I could not bear to think of them at Uppercross, imagining us happy, and trusting me to bring their daughter safely home again.
‘A surgeon!’ said Anne.
Her common sense restored me to sanity.
‘True, true, a surgeon this instant,’ I said, and I was about to go and fetch one when Anne said that Benwick would know better where one was to be found.
Again, her cool, calm common sense prevailed. Benwick gave Louisa into Charles’s care and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity.
‘Anne, what is to be done next?’ cried Charles, and I realized that everyone was looking to her in their extremity.
‘Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn,’ said Anne.
Her words roused me once again and, eager to be doing something, I took Louisa up myself. Her eyes fluttered, and I felt a moment of wild, surging hope as they opened and I knew her to be alive! What joy! What rapture!
‘She lives!’ I cried.
There was a cry of relief from all around. But then her eyes closed, and she gave no more sign of consciousness.
We had not even left the Cobb when Harville met us, for he had been alerted by Benwick on his way for the surgeon, and had run out to meet us. He told us we must avail ourselves of his house, and before long we were all beneath his roof. Louisa, under Harriet’s direction, was conveyed upstairs, and we all breathed again.
The surgeon was with us almost before it had seemed possible, and to our great relief he declared that the case was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from.
‘Thank God!’ I said. ‘Thank God!’
My cry was echoed by her sisters and brother, and I saw Anne silently giving thanks. But my thanks were the most heartfelt of all. I had not killed her, I who had encouraged her recklessness and taught her not to listen to others. But I had injured her. It was burden enough. I sank down into a chair and slumped across the table, my head sunk on my arms, unable to forgive myself.
By and by I roused myself. I could not leave the arrangements to Anne—Anne, who had done so much, who had kept her head, and proved herself superior to all others in every way.
It was quickly arranged that Benwick would give up his room so that a member of our party could stay, giving Louisa the comfort of a familiar face in the house with her, and Harriet, an experienced nurse, took it upon herself to nurse her.
‘And Ellen, my nursery-maid, is as experienced as I am. Together we will look after her, day and night,’ she said.
I tried to thank her, but she would not take thanks, saying that she was glad to repay me for my kindness in breaking the news of Fanny’s death to Benwick. Then she returned to the upstairs room, where Anne was sitting with Louisa.
I was glad that Anne was with Louisa. It was always Anne people turned to in a time of crisis. It was Anne who had managed matters when her nephew had dislocated his collar-bone; it was Anne who had directed us when Louisa had taken a fall. Anne, always Anne who, without any fuss, showed the strength of her mind by her ability to know what was best, and to see it brought about in a quiet, calm manner. I had tried to forget her, but it had proved impossible, for she was superior to any other woman I had ever met.
‘This is a bad business,’ said Charles.
His face was white with worry.
‘My poor father and mother. How is the news to be broken to them?’ said Henrietta.
There was a silence, for no one could bear to think of it. But it must be done.
‘Musgrove, either you or I must go,’ I said.
Charles agreed, but he would not leave his sister in such a state.
‘Then I will do it,’ I said.
He thanked me heartily, and said I must take Henrietta with me, for she was overcome by the shock.
‘No, I will not leave Louisa,’ Henrietta said.
‘But think of Mama and Papa. They must have someone to comfort them when they hear the news,’ said Charles.
Her heart was touched, and she consented to go home. It was a relief to all of us, for at home she would be well taken care of, and we would not have to worry about her as well as her sister.
‘Then it is settled, Musgrove, that you stay, and that I take care of escorting your sister home,’ I said. ‘But as to the rest, your wife will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne.’
It was at that moment that Anne appeared. Anne, collected and calm. Anne, the sight of whom filled me with strength and courage.
‘You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her,’ I said gently, longing to take her hands in mine as I had done once before, marvelling how I could fold both of them in my own. Such small hands, and yet so capable.
She coloured deeply. I wanted to speak to her, to ascertain her feelings, and to tell her mine, but now was not the time, so I made her a bow and moved away.
She turned to Charles, saying that she was happy to remain.
Everything was settled, and I hastened to the inn to hire a chaise, so that we could travel more quickly. The horses were put to, and then I had nothing to do but wait for Henrietta to join me. At last she came, but, to my surprise, Anne was with her. The reason was soon made clear to me. Being jealous of Anne, Mary had demanded to be the one to stay and help with the nursing, and had said that Anne should return to Uppercross.
I was angry at the arrangement, but it could not be helped, and so I handed the ladies into the chaise. I looked at Anne, but she avoided my eyes, and then, I, too, climbed into the chaise, and we were away.
We spoke little on the journey, for our spirits were low, and I had plenty of time to think about how I should tell Louisa’s parents.
When we reached the neighbourhood of Uppercross, I said to Anne, ‘I think you had better remain in the carriage with Henrietta, while I go in and break the news to her parents. Do you think this a good plan?’
She did, and I was satisfied.
I left the chaise at the door and went into the house. I was welcomed warmly, though with some anxiety, for Mr and Mrs Musgrove had become worried owing to the lateness of the hour. I felt a moment of sick apprehension as I was reminded of the nightmare of breaking the news of Fanny’s death to Benwick, but this news was not so bad. This news had hope. I took courage from the thought, and I began to speak.
There was alarm. How could there not be? But though I did not seek to lessen the seriousness of the situation, I told them, many times, that the surgeon did not despair, and that he had seen worse injuries recovered from. Mr Musgrove, after the first shock, comforted his wife, and when she was sufficiently calm, I escorted Henrietta and Anne indoors.
As soon as they were as comfortable as possible, I returned to Lyme, so that I would be on hand in case I should be of any assistance.
And now here I am at the inn once more, in my own room, but unable to sleep. As I sit here, I can think of nothing but Anne: our meeting, our courtship, our separation, and our meeting again.
I have acknowledged at last, what I believe I have known all along, that I am still in love with her. I have never stopped loving her. In eight years I have never seen her equal because she has no equal.
As soon as Louisa is out of danger, I must tell Anne how I feel and ask her, once again, to be my wife.
Saturday 12 November
Louisa passed a good night, and, to my enormous relief, there had not been any turn for the worse. The surgeon called again and pronounced himself satisfied, saying that a speedy cure must not be looked for, but that everything was progressing well, and that if she was not moved or excited, he had hopes of a full recovery.