Chapter Five Back to Previous Chapter Many thanks to Karen Lee for checking this chapter for, um, fishiness. ;-) Uppercross June, 1841 Charles waved the fishing pole back over his head, careful not to snag the line on the trees that lined the side of the stream, and cast in a smooth, graceful motion that was the result of both aptitude and many years of practice. The fly dropped precisely in the middle of the pool, and he grinned in delight. "I hope you observed carefully, Walter. That was a perfect cast." Walter smiled to himself; Charles did not care much for hunting, and thus was not quite as good a shot as his younger brother, but he was definitely the superior angler. "I can watch you cast all day, Charles, but I shall never do it so well as you." As if in confirmation of his statement, Charles' fishing pole suddenly bowed, and all his attention was turned to reeling in his catch. A few moments later, a good-sized trout was thrashing on the end of the line, only to be unhooked and unceremoniously dropped into the creel carried by Thomas. It was Charles' sixth large trout of the day; Walter's own catch, a single smallish chub, seemed rather embarrassingly pathetic beside his brother's, but he would not grudge Charles his enjoyment for the world. It was enough to be out in the summer sunshine, in his brother's company. At another time of his life, Walter would have been in town at this time of year, enjoying the last few weeks of the season until shooting began in August. His parents were there now, and had invited him to come along, but he had declined, as he had declined their invitation the previous year. He gave the responsibilities of his position as his excuse; his father's approving smile had made Walter rather uncomfortable, as he knew in his heart of hearts that he avoided London for another reason entirely. Gwendolyn was in London, and that way lay the destruction of all he had built over the past--was it already nearly two years since he had seen her? Walter sighed heavily and re-cast, trying to make his motion as effortless and elegant as his brother's and failing once again. Even the passage of two years had been unable to completely eliminate Gwendolyn Clay from his thoughts. She had left Kellynch a few days after Elizabeth's wedding, and he had heard nothing of her since. Kellynch stood empty, and had for some months; Sir William and Lady Elliot had departed on a pleasure-tour of the Continent, which was just as well, for no one at Uppercross save Mrs. Musgrove cared for them at all. Walter could not be in the presence of Sir William with any degree of comfort, knowing how he had misused Gwendolyn, and Lady Elliot was a constant reminder of her daughter. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, and the air was unseasonably hot; the trees did not provide sufficient shade so close to the water, and the brothers had removed jackets, waistcoats, and neckcloths, rolled up their shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned their shirts at the neck. Thomas, ever the good servant, was appalled by such ungentlemanly behaviour in the squire's sons, but limited his disapprobation to raised eyebrows and the occasional click of the tongue. As he accepted the latest catch from Charles, he ran his eyes down and up his raiment, wet and disheveled, and clicked his tongue yet again. Charles exchanged a grin with his brother as Thomas retreated to the shade, shaking his head. Charles had blossomed astonishingly since his marriage to Anne. He had always been a good-natured and pleasant young man, but bookish, and this facet of his disposition had become more apparent after he came down from Cambridge. He preferred to spend the bulk of his time with his horses and his books, and was never entirely comfortable in company; his nature had turned inward, somehow, so slowly that none of his friends realized it. Only Anne could draw him out, bring back the charming, funny, outgoing Charles whom Walter knew so well but had not realized that he missed. The change was not just in disposition. Charles took a more active interest in the management of the farm and estate; in fact, the angling expedition originally had been planned for the previous day, but he had felt it necessary to ride out to visit one of the tenants. Until recently, Charles' attention toward the estate had been confined strictly to the stables; their father left matters largely in the hand of his able steward, and his heir had seemed inclined to follow his example. But now, more often than not young "Mr. Charles" spent his days among his tenants and labourers, listening to their concerns and helping wherever it was in his power to do so. Walter attributed this mainly to Anne's influence. She took seriously her position as the young squire's wife and was always at the disposal of the villagers. She carried food to the sick, made clothing for the newborn, sympathized with the mourners, and read to and wrote for the illiterate, all with calm competence and a serenity that was an exact copy of her mother's. The villagers of Uppercross worshipped her unashamedly. Even the rector had been affected by her influence; lately, Anne often found her brother-in-law in one or the other of the cottages, comforting or counseling or helping however he could. He was surprised at the simple gratitude of those to whom he extended his hand, and even more surprised at his own enjoyment of such activities. Lost in his thoughts, it took a moment for Walter to become aware that his brother was watching him critically. "You should really fish another pool," Charles told him. "You need a deeper pool, where the trout like to hide. Uppercross trout are very intelligent, you know. It takes all the angler's wiles to mislead them." Walter looked at his brother askance. "They are fish, Charles," he said patiently. "They have not the wit to respond to human tactics. No animal does. They simply have an instinct for survival that they employ to save themselves from their predators." "On the contrary, Walter. Observe." Charles pointed to a still pool, surrounded by rocks that directed away the main flow of the stream. He made another graceful cast, and the fly slipped below the surface of the water. Less than five minutes later, another large trout was dropped into the creel. "That pool has always been lucky for me," Charles added. "The trout like to hide there. Perhaps you would like to try it?" Walter cast, suffering his brother's constant instructions, and managed to get the fly to sink down into the pool, although not with the grace and ease of Charles. Almost immediately he felt a tug on the line and watched in amazement as the tip of the pole began to bend toward the water. "You have a strike!" cried Charles. "Reel it in, Walter! Reel it in!" He obeyed, gripping the pole tightly and stripping in line, which gathered in a rapidly forming coil at his feet. The fish fought gamely, and he had a difficult time, but within a very few minutes a large trout was pulled free of the stream, thrashing for all it was worth. Thomas splashed into the stream and grabbed the line. "That's a fine fish, Mr. Walter!" he exclaimed, grinning happily as he dug the hook out of the creature's mouth. "The biggest one of the day, I'll wager!" "I would not take that wager, Thomas," said Charles, coming over to inspect the fish. "You are quite correct, I think. Depend upon my brother to outshine me!" Walter grinned involuntarily, proud both of his accomplishment and his brother's praise. "I would not have caught it without your help," he said, but Charles waved off his protests. "I did not catch the fish, Walter, you did. I am gratified if my suggestions were helpful to you, but the glory is all your own. Come, we have sufficient fish for our dinner, and it is time we returned to Uppercross. My wife will think I have run off." They dressed themselves, gathered their tackle, and trooped back to the village. As they neared Uppercross Cottage, Charles turned to Walter and said, "You will come in for a time? Anne would like to see you, I am sure." "Of course." Thomas went off to the kitchen to clean their catch, and the brothers went around to the front of the cottage. Music spilled from the drawing-room windows as they came around the front. Charles grinned and said, "We are in for a treat!" He paused outside the front of the cottage, where two huge rose-bushes bloomed, their perfume hanging heavily in the warm, humid air. He considered the bush and chose a particularly fine blossom, then pulled out his knife and sliced the flower from the bush, leaving a long stem and several leaves. He quickly stripped off the thorns and returned the knife to its sheath, then grinned at Walter again and beckoned him into the house. The music swelled as they walked down the passage to the drawing-room. Anne sat at the pianoforte facing away from the doorway and was unaware that they had entered. The music continued gentle yet fast-paced, a demanding piece that she played expertly. Charles stood in the middle of the room, smiling at his wife. Walter's gaze was drawn almost involuntarily to the portrait that hung over the fireplace opposite the instrument. It had been painted shortly after the wedding, and showed Anne dressed in the wine-coloured gown in which she had been married, seated at the pianoforte, with pink roses like the one that Charles held scattered over the top of the instrument. The artist had done a masterful job, perfectly capturing her delicate beauty and the laughter that was always behind her large brown eyes. The portrait had been Charles' idea, and Anne had agreed under one condition: that he sit for a portrait as well. The result hung over the pianoforte where she could gaze upon it as she played, and showed Charles standing next to Wilfred, one hand on the horse's bridle and one hand resting lazily on his hip; he looked every inch the prosperous young country squire. Walter's gaze traveled from the portraits around the drawing-room; it was fashionably yet comfortably furnished, every piece spotless and gleaming. Anne managed her household with the same quiet capability that she employed with the villagers, and the Cottage, with its homey elegance, had become a haven to Walter in the past months. The only flaw in the perfect happiness of its inhabitants was that Anne had not yet given birth or shown any sign of doing so. Mrs. Musgrove, impatient for an heir, was not above the occasional pointed comment; after all, Elizabeth had presented Mr. Leigh with a son almost a year previously, and was already expecting her second, and she had been married only a few weeks before Charles and Anne. Charles and Anne, to their credit, did not allow Mrs. Musgrove's sometimes biting remarks to trouble them overmuch. If they were to be blessed with children, it would happen in the time appointed, and they had no control over the matter, so why let it concern them? They continued as much in love as ever, and their real friends, including Walter, rejoiced in their contentedness. Anne finished the piece, and the brothers applauded appreciatively. She whirled around in astonishment, then burst into laughter. "How long have you two been standing there?" she demanded. "Long enough to hear a delightful performance," said Charles. He approached her and presented the rose with a gallant bow. Anne took it and smiled at her husband; the glance they exchanged spoke volumes of their love and regard for one another. Walter glanced away, feeling that he had inadvertently intruded on a private moment. "You must be thirsty," said Anne. "You had a hot day for fishing. Shall I order tea?" "A glass of beer would go down well, love," said Charles. "Walter?" "Yes, thank you," he responded, taking a seat near the window. Anne rang the bell and ordered the refreshments, and a pitcher of small beer and two glasses were quickly brought in. Rose, the young maid who had brought in the beer, poured a glass and brought it to Walter. Her hand trembled a bit as she handed it to him, and a tiny amount of the beverage sloshed onto his trousers. "Oh, Mr. Musgrove, I beg your pardon!" she cried, swabbing at his leg with her apron. "Never mind, Rose," he said, trying to stop her ministrations. "They require laundering anyway; they are all over fish scales." Rose looked at him with large, anxious eyes, and then at Anne. "Go on, Rose," she said gently. "It is all right." The girl stared at Walter for a long moment, bobbed a curtsey, and scuttled out of the room. Walter looked up in time to catch Anne and Charles exchange grins, and he knew well the cause of their hilarity. Since he had become the rector of Uppercross, he had become extremely popular among the young ladies of the village. Shopkeeper's daughters who never dreamed of aspiring to marriage with the younger son of the squire were perfectly comfortable with aspiring to marriage with the rector, especially a young and handsome one, and Walter was forced to constantly fend off their sometimes bold approaches. He shifted between lecturing to them and simply avoiding them, but sometimes they still caught him unawares. Young Rose's was one of the female faces that gazed adoringly up at him during Sunday services, although Walter knew she had no idea of being his wife; yet her simple, innocent devotion was more disconcerting somehow. Perhaps because he knew that it was pure and disinterested, and not motivated by avarice. The wife of the rector of Uppercross would enjoy both position and riches, or at least riches by village standards; Mr. Musgrove had given his son a small independence when he took over the living, and the living itself was a good one. Walter lacked not for income; he simply lacked someone to spend it on. The young ladies of the village were well aware of this fact, and they laid out their lures and traps for him often enough to make him tread warily. He sighed and sipped at his drink. "Did you have a good catch?" Anne asked. Charles had immediately drunk down half his glass, and sat back with a sigh. "Yes, and Walter caught the biggest fish of the day," he said. "A fine trout, three pounds if it is an ounce." Anne turned to Walter with interest. "Then I hope you will share it with us," she said. "Dine with us tonight, if you have not a previous engagement. Your catch shall be the first course." "I have not, and I would be happy to dine with you," said Walter, pleased to be asked. "Your cook has an easy time of it," observed Charles with a smile. "You rarely dine at home." This was true; most nights he dined at the Great House, or here at the Cottage, or at the home of one of his parishioners, especially those with marriageable daughters. "Aye," said Walter, laughing. "And my household bills are next to nothing. But can you send some of the fish to the parsonage, Anne? Mrs. Wilson can prepare it for the servants." "Of course," she said, smiling. "I am sure that my two fine fishermen have brought home more than we can eat. I will send some to the Great House as well. The servants in residence will be glad to have it, I know." "And to the Browns'," said Charles, referring to his father's steward. "I would not have them forgotten." "You may depend upon me, Charles," she replied with a smile. "I know that, love," he said gently. Walter finished his beer and rose. "Well, if I am to dine with you, I must get rid of the fish smell that Anne has been too civil to mention but that nonetheless clings to my person. You dine at six?" "As always," said Anne, laughing. "We will see you then." Charles saw him to the door, and the brothers exchanged parting gibes at one another that sent Walter off in excellent spirits, looking forward to an evening of companionship with his family. The parsonage was only a quarter-mile from the Cottage, and Walter anticipated a quick walk, but failed once more to consider the determination of the young ladies of Uppercross village. Only a few feet from the front door of the Cottage, he found his path blocked by the muslin-clad form of Charlotte Smedley, whose father owned the village's most prosperous dry-goods store. "Good afternoon, Mr. Musgrove," she simpered. "Good afternoon," he said quietly. She opened her fan and employed it busily. "It is amazingly hot today, is not it?" "Yes, it is," he said, wondering how to get away from her without being impolite. "You look quite warm," she said. "You have not been working in this hot weather?" "I was fishing," he said lamely. "With my brother." She moved closer. "Indeed? You are fond of fish? My mother was able to purchase a lovely piece of fish today. Will you dine with us, sir? My parents are always glad to see you." "I thank you, Miss Smedley, but I am already engaged to dine tonight." He tried to sidle away toward the parsonage. It loomed in front of him, in his vision but too far to reach, like an imaginary oasis to a man lost in the desert. "Then tomorrow night." She took another step toward him. "I must consult my calendar." "Very well. I hope you will come to dine with us, Mr. Musgrove. We always enjoy your company," she said, closing the last distance between them and punctuating her statement with a hand on his arm. He pulled his arm away as if she had branded him. "Forgive me, madam, but I have--pressing business at the parsonage. I trust I will see you at services on Sunday?" he added, hoping that this last would remind her of how she should behave. "Of course I will be at services," she called after him as he hastened away. "Morning and afternoon!" Walter managed not to break into a run as he approached his home, and breathed a sigh of relief as he achieved the peace of his own doorstep. He went inside the cool, dark house. The parsonage was originally a small, neat building, but it had been improved by Dr. Smythe, who had some family money in addition to his income from the living. He had added some rooms to the back of the building to make bedrooms for his children, resulting in a house that was not only commodious but snug and solid. Walter had been quite comfortable there over the past two years, and he could never be lonely, not with his family so close at hand. His only regret was that Dr. Smythe had done nothing to the stone-walled garden area on one side of the house. There were kitchen-gardens in the back, and these were the domain of Mrs. Wilson, but the decorative gardens, long neglected, were wild and overgrown, and Walter had no idea how to go about making them attractive. He drew up half-hearted plans to prune and improve and install benches, but there was always something more important to demand his attention, and the garden continued forlorn and uncultivated. He was met just inside the door by his housekeeper, Mrs. Brumby. She had been an employee of Dr. Smythe, as had Mrs. Wilson, and he had kept them on when he took over the parsonage, happy to have servants who were familiar with the routines of the house. "Mr. Stock is here, sir," she said. "I told him you were with Mr. Charles, but he would wait. He is in the library." Mrs. Brumby was not overly enamored of the curate. Walter managed not to smile. "That is all right," he assured her. "I will see him. Will you have a bath drawn for me in the meantime? And tell Mrs. Wilson that I am dining at the Cottage this evening." "Very good, Mr. Musgrove," she said. "Would you care for some tea, sir?" "No, thank you, Mrs. Brumby," he said, and walked down the hall toward his small library. Mrs. Brumby trundled off to the kitchen to see the cook. She ordered the man-of-all-work to heat water and draw the rector's bath, and when he went off, she sat down at the table, where Mrs. Wilson had already placed the teapot, cups, and freshly-baked shortbread biscuits. "The rector said to tell you that he is dining at the Cottage tonight, Mrs. Wilson," she said, pouring a cup of tea. Mrs. Wilson, a woman of a comfortable size that spoke well for her own good cooking, sat down with a sigh and accepted the cup from Mrs. Brumby. "Aye, I knew it would be so when I heard he went fishing with Mr. Charles. I knew Mrs. Charles would not allow the rector to eat here, alone at the parsonage, poor man." "Aye, Mrs. Charles is a good woman." "That she is, Mrs. Brumby, that she is, like her mother before her. The most delightful young woman she was. I remember when she would visit her sister at the Great House before her marriage. We all loved her, ma'am, and her daughter is just like her. Would you care for a biscuit?" "I would indeed, Mrs. Wilson." The housekeeper selected a biscuit and took a bite. "Delicious, ma'am!" "I thank you, Mrs. Brumby." "No one can touch your shortbread, Mrs. Wilson, so I always say. Yes, the rector is dining at the Cottage. I dare say if he were married he would be happy enough to eat at home five days out of seven, but as long as he is single, we will have easy lives." "Indeed, Mrs. Brumby," said the cook, helping herself to a biscuit. "And there is no telling when he may marry. The rector is a handsome enough man, if I do say so, but there are no young ladies of his station hereabouts. And the poor man won't go abroad to find himself one. He stays here, working himself to the bone, bless him." The housekeeper shook her head. "And the silly flirts in the village constantly throw themselves at his head. I fear that he will fall prey to their wiles some day." "I pray not, Mrs. Brumby, I pray not." "As do I, Mrs. Wilson. But they're bold, forward articles, they are, and the rector's only a man, after all!" "That he is, Mrs. Brumby, that he is." "That Smedley chit is the worst of all. I can't count the days I've gone out to meet the mail and seen her hanging in the lane, waiting to pounce on the rector when he takes his walk. The poor man has no peace, Mrs. Wilson, no peace, I tell you." "Miss Smedley has a handsome fortune, though, Mrs. Brumby." "Well, all her handsome fortune has not taught her her proper place, now, has it, Mrs. Wilson? To presume to think she can marry the squire's son, even if he is the rector! 'Tis a sin and a shame, that's what it is, ma'am." "It is indeed, Mrs. Brumby." The two women shook their heads, munched their biscuits, and sipped their tea, bemoaning the fate of the rector and commenting on the particular deliciousness of the shortbread. In the library, meanwhile, Walter found his curate standing exactly in the center of the room, turning his hat in his hands. "I hope you have not been standing this whole time, Stock," he commented mildly. "You could have sat down. The chairs are comfortable, I assure you." "I did not wish to presume, Mr. Musgrove," said Mr. Stock in his peculiar hoarse voice. "Not at a time like this." Walter stared at him. "A time like this?" "I am here to offer my condolences on your loss, sir." A knot of apprehension formed in Walter's stomach. "What are you talking about?" Mr. Stock stared at him. "You have not heard, sir? I heard it in the village." "Heard what?" Walter only just managed to keep from shouting at him. "Your cousin, sir," said Mr. Stock, clearly unhappy to be the bearer of bad news. "He's--he's drowned, sir." "My cousin?" Edward, he thought bleakly. Oh, God, no! Why Edward? He sat down heavily in the nearest chair while Mr. Stock stared at him unhappily. Anne could not have heard--she could not know, and act as she did when I was at the Cottage. Oh, God, her mother! He struggled to his feet. "I must go to my aunt," he said, then put his hands to his eyes in anguish. "Oh, Lord, what am I to say to her? What comfort can I offer her?" "Sir?" said Mr. Stock, his brow creased. Walter stared at him. "My aunt! Lady Wentworth! I must go to her, she will have need of her family--my uncle is not in Somerset." The curate's confusion was obvious. "I suppose Lady Wentworth would be saddened on such an occasion, sir," he said doubtfully. "He was her cousin, after all. Yes, I suppose she would be saddened." Now he had to shout. "Stock, what in the world are you talking about? She is his mother, not his cousin!" Mr. Stock's brow cleared. "Oh, you thought I meant your cousin Lieutenant Wentworth! Oh, no, he is not dead. At least not so I've heard," he added thoughtfully. Walter's brain was whirling, both with relief and confusion. "Then who did you mean?" "Your cousin, sir. Sir William Elliot. He and his wife were sailing in a small craft round the Mediterranean, and a storm came on them suddenly and the boat capsized. They drowned. They're dead, sir." Click here for the REAL ending... Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.