For Valentine's Day, 2009
Sir Walter Sends a Valentine
by Laura Louise Hile and Susan Kaye
It's Valentine's Day, and Captain Wentworth's courtship of Anne Elliot has come to a standstill.
His friend, Admiral McGillvary, decides to put pen to paper. And that was only his first mistake.
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind lashed rain against the panes of Admiral McGillvary’s library windows. He drained the last of the port from his glass and reached for the bottle. He eyed Captain Wentworth. “More?” he said.
Wentworth did not answer. A shuddering gust came down the chimney; the smoke set Wentworth to coughing.
“I take it that the answer is yes.” McGillvary filled Wentworth’s glass as well as his own. He studied his friend for a long moment. “Confound it, Frederick, this is pointless,” he said at last. “You’re mooning over that woman like a lovelorn albatross.”
Wentworth’s mouth compressed into a line. He continued to stare into the flames.
“Are you giving up hope so soon? That’s not like you.”
Frederick Wentworth found his voice. “A—Miss Anne,” he said, “is watched from every angle. She never ventures out alone. Her redoubtable godmother you have already seen. The woman loathes the very sight of me.”
“The man-of-war in petticoats, yes.” McGillvary cocked an eyebrow. “Or is that title more fit for the father? I swear he’s the better-looking of the two.”
Wentworth snorted, clearing his throat to cover the laugh. “Her high-and-mighty father scorned my suit eight years ago. And if he’s changed his mind, he shows no sign of it.” He reached for his glass.
“Twenty-thousand in prize money can guild a fool,” said McGillvary. “Which, present behavior aside, you most certainly are not.”
Wentworth drained his glass. “But I am,” he said. “I saw her the first time, in all these years, and wanted to prove to her she had done nothing to hurt me. I acted the part of a fool precisely.” He turned to McGillvary. “What sort of idiot is able to pay so little heed to his actions that he's thought to be courting another woman?” Wentworth looked away.
“Now,” said McGillvary, “you’ve had a change of heart. So tell the lady and be done with it.”
“It’s…hopeless.”
“I rather doubt that.” McGillvary stretched a booted foot. “You of all people are the master of finding your way around the impenetrable. No matter how well fortified, there is always a weak spot. Is the godmother such a Gorgon?”
“Yes, and the father's worse. Especially tomorrow night. Anne attends a concert. Her father will care nothing about her, until I appear. Then he will guard her like a hawk.”
McGillvary lifted his glass. “Unless,” he said.
Wentworth looked up.
“Unless he is diverted.”
Wentworth leaned forward. “You’ll come to the concert? Yes, that is a fine idea. I leave him to your tender mercies while I engage Anne.”
“Certainly not. I have no intention of giving that perfumed weevil-box countenance.” McGillvary sighed heavily. “Really, my dear. How useless you are ashore. Surely you have noticed the calendar. Or has your foolish sentimentality blinded you even to that?” He waited for an answer. “Confound it, Frederick! It’s the 13th of February!”
Wentworth looked away. “If you mean to twist the knife about tomorrow being Valentine’s Day…”
“No, you idiot. We use Valentine’s Day to distract the father! Look, everyone knows he’s gaga about his cousin, the Irish viscountess. He’s a widower; she’s a widow. What could be more to our purpose?”
Wentworth looked at him blankly.
“The devil take it, Frederick! What say you to giving him a nudge?”
“A nudge overboard? Happy thought, indeed.”
McGillvary got to his feet and went to the desk. “If it wasn’t for the fact that you saved my life, Wentworth …” he said, and pulled open a drawer.
“Wasn’t it the other way round?”
“No matter.” McGillvary came back to the fireside with the inkstand and a supply of paper. “Look here,” he said, pulling forward a small table. “You’re awash in hearts and flowers these days. You write to her. And I…” McGillvary paused to smile broadly. “I shall write to him.”
Wentworth frowned. “How’s that again?”
“You will write to the Viscountess Dalrymple. Fill the page with passionate thoughts.” McGillvary put the pen in Wentworth’s hand.
“About the Viscountess Dalrymple? Have you seen the woman?”
“Be quick about it man. We must hurry if we’re to deliver these tonight.”
“But—” said Wentworth.
McGillvary pulled forward a chair. “Everything you’ve longed to say to Anne, say to the Dalrymple woman. And sign Sir Walter Elliot’s name.”
“Oh, Paddy, you can’t be serious. It's bad enough—”
“Of course I am! And I shall write to Sir Walter and sign her name.” McGillvary paused to frown. “I wonder what her ladyship’s Christian name is?” He grimaced. “Too much trouble to look it up. I’ll sign myself Your Irish Rose and leave it at that. Hang on. He’s rather stuck on titles, isn’t he? So I’ll sign Your Noble Irish Rose. That’ll do the trick.”
“This a ridiculous stunt, and will never hold water.”
“Of course it won’t—in the long run. What do we care about that? The thing is, tomorrow night those two self-important bores will be so flummoxed about being in one another’s company that you’ll pass entirely unnoticed. Converse with your Anne to your heart’s content.”
“She isn’t my Anne,” said Wentworth. But he drew forward a sheet of paper and took up the pen. “How to begin,” he murmured. ”Ah.” Wentworth began to write.
My dear Miss Elliot. He scratched it out. Much too formal. My Dear Miss Anne. Scratch. Still not intimate enough. My dearest, loveliest Anne. Scratch. This is agony, he thought. “I am half agony, half hope,” he muttered, as he wrote.
McGillvary gave a shout of laughter. “Have I not always said you were the better writer? You’re rather good at this, my dear. One would think you’ve been writing love letters all your life.” McGillvary paused to nibble on the end of his pen. “You know, you ought to write to your Anne ...”
It was late when McGillvary and Wentworth finished. With a wink and a grin (along with several coins), the Admiral gave his letter to his livered footman for dispatch to Sir Walter's house. Sir Walter's missive to Lady Dalrymple he passed to Captain Wentworth. “You'll deliver this as soon as possible? Without fail?”
Wentworth shrugged into his greatcoat and stuffed the letter into the pocket. The opening of the main door was accompanied by a blast of wind. Wentworth caught his hat just in time.
“Remember,” said McGillvary. “In this scheme, timing is everything.”
Wentworth pushed his hat well down. “Right,” he said.
~~~
The following morning was sunny and bright—a thing most unusual for Bath at that time of year. Sir Walter came down to breakfast to find a sealed letter beside his plate. He squinted at it and turned it this way and that. The paper was certainly very fine. Was it an invitation? One by one he broke the seals and spread the sheet. His cry of astonishment brought the butler at a run.
“Who delivered this?” Sir Walter demanded. At all costs he must learn the identity of Your Noble Irish Rose. When he discovered that the letter had been delivered by a liveried servant, very late the night before, Sir Walter nearly burst the buttons on his waistcoat. He knew exactly who this was. Calling herself a rose was a bit of a stretch, but no matter.
He read the lines again and again, and with each pass, his smile grew wider. A June wedding would be just the thing. No, perhaps earlier would be better. That way they would be able to spend the Season in London. This would mean more expense, for none of the clothing he'd purchased for Bath would do. Courting such a worthy lady would set him back as well. But then Sir Walter recalled that paying for the wedding was the responsibility of the bride's family, and he felt better.
But what to do first? Sir Walter summoned the footman and ordered pen and paper brought to the table. He must write to her, of course. But first things must come first. Sir Walter selected a sheet and readied the pen. A dip into the inkpot, a moment for the pen to mend … and then across the top of the page he wrote: Guest List.
~~~
Lady Dalrymple sat on the sofa in the morning room, open-mouthed, reading and rereading the letter that her butler had delivered. Surely this was a jest! And yet …
“Mama?” said her daughter. “Is anything wrong?”
Wrong? Lady Dalrymple hastened to close her lips. What was she about, to be gaping like a fish! She folded the letter into a square. She ought to burn this. Any respectable woman would. But—she couldn’t. The words, they were so beautiful!
Lady Dalrymple discovered she was trembling. Try as she might, she could not ignore the contents of the letter. What fire! What passion! Who would have guessed that Sir Walter Elliot had the soul of a poet? She took a shuddering breath. Her heart had not beat so rapidly since—since when? Had she ever felt this way?
“Will you ring for Hodges, dear?” she managed to say. “And take yourself off. I have something of a confidential nature to say to him.”
“Confidential? But Mama—”
Lady Dalrymple wrinkled her nose. “Must I repeat myself, dearest?” she said.
But the session with Hodges proved most unsatisfactory, for he was unable to answer her questions. That the letter had come that morning he knew, but he had not been the one to answer the door. And so Lady Dalrymple summoned the housekeeper, the parlor maid, and the maid-of-all-work before she was able to ascertain anything about the letter.
“It was a sailor, ma'am, as brought it,” said Sarah, blushing furiously. “He was a tall gent, tall as trees. In a Navy uniform. With gold on it.”
Lady Dalrymple's brows went up. “Not a liveried servant?”
“Oh no, ma'am,” said Sarah. “He was an officer all right.”
Hodges made a shushing noise. Sarah turned to him. “I'm not funning. I know an officer when I see one, sir.”
“Sarah was raised in Plymouth, milady,” said Hodges.
Lady Dalrymple blinked. ”He wore a uniform you say? With...epaulets?”
“Yes, ma'am.” Sarah bobbed a curtsey. “He was a captain, right and tight. A master and commander, our Harry would say.”
“Her brother, milady,” amended Hodges.
Lady Dalrymple brought the letter from the bosom of her gown and unfolded it. “Hodges,” she said slowly, “send for Barnes. Have her bring the box with my correspondence.” There was something about the signature that was not quite right.
Impatiently Lady Dalrymple sorted through her letters. It was some time before she gave a crow of triumph. There was Sir Walter's letter...and signature. With shaking hands she put on her spectacles, went to the window, and placed the letters side by side. The signatures did not match—not at all.
Lady Dalrymple's heart resumed its wild tattoo. If Sir Walter hadn't written this letter, who had?
“Barnes,” she said, “I want you to bathe and dress Sarah. She is to accompany me this morning.”
“Sarah? But—milady!”
“Sarah's presence is indispensable to me today, Barnes.” Lady Dalrymple glanced at the clock. “I will be leaving for the Pump Room at eleven.”
“But milady,” said Barnes. “What will Sarah do at the Pump Room?”
“She will carry my basket, of course. See to it that she has one.”
And so it was that promptly at eleven, Lady Dalrymple and Sarah set out—without Miss Carteret. She told Sarah to lower the window and wrap herself in the lap robe. ”Study the people on the flagway, Sarah,” she commanded. “Tell me if you see the officer who brought the letter.”
Presently Sarah gave a cry. “That man,” she said, pointing. “He has the look of him. But it isn't him, because the uniform isn't right.”
Lady Dalrymple came as near to the open window as she dared. The man in question was tall and muscular. “But...he's so young, Sarah.”
“Oh yes, ma'am. He's not an old man.”
“Not an...” Lady Dalrymple's breathing became labored.
“Cook would say he's ...” Sarah paused. “Oh, ma'am, he's ... fine.”
Fine. It took Lady Dalrymple some time to digest this truth. She gave herself a mental shake. She told herself she was a sensible woman. She told herself that she was too old for romance. And yet, in spite of everything, she gave a shiver of excitement. Almost she sighed aloud.
The carriage came to a stop, and Sarah obediently put her head out of the window. This time Lady Dalrymple heard her give a sharp intake of breath. She caught at the girl's arm. “What is it? What have you seen?”
“Milady!” cried Sarah. “There he is! Just crossing the street!”
Lady Dalrymple crowded to the window. And so, there he was. Nature had given this man a glowing, manly, open look. Certainly he was the sort of man who knew his mind, and more importantly, knew his own heart. Lady Dalrymple sighed. He was, in fact, at the perfect age. This was one of nature's little jokes, and she felt it keenly. The years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given this man more vigor, in no respect lessening his personal advantages.
But who was he?
On to Part Two ...
Comic Short Stories Index
Susan Kaye
Laura Hile
Love Suffers Long and is Kind