Posted on Sunday, 2 January 2000

rederick Wentworth had been in a state of eager anticipation all morning, but now, when the possibility of seeing Anne was increasing moment by moment, he found himself nervous and fretful. He had heard her talked of by Mrs. Musgrove as expected any minute and should have been here already, but for the weather. For a man who was determined that his fate should be decided before the sun set, this was not what he wished to hear. It was obvious to him that his patience would be tried greatly this day--as the last thing that an active young man who has resolved upon a daring course of action could wish for, is to be forced to sit and wait. Patience, after all, is not a trait one usually associates with a young and successful captain in His Majesty's Royal Navy.

It had been many weeks since Frederick had begun to think of Anne in a different and far more dear capacity than he had previously allowed himself. Louisa could not be immediately forgotten, for he was concerned that his imprudent behaviour had raised too-high expectations in that quarter than he would wish to entertain. With that particular evil done away with by the unexpected turn of the lady's affections from one captain to another, Frederick had begun not only to feel a renewed attachment to the younger Miss Elliot, but to think and to plan to bring that attachment forward as a real and mutual understanding.

Since Lyme, Frederick had wished to make things right with Anne, but many things had interfered, his own anger and pride most of all. He keenly felt the weight of his mistakes, which made him a mute observer as Anne had been courted by her cousin, and talked of by the gossiping multitude of Bath as all but engaged to that man. While Harville was having difficulty in accepting the fact that Benwick was now attached to Louisa, this was nothing in comparison to the pain that Frederick felt in thinking that Anne could ever be attached to Mr. Elliot. Frederick understood how such a match must be viewed as perfectly suitable by all in her circle. Certainly Lady Russell could have no objections to the future baronet; all the prestige and position associated with his rank would belong to Anne for the rest of her life with such a marriage. Frederick's solace was in the knowledge that, though Anne might find the idea of following her mother to the positions of Lady Elliot and the mistress of Kellynch Hall pleasing, she would not let that overwhelm her into a hasty or imprudent marriage. Frederick had little reason to dislike Mr. Elliot, apart from Elliot's position as a rival to himself. Frederick thought the man simpered a bit too much, was a bit too handsome, and was a bit too eager to be thought well of by everybody, particularly those at Camden-place.

Of course, the last person Wentworth wanted to be thinking of while he sat in expectation of Miss Elliot's arrival was Mr. Elliot. This was not a happy subject on which to repine, certainly not when his manner and agitation might be noticed by those around him in the close quarters of the inn's sitting room. Frederick wished his mind to be calm, easy, and diverted, and so, while his own thoughts were in chaos, he put his outward efforts into attempting, though failing, to cheer up his friend Harville, whose spirits had been much oppressed by Benwick's engagement. At one time Harville had hoped to see Benwick united with his sister Fanny, and thus attached to him forever. Now, to see Benwick violently in love with a woman, who Harville could only think was greatly inferior to his beloved sister, was painful to him, and he found great difficulty in attempting to give his heart-felt good wishes to the couple. Whatever Frederick might say, whatever encouragement he might give, and whatever progress he might make, was always answered with a sigh of "Poor Fanny. Oh! poor Fanny" from Harville. Still, Wentworth would try to cheer his friend and continued to harbor some hope of success.

A commotion in the hallway alerted all in the room to a new visitor. Harville glanced up briefly and bowed his welcome as Miss Anne Elliot entered the room. Mrs. Musgrove and Mrs. Croft welcomed her, told her that Mary and Henrietta had gone out as soon as the rain had cleared, but that they gave strict instructions that Anne was not to leave before they returned from their shopping excursion. Anne responded cheerfully and settled herself in for the wait.

Frederick had shown little more attention than Harville when Anne had entered. His glance might have been longer and more intense, but he was too nervous and uncertain to do more. He wished to speak to her, yet could not find the courage to do so. He knew he had only a limited amount of time, for Anne could well be gone in a few moments, if her friends should return. He also had the inconvenience of having agreed to join Harville in calling on a mutual acquaintance sometime during the morning; though, Frederick would willingly give it up if he could exchange that visit for a chance to speak to Anne.

Regardless of his wish to have the company of a certain young lady, it was Captain Harville who soon engaged him in conversation again. Harville produced the miniature of Benwick and spoke of having it prepared for Louisa. Frederick had earlier volunteered to take the burden of it from his friend, and Harville wished to get the business done. A letter needed to be written to Benwick with information on the setting and price described by the frame-makers, and soon Frederick was settled with pen and paper and writing to his friend.

Only a few steps from where Frederick sat, Mrs. Musgrove and Frederick's own sister were comparing fabric samples, pattern books, lace and ribbons. The Musgrove women were all aflutter over the preparations for the double wedding of Henrietta and Louisa. It was not lost on Frederick that there were those in Bath who believed that the preparations for another wedding in that general circle of families would soon be under way. Anne and Elliot were already fixed in the minds of many as a fait accompli. Frederick wondered if Anne would enjoy preparing for her wedding to Mr. Elliot, if she would prefer her cousin to himself, and if all of Bath was wrong in supposing it so.

Again, the last person Frederick wished to think about was Mr. Elliot. That Elliot had again infiltrated his thoughts increased the frustrations Frederick was feeling. Though anger had kept him from Anne for years, it could now come to his assistance. He was growing impassioned by the thought of Anne married to Mr. Elliot. As he drew his pen over the paper he made a resolution. He could not allow it to happen, or at least he could not allow it without first learning once and for all if--as he had begun to believe--he had still some chance to renew in her those precious feelings he had once inspired.

He put aside his anxiousness over his relationship with Anne, and was soon completing the work Harville had given him. Work which, Frederick thought, would have better come from Benwick directly, or come through Charles Musgrove. Wentworth had been dissatisfied with his friend's conduct of late. Though Benwick's engagement to Louisa had been a gift to Frederick--setting him free to his pursuit of Anne--Wentworth wondered at the connection of such a man to such a girl. He was left to hope that the recovered Louisa was more sensible than she had been previously. On the other hand, Frederick wished that Benwick could be merely as sensible as he had been. Particularly, Wentworth wished his friend were more sensible of the feelings of Harville at such a time. To ask Harville to make over Fanny's gift on behalf of Louisa was a show of a lack of consideration that Frederick had never before suspected.

As Frederick sat at the table writing, he was well aware that a turn of his head would allow him to watch Anne as she rested quietly, apart from the others in the room. He glanced once, but would not do so again, for fear of being caught out. That glance was an intense reminder that in Anne Elliot were all of the feminine ideals raised to perfection. She was not dressed in the finery of her sister Elizabeth, but in a modest, pale-blue dress which well-complimented her coloring. The cool, spring air, combined with the walk from Camden-place, had brought a glow to her complexion and seemed by its very vitality to give the promise of warmer days to come. Her calm demeanor and patient spirit were confirmed by her quiet wait for her friends. The first blush of youth might have departed Anne many years earlier, but in its place was a countenance which mirrored the more-mature and wiser woman she had become. Though, at the time of his return to her circle of acquaintance, Frederick had thought--or perhaps had wished to think--her a woman who had lost her bloom and who had fallen greatly from what she had been, she now showed herself to him as a better woman than she been when they were first introduced in the year '06.

Frederick deeply wished to discover the state of her feelings towards her cousin and himself. It was a question which had preyed upon him for every hour of the previous ten days--ever since that rainy morning in Milsom-street, when he had encountered her at Molland's and seen her go away with Mr. Elliot in attendance. Delay in ascertaining her true feelings could only drive him further into the exquisite madness he knew he was just beginning to experience. The past had also proven one thing to him above all else: delay was never a man's friend. Not only had his naval life taught him this hard lesson, but his earlier engagement to Anne had done the same, and if those lessons had not been enough for him, then his reluctance and delay when coming back to her at last, and the suffering that he believed he had caused her--and he knew he had caused himself--might yet prove a devastating piece of instruction for the Captain.

As he sat writing his letter, he was not oblivious to all that went on around him. In his current state, certain words or phrases must catch his notice--words such as proposed and engagement or a phrase such as marry at once, and make the best of it. His sister's voice he had long been attuned to, and could often hear her words above all others in a crowded room. Here in the near-silence of the Musgroves' apartment, he could not help but catch her say, "I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement."

Very good! What good sense you have, Sophie, Frederick reflexively thought to himself. Yes, it is better to settle at once and bear with the uncertainties, than to leave yourself prey to the vagaries and evils of time and influence. But for Frederick, his sister's subsequent words reminded him of a more recently-developed line of thought than the one which he had harbored for over eight years.

"...Or an uncertain engagement, and 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," said Mrs. Croft.

Frederick stopped his writing after hearing these words. While Sophie had seemed to entirely echo his old feelings a moment before, she now seemed to diverge into a different territory. Uncertainty--not knowing when a marriage could take place--unsafe and unwise, his mind considered the thought again. These are the very things that Anne must have felt, and must be much like the advice she had received all those years ago. In the time since Benwick's good-fortune had released Frederick from any apparent promise to Louisa, and, in fact, since the day at Lyme when his eyes had been opened to the relative worth of the two ladies, Frederick had begun to see things as they had transpired over eight-and-a-half years ago more clearly and more as Anne must have done, than he had ever attempted to do before. Since that bleak, November day on the Cobb, he had developed a greater understanding of those things which had led Anne, in her good sense, to question, to doubt, and eventually to break their engagement.

"...What I think all parents should prevent as far as they can," his sister concluded.

Frederick wondered, If Sophie had been here then, and not in the Indies, would she have advised me against it? Would she have dissuaded me from offering myself, as Anne had been dissuaded from accepting? And would I have been influenced? He found himself less able to answer that question than he had expected. Surely I would have had the faith in myself and in Anne to proceed? or would I have realised the harm in tying her to a man with little to offer and no certain promise of success? a man who would leave her for a dangerous life on the sea and at war? Would I have asked her to maintain an engagement, possibly for years, while other men made her acquaintance--men who could offer her the chance at a comfortable and prosperous marriage? Frederick knew that he would not have wished to go to sea again without being able to call Anne his wife. But then, would I have wished to chance leaving her a widow with no fortune on which she could rely?

Frederick had in earlier times not given any weight to such doubts. He had always such a firm belief of his own abilities and his own luck, that he never entertained the thought that Anne might have been left behind him in such a difficult state as that of a poor widow; a widow left to fend for herself in circumstances much degraded from the state of wealth and society to which, as a young woman, she had been used and to which she had been entitled.

The fact that his luck had held, and that he had soon earned enough prize money to support a wife, he now discarded. His luck had held while he travelled down one path, but would it have held had he changed course and gone another way? As a single man, with little to lose but his own life--a thing which many navy men, in the face of the brutality, death and destruction to which they were daily witnesses, held cheaply--he had been able to risk much, and gain much. However, if he had been married, with the worries attendant on a young wife left far behind and left in an uncertain financial position, would he have been more careful, and by being such, would he have been less successful. Surely such an ephemeral object as a man's luck was not something for a young woman to rely on to keep her secure in her married life. His luck in such a circumstance, she might believe, could have failed him utterly. She could easily have become Mrs. Frederick Wentworth, poor widow, aged 20. He recollected the previous September and a story he told on the first night that he and Anne had dined together at Uppercross. He had spoken of the Asp, a ship which he had described as "not fit to be employed." He had spoken of being remembered only as "a gallant Captain Wentworth...lost in only a sloop." He remember the look he had seen then on Anne's face, and realised that she had been picturing herself grieving over the loss of her young husband.

Frederick shuddered at the thought, at his lack of foresight all those years ago, and the lack of sensitivity to Anne's just reservations. These thoughts led him to again look in Anne's direction. He found her looking at him as well. She had heard Sophie's words, and certainly caught the applicability to their situation. Though he believed Anne incapable of accusation or recriminations, he thought he saw in her countenance the questions, "Do you not now see how it might have been? Do you still not understand?" He did see and he did understand, and his shame forced him to turn away from her an instant later. He found himself growing more desperate to speak with her as the moments drifted by, for he knew that Mrs. Charles and Miss Henrietta would return soon and whisk Anne away to the shops, and if they did not, then it was quite possible that Harville would decide that it was time for them to be going to pay their call to their friend.

After Frederick completed the instructions for Benwick's picture, he glanced over at his morose friend, Captain Harville, who stood alone by the window. He noticed Harville catch Anne's eye and saw her accept the unspoken invitation to join him in conversation. She should be able to cheer him, Wentworth thought. She can make reasonable allowances for Benwick's behavior, and help Harville to see it as less of a betrayal of his dear Fanny.

Frederick suddenly realised that while he had been disappointed in Benwick's behavior to Harville, he had behaved far worse. Here I am, worrying over Benwick's lack of consideration for the brother of his late fiancée, while I showed such a great disregard for the worries of my own beloved Anne. Was I any better than Benwick? Certainly I must have been worse, Frederick chastised himself. While Benwick's affection for Harville was real and strong, it could in no way compare to the devotion of a young lover to the object of that love. Yet I was willfully ignorant of the sensible doubts that she held.

Wentworth had now nothing to do at the desk but prepare the envelope for the letter. He could easily put it aside and join Anne and Harville, but Frederick saw that the two of them were engaged in an intimate conversation, to which he would likely be unwelcome to join. He could not come to this conclusion without feeling some natural jealousy towards his friend. After all, Harville had found the opportunity to engage Anne in a private conversation, while Frederick had not yet had a chance to do the same. Part of him wished to join them simply to break up their tête-à-tête; however, what he wanted to say to Anne could not be said while Harville was near, or even said in such a small and intimate room such as that at the White Hart. To get her alone, to find a way to speak to her was now his paramount concern. To live another hour or another day with the uncertainty which had preyed upon him since he had come to Bath would be unbearable.

While no opportunity immediately presented itself, Frederick remained seated at the table, and remained sunk in his frustrations. Nearby Harville and Anne spoke together in hushed voices, but not quiet enough to prevent being heard by others, particularly the gentleman at the table nearby, and Frederick did indeed begin to hear snippets of their conversation. He first became aware that he was being talked of, but steadily kept from turning to see what it was about. Then--

The constancy of love!

That was what they were discussing! Anne was arguing that women were the more constant. Her words burned in Frederick's ears. Though she spoke well of men, he knew he had given her every appearance of inconstancy. He had run around chasing after Louisa--or perhaps more accurately, knowingly allowing himself to be chased by her--and did so while Anne was forced to watch in painful silence. They had once been so close as to know, without words, what the other was thinking or feeling. Was it now possible that Anne had not seen through him? He had behaved with anger and malice, willfully flaunting himself with a young woman before Anne's eyes, but surely she was wise enough and perceptive enough to have seen through his behavior. She must know that in his love for her he had been ever-constant. If she does not, then she must be made to know! thought Frederick.

He found Harville speaking to him.

"Have you finished your letter?" he asked.

"Not quite," Frederick lied. He needed time to collect himself and find a way to speak to Anne. "A few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes."

Harville said something about not being in a hurry and returned to his private conversation with Miss Elliot.

Captain Wentworth now surveyed his position in order to draw up his plan of attack. He was sitting with his letter completely finished, while Anne and his friend discussed the constancy of love. He could not interrupt them or join their discussion, which must itself be brought to a conclusion as soon as Mary and Henrietta returned. He must act, but could not take the bold action that he might like--if he could but stand up before the entire room and declare his love, all might be settled in a few minutes--one way or another. This tactic he could not use; he would not embarrass Anne or put her in such a difficult position as to force her to accept or reject him in front of her friends and his. He rolled the pen in his fingers as he contemplated what to do.

Idiot! he thought to himself. Complete idiot! Here I am with a pen in my hand, and still I wonder how I am to speak to her!

With that, Frederick took out a fresh piece of paper and began to pour out his soul. One ear he kept on Anne's conversation.

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.

"But how shall we prove anything," Frederick heard Harville say.

"We never shall," replied Anne. "We never can expect to prove anything upon such a point...We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence."

This Frederick heard in its entirety. Surely Anne must be basing her opinion on that very circumstance upon which she had the most-intimate knowledge. While the woman in that case had remained devoted, she believed, the man had given up hope and had moved on. But I never did move on, Anne. I never could. No woman could take your place in my heart, Frederick said to himself.

Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.

Harville was speaking, "...what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows whether we ever meet again!'"

You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine.

"Oh!" cried Anne, eagerly, "I hope to do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should under-value the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow creatures!"

I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others.

"I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman," said Anne in a hushed voice.

Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men.

"All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one: you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone!"

Frederick heard her voice nearly break with this last. Hope is not gone, Anne! I swear we shall be together at last, if you can forgive me for my anger and stupidity.

Harville broke the silence, "You are a good soul. There is no quarrelling with you."

Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

F.W.

Frederick heard his sister rise and begin to take her leave of Mrs. Musgrove. He quickly came to the conclusion that the sooner he could get Anne to read his letter, the sooner he would know her decision. He was thus determined to directly follow Sophie and to take his leave as well. He rushed to close.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.

He was done. Frederick had run out of time. His sister was speaking to him, and in fear that she would step towards him and see that he had not been writing to Benwick, he quickly folded up the letter. He could not reread what he had written in so much haste, with so much emotion. In a rush, he spoke to his sister about something--he scarcely knew what, and he was gratified to see Harville preparing to leave as well. He readied his seal, and wondered if he was about to make a fool of himself. Whether I do or not, the time has come for us to either renew our understanding, or to part forever. He pressed his scroll-work W into the red pool he had dripped on to the envelope, then placed the precious confession half-way under the papers on the table, collected up his things--carefully leaving his gloves behind--and joined Harville by the door to take his leave of Mrs. Musgrove. He did not, could not, look at Anne; he took no leave of her, but passed out of the room without any acknowledgment of her presence there.

Almost as the door was closing behind them, he spoke to his friend, "Harville, wait a moment. I must have left my gloves inside." He turned back to the room and said over his shoulder, "I shall return presently."

As he reëntered the sitting room, he mumbled something to Mrs. Musgrove about his gloves, but his eyes locked on Anne's. He noticed she had manœuvered herself closer to the table at which he had been writing. Well and good, he thought, this should make it easier for her to understand that the letter is for her alone. He walked straight to the table, and with his back turned to the room, he slipped the letter out from under the other papers. He scarcely took his eyes off Anne, nor did her eyes waver from him. She could not mistake my look, he thought, she must know it is for her. He saw the recognition and surprise on her face, then grabbed his gloves, and was out of the room a moment later.

He found Harville waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Wentworth knew, if he were to have a chance to speak to Anne alone, he would have to be rid of his friend, but he also did not wish to raise any suspicions. As they walked outside into the wet streets of Bath, Frederick began, "Harville, I was wondering if you would be good enough to do a favor for me."

"If I can, of course I will--but, Frederick, are you entirely well? You look positively flushed and have not been quite yourself today. Perhaps you should go home and rest until tonight. You would not wish to miss the Elliots' party."

"Perhaps I shall go home. In fact, I was wondering if you would mind visiting Clark on your own. I find I have a pressing matter to attend to this morning, which can not be put off. If you could tell him that I shall call upon him later in the week, I would be grateful."

"I will do so," agreed Harville.

They shook hands, and Wentworth said, "Until tonight, then, good-bye."

Frederick watched him go, then turned around to look up at the window of the Musgroves' rooms. She must have read it by now! he thought.

Frederick Wentworth had always been a gambling man. As a boy and a midshipman, he had frequently been able to win money from the older men in his berth when playing dice or cards. As a lieutenant he had excelled at whist--as well as less-gentlemanly games (men do get quite bored after months at sea). He had even earned himself the nick-name of The Terrible Wentworth. His shipmates would joke that when Wentworth came, their worth went. Throughout his career as a captain, his life and the lives of his crew were dependent upon his ability to gamble well against the French. During his thirty years, he had played for high stakes and low, but, as he stood on the steps outside the Musgroves' lodgings, he felt that he had never risked more than he did today. At stake, should he win, was nothing less than a life of domestic felicity with the woman whom he had loved for almost nine years, and should he lose, he would certainly face life with a broken heart. He had survived his first parting with Anne Elliot by letting his anger consume him and drive him to excellence in his career, but if he failed again, he knew he could not blame Anne or Lady Russell or Anne's family for his misfortune. Were he to fail today, he would know that it was his own thoughtless and, indeed, reckless behaviour that had ruined him.

Such dire thoughts consumed him as he stood alone on the damp pavement. He did not quite know what he should do next. Has she read it now? he asked himself. What does she think of me? He wanted to remain close by, on the chance that she would desire to make her wishes immediately known to him, but he did not wish to lurk about on the steps of the White Hart.

He soon spied a building on the other side of the street which was decorated with a colonnade; he walked to it and placed himself on the opposite side of a pillar. From his vantage point he could see all that went on in the street, but his eyes were focused on one place in particular. He had no idea how long he would have to wait. Does she have to consider it? Does she have to choose between myself and her cousin? Will she refuse! Every second he waited seemed interminable to him; time was moving as slowly as if it were a dismasted ship caught up in a dead calm.

As he watched the street, he tried to remember what he had written to her in his note, and to his astonishment, and no little amount of horror, he found he could hardly recall a word of it. This, he felt, did not bode well, for surely he must have been so distracted by her conversation with Harville as well as his own inner turmoil, that he could not have managed to write a single cogent sentence. He remember writing something confessing that he had been weak and resentful, but he could not remember telling her that he loved her still. He was left to hope that he had said what was necessary for her to understand him.

He knew that long ago she had understood him perfectly. Could they now regain the same rapport they had shared eight years ago? Thoughts of the past naturally led to the memory of his first proposal to Anne, and the joy they both felt in that delirious moment. Their love then was young and fresh and innocent, not tempered by the years of frustration, loneliness and anger which had followed. Both of them had glowed that day with the certain knowledge that they were in love, and that their love was fully returned. All of life's possibilities and hopes opened up for them that day, and no thought was given to the odd chance that they might be taken away again.

Frederick could not think of that day without remembering what had come later--the terrible interview with Anne, when she had spoken of her doubts and had withdrawn her acceptance. He remembered his blind anger--he knew now that he had been truly blind that day, as well as deaf, for in Anne's looks, as he remembered them eight years on, were all the signs of abiding affection, and in her voice, if not her words, was the hope that he would not leave her forever, but would return when he had sufficient means to marry and support her.

Such time they had lost! Had he but returned after he had proven himself as a captain, after he had captured enough ships as to make him rich, then the misery of the last half-decade might have been avoided. What had Anne suffered in those years? He had left her behind in a house where there was no love or affection shown to her, where she was always only an afterthought in all her father's and sister's plans--only seen as an inconvenient third at dinner. He had been witness to how completely she had grown accustomed to having her generosity and good-will used by all in her acquaintance, and also how she had no one to turn to herself, apart from Lady Russell, whom Frederick was incapable of regarding as a valuable friend to Anne. Such solitude she must have known, to be alone at Kellynch without a single person who could equal her in intelligence or wit or feeling.

With the pain that Frederick had caused, he wondered if he was the right man for Anne. Surely she deserved a husband who would be more considerate and less selfish than he had been. Never before had he doubted his ability to make her happy, but now, as a bell in a nearby church sounded out the hour, and as his own trepidation grew, such thoughts began to torment him. She had been in such a limited society all her life, that she had little experience with men. Had she simply fallen in love with the first interesting man who crossed her path? Two other men who entered her circle had both attempted to attach her. She had refused Charles Musgrove--which Frederick could understand; they were not of the same temperament, taste or feeling. But what of William Elliot? Would she find him interesting as well and, with the added charms of being her father's heir and someday inheriting Kellynch, would she be happier with him than she could be with a naval captain--who, should war break out again, would leave her for his other love--the sea. If she were to choose the captain, once she left her father's house and began to see more of the world and to meet other men, would she regret attaching herself to him? Wentworth, who always had a strong belief in his own abilities and his own value, for once in his life began to doubt himself.

Frederick glanced up and down the street. To him it seemed as though an hour or more had passed, when in actuality it had been less than ten minutes. Down at the corner he noticed three people turn and begin to walk up the street. In a moment he was able to recognise them as Charles, Mary and Henrietta Musgrove. Frederick made certain that he would not be see by them as they came closer. Now Anne will come out, he thought. Mary and Henrietta will take her away to the shops, and I will get my chance to see if she has made her decision.

As he watched his friends enter the inn, Frederick remembered his first meeting with Anne all those years ago; how their eyes had met, and how they each had lingered in the gaze of the other--from that day, she was his sweet Anne, and he was her dear Frederick. Such bliss those memories evoked in him that even in his present agitation, he was calmed and soothed by them.

As it happened, Frederick did not have much longer to wait. Only a few minutes after Charles Musgrove had entered the building, Wentworth saw him exiting again--followed directly by Anne Elliot. They were alone; Mary and Henrietta, for some reason, must have stayed behind.

Frederick wasted little time; though, a number of passing carriages made him wait several moments before he could cross the road. When he finally caught up to them, they had turned on to Union-street. He said nothing as he joined them and took his place at Anne's side, but his eyes sought out the truth of her feelings. At first he appeared hesitant as to whether he should stay or walk on without them, but in a moment he saw a shy smile and a blush come to her cheek. With the looks they exchanged, an understanding, long ago broken and discarded, was reformed.

Charles spoke to him, "Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? only to Gay-street? or farther up the town?"

In truth Frederick did not know where he was heading and scarcely did he know--or even care--where he was at that moment, except that he was with Anne and that wherever he went from this day forward, she would be with him. He gave Charles a very vague answer.

"Are you going as high as Belmont?" said Musgrove. "Are you going near Camden-place? Because if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door."

I shall not only offer her my arm, Musgrove, thought Wentworth, but my hand as well.

"She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help..."

This last caught Frederick's attention. He looked to Anne for confirmation that she was quite well, and was gratified to see her smile to reassure him.

Charles continued to speak about a smith of some kind, but Frederick was hardly listening. When Musgrove had done, Wentworth agreed to escort Anne. While Charles remained, Frederick spoke and acted with such discretion, with his private rapture so well hidden from public view, and Anne, in her natural modesty and gentleness, gave so little outward sign of the fact that her spirit was dancing, that Charles walked away without the slightest idea of what had just passed between the two lovers and what he had been witness to.

Frederick offered Anne his arm and together they began their slow walk up the street. No longer estranged, but reunited with a understanding more deeply felt than ever before; no longer young, but newly young-at-heart; no longer two souls, but one--united from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. Amen.