Chapter Text
The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse into motion again. Soon the gig had disappeared in the distance. Almost unnoticed by Wentworth he had fallen back with Louisa, his companion ceaselessly speaking of he knew not what. The Captain found himself distracted, the shock of the news he had received no more than an hour ago still lingering on his mind. Charles had asked for Anne’s hand in marriage? Wentworth watched the party ahead of them out of wary eyes. Mrs Charles, with increasing tiredness, was growing more short with her husband and sister and was currently lamenting their negligence. Anne, whose steps had grown heavy some time ago, made some effort at appeasing her, but she seemed to run low on resources to accomplish such a feat. How any man who had once hoped to marry Anne Elliot could choose her silly sister instead was quite beyond Wentworth’ grasp, but this consideration, he felt, was rather missing the point. Why had Anne refused Charles, a man of much greater pretensions than himself? He could not make it out.
Just as he thought it, he watched Anne stumble over a root, his hands without conscience shooting forward to assist her, though she was several feet ahead. Embarrassed he glanced at Louisa, who to his relief seemed oblivious to his reaction. Nevertheless a sense of guilt he had been valiantly ignoring for the better part of half a mile should linger. For a moment he had considered to clear the hedge and stop his brother from driving off in order to ask the Crofts to take Anne back to Uppercross. She was in no state to walk so far, thin and drawn as she was and with exhaustion having shown clearly on her features. Alas, he had not, and now the taste of regret bittered his tongue. Why he should feel such he could not be sure. Nobody could expect him to care for Miss Elliot’s well-being, least of all herself. Once he had offered her his hand, his protection, his life and she had thrown it away as if it was nothing. How could he now be expected to do anything for her at all? And yet, the faint sense of guilt lingered, even as Louisa did her hardest to amuse him with stories of her time away at school.
He forced himself to be a better conversation partner and listen to her tales, even as some of his mind still tried to solve the riddle of Anne Elliot and Charles Musgrove. Louisa was going on about the things she had done to fend of a rather insistent suitor of Henrietta’s, a red-headed boy of sixteen with not a penny to his name, and he laughed dutifully at the mildly amusing memories, when a muffled cry snapped Wentworth's attention to the group ahead. In horror he watched on as Anne fell, Charles’ outstretched hands coming too late to catch her. An audible crack sent a shiver down his spine. He was running before he knew what he was about, Louisa hot on his heels. Nevertheless the rest of the group was already surrounding the lady when they arrived. Wentworth had to physically move a hysterical Mrs Charles aside to get a look himself. Anne was sitting in the mud, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, dress and cloak drenched in dirt.
“It is nothing, Mary, I was just inattentive,” she protested her sister’s care, dispensed freely from a standing position. She hesitated a moment to take Charles’ offered hand to assist her to her feet as her own hands were covered in dirt, clearly having broken the fall, but at last she relented and allowed her brother to help her up. There, alas, ended the attempt at carrying on as if nothing had happened. A groan of pain was the first indication that things were much more dire than the lady made out and Captain Wentworth managed just in time to catch up her other hand before her ankle gave way. Despite the protection of his gloves electricity shot up his arm at the contact.
“My apologies for leaning on you,” Anne breathed through gritted teeth. “It is rather painful.”
“It is broken, I am certain,” Mrs Charles wailed. “It must be broken. Why did not you watch your step, Anne?”
“That is quite enough now, Mary,” Charles said rather sharply, as he and Wentworth attempted to convey the injured lady to a nearby fallen tree. His tone did nothing to dissuade his wife from complaining further.
“She might be right,” Louisa said. “We must fetch the apothecary at once.”
“We must convey her home to Uppercross first,” Henrietta chimed in. Mr Hayter agreed with both ladies. Wentworth stayed silent. The half of Anne he was supporting was not heavy by any stretch of the imagination, but her proximity still managed to take his breath away.
With a quiet grown Anne sank onto the damp seat and Wentworth knelt down to inspect the sore ankle. As he touched the leg she flinched under his hands. The reason was quite clear. The limb was swelling up fast and through the ripped stocking he could make out an angry bruise forming. Gently he tried to manipulate the joint, earning himself a hiss of agony.
“It might indeed be broken,” he said, looking up to see tears well in Anne’s eye, if caused by pain or this ridiculous situation, he could not be sure. Quickly he averted his own eyes. “She certainly cannot walk on that ankle.”
Henrietta and Hayter shared a look.
“We could go up ahead and fetch father’s coach,” she proposed.
“It is only a little more than half a mile,” Charles said. “We might just as well carry her.”
“Think of your back,” Mary protested. “Did not you complain it was aching just last week.”
Charles made a dismissive gesture.
“I had only twisted it aiming at that flock of geese. No, there’s nothing wrong with my back.”
“Perhaps…” Anne interjected quietly, “I could walk with a little help.”
Nobody seemed to hear her as Louisa spoke more loudly, holding that if the coach was not available Charles’ curricle might do very well. Wentworth shook his head at both ideas equally.
“I shall carry her,” he heard himself say. Why on earth he should say such a thing he could not make out. The last thing that could be desired by either surely must be Anne’s body pressed to his for a quarter of an hour or more as they stumbled down the path to Uppercross. Her eyes had widened in disbelief, but there was nothing for it now. He had proposed the plan, and as was his habit at sea, once he had forged a decision he expected it to be carried out to the letter.
“If the lady consents, of course,” he added with a quick look at Anne. What answer he hoped to receive he was not entirely certain, but to his surprise she did not hesitate.
“Of course, Sir. I thank you.”
She nodded as if to convince herself as well as him of his scheme. It was decided. Under the chattering of the girls still discussing the advantages and drawbacks of the plan, he stripped his coat from his shoulders and handed it along his hat to Charles, then gently lifted Anne from her seat. There was a hiss, if caused by pain or surprise was hard to tell and then she was in his arms. He drew breath for a moment, to calm and steady himself for the journey to come. Anne’s frame was lighter than he remembered, but the scent of her hair was just the same. He had to physically restrain himself from closing his eyes and inhaling it and all the memories it brought. Instead he shifted her a little more comfortably in his grip, then looked at her questioningly. She stared back with a sense of wonder, a streak of mud still smeared on her cheek.
“Alright?” he asked her under his breath. She merely nodded. “You might want to put an arm around my shoulder to steady yourself, or we might both tumble over.”
As if she had waited only for his invitation, her arm snuck around him, her glove brushing his neck. Wentworth winced at the sensation, but it had to be done all the same. Finally secure that they were in a good position to make it to Uppercross, the party set back out down the lane in a slow procession. After a couple of minutes the girls decided that it might be best for them to run up ahead after all, alert the Musgroves and fetch the apothecary from town. Hayter declared himself ready to escort them and so the party was halved. Mrs Charles, remaining behind with her husband, her sister and the Captain, had not ceased to lament the accident, though her endless stream of words had turned into a quiet background noise to Wentworth’ consciousness. Several minutes passed and he was entirely focused on the woman in his arms and on his feet carrying her safely down the lane. Anne had not said a word since he had picked her up, and though he could sense her still suffering great pain, she was also completely still, as if every movement might trip them both and cause him to drop her back into the mud. This stillness disconcerted him more than even her silence. How could it be that he held her, her warmth bleeding through layers of clothes, like nothing at all separated them, driving him quite mad, and yet she could be so motionless? Again he glanced at her face and found her eyes closed, beads of sweat forming on pale skin, which further worried him. He had seen his share of injured sailors over the years, and he did not like the look of this at all.
“We shall be there before long,” he promised, though the lane in front of him still appeared to stretch on into eternity. Instead of an answer she merely hummed under her breath. Despite her thin frame, she was growing heavy in his arms and he resisted the urge to pause and rest, fearing that he might not be able to go on if he did. This, his conscience pointed out rather clearly, was entirely his fault. Had he done his duty by any fellow creature and stopped the Admiral’s gig to give her relief, Anne Elliot would have been returned to Uppercross unharmed and the worst he would have to fend off right now would be the attentions of Louisa Musgrove. The thought startled him for a moment, causing him to lose his footing and stagger. It cost him considerable effort to keep his balance. Once he had managed to halt in thankfully still an upright position, he stopped, breathing hard. Only then he became conscious of Anne’s eyes having flown open and her other hand having come to brace itself against his chest, just over his heart. It was entirely too much to bear!
“Wentworth?! You alright?” Charles asked, rushing to their side.
With some effort the Captain nodded his head.
“Perfectly fine,” he lied, between gasps.
“I thought you would’ve dropped her for sure,” Mrs Charles chimed in. “And what a terrible injury she could’ve done herself. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
Wentworth shuddered at this. It would be quite unbearable if he should have caused Anne further harm.
“You scared me there for a moment,” Charles said. “Do you wish me to take over? I can carry her from here, I am sure, and give you some rest. The gate is not far.”
Wentworth shook his head.
“I shall finish what I started.”
He noted that with what appeared to be considerable reluctance Anne withdrew her hand and he felt the loss severely. Perhaps it was that moment when he first understood himself. There was not time, however, to consider what his emotions were. Anne was in pain and the gate was indeed showing in the distance. The sisters certainly would have already rung the alarm and if only he could convince his aching legs to go on a little further Anne would soon be by the fire with all the help and care she needed. He willed himself back into motion, the hand around her waist tightening a little to keep her steady and reassure her that he had not intention whatever of dropping her. After a long moment she appeared to understand the message and her body relaxed against his. Ten more minutes brought the party into Uppercross and as they were closer to the Great House, that was were they were headed. Mrs Musgrove, who had already heard the news, was rushing out the door as soon as they came into sight and immediately directed them into the parlour, where Wentworth with a last strain lifted Anne onto the sofa, just in time before his own knees threatened to buckle. Mr Musgrove, arriving from upstairs at the commotion, quickly led him to a chair and somebody pressed into his hand a glass of brown liquid. The room soon filled with family and servants and everybody crowded around the party to discuss what had happened and what was to be done now. The apothecary arrived not five minutes later and after a quick inspection of the injured ankle declared that it was indeed broken. After setting it he was hopeful it should heal just right if only Miss Elliot would rest and stay off it entirely.
The lady’s protest at this was quickly overwhelmed. She would remain at the Great House under the watchful eye of Mrs Musgrove and her things conveyed up from the cottage immediately. Wentworth’s offer of help was denied. The maid had already gone to settle things.
“You look quite a scare yourself, Wentworth,” Charles said, slapping him on the shoulder. Only then the Captain looked down on himself and realised that his clothes were crumpled, his waistcoat and shirtsleeves smeared with mud.
“I shall help Anne change,” Louisa proposed that moment. “Brother, would you mind giving her a hand upstairs?”
Before Wentworth could protest, Charles had already swept in, bad back or not, and removed Anne from the sofa and the room. Her eyes lingered on Wentworth for a moment as she was carried out the door. She was gone, and he felt leaden tiredness settle into his bones.
“Another drink, Wentworth?” Mr Musgrove asked, waving at one of his servants to fetch the decanter. The Captain could only nod. Despite the knowledge that he looked a fright, the ride home to Kellynch seemed an impossible endeavour right this minute. His glass was refilled as if by magic and the hastily swallowed brandy burned down his throat, pooling warmly in his stomach, only resulting in the tiredness evolving into total exhaustion.
“Perhaps you want to freshen up yourself, Captain?” Mrs Musgrove asked. “Yes, I believe that would be best. Maria, will you bring up some hot water to the blue room?”
Wentworth wished to protest being such a nuisance to his hostess, that he could well ride to Kellynch, the problem being that he was not entirely sure that he could. A half mile of carrying a woman as light as a feather appeared to have rather drained his resources, or perhaps it were the worry and other swirling emotions which had done him in, but he could hardly seem to lift his eyelids at present. Charles returned to the parlour moments later, having left his sisters upstairs and whispered first with his mother, then Williams, his father’s valet. Wentworth would find later what was being discussed, or rather the effects of it, but for the time being he was faced with the great challenge of leaving his comfortable chair and following a round, elderly maid upstairs to the blue room. His knees stiff he still somehow managed to navigate the stairs and enter the indicated bed chamber, where he found a steaming bowl ready for his use. He stripped and washed in silence, every streak of mud dissolving into the water further removing him from his moment of forced intimacy with Anne Elliot. Whatever emotions had been stirred up by the events of the day now swirled around him in a whirlpool of confusion and exhaustion. Once he had finished and was considering what to do about his creased and dirtied shirt, a knock sounded. Williams entered with an armful of freshly pressed clothes, which he laid out on the bed, asked briefly if there was anything else the Captain needed and was gone again. Where the clothes had come from Wentworth chose not to question, though he could guess well enough that their appearance was connected to Charles. He dressed slowly, drawing out the time until he was forced to again join the family. Solitude appeared his only hope to make some sense of the thicket of thoughts occupying his mind, but he felt it not in his power to escape the Musgroves’ hospitality at present. Sitting at the edge of the bed he contemplated the happenings of the day. It could come as a surprise to nobody but the Captain himself that all his thoughts turned around Anne. Anne and Charles. Anne and her broken ankle. Anne in his arms with her eyes closed, trusting in his ability to protect her. Wentworth sighed. He had hoped, believed even, to have left behind this short, agonising chapter of his life long ago and yet there was no doubt that he had been mistaken. The wound, rather than having healed over, had festered underneath the scar for eight long years. Now feelings so long repressed were breaking through the thinning layer of denial and propriety, flooding his mind and overwhelming his exhausted senses. With a soft groan he sank back onto the bed, passing a hand over his face. A woman he had ceased to love so long ago should not be able to discompose him such, which left only the conclusion that he had been deceiving himself. Perhaps he had not forgotten. Perhaps he never should. Wentworth closed his eyes to examine this distinct possibility. Before he had come to any conclusions, however, sleep had overpowered him.