Disclaimer: Do I really need to say it?
A/N: Once again, thank you for all the reviews! This is my first Jane Austen fic, so I'm glad that many of you think I'm doing her justice.
Thankfully, the party soon ended after the heated spat between the old lovers. Anne embraced the entrapping isolation of her room, an old Tori Amos CD looped to continuously repeat the welcomed sounds of tainted love and Technicolor heartbreak.
She couldn't believe that she'd lost her temper with Wentworth, let alone smash the vanity mirror. Anne had cleaned up the mess and fortunately, Mary had bypassed any formal interrogation to its destruction. Anne was deeply grateful that her younger sister dared not indulge her obsession to gossip and heckle; it was one less headache she would have to endure.
Anne listened to the polite smash of the door, as the guests departed. Her emotions were still vibrating with the stings and blows of the argument, her head refusing to enjoy serenity. It seemed like ages until she drifted off into a fitful slumber. It was utmost detestable, as though she'd been half-awake. The following morning, Anne awoke with a stiff neck and extreme exhaustion. She took a long, boiling hot shower, as though the suffocating temperature of the water would scrape away her sorrow and hidden discomfitures.
However, this was a plan done in vain. Anne had lost the fire of her pent-up passion, feeling nothing but the heavy excrements of regret and guilt, pricking like thumb-tacks. After changing into a fairly casual outfit, Anne headed downstairs, in search of a decent breakfast. At the same time, she constructed a speech in her head, a plea really, to leave the Musgrove penthouse and return to her own home.
She'd only stayed about a day, but it was enough. Last night had been a sour confrontation with a ghost of the past, a haunting demon which Anne only wished to block out and conquer. Thus, she could not bear to remain in such a place of residence that promoted the growth of failure. As Anne sat down to a plentiful breakfast with her youngest sister, (Charles was working off a mean hangover), the chance to make a clean getaway was forsaken.
Living up to her self-imposed dictations of perfection, Mary was freshly showered and had changed into a cream colored, Prada pantsuit. Daintily cutting her eggs benedict, Mary smiled and ordered a request, which would only destroy Anne's plans of escape.
"I hate to beg but darling, little Matthew woke up with the most terrible cold. The poor little devil has a stuffing nose and he's hacking like a dog. I called the doctor and he said the best solution is a lot of rest. Can you imagine? I had to call the school and excuse him from classes! Anyway darling, it's quite an inconvenience, because my Charles has a charity gala to attend. Everyone in the business is going to be there. And as his wife, it's essential that I accompany him….So darling, I hate to impose this upon you, but really, could you be a doll and baby-sit the little hellion? Little Matthew, that is! I mean, I probably would stay home, but you know how the business is…."
Her sentence was never finished, as she gazed at Anne with relentless perseverance. It was as though she were discreetly warning her sister to vocalize a challenge, because this action would simply be shot down. Anne melted her scowl into a tight smile, nodding as she poured ketchup over her scrambled eggs.
"Fine."
It was the only words she could utter, before slamming a spoonful of food into her open mouth. Anne feared that if she elaborated on her acquiesce, then she would spew a few words of hostility.
Knowing Mary, she would take this to the deepest offense and broach an argument, thus presenting Anne with another source of frustration. Mary let out a sigh of content, fully aware that she had gained a victory. Precisely cutting through another piece of egg, she offered her sister a wicked grin.
"So, what did you think about last night? Louisa and Henrietta had their claws out, no doubt. Though I must say, time has certainly treated Wentworth with great dignity and respect. Tell me, he seemed rather fond of their affections. Who do you think he'll choose? Louisa or Henrietta…Personally…"
Mary continued to babble about the events of the previous night, but Anne focused all her attention upon her steaming breakfast, successfully blocking out the spirited jargon of her younger sibling.
The moment Charles Musgrove Jr. began to wail with determined vengeance, Anne instantly regretted her inability to refuse Mary. The house was still as death, with the exception of the small child's screams. Both Charles and Mary had flounced out of the penthouse, issuing the single command of an appropriate bedtime.
Dinner had been left to the fancy of the maid. Naturally, Anne was nearly forced to shove the food down the children's mouths, as they refused to eat their meals. Following a few hours of free time, Matthew and Charles were supposed to go to bed.
Lisa, the current maid in charge, had fortunately taken care of Charles. It was a little past eight and the boy was situated in his bedroom, engaged in a rather peaceful slumber. However, Matthew was putting up quite the fight.
Upon Lisa's sweet encouragement to lead him to his trundle bed, the little devil had sunk his teeth into her hand, like a vampire sensing open prey.
Lisa had howled with surprise and shaken the demon off, then gathered her coat and bag with humiliated scorn. Before Anne could offer an apology, she had slammed out of the house and signaled a taxi. Thus, Anne was left to the mercy of Matthew Musgrove.
Anne had quickly begun to suspect that Matthew's sudden illness had been an erroneous judgment, probably due to the influence of Mary's hypochondriac tendencies. Thus, her colorful exaggerations had probably swayed the doctor to rule such a diagnosis. Besides, who would really argue with the wife of Charles Musgrove?
So, Aunt and nephew were situated in the living room. The TV was turned to a program on Cartoon Network; Anne attempting to snatch the remote and guide the young child to his bedroom.
On the contrary, Matthew bounced up and down on the Persian cloth, decked out in his Spiderman pajamas, screeching with indignation, waving the remote in his gangly hand. Anne reached up, her petite frame still seeming to loom over Matthew, her hand groping for the control. Unfortunately, Matthew wailed louder and slapped her hand, squeezing his eyes with fury.
Anne was beginning to lose her cool, though she would never allow her emotions to break the surface. She knew if she let Matthew witness her unraveling patience, then he would have the upper hand. He would claim a victory and fly with the intoxication of accessing control.
"C'mon, Matt. Let's have the remote. You want to get better, don't you?" she demanded.
Matthew vigorously shook his head, continuing to bounce, as though he were weightless.
"No! I wanna watch my shows! You better let me watch them, or I'll tell Mother. And Mother won't like to hear about complaints!" he deviously blackmailed.
Anne sighed and shook her head. Matthew beamed, his mouth illustrating a gap-toothed smile. His golden head endorsed the lights, almost creating a dented, shadowy halo.
"Yes, but I'm sure your Mother wouldn't like to hear that you've disobeyed me. You need your rest, dear. You wouldn't want to stay in bed for another week! Then you wouldn't be able to watch any television."
Matthew crinkled his nose, paused for a moment and then proceeded to leap, wildly flailing his arms in the general vicinity. Anne did her very best to avoid a direct contact with his loose limbs.
She made another attempt to grab the remote, but Matthew had foreseen her action. He stuck out his tongue and erupted with high-pitched giggles, prancing to the other end of the couch. Anne sighed, resting her hands on her hips. It was no wonder Mary didn't want anything to do with her own children; they were brats!
Aunt Elliot strolled over to the opposite end of the couch, sternly standing in front of her mischievous nephew. Fixing him with a beady eye, she issued another command.
"Matthew Musgrove, if you don't hand over the remote this instant, I'm going to tell your Mother about the bowl of ice cream you ate before dinner."
Matthew's eyes widened with sudden horror, fully knowing the unpleasant repercussions of such a violation. Although Mary was rather lax in her parenting skills, she certainly would not turn the other cheek to this broken rule.
Mary, true to form, was a health nut. She rarely touched chocolate, hated even the smell of baked goods and couldn't tolerate sugar in her coffee, unless it was Sweet N Low. She would certainly erupt into hysterics, if she discovered that one morsel of Low Fat Cookies And Cream had been spooned into her son's greedy mouth.
"Oh, please Auntie Anne. Don't tell Mother. Please?"
Anne resisted the urge to grin, knowing she had gained control of the situation. Though Matthew had been behaving like a spoiled brat, he definitely would not want to face the wrath of an enraged Mary. He foresaw that his little game was about to end.
"Well…."
Anne trailed off and as Matthew envisioned his awaiting fate, the door bell rang. Anne sighed, wishing that Lisa hadn't run out of the penthouse.
"Stay here, while I answer the door."
As soon as the order had been vocalized into the air, Matthew squealed with delight and then jumped onto Anne's back. She let out a small cry of surprise, clinging onto Matthew's calves, praying that he wouldn't tumble backwards and knock his head against the hard wood.
It was clear that Matthew wouldn't budge, so with dread, Anne waltzed down the hall and to the heavily sealed door. Peering through the peep-hole, she visibly paled when she set her sights upon the guest. With ginger effort, she punched in the code to unlock the door and then turned the handle.
Frederick Wentworth's million-dollar smile instantly vanished the moment he locked eyes with Anne. He stood on the stoop, drowning in awkward hesitation, her eyes failing to leave her face. Anne didn't know what to do, momentarily speechless.
Matthew, thankfully, was silent, studying the visitor with curiosity. Anne cleared her throat, clueless as to a method to start a simple question.
Naturally, Wentworth looked magnificently messy, as though he'd thrown on the first clean thing sprawled across the floor, his hair a clutter of rich darkness and prone to the turbulence of the city's breeze. He shoved his hands into the worn pockets of his jeans, his shoulders tightening under his Izod polo.
"Anne."
He failed to say anything more and Anne couldn't help but flush with nervous embarrassment. Matthew kicked her side, as though she was a weathered horse and she inwardly winced.
"Uh…do you….do you want to come inside?"
Once again, Anne couldn't decipher the meaning of this question, or the apparent explanation for such an offer, with the exception of a momentary testimony to insanity. Wentworth gulped, shuffled from foot to foot and then glanced down the block. With a quick jerk that passed as a nod, he took a few steps forward.
"Yeah, thanks."
The pair mutely scuffled into the penthouse, Anne leading the way into the living room. The hallway echoed with an electronic click, as the computer-programmed lock reset itself.
Although Cartoon Network continued to blare with obnoxious intensity, Matthew refused to forsake his position. Anne stalled in front of the couch and Wentworth didn't make a move to seat himself.
They exchanged glances, totally caught off guard, unsure of what to say or what to do. Last night's unresolved conflict lingered in the air like musty perfume and Anne knew they were both choking.
She knew he had valid claims to his anger. And that's what made it even harder to move on and even pretend to hate him. Despite her own misgivings and worthy misfortunes, she ultimately had displayed a weakness of character, an error that could not be easily fixed.
Frederick Wentworth was not the type to effortlessly forgive and forget; to stand in the ill favor of Wentworth was such a gruesome fate to behold. Disgustingly enough, she almost wanted to hate him. It would make everything so much easier…
She caught him staring and quickly looked away, turning her gaze to the TV screen.
"What are you doing here?" she dourly wondered.
Wentworth sighed.
"I was looking for Charles. I wanted to review my contract with him, for an upcoming movie. But I'm assuming that he's out."
Anne nodded, finally having gathered the frail courage to meet his flint-like gaze. Matthew shifted around, squeezing her neck with newfound dynamism. Anne craned her neck a bit, hoping to loosen his stifling grasp. Matthew squealed with delight, and then focused his attention on the TV.
"Yeah. Mary and Charles went to a benefit gala. They left a few hours ago, so I suppose they won't arrive home until midnight, at the earliest."
"Oh. I see….You got stuck with the kids, am I right?"
His eyes shifted to Matthew with disapproval, and then back on Anne with a slight smirk.
She rolled her eyes, pretending to be numb to his inflamed sense of superiority.
"Naturally. But it's not a big deal," she casually confirmed.
Wentworth snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. His dazzling eyes danced with amusement, lacking his usual consignment of callous detachment. In the back of her mind, Anne wondered why her former flame was stretching the duration of his visit; he certainly could have left eons ago.
"Right. Whatever you say."
Matthew laughed, scampering in his place like a hyperactive monkey.
Anne scowled.
"I'll have you know, Frederick Wentworth, that I have the situation under control," she snapped, with lukewarm disdain.
Wentworth took this as an opportunity to openly chuckle, dropping his arms to his sides and inching closer to Aunt and nephew.
"Sure. And that's why he's practically crawling all over your back," he taunted.
Anne harshly clenched her jaw, beginning to feel irritated. Once again, Frederick Wentworth had the supreme impudence to stroll into her life and seize her reigns of control, using this as a chance to prove her inferiority and frailties of mind and wits.
It was so despicable and disgusting, the way he could show feelings of loathing and arrogant malice, then automatically switch these to playful and jovial jest. So infuriating….that she wanted to lose herself in a storybook kiss and forget about the rest of the world. God, she wanted him more than he would ever know…
"Look, I am perfectly capable of handling this by myself. Matthew is just being a bit unmanageable is all."
At this comment, Matthew roared with demonic laughter and commenced to brutally tug on Anne's hair. Anne couldn't resist the instant reaction of pain, as she crisply howled at the most foul sensation. Wentworth's throat erupted with a strange croak, as he suffocated a laugh like a blanket being thrown over a fire.
"Matthew. C'mon buddy, leave your poor Aunt alone. I think you've done enough damage for tonight. Besides, if you get down, I'll tell you about the time in Brazil, when that lion escaped from the zoo and….oh, never mind. You don't want to hear about it," he trailed off, his voice dropping.
Matthew's ears perked up like a dog. He ceased the activity of ripping out his Aunt's hair and slithered off her back, with the grace of a viper. His eyes bulging with wonder, he looked at Wentworth, his mouth a gape.
Anne instantly recognized Matthew's interest, silently thanking Wentworth for his successful rescue. Matthew stuck his thumb in his mouth, gazing up at Wentworth with sudden coyness. The ferocious drive to agitate had been demolished, all by the teasing evasiveness of Wentworth's tall-tale.
"No, I do! Would you tell me?"
Wentworth grinned.
"Ah, well, now that I've snatched your curiosity, you'll have to do me a favor. If you run upstairs and get into bed, I promise I'll come up and tell you everything."
Without further probing, Matthew yelped with delight and sped off down the hall, banging up the stairs like a jack rabbit. Anne smiled, though she was quite uncertain as to the true motive behind Wentworth's surprising action.
They faced each other, Anne attempting to subdue the reflexive tightening of her stomach muscles. He was so close….if only she had the foolish valor to make a move. She figured there was only one thing to do in such a situation.
"Thank you."
Wentworth shrugged, looking considerably awkward once more.
"Don't mention it. Wouldn't want you going bald now, would we?" he briskly quipped, with a lopsided grin.
Anne somehow forced a laugh.
"Of course not."
Wentworth strained his mouth with that same, warped grin and then painted his expression with the drippings of serious passivity.
"Look….about last night…"
She shook her head, wringing her hands together.
"Let's not talk about it, all right? I'm sure we both said some things we didn't necessarily mean. Let's leave it at that."
He grimaced, obviously pulling up bitter mental images of the topic. But his tone was forceful, as he spat out the words before he could retract or regret his statements. They seemed to leave a sour aftertaste on the roof of his mouth and he swallowed this unforgiving vinegar, plunging ahead in his attack.
"No, I just want to apologize. I know what I said was uncalled for and considerably rude. I admit, seeing you….it's been quite the shock. I just don't want to make this harder than it should be."
Her doe-eyes flashed with unusual stimulation.
"Yeah, I suppose so."
He noticed this change and seemed to recoil at her lightening bolts.
"You know, I'd better go bid goodnight to Matthew. He's probably dying to know my secret."
She could only present him with a wry smile.
He looked at her sideways, through a riveting curtain of fallen hair. She bit her lip, the need to come in contact with the smoothness of his cheek, increasing to a frightening extreme.
"Say, you got any wild stories an eight-year old might want to hear?"
She snorted.
"My mind is drawing a blank. But I'm sure your highly creative imagination can conjure up something appropriate."
They were silent for a moment. Anne inwardly flinched. Since when did he get so close? He had certainly adapted that guarded, predatory stance…yet this time around, Anne didn't feel the need to victimize herself and claim the ill-fitting label of the prey.
Granted, she wasn't as tough as she wished to be, but she was made of sturdier materials than false hopes and needle-thin pretensions. If he wanted to provoke her, she would stand her ground.
For so long after their messy affair, Anne had chained her heart and thrown away the key, choosing to exile herself in a glass tower. Wentworth had been the elementary stone to shatter this flimsy, delicate fortress. Yet this time, Anne possessed the ammunition to initiate a battle and defend her dignity.
"Anne…last night was…"
So close…too close…
"Stop bringing that up. It's in the past," she ardently murmured.
"The past….the past…is that all I mean to you now? Some long forgotten memory, buried in the past?"
She looked away and surprisingly, Wentworth reached out, his hands fiercely yet tenderly cupping the sharp angles of her jawbone. He obligated Anne to meet his gaze, his lips pressed into a waning streak.
Her gut was churning and turning. He had to stop this. It was too much all at once. He was heroin, that's what Frederick Wentworth had deemed to be. Regrettably, Anne had fallen victim to the alluring temptations of such a drug.
"What does it matter, Frederick? You've moved on, you've made that perfectly clear. Our relationship….died years ago. It's not….it's not going to revive itself. You can't show up…and do this to me…"
His hands remained in their station.
"And what do you think you're doing to me, Miss Elliot?"
She could practically see the sparks that radiated and clashed from their innuendoes. It was like someone had dropped a Monet, oil-painting in the rain, allowing all the colors to march into one another. Her head was dizzy, her body feeling much too large and out of proportion. If everything wasn't hooked together, she would simply float away.
"Certainly quite less than you," she faintly defended.
His hand moved to her cheekbones, pressing against the hidden line, tracing the contours, the peaks and the valleys, the points and the corners. She shut her eyes for a moment, indulging in the sensation of his touch.
The sound of his voice was the noose to awake her consciousness.
"Anne…."
But before he could speak any further, Matthew's intolerable cries smashed the confrontation.
Leaping apart with severe astonishment, Wentworth muttered a barely audible excuse and then sprinted down the hall.
Anne blankly stared at the space he once occupied, firmly knowing that she was just as madly in love with Frederick Wentworth, as the very first day she met him.
