Archive of Our Own

The first time he sees her again, they are at her sister’s cottage.

In the privacy of his own mind, he allows himself the liberty of being impolite. He admits to feeling grateful for the rule which dictates that, regardless of age, a married woman is senior to her unmarried sister. It allows him to limit his interaction with her to just a distant bow - he notes that her answering curtsey remains flawless - and to avoid asking about her in particular as he greets Mary and enquires as to her family’s health.

He is certain that Henrietta is unaware of the events that transpired eight years ago. Yet, her innocently-worded question causes him to stiffen.

In his haste to appear nonchalant, he veers into callousness. He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. However, there is nothing he can do to correct himself without drawing undue attention to the matter. He spares the subject of the conversation a quick glance. She is altered, true, but it would take far more than the natural passage of time for him to truthfully say that he should not have known her by sight alone. If he were honest with himself, he would concede that while the first flush of her youth is gone, her countenance remains as gentle and as pleasing as ever while her figure has curved into womanhood.

But the memory of her rejection flares up, his resentment burning any lingering regret he might have.

He wonders what she will think of his words when her sister, ever the gossip, relays them to her.

He refuses to feel sympathy for one who used him ill.

It is natural that their social circumstances - his aunt and uncle are tenants at her father’s home - throw them into the same social circle. Yet, although they dine together at least thrice a week, it is always in the company of the Musgroves and their extended family. Their differing dispositions allow him limit himself to the commonest civilities with her. Engaged as he is in lively conversation with the Musgroves and their daughters, he does not miss her. However, every now and then, the topic veers to one that he knows she has or would have interest in and he finds himself longing to hear her thoughts on the matter. Her reserved nature, however, and her low self-worth will not allow her to break in upon the conversation. He weighs the benefits of her discourse against the evils of drawing attention to their acquaintance by inviting her opinion and finds the former wanting.

At least, that is what his pride tells him.

It appears that they will be perpetually estranged.

He tells himself that this is how the cards fall.

He does not know whom he prefers - Louisa or Henrietta. Yet, he is certain that his interest lies with one of them. Thus, he wonders at the instant dislike he feels towards the good-looking, well-dressed young man who stands upon the steps some distance away, openly admiring Anne Elliot. In that moment, he notices the animation on her face and the flush of her cheeks. Their eyes meet and for a moment, he is still a regular sailor and they are at the gardens of Kellynch Hall. Louisa’s bell-like voice breaks the spell and he turns back to her, grateful to have a distraction.

An hour later, he learns that the man in question is Mr Elliot, Sir Walter’s nephew and heir to the Elliot fortune. Apparently, he is not on very good terms with his relatives. Still, amongst the Elliots, what is behavior compared to birth?

Quite the socially acceptable match, he thinks with derision.

Then Louisa falls, hitting her head because he failed to catch her when she jumped a stile, and he descends into survival-mode.

Once the surgeon ascertains that while Louisa’s condition is serious, it is not desperate, everyone sags in relief. Between himself and Charles Musgrove, they quickly decide all that needs to be done. With Henrietta and Anne in tow, he speeds back to the Great House, breaks the news to the Musgroves, apologizing and assuring in turn. He hurries back to Kellynch Hall, hoping to find some measure of peace in blessed unconsciousness, even as worst-case scenarios continue to torment his mind.

As Louisa recovers, his self-loathing begins to fade. That is, until Harville and his wife casually express their solicitude for him, her soon-to-be fiancé.

He attempts to justify himself. However, as they gently point out his intimate interactions with her and its implications, horror dawns on him as he realizes that should Louisa wish him as her husband, he is honor-bound to accept her. He thinks of Anne and the conflicting emotions she rouses in him. He does not know whether he can forgive her, let alone learn to love her again. Yet, he also knows that he does not - cannot - love Louisa.

In an instant, he sees the only thing he can do. He must, for as long as politely possible, quit their society and claim his brother’s hospitality near Plymouth, days from Lyme.

Four weeks later, he receives a letter from Harville. Benwick and Louisa are engaged. Never has a letter been more welcome.

The postscript, however, gives him pause.

Will you pursue someone else?

His answering postscript - I do not know.

By the time he returns to Kellynch Hall, he decides that while he will no longer consciously avoid Anne, neither will he purposely seek her out. He will not be precipitous.

Soon, she removes to Bath to join her family. It forces his hand. He decides to remove to Bath under the pretext of spending time with his sister and brother-in-law.

Before they leave, his sister corners him.

“She is a good woman, Frederick.”

He wonders what inspired that comment.

--

He spots her as he enters the Octagon Room and concludes that she too is attending the concert. He begins to bow, but her gentle “how do you do?” prompts him to approach and engage her in common civilities. Sir Walter and Elizabeth watch them. He is not so foolish as to imagine that they no longer remember their mutual history. He must admit, however, that Sir Walter’s nod is a slightly pleasant surprise. He answers with a distant bow of his own.

His conversation with Anne, while somewhat stilted, reminds him of their conversations years ago. She seems to welcome his company and he begins to convince himself that he can win her back. With the alteration in his and her father’s wealth, he cannot imagine her family objecting overmuch.

Except - during the concert’s interval, he sees Elliot sit by Anne. He watches her smile at him, converse with him. He feels sick and he identifies the feeling for what it is - jealousy. Jealousy that despite her possible preference towards him, Elliot might yet win the day. He cannot help but think of how such a match, on paper, would be nothing but ideal - with Anne as Elliot’s wife, the sisters will not lose access to the Elliot property and wealth after Sir Walter’s death. His carefully cultivated hopes, founded, he thought, upon reasonable grounds, now appear foolish and overly ambitious. He sees Lady Russell smiling at the pair and turns away, preparing to leave. He might be unable to influence the situation, but he refuses to watch it play out before him.

A few days later, they converse again. Despite their relative privacy at one end of the room, her manner is relaxed. He is pleased. Then he wonders whether her ease comes from an anticipated engagement with Elliot (should an engagement have occurred, he is certain that he would have heard about it). He finds it hard to keep still.

He is supposed to write a letter. Except - Sophia and Mrs Musgrove persist in speaking at a level that is simultaneously difficult to hear yet impossible to ignore. He finds himself increasingly distracted from his letter-writing.

“...engagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such a time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can.”

His head jerks up involuntarily at his sister’s words and he freezes. He knows that embarrassment is written in his features, yet he cannot stop himself from turning towards Anne. Their eyes meet. He swings back to his letter and pretends to write but he cannot - think.

He hears Harville engaging Anne in conversation and strains to hear it - Anne’s voice is soft at the best of times and now, saturated with emotion, her voice drops to almost-unintelligible levels. But as he hears her gently insist that women do not forget their attachments as quickly as men do, wave upon wave of emotion crests over him. He grabs another piece of paper and begins scribbling. The words tumble out.

Having laid bare the the turmoil of the past few months, he feels as though he has completed a purge. He turns back to his initial letter and focuses.

He completes the letter. He leaves the house with Harville. He attempts to compose himself.

That letter - that barely legible one - he thrust it under the papers on the desk, but as he walks away from the Great House, he cannot - he cannot leave it there. He apologizes to Harville - he left something behind, would Harville wait for just a minute? He rushes back in, makes the same excuse to the living room’s occupants and rifles through the papers. Without a word, he places the letter before Anne. He leaves. If Harville notices his agitation, he makes no comment.

He carries out his errand but overwrought by anticipation, he can scarcely form an intelligible thought.

She is ahead of him, on Charles Musgrove’s arm. He catches up to them. She meets his eyes. He does not speak, but matches his steps to hers.

Presently, Charles, blessed Charles with his love for shooting, asks him to accompany Anne back to Camden Place.

“There is a “capital gun” at the market says Charles, “and now that you are here, I should hate to lose the opportunity.”

Outwardly, he is a paragon of calm and courtesy as he accepts Charles’ request. Internally...

Anne takes his arm but refuses to meet his eyes. He suggests they turn towards a nearby gravel path. She assents.

Once they have walked for a few minutes, he broaches the silence.

“You read my letter.”

She stares straight ahead, her cheeks reddening. "Yes.”

Several minutes pass before either of them speak again. When they do, the conversation is punctuated by stops and starts. After a while, he wryly decides that in the near future, it is unlikely that they will have another opportunity to interact under such privacy. She has read the letter and continues to allow his company - given their history, what he says next should not come as a shock.

“Anne,” he says, recalling a similar walk in Kellynch’s grounds, “will you marry me?”

“Yes.” She replies swiftly, although it is some time before she raises her eyes to meet his.

The main question now resolved, their conversation begins to flow and they walk until Anne begins to flag.

Predictably, his second application to Sir Walter is met with far less resistance. In fact, Sir Walter goes so far as to pick up a well-worn copy of Baronetage and contemplate aloud that perhaps, the name of Wentworth might be added to the Elliot entry.

His own parents having long passed on, it is Edward, Sophia and the Admiral whom he first informs about his engagement. Edward writes him a long, teasing letter, which Anne eventually coaxes him to share with her. The Admiral, jocund and hearty, assures him he “chose a good port to anchor in.” Sophia takes his hand between her own and smiles.

“It is what I hoped for, brother,” she says, and he wonders how long she has known. Eight years ago, she was sailing the West Indies with her husband. In all his letters to her, he never mentioned Anne, having decided to postpone the announcement until a wedding-day had been set.

She smiles.

“Your eyes. They look for her.”

“That was a recent development,” he counters.

“They used to avoid her,” she returns, astute as ever.

Anne stands opposite him, resplendent in her wedding finery. She is flushed, unused to being the center of attention, but her clear voice is steady as she recites her vows, echoing his own.

The minister pronounces them as man and wife. He interlaces her fingers with his own.

The first time he sees Anne Wentworth, she is smiling at him, her face alight with joy.