April 1807
Captain Frederick Wentworth stood on the deck of his ship, the Asp. It was another wretchedly hot day in the West Indies, the same as almost every day before, but he welcomed it. The physical hardship kept his mind too occupied to dwell on the sadness in his heart.
Today, he brought the Asp into Jamaica to transfer provisions and mail on and off the old sloop. He smiled as his men delighted in receiving letters from their wives and sweethearts, and hid his own bitterness in knowing that he would have no such joy.
A seaman came up to him and delivered a letter. It must be from Edward or Sophia, he thought. Captain Wentworth glanced at it, intending to put it away for later, but two puzzling things caught his eye. First, the handwriting on the direction was not familiar to him. Second, the paper was very wrinkled, as if it had been crumpled and then smoothed out again before being folded and sealed.
Feeling a natural sensation of curiosity, he opened the letter and was startled to recognise the handwriting inside. His heart beat quick, and a hundred feelings rushed on him. It was written by Anne. Some words were difficult to make out, the ink having become wet again after drying; he could pretend it was the result of rain or seawater from the long journey, but his heart did whisper that it was from her tears.
February 25, 1807
My dearest Frederick,
It has been almost half a year since our engagement ended, and not a day has passed that I do not regret my actions. At the time, I thought I was making the best decision for us both, but now I realise that I was mistaken.
I have recently returned from seven unhappy weeks at Bath with Lady Russell, and have come to understand that her motives in guiding me were twofold. While she was rightly concerned about the uncertainty of our future together, she was also unfairly biased against you. Amongst the larger society of Bath, I have seen that her value for rank and connexion is far greater than mine, and that she favours politeness and flattery over frankness and fearlessness. I now believe that even without the anxiety attending your profession, she would still have advised me against the engagement due to her prejudices.
I do not blame Lady Russell, but I do blame myself for having been guided by her. It was wrong of me to yield to her. I should not have been persuaded by her claims of certain immediate wretchedness and uncertain future good. I should have favoured an early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence. How you must resent my timidity and weakness! If I could but undo the past!
How will you ever learn of my real sentiments? After so forced a relinquishment, I am sure you have no desire of seeing me again, and it is impossible for me to write to you. Like the dozens of other letters I have written since last autumn, this too will end in a pile of ashes.
Even if you can never forgive me, my feelings for you remain unchanged. You will never be supplanted in my heart. My affection is yours forever.
The letter was left unfinished.
Captain Wentworth was struck, gratified, confused. He knew not how such a letter had come to him, but it was not important. He had been very angry, he had been resentful, but it was all forgotten. Here were Anne's true feelings! He immediately resolved that at the next opportunity, he would write to Anne and ask her to renew the engagement.
Back at Kellynch Hall, Anne sat in the library, unaware of what had transpired. She often wrote letters to Frederick, letters that she could not send as they were no longer engaged, but it comforted her to put her thoughts to pen and paper. She would pour out her feelings, then watch with a heavy heart as she burned the letters in her fireplace. But that one letter, in a moment choked by grief, had been crumpled and thrown into a corner, forgotten as her tears overwhelmed her.
As Anne read the daily newspaper, her eyes searching for the words "Wentworth," "Asp," and "West Indies," the housekeeper walked by. Mrs. Wood looked fondly at Anne, the gentlest and sweetest of the Miss Elliots, and the only one in the family (except for the late Lady Elliot) who had ever treated her with kindness. Mrs. Wood was grieved to see Anne's regrets cloud every enjoyment of youth, resulting in an early loss of bloom and spirits. I hope Miss Anne will forgive me for sending that letter, Mrs. Wood thought to herself. Of all the people I know, she deserves to be happy.