Anne trotted down the street, blind to the shop windows around her, the carriages, the crowds. It was as if she were in a blinding mist, yet the sun was out, lost in that odd mix of sun and mist. For late February it was warm. Smiles filled faces as people turned to look up towards the sun, but her thoughts were dark and cold, centred around Louisa and Frederick.
The moments of joy, of happiness since Frederick had come back and declared his true feelings with words to her father, to their circle, had brightened even grey, damp Bath. For a few days she was incandescent with joy, finally, they two could be honest with each other and their circle. Gone were his subtle, shaded glances, confusing gestures, all his heart was laid clear.
As were her emotions, her true feelings. She had just as much guilt as he did, over the confusion,teh pain of the last few months.
But, today for some reason, she could not stop thinking of his behaviour with Louisa. The hurt he had given Anne as he… she could not call it a proper courting of Louisa Musgrove - more a cruel teasing or a subtle revenge. Yes, that hurt he had given her as he toyed with Louisa, it was fading. It was almost gone, but it had opened her eyes to deeper dimensions of the man.
In her childish 19 year old romantic mind of 8-1/2 years ago, that dashing young commander could do no wrong, he was utterly perfect.
Anne Elliott at 28 was not quite so blind.
The mature captain who she still loved with her body and soul seemed to struggle to do right. The face presented by Frederick Wentworth, Captain, in the reception rooms of Bath was not the full man, it was just a mask. Today, there had been that cold, murderous look he'd given Croft's butler, Long, this morning. It had been the face of a man used to being obeyed, and not liking what he had seen, not liking the challenge in Croft's old bosun voice.
Frederick's intensity hadn't frightened her, but made her realize the man she called Frederick, the man who haunted the drawing rooms of Bath in hope of seeing her, of being with her, was not the complete and real man, and most definitely was not the man known out on the sea as Captain Frederick Wentworth.
Who was this captain? What had she gotten herself into?
A gust of wind hit her hard and she stumbled, a passerby caught her, pulled her upright. She nodded thanks at the young man, a confused thanks, startled by such a clear, open innocent look in his face. A clear, light look none of the navy set carried in their eyes. A quiet thanks, and she blindly walked on.
Frederick- had he ever had such an open, kind look? She thought not. Or maybe he had, long ago, at age eleven before he left for the Royal Naval school.
When she had met him so long ago, only a commander in 1806, he'd seemed dangerous and dark. That dangerous, brilliant darkness, maybe that was what had drawn her to him. He was deep and complex - like Mia's description of a good coffee. Dark and smart and worldly and sure of himself, aware of his true edges, strengths and weaknesses and the depths of his soul, so unlike the shallow, silly country boys who had been all the possible suitors to a Miss Anne Elliott.
Passing Molland's she caught her reflection in the glass. If she could call it it would be "Anne Elliott, in profound thought." She smiled - the woman reflected was not longer young, but if she could use the word, maybe beautiful when she thought of Frederick.
Turning she trotted down the road. She watched the faces of the Navy officers, the Army Officers as they passed. There was much behind each face, the doors of their eyes shuttered in so many ways, but lines of experience cut deep in faces, lines that no country squire wore. She realized she loved the lines around Frederick's mouth.
What had she seen playing in Frederick's eyes since his return? Love for her, yes, that was there, and now, she realized even that first morning at Uppercross there had been the tiniest smoldering cinder left, so deeply buried by hurt. Hurt. What else always played in his eyes? Calculation, cunning - the man had that in droves. Bravery. Joy - joy was starting to crack out of him too, more and more. Love. Appreciation of beauty - of song, of art. Sparks of tiny kindnesses. She needed to work on that one.
Anger, yes, there was that, and the anger right now was aimed at Long, but for what reason she could not fathom.
But just who was this Captain Wentworth of the Lacona she was marrying, who was the man who stood on the boards of that ship, and faced enemy fire? The man who was life or death upon a ship, who controlled the lives of hundreds of men. Not this urbane, collected man passing a tea to his sister in the receiving rooms of the grand of Bath.
Blinded by her thoughtst, she suddenly found herself in front of a bookstore. Had she aimed there on purpose? She couldn't remember.
Mr. Teaberry's Shop, seemingly unchanged, and just as it had been when she had when she'd been at school. The large windows in the front almost spilled light all the way to the back of the space. Shelves lined the walls, all filled with books, several stacks stood in the back and low tables stood int he front with the newest releases. In the shop, people perused the shelves and two young girls were twittering over a large folio book near the window.
Anne's face split into a smile, seeing the old man at the counter. He'd not been there the last few times she'd entered, his daughter in law there instead. "Mr. Teaberry!"
"Why by my word, is that the delightful Miss Anne Elliott? So bright and pretty?" Pushing himself off his stool, the old man asked, his bushy eyebrows rising. He glared at the sound of a book dropping, a young man hurrying to put it back on the shelf. Rising, Teaberry reached out his hands, she took them.
"Are you finished yet at school? It seems a long time…"
"Oh Mr. Teaberry do stop teasing! You know I left school ages ago…" Anne laughed, delighted to see her increasingly ancient friend.
Her schooling in Bath had been excellent, but sunk by her mothers death, at a loss, lonely, she had retreated often to this not quite dusty place. Mr. Teaberry and his shop and his terrible tea had been her refuge outside school, while Miss Georgiana Channing had been her courage within, just as she was a tiny part of Georgiana's courage in her great retreat to Westgate Buildings.
"Yes my dear, you left in 1803. I remember very well -that final visit." Memories tinged with sadness played over his face. "But, somehow, you look prettier every day my dear. May I say beautiful?"
She smiled, surprisingly not embarrased, just touched. "Sometimes the universe truly is kind."
He looked at her deeply, considering her. "Yes, I see the ring on your finger, and I must congratulate you."
The congratulation was surprisingly cool, cautious.
An awkward pause, then, "Your cousin, is it?" His face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes were filled with worry, regret, anger.
With a look out the window at the suddenly pelting rain, she smiled. Turning back to him, she let her smile rise it into her most relaxed, incandescent smile, the one she saved for dear friends. She leaned forward, shook her head, "No- you will like this one! An old, old love." She brightened like a flower in the warm summer sun. "Almost like out of the most horrid of Mrs. Radcliffe's gothic romance's."
A look of relief exploded over his face, and he smiled, relaxed. He laughed, that laugh she loved, deep and heartfelt. "I am happy for you… I was worried it was your cousin, and honestly I am getting to old to fight duels and rescue maidens from evil men."
He bent over, wrote a quick note, handed it to her and whispered conspiratorially, "My address, please, do come for terrible tea and good books. Don't tell your lover - always leave a bit of mystery - that drives them insane." His smile was wicked. "Keeps the interest up, even when you're old and fat."
Standing tall, he led her over to two overstuffed chairs, and said in a clear voice, "So, did you know? My son has taken over- which really means my daughter-in-law Henrietta runs the shop - but they're at their childs piano recital. Quite the little performer my dear Emma is."
They chatted for a while of intervening years, his wife's death, the arrival of many grandchildren and even a great grand child already, the loss of his dear partner, Rosen. More than a partner Anne knew, they'd been like two peas in a pod, more than brothers. She could tell old Rosen's death was more deeply regretted than Mrs. Teaberry's.
His eyes brightened.
"Oh, my dear! I have something for you! Shhhh….. it is a secret. I really shouldn't tell. A lady… I won't tell you what lady… asked me to proof this."
Going back to the counter, he pulled from a shelf at his knees a fat manuscript wrapped in oil skin. "Honestly, my dear, my eyes fail me. My young Emma started to read it aloud to me, but I can't trust her more than that. I did like it -no - it was excellent; there is no story whatever, and the heroine is not better than other people; but the characters are all true to life and the style so piquant, that it does not require the adventitious aids of mystery and adventure."
He laughed, "'But of course it is wonderful, Pa', my dear Emma said to me, 'the heroine is named after me."
Anne snorted, and looked at the manuscript bound with an old ribbon. Hand-written on it was Highbury, and beneath, a quick note, "Mr. Teaberry, my dearest family feels this is ready, but one knows family. After our long association, nay dear friendship, could you kindly look deeper at this with a critical eye? Your friend in many crime (s) - and words." There was no signature.
"Here, look around, find a book that you want. That will be my payment to you, dear, for doing what I can do no longer. Let me make us tea - then we'll sit and you can tell me all about your lover." His eyes suddenly went laser like."The one who had broken your heart eight years ago."
Anne Elliott snuggled into her bed, candles alight. The house around her had settled quiet, Mia asleep, Frederick, Sophia, the Admiral all out at a supper that she had begged out of at the last moment.
The manuscript had intrigued her too much, a greedy hunger filled her belly, and she had not even let Mia know it. She was glad that her father did not give a damn where she slept and that the Crofts were old fashioned about where the fiancée slept- now seen as family property, she was best kept among their own cattle and barrels, then with the untrustworthy, desperate family who was disposing of her.
As she undid the ribbon that held the pages in place, a half folded piece of paper fell out. She almost put it aside, held it, considered it. Then, Miss Anne Elliott, who prided herself in her propriety and good sense, allowed curiosity to weaken and break her.
She unfolded it.
A woman's hand, not-quite elegant script, hurried, as if the writer had too much else to write. Inconsistent spelling.
"Dear Jock, miss you terribly but more, I miss your terrible tea. I am glad your health improves, and that your retirement from your shop is not as much of a retirement as you had thought. I was devestated to hear of Lawrence's death, know nothing will replace that man in your heart.
Here, surprise, yet, another book has flowed from my pen, another gift to this poor terrible creatrice from whichever Muse is the most chatty.
Stop- in your tracks- trying to tell me I can write better, and about deeper and broader subjects. I know I can.
I know that I repeatedly started to write about the evils of slavery, the treatment of women… even my dear hopeless Fanny was meant to explore things we must, should, as good christians question… but… But, sir, my old argument stands.
My children, I wrote these ones to keep my beloved brothers sane. My naval brothers.
For the other brothers' there is absolutely no hope.
Dear, dear Charles!
Mother doesn't like it when he comes home anymore. He screams and cries too much in the night, his eyes are haunted. The smallest sound sends him… xthe flare of a match, the cry of a xxgreat pain, he screaxxz—xxxxx Trafalgar ruined him, as it ruined so many men.
Frank is so angry he missed Trafalgar, unlike his oh so (un)-lucky brother. So instead he has decided to prove to the Navy that he is as good a man as every last man who fought at Nelson's side- He proves it by chasing down as many prizes as is humanly possible. He drives himself with rage and self-fury, his men with greed and the thoughts of glory. His guilt over T. runs deep - sent from the line by the great man himself to procure fresh water for the line, he rages at missing the battle.
He will never know My prayers were heard, not his won. It may be my only proof of a Divine. My dear brother would kill me if he knew I was happy he was not there. But now he and several other captains who missed the Great Battle try to out-do each other with the capture of prizes. I curse both Jamison and Wentworth- each of their new prizes drives Frank to try for yet another, a drive to prove himself to the admiralty. Pushing his luck further. I pray, I pray. I even pray to …even the old gods, the goddesses of my mothers. I feel I can not pray enough, my knees are sore, blistered and my heart bleeds for him - and Charles -for all our men out on the sea. woreouerosepudhfhdhfur.
I pray that This peace… may it be long, may my naval brothers heal.
Charles took me aside last week, let me know this will be his last time home, if he can luck into an assignment away. He hopes, wants, asks for India. He looked at me with those clear but oh so troubled blue eyes, and said to me in that beloved voice of his- so like fathers, "Sister, the only thing that kept me safe, sane, out there, was reading and re-reading your story of Eleanor and Marian, and of Lizzie Bennet - and not just me. The silly things you make gave the men around me.… comfort."
Yes, I know I should be writing… of things that matter, writing stories with meaning, books that can change the world, but right now, I need to write -to create -a safe place for my brothers. A place of peace to retreat too, a refuge and a reminder why they fight. Charles said his copy of E&M is ragged, passed from hand to hand. There is a strong argument between his Lieutenants over which sister is more admirable, Elinor or Marian. It is split - the cooler heads appreciating the measured emotions and steadiness of the older, the romantics firmly in love with beautiful and passionate Marian. Charles is such the card, he told me he waits for Mirriam, hopes when she grows up that she takes up piracy so that he might chance to meet her and be carried off by her. Haa - that is what I shall write next- of female pirate, I shall call her Bella, attacking slave ships, rescuing those tragic souls from their terrible fate, then falling in love with one of our naval officers, one that she rescued from a sinking ship. Maybe I can add ghosts and a monster or two. Much tasteful kissing. It would probably be the making of me! The money would just pour in.
Anyways, this new child, Highbury. This one you might find boring. Desperately. But the audience I imagine for this one is not you, my dearest Mr. TerribleTeaBerry, but those men who fight, those in danger, those facing terrible extremes. This is my ode to the joys of English country life, a song of the foibles of the minor gentry, the idylls of pastoral English villages where the greatest disaster is the escape of a pig from a sty, thick sticky gruel or the loss of the best flower arrangement competition at the church fete. This is my eclogue to quiet, calm love.
My next one… that will be different. My next child is birthing. It will be my love child.
Sadly, for my brothers, I can not stay away from the terrible, I can not stay away from the issues that marked our time together, you and I,. I do not let them know I write it., especially Cassandra. I can not stay away from me and that story that made me who I am. This one, finally, I write for me.
The other day I sat in the park, watching two lovers, not young by any means. He a captain of our navy by the look of him, dark, brooding, commanding, so like … -Say nothing, think nothing sir! She… a mix of joy and pain, strength and loss, softness… but too, hardness enough to endure that life ahead of her. - Such joy in their- I am certain- it is a reunion. So, my next book, a reunion. Then a marriage. Don't smile - nor ever cry for me- I know I have no reunion to attend. He is gone. But for this navy officer and my … she shall be a lady - yes, there is reunion -but only after terrible suffering. I will make both suffer, both learn to change.
I hope to see you when I come to Bath next June. Please be honest with your comments. Your friend in words. -J."
Anne closed her eyes, realized they were wet, that her face was wet. Her hands were shaking.
Was Fredrick like that woman's two brothers? Was all the naval set around her the same?
What had it been in his eyes, that night, when she had lain in his arms? She'd heard him whimpering, like a lost puppy, a wounded kitten. His body had gone rigid, for a while, and he had been gone from her.
Frightened, she'd held him tight, held him in silence, not knowing what to do but just cradle him close, to her heart.