Persuasion: The Wild and Wanton Edition

by Micah Persell

  Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive him, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the most consoling, that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In two minutes after Charles’s preparation, the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room. It took all of Anne’s fortitude not to make some noise of dismay. Her Frederick — her sweet, slender, young Frederick — was gone. In his absence was a colossal man. As he stopped in the doorway to the drawing-room, his shoulders filled the space of the frame completely.

  He was speaking to Mary, and while his attention was otherwise occupied, Anne felt it safe to quickly peruse how greatly his physique had changed in eight years. Not only were his shoulders broader than they had been, but the sleeves of his jacket strained around the bulge of his arms. His chest was enormous, swelling far out past his chin in great plains of muscle. The bigger dimensions of his shoulders and chest only served to emphasize how narrowly his stomach and hips tapered. His waistcoat hugged his body tightly, and Anne felt her mouth go dry at the powerful body such a cut of cloth only served to accentuate. His thighs bulged within his breeches, and rippled as he moved slightly in his conversation with Anne’s sister. Suddenly, Henrietta and Louisa’s description yesterday of his great strength and stature made a good deal more sense in the light of the evidence before her eyes.

  He was much changed. And every fibre of Anne’s body appreciated each and every glorious adjustment. He seemed to brace himself, and then he began to turn toward her. Anne quickly pulled her vision up from her unforgiveable scrutiny of his form to look at an area just over his shoulder. Her eye half met Captain Wentworth’s, and the jolt to her system as those same blue-green eyes met hers was severe. Anne at once knew that, though his body had changed, he was still her Frederick. Anne corrected herself — not her Frederick at all. This was Captain Wentworth. His face remained passive. A bow, a curtsey passed; such trivial niceties that she could scarcely breathe without screaming. She stared at the wall as she tried to get a hold of her rioting emotions. She heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that was right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few minutes ended it. Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone, never speaking a word to Anne and leaving the image of his well-muscled back flaring in Anne’s memory. The Miss Musgroves were gone too, suddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the sportsmen: the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast as she could, which, as it turned out, was not at all. The food upon her plate grew cold.

  “It is over! it is over!” she repeated to herself again and again, in nervous gratitude. “The worst is over!”

  Mary talked, but she could not attend. She had seen him. They had met. They had been once more in the same room.

  Soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling less. Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not eight years do? Events of every description, changes, alienations, removals — all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past — how natural, how certain too! It included nearly a third part of her own life.

  Alas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings eight years may be little more than nothing.

  Now, how were his sentiments to be read? Was this like wishing to avoid her? And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which asked the question.

  On one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have prevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss Musgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had this spontaneous information from Mary: —

  “Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so attentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they went away, and he said, ‘You were so altered he should not have known you again.’”

  Anne’s stomach heaved as though she would lose what little breakfast she had been able to manage. She covered her mouth with one hand and turned her face aside so that her sister would not see the glimmer of tears that now stung Anne’s eyes. Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister’s in a common way, but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar wound.

  “Altered beyond his knowledge.” Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep mortification. Shame burned hotly, and Anne remembered her reflection from the mirror this morning with despair: the tired shadows that bruised the hallows of her eyes, the lack of luster to her skin and hair, her drab clothing. She had barely been pretty before; she shuddered to think what she must be now. Was she — ugly? Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for he was enhanced, not altered for the worse. She had already acknowledged it to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of her as he would. No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his personal advantages. Though his body had been different, she had seen the same Frederick Wentworth.

  “So altered that he should not have known her again!” These were words which could not but dwell with her. Yet she soon began to rejoice that she had heard them. They were of sobering tendency; they allayed agitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier. She, in her ugliness, was not worthy of such a handsome man, and the sooner she reconciled herself to that, the sooner the sting of his presence would lessen.

  Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried round to her. He had thought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt. The deep brown eyes that he had lost himself in many an afternoon in his youth were dull and lifeless. The hair that had shone in the sun, the hair that he had wrapt around his wrist so he could pull her head back and kiss her neck — that hair was pulled back severely, revealing every feature he had memorized and recalled over the years. Now those features were harsh and tired. And yet, the moment he had allowed himself to look at her, he had needed to stifle the flare of affection that surged through his body. His breeches had grown tight, of all things, to the point that he had had to shift restlessly while talking to Anne’s sister to hide the evidence of burgeoning arousal. It was merely a habit of his body to react that way toward Anne. Soon enough, after enough discipline in her presence, Frederick was certain that his body would no longer betray him so.

  Even though his body was confused, his mind was not. One thing was certain: He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill, deserted and disappointed him; Frederick shuddered to think of how long it took him to get over losing his virginity to a woman who had immediately abandoned him. He was half wounded, even still, and half appalled that such a thing actually mattered to him. He was more than aware that men gladly tossed away their virginity and cared little for how the lady regarded them afterwards. That Frederick’s soul had been mortally hurt by Anne’s careless handling of something that Frederick had valued so greatly was both debilitating and embarrassing, and one of his most closely guarded secrets. Her actions were unforgiveable and worse. She had shewn a feebleness of character in doing so horrible a thing, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure. She had given him up to oblige others. It had been the effect of over-persuasion. It had been weakness and timidity.

  He had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal; eight years had passed, and none could turn his head. He had not even been able to bring himself to be with another woman for something as simple and pressing as tending to the demanding needs associated with being a man. He had abstained for eight years, unable to shake the terrible feeling of rejection, and unwilling to face the possibility of a repeat of similar events. It had not been easy, and
the strain had only grown, not abated over the years. He often feared he had a perversion in how often he had to seek privacy to give himself some ease. He had carefully avoided all female company; their presence had only made his ache worse even though he had genuinely felt no desire for any of the women he had encountered specifically. He had, however, listened raptly to the other sailors’ ribald tales of bedroom escapades. He counted it as an important education, and he was fairly certain that he had a better-than-average idea of how to please a woman, except every time he imagined doing so, the only woman he could picture was Anne. But, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again. Her power with him was gone for ever, or so he told himself each time her face flitted through his mind.

  It was now his object to marry. He was more than tired of living the life of a monk, and he was certain he could ensure a different ending to his courtship this time by marrying the lady before the consummation. He was rich, and being turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow. He had a theory that perhaps he had not desired any women before because he had not put the effort into it. He would do so now. He had a heart for either of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne Elliot. This was his only secret exception, when he said to his sister, in answer to her suppositions: —

  “Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match. Anybody between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking. A little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost man. Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society among women to make him nice?”

  He said it, she knew, to be contradicted. His bright proud eye spoke the conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his thoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to meet with. “A strong mind, with sweetness of manner,” made the first and the last of the description.

  “That is the woman I want,” said he. “Something a little inferior I shall of course put up with, but it must not be much. If I am a fool, I shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than most men.”

  Chapter 8

  From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr. Musgrove’s, for the little boy’s state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings.

  Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his disposition lead him, to talk; and “That was in the year six;” “That happened before I went to sea in the year six,” occurred in the course of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There were a great many things that had happened in the year six. They had met. He had kissed her for the first time, and then many times thereafter. They had daily spent time together. He had made love to her. She had broken his heart. Each time he mentioned the year six, these things ran through Anne’s mind and a pang of real physical pain accompanied each memory. There must be the same immediate association of thought for him — she could not conceive it to be otherwise — though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain.

  They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs. Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. And in the year six, while they would have talked at one of the gatherings, the tension between them would have mounted.

  Frederick had had the most distracting habit of watching her lips intently as she spoke. It never failed to distract her fiercely. And then, of course, because his attention was so focused on her lips, she would wonder what his looked like as they moved around his words. She mused now that she could see why he had been so fascinated — she never appreciated a mouth’s function as much as she did while watching Frederick talk. His full bottom lip was particularly enticing. And, villain that he was, he knew it and would worry it between his teeth while she stared, rendering her a complete simpleton in their conversation. Lord knew how many times utter nonsense fell from her mouth as she watched him bite into his bottom lip. Desire would curl within her belly, and she remembered many times during these public gatherings when he would have to cross one leg over the other, ankle to knee, to hide his own mounting desire. And then she would have something new to stare at. It wouldn’t take long after that point; he could never stand to have her look at his arousal long without showing her exactly what her impertinence was doing to him. They would wait until everyone’s attention was directed elsewhere, and then they would sneak off together to — well, anywhere that was nearby. Anne recalled a pantry and servants’ quarters among the places they had slipped away to.

  Even now, Anne’s pulse fluttered at these long-cherished memories. Knowing they had minimal time before they were noticed as missing, these secret interludes were, of a necessity, short — and oh, so very sweet. In the pantry, he had sat upon a tower of bags of flour, hauling her into his lap while facing him, her knees on each side of his hips, and his arousal pressing deliciously just where she had needed it. They had ground together, him thrusting up against her, and her moving her hips under the direction of his almost-bruising hands. It had not taken long for either of them to finish, the excitement of possibly being discovered paired with the tinderbox and flame that they became whenever they touched, bringing them both to a quick — and rather loud, Anne remembered now with a smile — ending. The wonder of that moment had staid with her long after they had unwound themselves from each other and smoothed away the telltale indentions in the bags of flour to return to the party.

  Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.

  When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind. There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the party; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss Musgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, etcetera, and their surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation and arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant ridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be living on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use.

  From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs. Musgrove’s who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying —

  “Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare say he would have been just such another by this time.”

  Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs. Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the conversation of the others.

  When she could let her attention take its natural
course again, she found the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy list, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down together to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the ships that Captain Wentworth had commanded.

  “Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp.”

  “You will not find her there. Quite worn out and broken up. I was the last man who commanded her. Hardly fit for service then. Reported fit for home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West Indies.”

  The girls looked all amazement.

  “The Admiralty,” he continued, “entertain themselves now and then, with sending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed. But they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish the very set who may be least missed.”

  “Phoo! phoo!” cried the Admiral, “what stuff these young fellows talk! Never was a better sloop than the Asp in her day. For an old built sloop, you would not see her equal. Lucky fellow to get her! He knows there must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at the same time. Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more interest than his.”

  “I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;” replied Captain Wentworth, seriously. “I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object,” his eyes flicked to Anne momentarily and then back to the Admiral, “I wanted to be doing something.”

  Anne felt that slight glance as though it were a blow to her heart. She turned aside so as to not accidentally see him look accusingly at her anymore. She would not survive another such instance.