reduce in size. They continued to multiply and shrink. He was embarrassed to find that he could not hold them all. His efforts to gather them were useless, and eventually, they all fell to the ground and rolled away. Anne was nowhere to be seen, the music was louder than ever, and he was left to face his own uselessness.

  ~~~~~~~&~~~~~~~

  The clock struck seven. A maid had come at five to build the fire. Harkness had stuck his head in to inquire about the Captain’s breakfast preferences and was told to go about his business. By this time, Wentworth had thought through the entire previous evening and the hideously bizarre night several times.

  The dreams were particularly rich for consideration. Which of the elements disturbed him most was unclear. Was it Anne’s gladness at being permanently and so fruitfully attached to Elliot? Or perhaps it was her desire to use Wentworth’s name. He chose to forego investigating what the meaning might be of shrinking babies, but he owned that watching himself bungle such a responsibility was the cause of a good deal of the agitation he felt. Finally, he became tired of the mental maze and resolved to discount the dreams entirely and began to concentrate on the facts as he knew them.

  Anne had, in the past week, taken it upon herself to step forward in two very public places and speak with him. In both cases this was done in the sight of members of her family. In particular, at the concert she had seized the opportunity and engaged him in more than just polite, indifferent conversation. Considering the social climate of Bath and the appetite for gossip of its residents, such actions would be marked in the minds of anyone who had observed them, especially her particular acquaintances.

  When she spoke to him in Molland’s, it was only the appearance of her cousin Mr. Elliot that cut the exchange short. The arrival of the evening’s patroness had done the work at the concert. He could only speculate that, left up to Anne, they would have spent much more time together. Not to be forgotten as well was the grudging acknowledgement of the Baronet and Miss Elliot.

  Anne harboured friendly feelings towards him, of that there was no question. But was there more for him? He then considered Lady Russell and what part she might have to play. The woman had certainly made her opinion known. Her intense look on Friday and her stares at the concert were enough to let him know she was not pleased with his presence in Bath. Nevertheless, how much did Lady Russell still influence Anne? The fact that Anne talked to him during the concert’s intermission, under the very nose of the woman, suggested some independence.

  He believed himself intelligent and intuitive enough to understand the motives of most people. His life and fortune depended upon understanding his enemies. In such a case, he acknowledged, he was analysing a man like himself, bent on winning by the basest and simplest means known—combat. With enough men, enough lead, and enough brains, a victory was almost assured. The only worries were the caprice of the weather and foul luck. When it came to love, there were only two combatants, and the others involved mattered only in their importance to the participants. Weaponry was not a factor, and intelligence seemed to count for little. He must change his strategy.

  This was not a battle of armies; it was hand-to-hand combat. It was all about keeping your wits about you as you concentrated on the actions of your opponent or, in this case, the object of your affection. Everything came down to watching and waiting for the proper opportunity and crushing anyone who might try and draw you off. In his case, the distraction was Mr. William Walter Elliot.

  In the stillness of the room, as he finished off the knot of his neck cloth, the heir to the Kellynch estate seemed suddenly present. His intimate contact with the family was undeniable. It was senseless to compare the evening’s grudging notice of Sir Walter to the place Elliot held. At this thought, a charge went through him as though he’d been struck by lightning. Anne was not her family.

  She was scrupulous to show proper respect to her father and godmother, even when it worked against her own interests as it had in ’06. To her extended family, the Musgroves, she was respectful and kind. She possessed a natural sincerity. For that reason she disliked games, be they for entertainment or advancement.

  “I have little natural talent for them,” she had told him when he tried to teach her to play a new card game. “If I am to expend this much mental energy, I prefer it to be in a good debate, or at least an interesting conversation, not trying to trick my opponent into believing I hold the highest cards.”

  “It is not trickery. It’s strategy,” he had insisted.

  “Call it what you like. My winning is still dependent upon hoaxing you into thinking something which may or may not be true.” She had soldiered on to the end of the hand, but there was no enjoyment in it for her. It was only her innate kindness that made her agree to play with him at other times that summer.

  No, Anne Elliot played no
games. What he had perceived at Uppercross as indifference was merely the reflection of the chill of his own cool lack of interest. Her warmth now was as genuine as it ever was and indicative, perhaps, of something more substantial.

  With this realization came others in rapid succession. The gossips in Bath had William Elliot marrying Anne Elliot as soon as his mourning period was finished. The man himself was of that mind from what he had overheard at the concert. Who was there to deny it on Anne’s behalf? A loving father would be the most likely person. Unfortunately, for Anne no such person was available. It was in the Baronet’s best interest to keep the Elliot name in the social swirl, and he was not likely to contradict news of an engagement even if he knew it to be false. As for Elliot himself, why would he deny such a thing? To be connected with a woman of Anne’s rank was to promote his own standing. This assured that he would do nothing to stop the chattering masses.

  The only people who knew the truth of the matter were Anne and William Elliot. To this point, Anne’s behaviour left enough doubt that she was attached to Elliot in any irrevocable way. Until he heard the words, “Why yes, I am engaged to him,” from her lips, he would give no credence to the rumours.

  Chapter Eleven

  Life on Gay Street was quiet all Wednesday. Frederick’s soul was restive and physical exertion in the form of walks and pacing did little to alleviate the situation. On Thursday he did the same, pacing the floor until his sister’s complaints drove him into the rain, where he tirelessly watched for anyone from Camden Place who might be out. Having exhausted the fashionable haunts of the city, his feet turned to those less favoured. It was as he traversed Westgate Street that he was more than a little surprised to see Anne’s godmother deposit Anne onto the pavement. He was further astonished to observe her make her way confidently to the door with the horribly peeling paint visited by her cousin the week before. When the door opened, she smiled and spoke to the person admitting her. He watched until it was closed behind her, then looked around to see if he’d failed to notice Elliot’s carriage. It was nowhere along the street.