Any Woman Who Truly Loved
Chapter Three
Betsy took the curling tongs from the fire and expertly captured a lock of hair between the barrel and the clasp. With a flick of the wrist and her smallest finger, the iron twirled around and around, winding the long piece of hair around the barrel of the iron. She held it for a few seconds, then released the ringlet in one swift motion.
Anne admired her skill. She was a neighbor girl whose expertise was renowned in the neighborhood, sent up by the landlord's wife. She was even better than Millie, Lady Wentworth's maid, who was one of the few persons who could make Anne's thick, straight hair hold a curl. Luckily, Millie's niece, Rose, would be coming to work at the Cottage, and hopefully shared her aunt's dexterity. Anne did her own hair most of the time, rather plainly for everyday wear, but she liked to wear it more fashionably on social occasions. Tonight, Betsy had braided the back and coiled it into a low chignon, wound with ribbons and a length of lace. The side hairs, falling from a center part, lay flat against her head; past her chin they were curled into ringlets that lay perfectly against her shoulder, three on each side. Anne regarded her reflection in the mirror; objectively, she thought that she could be called pretty, especially with her hair so fashionably styled, but not really beautiful. Sophie was the beauty of the Wentworth girls; she had inherited her father's height and dark, wavy hair, and had developed a womanly figure that seemed to appeal to men. Well, Charles says that I am beautiful, and that is more than enough for me!
She was wearing the gown in which she had been married, wine-coloured silk with handmade lace trim. Knowing that Charles disliked the big puffed sleeves that were still in fashion, she had it made with tight-fitting white linen undersleeves, with an overdrape of silk descending from the elbows, trimmed with lace and ribbons. It was certainly one of the handsomest gowns she had ever owned, a real grown-up woman's dress instead of the maidenly muslins she had previously worn, and she felt a thrill as she anticipated the look in her husband's eyes when he saw her wearing it.
"Will that be all, Mrs. Musgrove?" Betsy asked as she placed the last curl.
"Yes, thank you," she said. "You did wonderfully well. I wish I could take you home with me."
Betsy was a plump and rosy girl, and dimples formed at the sides of her mouth when she spoke. "I would go with you, ma'am, but I am to be married next month." Their eyes met in the mirror, and they exchanged the smiles of two women who knew themselves to be well-loved.
Anne rose and shook out the dress, adjusting the many petticoats to ensure that the full skirt stood out properly, as Betsy gathered her tools and took her leave. She went out into the sitting-room, where Charles stood in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat. "Can you help me with this coat, love?" he asked, his eyes on his wrists, where he was attempting to fasten the studs.
"Of course," she said, and he glanced up at her briefly, then stopped what he was doing and frankly stared. Anne glowed, basking in his admiration.
"Look at you," he said with an appreciative smile. "Just like our wedding day. Except that you are not wearing that white thing," he said, waving his hand around his head, unable to find the proper word in his limited male vocabulary.
Anne laughed. "That 'thing,' my love, is a veil of Brussels lace, a cherished family heirloom that my mother wore on her wedding day and that I hope our daughter will someday wear. I charge you to remember that."
"I know next to nothing about ladies' clothing, Anne, as you well know," said Charles, unaffected by her teasing. "I just know that you look beautiful. Now really, I need you to help me on with my coat." In a fit of pre-matrimonial good humour, he had agreed to accompany Walter to his tailor to have an evening suit made. Charles, who was built more sturdily than his taller, thinner brother, usually had his clothes made larger than fashion dictated in the interest of comfort. Walter's man had done a masterful job, however; the black coat and trousers were perfectly fitted, showing Charles' athletic figure to its best advantage, although he was unable to don the coat without assistance.
Anne held the coat while Charles thrust his arms into the sleeves, then helped ease it over his broad shoulders. She looked at him admiringly as he pulled down the cuffs of his shirt. My husband even puts the Queen's fiancé to shame! "If you continue to dress so fashionably, you will have to train Thomas to be a valet," she said.
Her husband laughed at the thought of his employee, a good-natured but not especially genteel man, acting the part of a gentleman's valet. "I have no need of a valet, love, but you should have a maid of your own."
She touched his cheek lovingly. "I thank you, but I was brought up a sailor's daughter, not a fine lady. My mother has a maid now, but she did without for many years. Rose can help me dress very well."
He cupped her chin in his hand. "I just want you to be comfortable and happy."
"If I am with you, I shall always be happy. I love you, Charles Musgrove."
"And I love you, Anne Musgrove."
"I like the way that sounds," said Anne, smiling as Charles leaned closer to her.
"As do I." Their lips met. Anne had feared that after a few weeks of marriage, the thrill she felt at his touch would wear away, but she was delighted to discover that was not true. He placed his hands gently on her waist, and her hands slipped up his arms to his shoulders. He leaned his forehead against hers and said softly, "I am beginning to wish that I had not invited Edward's friend to dine with us."
In the happiness of the previous few minutes, she had forgotten about their dinner guest. She looked away, no longer able to meet her husband's eyes. Charles waited a moment, then finally said, "Are you going to tell me what happened between you and Captain Huntingdon?"
Oaklands
October, 1835
Anne poured a cup of tea and handed it to Captain Huntingdon, then a second for her mother. She took a cup for herself and sat down next to the tea-table.
"I am sorry that Edward and the admiral are not here to receive you," Mrs. Wentworth was saying. "They are out shooting with my brother and nephew at Uppercross. I am sure that they would have invited you along, had they known you were not otherwise engaged."
The captain smiled. "Pray do not apologize. I am perfectly happy with your company, ma'am, and that of your daughter." He glanced over at Anne, who sat with her head down, her eyes fixed on the teacup balanced on her knee.
Mrs. Wentworth seemed to sense her daughter's uneasiness. She kept the conversation going, limiting the topics to the weather, the state of the roads, and books that she had recently read. Anne remained silent, picking up her embroidery and working on it diligently. Then Mrs. Wentworth was called away by the housekeeper, who required her presence in the kitchen without delay. She hurried away with a last, concerned look at her daughter, and Anne was left alone in the sitting-room with the captain.
She glanced up once and found his eyes fixed upon her. He had ridden up from Lyme almost daily since Elizabeth's birthday dance, and during each visit he had contrived to spend time with her. Anne had found his company enjoyable until the past few days, when his attentions gained a new intensity that made her distinctly uncomfortable.
With her mother absent, it was Anne's duty to play hostess. She sighed inwardly and asked, "Are you looking forward to going back to sea, Captain?" They were due to sail in less than a week's time.
"I am never happy to leave England, especially knowing that I will not be home for another year." He set down his teacup. "But it would be easier for me to leave if I knew that there was someone waiting for me here." In another moment, he was kneeling beside her, removing the work from her hands and clasping them in his own. "Miss Wentworth," he said. "Annie. Will you be here for me when I return?"
"I do not expect to go anywhere else," she said in confusion.
"You mistake my meaning. I will return to England in a year's time. When that time comes, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
Anne stared at him, aghast. "I had no thought of marrying, sir."
"Annie, I have been drawn to you from the first moment that I saw you, on the verandah at your uncle's home. You walked out of the house like a vision, an angel in the candlelight. You epitomized everything that I have given my life to defend. When we became more closely acquainted, I fell in love with you, with your sweetness, your intelligence, your femininity."
Anne's mouth twitched at this statement. My femininity? He has never seen me after a hard ride through the mud! Oh, why do these men always make me want to laugh when they propose to me?
Captain Huntingdon was still speaking. "I observed you here, among your family, your brother and sister and parents. I have always wanted a family life like you have, and over the past week I have come to realize that I want it with you. Marry me, Annie."
His casual use of her nickname, until now employed only by her father and brother, irritated her. Charles does not call me Annie, she thought distractedly, then wondered why she was thinking of Charles Musgrove when another man was making her an offer of marriage.
The captain was waiting for her answer, his face earnest and his grip on her hands firm. She finally managed to stammer, "You have taken me quite by surprise, Captain. I cannot answer you now. I need time to think upon your offer."
"Of course. Take this night to think upon it. I will call again tomorrow." He reached up and took her face in his hands. "You may be sure that I will be thinking of you, my love," he murmured, and kissed her.
Anne had never been kissed before, although in the past two years she had ducked away from more than a few amorous dance partners and had delivered several stinging slaps upon the more persistent. In her present state, however, the captain was able to get past her defenses, and before she could stop him, his lips were firmly pressed upon her own. She discovered that the sensation produced by this action was not unpleasant, although it did not seem to be like it was in the novels: her knees did not weaken, her hands did not tremble, her heart did not pound. She reached out and clutched his shoulders, meaning to push him away; but the captain took this as encouragement and put his arms around her, pulling her closer. Finally she managed to disengage herself. "No, Captain, you must not," she gasped.
He released her instantly. "Forgive me, Annie," he whispered. "I have wanted to do that for days now--never mind. Until tomorrow, my love." He picked up his hat and gloves and started to walk toward the door.
Anne rose to her feet, uncertain of how she should behave. Well, her mother had always taught her to be a lady, no matter the circumstances. "Good afternoon, Captain," she said, as politely as her emotional state permitted.
He turned back. "John. Please call me John."
She nodded. "Good afternoon, John."
He gazed at her earnestly for a moment, his intense blue eyes full of emotion; then he was gone.
Anne collapsed back into the chair. Her mouth felt bruised; she touched it lightly with her fingertips. What shall I do? She did not think that she wanted to marry Captain Huntingdon--John--but how could she know for sure?
Her mind strayed back to the night of the dance at Uppercross, to her waltz with Charles, as it often had in the preceding month. She still did not understand her new feelings toward him. Sometimes it seemed as though Charles looked upon her with particular regard; then in the next moment he would turn away, or treat her as he would his sister. For a time she had thought that perhaps she had been captivated by the music and the dance as much as by the man. Two days after the party she had ridden over to the Uppercross stables, hoping that if she saw Charles in his usual milieu, she would know her mind. He was not there, and one of the grooms had informed her that Mr. Charles had left that morning to visit a friend in Hampshire.
A noise outside the sitting-room brought her back to the present. My mother. Mrs. Wentworth would know something had happened as soon as she saw her daughter's face, and Anne was not prepared to discuss the captain's proposal just yet. She leapt to her feet and went out into the passage, where the butler sat at a small table writing in the account book.
"Jennings," she said, "will you send to the stables, please, and ask them to saddle Wamba? I am going for a ride."
The admiral's head groom, a former seaman named Flynn--nobody knew his Christian name, including, it was rumoured, his wife--was resistant to the idea of Anne riding out alone. When she arrived at the stables, she had found not only Wamba saddled, but one of her father's hunters as well, and Flynn prepared to accompany her.
"Flynn, please," she said pleadingly. "I have been riding for so long now! I do not need a companion."
Flynn, who had faced the combined might of the French and Spanish fleets, was unmoved by the entreaties of one girl, no matter how her bottom lip trembled. "It's worth my job if the admiral finds out I let you ride out by yourself, miss," he said.
"You will not lose your job if I tell my father that I refused your accompaniment. I will be in for a scolding, but you will be safe."
He knew that she was right. It was common knowledge among the Oaklands domestics that the admiral denied his daughters very little. Flynn heaved a dramatic sigh and finally hauled down his colours. "All right, miss," he said, leading Wamba over to the mounting block. He helped her into the saddle and watched her ride away, his face troubled. He was as fond of Miss Anne as he was of his own daughters, and he could tell that she was in emotional turmoil of some kind. If I find out that some bounder has broken her heart, I'll... The thought went unfinished as he noticed that one of the undergrooms had failed to properly stow the admiral's tack, and he went back into the stables, cursing the unfortunate man as thoroughly as only a sailor can.
Wamba galloped across the fields through the late-afternoon sunshine. Anne lifted her face to catch the air as it streamed past, feeling her tumbled sensibilities falling away from her like layers of clothing. There was nothing to equal this, the freedom and joy of the pure speed of a responsive animal.
To Anne's delight, her father had purchased Wamba from her uncle Musgrove on Charles' recommendation, happy to procure a proper lady's mount for his daughter with so little trouble. She and the horse had become a team, familiar to all the neighbors and the inhabitants of the village. Wamba loved her as well, she felt; she took him treats, as Charles had taught her, and exercised him regularly, and when she entered the stables, he always lifted his head and gave a soft snort of greeting. Flynn scoffed at her, saying that she was foolish to fancy human feelings in a dumb animal, but Anne knew differently.
She had not given the creature any real direction, but Wamba knew the area surrounding her father's estate as well as she did. Before she knew it, the grove where she and Charles had their picnics loomed in front of them. Wamba was covered with perspiration; I will stop for a bit and rest, let him have a drink. She slowed the horse to a walk, and they entered the grove, the cool shade welcome to them both.
As he walked toward the stream, Wamba's ears flattened and he snorted, lifting his head. Anne wondered what disturbed him, then saw the other horse tied to the tree, the familiar tack...she turned around in the saddle, looking toward the tree where they had always spread the blanket, and saw Charles Musgrove staring back at her in amazement.
This time he had not bothered with a blanket, but had simply flung himself on the ground, his back against a tree. He had discarded coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth; these items rested in an untidy pile on the grass beside him, a battered straw hat perched on top. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway to his waist. He held a book, now forgotten. "Anne," he stammered. "I did not expect to see you."
"I beg your pardon," she said in confusion. "I did not mean to intrude. I will turn back directly." She began to turn Wamba in the direction of Oaklands.
He scrambled to his feet and dropped the book. "No!" he shouted, then said more softly, "You do not need to leave. Do not leave. I would like you to stay." He looked at Wamba, who wanted a drink and was still trying to get to the stream. "Your mount needs the rest, I think, and you probably do as well."
Anne remained silent; Charles understood it as consent. He took Wamba's reins and tied them to the tree, then came around to help her dismount. Anne lifted her right leg out of the upper pommel, turned to the side, and prepared to slide out of the saddle. In her agitated state, however, she neglected to completely remove her left foot from the stirrup, and instead of sliding gracefully to the ground, she pitched forward and fell directly into the arms of a very startled Charles.
"I have you," he said, and he did; she could feel his arms around her waist, strong and steady.
"My foot is still caught in the stirrup," she told him, and he turned her so that she could slide it out. Her hat tumbled from her head as he did so, rolling over and away from them.
Charles set her gently on the ground. He still held her tightly. "Are you all right, love?" he asked quietly.
...love... The careless endearment made her shiver, although she knew perfectly well that it was an affectation that he and Walter had picked up at Cambridge and that they bestowed it with equal nonchalance on most of the female population. Charles mistook her reaction. "You are trembling! My dear girl, you have had a fright." He drew her against him, cradling her head against his chest. Anne knew that her trembling had nothing to do with her near-fall, and that his solution, however kindly meant, could not combat it, but had rather the opposite effect.
She closed her eyes, drinking in the feeling of his arms about her, his hand gently caressing her hair, listening to his heart beating next to her ear, breathing in his manly scents of leather and horseflesh. The rational part of her mind warned, He thinks of you as a sister. He only comforts you as he would Eliza, while her soul cried out, Home. I am home.
Several moments ticked by as they stood together. Anne felt his arms relax, and she tilted her head back to look up at him. Charles was regarding her with an expression that she had never seen before; she knew with a woman's sure instinct that he wanted to kiss her, was going to kiss her, and she also knew that she wanted him to kiss her more than she had ever wanted anything else. She closed her eyes and lifted her lips, tingling with anticipation.
But instead he released her, and by the time she opened her eyes she saw only his back as he walked away. "How come you to be riding without a groom?" he asked without turning around.
"I--I wanted to ride alone," she whispered. Her hands were still shaking, her heart was beating a tattoo against her ribs, the blood rushed in her ears. Her entire body ached with the disappointment of the denied caress. She did not trust her legs to support her; she simply folded them and sat on the grass, in the same place where they had stood, in the same place where she had realized that she was in love with Charles Musgrove.
He had not yet turned to face her, his normally chivalrous manners seemingly abandoned. He raked his hand through his hair, clenching it into a fist in the back of his head. "You should not ride alone," he said over his shoulder. "I will escort you back to your father's house, but you must promise me that you will take a groom with you, or someone, when you ride out in the future. If anything should happen to you, if you should meet with an accident..." his voice trailed away.
I remember when you used to ride with me, my love. It was no use, this futile yearning; he had made it clear that he did not return her regard. I must have imagined that expression...at least now I know my mind. That was what you wanted, Annie girl, was it not?
Charles was buttoning his shirt. He picked up his discarded clothing and began to redress. "If you have had your rest, we should be returning," he said. He seemed unable to meet her eyes.
They remounted their horses and turned back toward Oaklands. Neither of them spoke until they were back at the stables. Flynn came out and took Wamba's reins after Charles helped her to dismount, catching her expertly at the waist as she slid from the saddle. The groom looked on approvingly. "I'm that glad you met up with her, Mr. Charles," he said. "She would go out alone."
"I have explained to Miss Wentworth that she should not do so in the future," said Charles.
"You tell her so, sir. She does not listen to old Flynn." He led the horse into the stable.
"I thank you for seeing me back," said Anne. "You and Flynn are both overly solicitous. I do not need a nursemaid when I ride."
"I did not say that you did," he responded. "But from now on, do not ride out alone. 'Twas I who taught you to ride, and I would feel responsible if anything happened to you. Please, Anne. As a favour to me." He asks so casually, without knowing that I would grant him any favour he asks. She nodded.
Charles stood by his horse. He did not seem inclined to leave, although there was no longer any reason for him to stay. "Why do you never ride over to Uppercross anymore?" he asked absently.
"I did ride over, about a month ago, but you had gone away."
"I am sorry. I should have told you about my journey. I only returned yesterday."
"You owe me no explanations, Charles." There was a slight edge to Anne's voice.
"No. But we are friends, are we not? I would like us to remain so." His eyes were upon her, earnest and anxious.
"Yes," she said, catching the sob in her chest before it could escape her lips. "We are friends."
He did not seem to notice her discomposure. "You are welcome at Uppercross any time. You know that."
Anne nodded again, afraid to speak lest the tears just behind her eyes overflow. Charles finally mounted his horse and rode away.
Only when he was gone from her sight did she allow herself to cry.
Anne managed to get back into the house and upstairs to her bedchamber without being accosted by servants or family members. She tossed her hat into a corner and flung herself on the bed face-down.
When did this begin? Memories crowded over one another: Charles riding beside her, a smile lighting his face as she tried to race him; making her laugh with his self-deprecating humour; his wonderful deep voice bringing a story to life; the thousand kindnesses he had shown her, great and small, from making his sister's playmate welcome at Uppercross to introducing her to wonderful books to transforming a frightened young girl into a confident horsewoman. Indeed, how could I avoid falling in love with him? He is kind, intelligent, amiable...he is not really handsome, but there is something about him... At last she knew why she had never been able to love another man: every one of them, from that ridiculous puppy Manfred Pearson to the proud and honourable John Huntingdon, had been held up to the standard created in her mind by Charles Musgrove, and every one had been found wanting.
She was back in his arms, and this time he did not walk away, but kissed her as she knew he wanted to, as she wanted him to do; a thrill went through her body when their lips touched, and her arms went around his neck, her hands plunging into his hair, pulling him closer as his arms tightened around her. She felt his lips move down her throat, heard a voice whisper, "Oh, Annie, my love," but it was not Charles' voice, and when she opened her eyes she saw that it was John. "No," she moaned, trying to get away from him, but his arms were around her like iron, holding her tighter as she struggled...
Anne woke with a small, strangled cry, gasping, her heart pounding, the sheets wound about her thrashing legs, still caught in the dream. From whence came such a dream? John loves me. He would never hurt me. He is a good man, an honourable man. Marriage to such a man could not be a bad thing. Admit it, Annie girl, you are flattered by his attentions.
She rolled over onto her stomach, wrapping her arms around the pillow. And what of my duty to my family? I could spend the rest of my life pining after Charles Musgrove. Should I expect my father or my brother to always support me? After several minutes of soul-searching, she could feel her body begin to relax once again. As sleep overtook her, she knew what her answer would be; the only answer that she could possibly give.
Anne was silent for a long moment. Charles released her, walked away, then turned back with a frown. "What is it, Anne? Did he hurt you, insult you in some way?"
"No, Charles." She sighed. Just tell him, you ninnyhammer! He is imagining the worst. "Captain Huntingdon made me an offer of marriage when I was eighteen."
"Marriage?" cried Charles. He stared at her in astonishment. "How did I not know about this?" he added, more to himself than to her.
"I am sorry," she whispered.
Charles sensed her discomfort and immediately went to her, putting his arms around her. "I did not mean to alarm you, love. I should have known that a pretty girl like you would have had lovers before me."
Anne relaxed in his embrace and rested her cheek against his chest. "Are you angry with me for not telling you?"
"Of course not. 'Twas no business of mine." He laughed shortly. "I have no right to be jealous. I should be counting my blessings that you did not marry him." He held her for a moment, then ventured the question that she had known was inevitable: "Why did you not marry him, Anne?"
Before she could answer, there was a knock on the door of the sitting-room, and the landlord announced Captain Huntingdon.
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