Kellynch, October 20 1814
Captain Frederick Wentworth was under assault and unfortunately not the type he was accustomed to at sea. Cannon fire and French bayonets were nothing to the emotional assault of returning to Kellynch. He would far rather be rotting in a French brig than sitting in the lavish library of this illustrious estate. It was the cruelest trick of fate that the Crofts had somehow managed to lease this very house … her house. His initial inclination was to avoid Somerset, Kellynch, and any mention of the Elliots. But it had been nearly five years since he had seen his sister Sophy and nearly a decade since he and Admiral Croft were both ashore at the same time for any length of time. It would be impossible to make his excuses without telling them of his history with Anne. As it was, only seven people were aware of his failed betrothal and that was already far too many for his taste. It was a circumstance he would gladly forget himself if he could. And yet here he was, torturing himself in a room full of ghosts.
This was the very room in which Sir Walter Elliot had abused and berated him for the affront of falling in love with his daughter. Frederick had been so struck by the absurdity of the meeting that he had little notion at the time of the disaster brewing for him. Within the span of one brief rant, Sir Walter had reluctantly given his consent, declaimed Frederick's presumption at aspiring to marry a lady so far above him, belittled Anne's beauty and worth as the least desirable of his daughters, and withheld her rightful dowry if they went through with this 'ill-advised' marriage. Her dowry had mattered little to him as he was confident he would be successful enough to support his wife, and she would be far better off in his care than in her father's neglect. His Anne had bravely withstood her father's opinions and would have married him regardless had it not been for the malicious interference of Lady Russel.
He felt a sharp stab of pain in his heart as another vision came to mind of Anne sitting in this very window seat. She had obviously been crying and allowed him to hold her and comfort her for some minutes before she rallied enough to rip his heart out by breaking their engagement. She had parroted the structured arguments that Lady Russel had prepared regarding his lack of fortune, the insecure prospects of his career, and the hindrance she would be to his future success. Hindrance! Of course, he did not believe that Lady Russell had any more noble motives than Sir Walter, but she had calculated her arguments precisely to prey on Anne's weakest points and her campaign had been successful. His Anne had been persuaded against him.
He had never doubted that she loved him all those years ago, just not enough to fight for him. She had proven herself weak and irresolute and thrown aside all of their plans for the future. He turned sideways and leaned his head against the glass, as if turning away from the room would banish the memories that it evoked. Even as he struggled with the painful memories, he hardened his heart against Anne. She could be nothing to him now and he was sure he was nothing to her. The Elliot pride would not allow her to pine away for a lowly sailor for years. He sat there for several minutes attempting to regain control of his emotions before he opened his eyes. A small swatch of green stood out in his eye in the sliver of light that reached behind the mahogany book case abutting the window seat. With the nimble fingers of a practiced sailor, he fished out the small book. He opened it to the first page in idle curiosity and immediately dropped it as if he'd been burned. Surely the universe was laughing at his misery. He picked it up again, too curious to resist its pull.
Diary of Anne Elliot 1808 ~He ran his fingers over the scrawling text, he would recognize her handwriting anywhere. He had a few precious letters which she had written to him during their courtship. The rational portion of his brain had urged him to burn them after she had cast him off, but his heart would not allow it. They had traveled the world with him, hidden in the bottom of his trunk in his cabin. At first, even in his anger against her desertion, he had read them in his loneliest moments then cursed himself for such weakness. For years now they had remained untouched. He had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done but the sight of her handwriting was so bound to the endearments of her letters and evoked such tender feelings that he at once knew he could never be indifferent to her. As a gentleman, he knew that it was improper to read a lady's diary but he found he could not resist. He lifted the ribbon and opened the diary to the last entry.
August 15, 1809 Charles Musgrove has proposed. I ought to be happy, he is a kind, amiable man who is rather attached to me. Everyone seems to be in favor of the match. Father has given his consent and has even roused himself to congratulate me. Lady Russel is a touch worried that our interests are so different, but believes that we will complement each other nicely and have a happy, if not brilliant marriage. At two and twenty I know that a brilliant match is unlikely. I may never receive another offer. I would like to have my own home, my own family, my own children. And yet... How can I throw myself away on a marriage of convenience when I have known love, passion, and equality of mind? I know there is no hope for me and my dearest Frederick but he will always be my dearest, even if we are forever separated. Would it be fair to Charles? He insists that my love for him will grow in time, but he does not know that my heart already belongs to another. I suppose part of the problem is that I do like and respect Charles. I have known him since we were children and have been aware of his partiality for me for nearly as long. If it were some mere acquaintance who was only looking for a sensible wife and was not attached it would be different but where am I to find such a man? Single men are scarce in the neighborhood and gentlemen that my father would approve of are even scarcer. Elizabeth's idea of economy is to exclude me from the annual trip to London and I detest Bath. With no other options available to me, am I prepared to commit myself to a life of spinsterhood? To remain a burden on my father's strained resources? To allow Elizabeth to heap all privations on my shoulders while she bleeds the coffers? And what would become of me when father dies and Mr. Elliot inherits? With the current breach between father and Mr. Elliot over his unfortunate marriage, what could induce him or his wife to support me when they inherit? If only_The last trailed off with a small line as if she had been surprised while writing and the splotches on the facing page indicated that she had hastily closed the book before the ink dried. He foolishly flipped the page, hoping for further information, for resolution but there was nothing. His finger traced over the words "my dearest Frederick" which were slightly marred by tear stains. Her tears. For him. For their lost future. She loved him then, years after Frederick sailed away from her, but what of now? Was she married? Was she persuaded into an unwanted marriage as easily as she was persuaded out of a desired marriage? His heart squeezed at the thought. At that moment when all seemed lost he finally knew his own heart. He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; in truth he had never stopped loving her.
Such an account was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized him; but the ten minutes only which now passed before he was interrupted, with all the restraints of his situation, could do nothing towards tranquility.
"Well Frederick, here you are. We have had a delightful drive through the neighborhood. It's a shame the gig seats only two, you ought to take a horse and explore for yourself one of these days." Admiral Croft imparted as he bustled into the room. "By the by, we ran across one of our neighbors in the lane and are invited for dinner tomorrow evening at Uppercross. You remember Mr. Musgrove, he called on us when you first arrived."
Musgrove! Frederick remembered the man as a ruddy, pleasant, older gentleman. Anne couldn't be married to him, could she? He's old enough to be her father! "Yes, was that a Mr. Charles Musgrove?" Only years of command allowed Frederick to maintain a steady voice despite his agitation.
"Hm? No, no, Charles is his son. Pleasant young fellow, rather slow for any active profession, mad about hunting though. I dare say you will meet him and his wife at dinner."
"Wife?" The desperation was surely seeping into his voice at this stage.
"Aye, a rather fine young woman, she used to be one of the Miss Elliots. One of her sisters is visiting them, and there are two charming young Miss Musgroves though I never can recall which is which. I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort."
If the Admiral noted Frederick's lapse into silence, he did not remark upon it. One thought kept ricocheting across his brain: Oh God, she's married! He was too late. If eight years had been insufficient to purge his heart of Anne Elliot, he doubted he'd ever succeed and now he was doomed to a life without her. Could he bear to see her at dinner with her husband, surrounded by that lucky man's family? Would her children be there? The same arguments which had compelled him to visit Kellynch against his better judgment would of course compel him to visit Uppercross. It would be unaccountably rude to cry off with no reason and revealing his reasons to the Musgroves would only make things uncomfortable for Anne.