Frederick resisted the urge to sit a bit longer than usual at his dressing table that evening. It was just to be a simple dinner party with only his sister, the Admiral, and the Musgroves in attendance. As he'd already met and he was fairly certain had already charmed the two lovely sisters that would be present, there could be no one there that would require any special attention to his appearance on his part. That Charles Musgrove, his wife, and sister-in-law would also be in attendance could hardly signify.
What do I care of married ladies and spinster aunts? He fussed with his cravat before angrily realizing he'd unconsciously sat down once more at his looking glass. Giving into his vanity for a moment he peered critically at himself. True, he did not look quite as young as he had when he'd been in this part of the country nearly eight years ago, but the years that had passed between then and now had added only sophistication and substance to his face and the few lines that had accumulated around his lips and eyes merely reflected a near decade of prosperity and experience rather than any haggardness on his part.
No, he had worn the years well as he knew he should. He tried but failed to stifle a curiosity of what effects their estrangement of eight years might have had on Anne Elliot. Time he could truthfully and without vanity say had treated him kindly. What effects would that same passage have had upon her? And how would he react to being once more in her presence? It had been so long since he'd allowed himself to dwell on the past he hardly knew himself. Surely such ancient and foolish young passions could have no hold on him now. He felt nothing for Anne Elliot and any anxieties he may be experiencing now in prelude to their reintroduction could only be down to curiosity, a natural reaction that any person might experience given their history. As if to prove this were indeed the case, Frederick hastily tugged his cravat askew before briskly moving from the room to meet his sister and the Admiral before setting off for Uppercross.
... ... ...
She would not come. He was momentarily overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, an odd blend of relief peppered with regret. Something to do with a sick child, but of course that must be artifice. What mother would abandon her child's sickbed leaving him to an aunt's care in order to attend a dinner party with people she has known all her married life? No, this must be Anne's doing. Some plot had been designed to prevent her from attending tonight's gathering, the purpose of which, plain to see, must be to avoid a meeting with him. Did her sister and brother-in-law know of her scheming? He thought not. In his brief conversation with both neither seemed to give even the smallest hint of knowing of him and Anne having ever been acquainted!
This was cowardice indeed! But, he remembered bitterly, exactly as he should have expected from Anne Elliot. Weak and submitting, would there be any lengths such a lady would not go to avoid even a trace of unpleasantness? Eight years ago she'd thrown him aside to avoid upsetting her family. What was a bit of scheming and small lies of omission in comparison to that?
No, he was not surprised. But he was annoyed. Clearly it would be up to him to make their party aware of his and Anne's past acquaintance. Not the totality of their history, certainly, but enough to make any painful and awkward future introductions between them unnecessary. With this intention in mind he made his way across the Musgrove sitting room to where Charles and Mary were seated.
"I find, madam, that I had the pleasure of being slightly acquainted with your family when I was last in this country." If Anne had no scruples in misrepresenting the past, why should he!
"Really? Anne never said!" was the jubilant reply. As Mary Musgrove prattled on and on about how delightful he must have found the Elliots of Kellynch Hall he took a moment to observe Anne's sister without interruption. At first he could find very little to remind him of Anne's own delicate features. Whereas the Anne Elliot of his memory had had a gentle and graceful countenance, there was something rather coarse and hard in Mary's face. And though the coloring between the sisters was alike, the brightness of Anne's dark eyes and the shine of her chestnut hair was lacking in the younger sister.
Ah, but a lover's eye is a most biased artist, Frederick reminded himself. He'd loved Anne Elliot with a most foolish passion eight years ago, a devotion which now embarrassed and humiliated his more rational and mature mind. It was doubtful he could have perceived even the small imperfections she must have possessed at nineteen in the fever of his ardor. Were her eyes naturally bright or had he supplied that luminance with the glow of his own devotion? Did the silken nature of her hair come from the strands itself, or from his amorous fingers moving through them? How would the real flesh and blood Anne of twenty-seven compare with this imagined vision? How could she? He imagined he would be able to answer this question for himself any day now as an encounter between the two could in all likelihood be little avoided. And only time would tell whether he would view Anne Elliot again through the ardor of his youth or the bitterness of the past eight years.