by Meg Osborne
Will she run me out of home, even in her absence? he thought, wondering how it could be that this house, which had always been hers in his mind, did not wound him in the same way as his imagining her in Bath on the arm of another man.
Once dressed, he breakfasted quickly, alone, and was on his horse before the rest of the house had awakened. “I shall be back by evening,” he had promised the servants and bid them explain his absence to Admiral Croft and Sophia when they woke. He declined, when pressed, to share the name of his destination, claiming he had not yet decided where he would go. It was only a partial truth. Consciously, he fixed on Lyme but somehow found himself turning instead towards a nearby market town. Frederick had never been fond of shopping, nor had he a great deal of experience with it. The selection of gifts was a largely feminine concern and he, having spent the majority of his time amongst men, had little interest or idea about what best to send. The idea had occurred to him on his circuitous route towards the town. He would send a gift to Bath, an acknowledgement of Anne’s engagement and offer her the congratulations he did not feel. In claiming joy, he might learn to feel it, and in any case it would convey his contentment to her. He could not help but nurse some petty, private hope that receiving word from him might provoke a reaction in her. Regret, perhaps. Repentance for the way she had so cruelly thrown him aside years before. It would serve to remind her that, no matter how fickle her own heart, he did not forget so easily.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Frederick looked up as the proprietor of a small shop he lingered by stepped to the doorway and greeted him from within with a warm smile.
“I-”
“I see you are admiring the piano,” the storekeeper said, his eyes lighting up at the possibility of a sale. “It is a fine instrument.”
“Indeed,” Frederick said, turning away. What cruel providence had brought him to shop outside the very window display which would have been Anne’s own choice, had she been beside him? His thoughts betrayed him, circling back to the afternoons he had spent listening to her play piece after piece, bringing to life melodies that were scribbled in a code he could not begin to decipher. He had made careful note of the names of the pieces, repeating and replaying them to himself countless times on long nights at sea and relishing the bitter pain the melodies provoked.
“Alas, my purchase will be a little less extravagant,” he said, with a vague smile towards the man. “I wonder if I might peruse your sheet music?”
CAMDEN PLACE WAS QUIET when Anne returned from an enjoyable morning running errands and visiting with the one or two friends she had managed to make in Bath. Very few of her acquaintances had won Sir Walter’s seal of approval, but this did not deter Anne from pursuing friendships with young ladies she found to be interesting and good. It had, however, dictated the time of day she chose to call on them. If she was able to leave the house at breakfast, she might escape an interrogation from either her father or her sister about her planned whereabouts for the day. As such, she often found such inquisitions waiting for her upon her return.
“Oh, there you are, Anne,” Sir Walter remarked, looking up from his book, as she entered the parlour.
Elizabeth sniffed, glancing away from Anne as a way of showing her displeasure. Anne was used to such prickly greetings from her sister, although that did not entirely preserve her from the sting of such dismissal.
“How glad we are you are home at last!” Of the three, Mr Elliot seemed the only one to greet Anne with any real affection. She rewarded this with a smile, glad that Elizabeth's eyes were turned away so as not to witness it. Her sister was possessive over their cousin, which infuriated Anne. She had no desire to steal Elizabeth’s fiancé out from under her nose, but did that mean that she ought not to be friendly to him? “You might, at last, put all of us out of our misery!” he said, with a little laugh.
Anne frowned in consternation, inwardly bracing herself for some criticism that was sure to be levied at her from either Father or Sister.
“I do not suppose the mystery so very great!” Elizabeth sniffed. “You speak as if Anne might have found herself an admirer, and we all know that can hardly be true!” This comment, designed to wound, was accompanied by a derisive snort. Anne folded her hands into fists, digging her fingernails into her palms, to keep from responding. How she would dearly love to box her sister’s ears on occasion! Instead, she smiled, placidly.
“As ever, my sister is correct. I have no such admirer, and cannot begin to imagine what gave the impression I might.”
“Why, your parcel!” Mr Elliot said, rising to his feet and crossing the room in three long strides. He lifted a brown paper package from the sideboard, and returned, holding it out to Anne with an expectant smile. “Now you must open it, and share with us its contents, and its sender.” Anne raised a confused glance at him, certain that he was playing a trick on her. His face betrayed no ill intent, however, and she accepted the parcel, dropping her eyes to the address. Her breath caught. She recognised that writing. She had never thought it likely she would see it again, but she recognised it.
She untied the string that secured it with shaking hands, although she strove to steady them, lest her agitation draw the notice of her family. Slipping the brown paper aside, she examined the contents, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown as she lifted several music books up for closer examination.
“Well?” Sir Walter asked, his affection of disinterest vanishing.
“It is some music, that is all.” Anne stood, and as she did, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Anne bent to retrieve it, but Mr Elliot was too quick.
“Dear me, is it a love note?” he asked, his voice gently teasing.
“For Anne?” Elizabeth scoffed.
Anne stiffened, reaching out to take the note that Mr Elliot held out to her.
“A receipt,” she said, quickly. “And some suggestions for future purchases I might choose.”
How was it that she managed to sound so unflustered, so normal, when her entire inner world was shifting on its axis? “If you will excuse me, I will take these upstairs, and add them to my collection.”
“Do you not wish to play for us now?” Mr Elliot asked.
An irritated hiss escaped Elizabeth’s lips, and Anne seized upon it.
“I can see my sister is in no mood for music just at present,” she said, with an apologetic smile. “And in any case, I would not inflict a performance on you when I have not had chance to practice.” She reached for the door, and escaped into the corridor, before anyone could stop her.
ANNE DID NOT DARE TO examine the note, until she was safely in her own room, with the door closed firmly behind her. Dropping the sheet music onto her bed, she reached for the letter that had accompanied it, smoothing it out on the bedspread, and tracing Frederick Wentworth’s familiar hand, wide-eyed.
“Miss Elliot,” she read. “I have had the good fortune, upon my return from the sea, to lodge with my sister and her husband at Kellynch Hall. As such, we have been brought often into society with a family by the name of Musgrove, and it was around their dining table that I heard of your good fortune. You must allow that I was surprised to hear of your recent engagement, yet in understanding the gentleman to be of fortune and belonging to such an impeccable family as your own, I can see now why his suit proved so successful. I wish you every happiness in your marriage.
I enclose a selection of sheet music, for I recall, although I am sure you do not, how ably you played in times past. I remain, F.W.”
She had scarcely reached his signature before she returned to the beginning and read it over again a second time, and then a third. Frederick wrote this. Frederick thought her engaged? Heat pooled in her cheeks. How could he have been so mistaken? His note was brief, and succinct, betraying nothing of his feelings on the matter. It paled in comparison to the notes he had written her once, the notes she treasured and kept hidden. Did you ever really think he would write to you again? she asked herself.
They had broken with one another entirely, and she had had eight years to get used to the absence of Frederick Wentworth in her life. And yet I have not. No, she had never got used to there being no Frederick. She had written countless letters to him, letters that ended up unsent and in the fire, and offered her no closure. A part of her had wanted to linger in Kellynch and greet Admiral and Mrs Croft upon their arrival, in order that she might trace Frederick’s likeness in his sister’s features, or find some way of enquiring after him. Yet, when she was offered the opportunity to stay, she refused. I cannot meet her, she had thought at the time, certain that Sophia Croft would have heard nought but a bad report of her from Frederick. She will blame me for breaking his heart. It is just as I deserve! He would have married her, eight years ago, and they had been set to wed, until she broke their engagement with one fateful conversation. That had been the last time the pair had ever spoken. Why, then, did he now feel the need to contact her? She reread his letter, analysing every word, every sentence, but could deduce nothing of value. She fancied him angry, fancied this letter was not intended, as it declared, to wish her congratulations, but rather to remind her of all she had lost. As if I have ever needed reminding! She bitterly regretted her actions that day, and had he ever sought her since, she would have repented of them, and done everything in her power to repair the damage.
She threw the letter aside in frustration, turning her attention instead to the music. They were all pieces she knew well, although she had not played them for many years. Lifting each one in turn, she realised with a shock where she recognised them from. Here was the first piece of music they had ever danced to. And here, a piece that he had requested she play, for he had heard it and liked it. And this, another, had been a piece that she herself had been learning, and he had willingly sat beside her on the piano stool and listened as she played bar after bar at half speed, with chivalry ignoring every wrong note, and every hesitant cord. He had praised her for her skill, claiming utter ignorance about music, and she had retorted with her own ignorance of navigation, and they had laughed.
Hot tears pricked at the back of Anne’s eyes, as she relived every moment of their old attachment. This was his way of saying goodbye, surely? With these music books, he returned to her the memories he would hold onto no longer.
“Well,” she murmured, aloud, after a long time in reflection. “I must at least write and thank him.” And I must put him right about Mr Elliot. This gave her energy. She hunted out writing materials and fell to her task. The light was dimming as she finally laid her pen down. Her first attempts had been discarded, but at last she felt as if she had said all she needed to say. Not daring to reread the note back, certain that if she did, her courage would fail, she folded the letter and sealed it, addressing it to Kellynch. She had dispatched a servant to send it before she heard her sister’s irritable voice, summoning her to join them for refreshments. Drawing a shaky breath, and took one last glance around her bedroom.
“Well,” she murmured aloud, “I have done all I can. My fate is in his hands, now.”
IF FREDERICK THOUGHT the parcel he sent Anne would offer him some closure, he was sadly mistaken. In fact, no sooner had he dispatched the package, than it came to regret it. What was he hoping to prove? He had not needed to say or do anything, yet his pride had not permitted him to stay silent.
“Frederick!” Sophia called, as she heard his step outside the sitting room.
“What is it, sister?” Frederick pushed open the door to the room, and entered, dropping his voice to a whisper when he noticed the figure of Admiral Croft, dozing contentedly in a chair by the fire. “I see the Admiral is enjoying a restful afternoon,” he remarked, with a wry smile.
“I ought not to regret it,” Sophia said. “For we had a busy morning, and I am fairly certain he used much of his energy in ensuring our curricle did not go out from under us. We might as well let him sleep now.” Her eyes sparkled as she regarded her brother. “In any case, it affords us time to speak. How do you enjoy Somerset, Frederick?”
“It is much as I recall,” Frederick said, selecting an empty seat close to his sister, and crossing his long legs at the ankle. “A little changed, and the society is somewhat different.”
“Yes, of course!” Sophia said. “Without Edward here, it must all feel very different.”
“Yes,” Frederick said. “Without Edward...” He did not say any more, not wishing to admit his folly to his sister. Sophia knew of Anne’s existence, Frederick was certain. Whether his sister was aware of their previous connection, he did not know. He would not be the one to tell her.
“We saw Mr and Mrs Musgrove on our way out,” Sophia remarked, after a few moments of quiet. “Charles says he will be by later, for he wishes to pick your brain.” She shook her head in bafflement. “Something about guns...” she muttered. “No doubt you will be far the better person for him to speak to than I!”
“Why, Sophy!” Frederick remarked, with a grin. “You mean you did not offer your own invaluable opinion on the use of a rifle?”
Sophia stuck her tongue out at him, a reaction that belied her years, and Frederick laughed, cheered to see his older sister so at ease.
“Mary was eager to tell me all she could about the wedding, although it is not to happen for some time yet.” Frederick’s smile slipped from his face, but Sophy’s attention was fixed on her embroidery, so she did not notice the change in his mood. “It seems Miss Elliot and Mr Elliot were childhood sweethearts, for a time," Sophia remarked. “It is nice, do not you think? To have loved each other before, been separated, and then to reunite, reviving the feelings you once feared lost?”
Frederick said nothing. It took all of his energy to remain impassive, for internally his mind raced. Anne and Elliot had shared a connection in the past? Had he just been a source of entertainment for her, then? Had he been so thoroughly deceived?
“You knew the Elliots when you lived here, did you not?” Sophia asked, laying her embroidery down, at last, regarding her brother carefully.
“I was acquainted with them,” Frederick said, grinding the words out from between clenched teeth.
“I did not realise that Mary was the youngest,” she continued. “The youngest, and yet the first to marry. Elizabeth is next, then I suppose Anne will have to choose which of her sisters she prefers to live with.” There was something in Sophia’s tone of voice, an affectation of lightness that was too good to be true. Frederick frowned, her words slowly registering in his tumultuous mind.
“Elizabeth will marry next?” he asked, tightly. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes,” Sophia said. “Elizabeth Elliot and Mr Elliot. I wish them well, though I expect it will cost us our home here!” She paused. “By all accounts, it is Anne who is the warmer of the two sisters.” She lifted her embroidery once more, and focused her attention on it, working with a will, and speaking as if the thought had just occurred to her. “Perhaps, with the wedding, Anne will seek to return to Somerset. I am sure Mary will be eager for companionship, and I already know the younger Musgrove girls will welcome her with open arms.”
Frederick stood, then, unable to sit still a moment longer. He had been foolish, so foolish! He had heard “Miss Elliot” spoken of, and thought of the only Miss Elliot that was in his mind. He had never paused to determine which Miss Elliot Louisa referred to.
“I wonder if you will excuse me, Sophy,” he said, absently. He strode towards the door, unsure of his destination, but certain he must do something.
“Did you get your letter?” Sophia asked, as he reached the threshold of the room. He stopped, turned back, frowned.
“On the mantelpiece.” Sophia nodded in that direction. “It arrived this afternoon. From Bath.”
Frederick snatched up the note, and broke the seal, scanning its contents even as he thundered upstairs.
“Captain Wentworth,” it began. “Frederick. It may be dreadfully improper, but I hope you will allow me the indulgence of addressing you by n
ame, for the sake of our history,” Frederick reached his room, pushing the door open roughly, and closing it with rather more force than was necessary. He could not lift his eyes from the note, unable to read quick enough to satisfy his anxiety. “I fear there has been some great misunderstanding, although I thank you for your gift, and for your good wishes. I fear you have addressed the wrong sister, however, for it is Elizabeth, not I, who is to be married. I have never married, which I suppose is fate’s reward for my past behaviour. We parted so abruptly, so many years ago, that I suppose it is vanity to think that you would even remember me, or think of me at all, but you are never far from my thoughts...”
ANNE DID NOT KNOW WHICH of her three companions was more surprised when she declared her intention to return to Uppercross. She had made the announcement after dinner, when she could be sure that good food and conversation might have worked in her favour to soften her father’s mood. Still, Sir Walter was agog.
“Leave?” he spluttered. “Leave Bath? And go where, pray?”
“To Uppercross,” Anne repeated, patiently. “To stay with Mary.”
“Mary?” Elizabeth screeched. “And what does Mary have need of you for? I am the one who is to be married!” She darted a glance across the table towards Mr Elliot, as if to reassure herself that her ire was matched in him. Their cousin, for his part, merely smiled encouragingly at Anne, and she felt as if she had one ally, at least.
