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Anne Elliot, being of a disposition not at all prone to self-indulgence, did not think of Frederick Wentworth quite as often as might be supposed. That is to say, she did not think of him directly. In the three years that had passed since their brief engagement had ended, she had made conscious efforts to banish from her mind those thoughts which had the power to transform her unhappiness into a bitterness which would render her useless to all who might need her. It might, perhaps, have been easier for her to succeed in this endeavour had there been anyone who did need her. Her father and older sister, if they ever strayed from pure self-approbation, could always find everything that they required in each other's approval, and her younger sister, while she was entirely used to relying on Anne to cure with cheerful talk and a gentle manner any ills, only fancied that she needed anyone at all, her ill health being entirely imaginary. Nonetheless, Anne persevered, dimly perceiving that a good nature is rather easier to preserve than to rekindle.
Direct recollections of Frederick Wentworth, therefore, were brushed away as best Anne could manage. True, there were particular walks through the gardens of Kellynch that she avoided, particular pieces of music she never played, particular volumes of poetry which, though stored with care, had remained unopened since the last time he, in his brisk, firm manner, had opened them to read aloud to her while she sewed, but she considered that since these slight differences in her preferences were impenetrable to her family, and invisible even to her dearest friend, they were allowable.
At that time, society for Anne comprised mostly of her dear friend Lady Russell, and occasional visits from Mr and Mrs Musgrove. Their son, Mr Charles Musgrove, had been making increasingly frequent visits to Kellynch, and Anne had been grateful for the relief his pleasant, even temper and good manners offered. Their social circle being small, the younger Mr Musgrove's qualities were shown to best possible advantage, and Anne spent many a tolerably happy half hour in discussion of a book they found they had both read, or a local concern of some distant interest to them both. She was determined to make herself cheerful, agreeable company to her companions, and Mr Musgrove's unassuming company was an invaluable aide in her endeavours. Indeed, on one occasion their conversation got along so merrily that she quite forgot to check the Navy List until several hours after her usual time.
Once, during one of the long companionable evenings she shared with Lady Russell, the latter alluded gently to Mr Charles Musgrove, and Anne was astounded to discover that her friend believed there to be some cause for hope in that quarter. Since nothing had been said directly, Anne was spared the ordeal of a refutation, but in the clearest terms available to her she gave her friend to understand the depth of her mistake.
Once alone, however, Anne consulted her heart more thoroughly. Lady Russell had seen fit to allude to the possibility in all seriousness, and this alone was enough to convince Anne that she had been indiscreet. She saw now the reason for Mr Musgrove's increasingly frequent visits, and she was sorry for it. She also saw that honest, straightforward Charles Musgrove would soon ask for her hand. Anne felt a wave of gratitude towards Lady Russell for her warning. She would now be able to prepare the considered response the gentleman deserved. She felt a strong obligation to consider the matter seriously, as she knew he would have done, and so, pushing down her heart's revolt at the very notion of marriage to any man other than he who had first broached it, she forced herself into rational consideration of the prospect.
Mr Musgrove was the picture of amiability. He was handsome, certainly of good character, and she allowed him the full weight of the power which the flattery of a proposal must bestow. She considered the freedom he could offer her. A comfortable home of her own, a person to take care of who, and despite her reserve she could not deny this point, would improve under the affectionate eye of a sensible woman. He was a man of whom her family would certainly approve, a man of whom she would give a high endorsement were she applied to for an opinion.
Settled on these points, she allowed herself to imagine. Those fantasies are most enjoyable which carry no real weight for us, being completely outside of the realms of possibility, and which can therefore be entered into with wholesome delight, and it was in this spirit that Anne imagined herself Charles Musgrove's wife. She wished to be thorough, to consider truly this compensatory happiness which was, she knew, the only alternative to a life spent very much alone. She imagined the pleasure of her own drawing room, of decorating according to her own tastes. An income of her own, shared with a reasonable husband who would never spend it in the disturbing fashion her own father seemed intent upon. The possibility that their union might one day produce children who, at least, she could be sure that she would love with the whole of her being. Lady Russell, she knew, felt that Anne was peculiarly well suited to the role of wife and mother. How wonderful, then, to take on the role to which her dearest friend considered her to be best suited.
But it was all for naught. She knew – had known for almost her entire adult life – that there was only one man whom she could ever have married. She did not – could never – love a Charles Musgrove having once met a Frederick Wentworth. Furthermore, she was perfectly satisfied that Charles Musgrove did not love her. She could never, having known the true face of perfect love, have mistaken Musgrove's bland, calm affection for the same. He was a practical man. He wanted a wife, and Anne was sensible enough of her own virtues to consider that she was a rational choice. Not so beautiful as her older sister, but perhaps, she owned, a little more temperamentally inclined to make a helpful and willing partner.
The proposal, when it came, was handled with all the gentleness and decorum Anne could muster, and she and Musgrove parted on very civil terms indeed. The affair was soon forgotten by those very few who had ever known of it, and Anne was pleased to apply herself to the task of ordering wedding linens when, a few months later, her father announced the engagement of Mr Charles Musgrove to her sister Mary.