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Chapter Text

How did one even begin, when attempting to reverse over eight years of disappointment and misery?

Dear Miss Elliot,

I hope this letter finds you and your family well, and that you are comfortably settled in Bath. I write to you today--

He snorted in disgust and crumpled his paper up, prompting a glance from his brother, who was reading nearby. 

"Is something the matter, Frederick?" Edward asked.

"No, not at all," he answered absently, taking up another sheet. 

How cold and formal a way to ask for her hand once more. Comfortably settled in Bath, indeed. Anne hated Bath, and she would know perfectly well that he did not care how Sir Walter and Elizabeth Elliot were doing. What had he been thinking?

Dear Miss Elliot,

I trust, by now, that you have heard the news of the engagement between Captain Benwick and Miss Louisa Musgrove, and that we are united in wishing them joy. I must take the liberty of writing to you--

He threw his pen down and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Why even mention Benwick and Louisa at all? This was a more difficult task than he imagined it would be. What was more, his struggle was not going unnoticed. His brother was watching, in a manner which he probably thought was most surreptitious, but there was not a soul in the world less capable of subterfuge than Edward.

Frederick decided to ignore him. He grabbed another sheet of paper and tried again, his brother wincing visibly at the waste.

My dearest Anne,

I take up my pen today to ask the same question I came to you with eight years and a half ago. It is a letter that should have been written long before now, and I beg your forgiveness for the foolishness that led to my waiting this long--

He huffed loudly as he flung aside this attempt too, and, looking up, caught his brother spying. Edward disappeared quickly behind his book and pretended to read once more, though Frederick had not heard a page turn in some time.

He stood abruptly and muttered something vague about going to bed, and Edward let him pass without inquiry. Frederick was grateful to be staying with the only one of his siblings who would not demand an explanation for his ill humor.

He escaped to the privacy of his room and glared at his own reflection in the looking-glass. He was not doing the thing properly. He could not propose to Anne like this, without seeing her again and hearing her voice and observing her expression. She may not welcome a renewal of his attentions, after all. He had certainly behaved badly towards her at Uppercross. He may have already ruined his chances.

And yet, despite his efforts to manage his expectations, he could not stop the hope from billowing up within him.

He must see her.

He decided on a new plan. He would go to her. He would make the journey to Bath in the morning.

He refused to believe it was too late.

Chapter Text

Frederick spent his first evening in Bath dining with his sister and the Admiral.

“You left Edward quite suddenly,” Sophy said. 

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought his sister had been examining him rather more closely than usual since his arrival.

“Oh, well, as to that,” he said, trying to sound hearty, “I thought I was beginning to overstay my welcome.”

“Edward did not say so, surely?”

“No, of course not. But the newly married, you know. I thought I might be in their way.”

“Not so very newly married now,” Sophy said. “And I am not sure how knowledgeable you are on the subject at any rate. How many such couples do you come across?”

“I know how sickening we all found you and the Admiral,” he said with a sly grin, dodging her as she swatted at him. “And Margaret and Sam were at least as bad.”

“Poor, dear Meg,” sighed Sophy. “Let us hope that Edward has better luck.”

Their younger sister had lost her husband before she had reached her second wedding anniversary; Sam had never even met their son.

Sophy stared into the candlelight for a moment, then seemed to shake herself out of these pensive thoughts. “And so you thought you would leave while they still found your presence charming,” she said. “That is rather more wisdom than you usually display.”

He swatted at her now. “Ah, you have found me out. I simply missed your company and had to come and join you.”

“It is unbecoming to be so satirical, Frederick, but we are happy to see you anyway.”

She took his hand and squeezed it fondly.

Frederick wondered, not for the first time, how differently things would have gone eight years and a half ago had it been Sophy with him rather than Edward. He loved his brother - loved all of his siblings - but he and Sophy had always had a special bond. She understood him best; she had the same sort of spirit that he had. Edward was all that was good and supportive and comforting, but he was a firm believer in being resigned to one’s circumstances and trusting in the will of God.

Frederick and Sophy fought a little harder. 

Had it been Sophy with him, perhaps she would have urged him to struggle more diligently against the wishes of the Elliots and Lady Russell, to keep a tighter hold on Anne’s hand and not let it go. Perhaps his life would have gone in an entirely different direction.

Well, it was useless to think about it now.

“I was just talking about you with Miss Anne Elliot, Frederick,” said the Admiral. “We were saying that we must get you to Bath, and now here you are.”

Frederick’s stomach had jumped at the sound of her name. “Oh?” he managed to say. He wished Sophy would quit looking at him.

“Yes,” said the Admiral. “We had just discussed that strange business between Benwick and Miss Musgrove, and I said that you would find any number of pretty girls to pick from here. Bath is just the place to secure a wife.”

“My dear,” Sophy admonished lightly.

“Oh, Frederick knows that we all wish to see him married,” said the Admiral with a wave of his hand, “and Miss Anne quite agreed.”

Another jump of the stomach, hope mixed with perturbation.

“I doubt very much whether she did anything other than listen as you talked, my dear,” said Sophy, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at Frederick.

“You are probably right,” the Admiral chuckled, “but she did not disagree, at least.”

Frederick wanted to hear more of Anne - how she looked, the turn of her countenance when the Admiral had spoken of his coming to Bath, how interested she truly was in the thought of his finding a wife. 

But the conversation had moved to other matters and he could not think of any way to bring her up again that would not immediately raise his sister’s suspicions.

Chapter Text

Frederick had devoted the morning to thinking of all the ways in which he could contrive to run into Anne Elliot, and was thus unready to meet her suddenly and without any scheming on his own part. He and his party had stepped into Molland’s to escape the rain when he was confronted with the lady herself. 

There was the faintest blush coloring Anne’s cheeks and her eyes were bright as she smiled at him in greeting. He had never fully appreciated how beautiful she was. It was an inconvenient appreciation to have just at the moment. All of the air seemed to have left Frederick’s lungs, at the same time that all of the blood in his body was rushing to his face. He greeted her inarticulately and turned away, feeling confused and foolish.

He hadn’t expected to see her here. He’d not had time to prepare himself. All of his emotions had been on display; surely Anne, of all people, had seen them clearly.

He needed to compose himself. He could not let this opportunity to speak to her slip away.

He approached her and said… something. He could not honestly remember what, nor did he truly register anything she said in reply. Whatever self-possession he had been able to assume in Uppercross was totally gone now. He knew she would notice the alteration in him. 

That is a good thing, he reminded himself. You are trying to win her back.

But did he have to be so obvious about it? Could he be a bit less awkward, at least?

He made some reference to the Musgroves and even mentioned Louisa; he tried to look arch as he spoke the name, to treat it lightly, but he was not able to pull it off with his usual aplomb. Anne, by comparison, was quite collected. He was not sure what to make of that. He was glad that she was comfortable, of course, but she certainly saw him more calmly than he saw her. Indeed, Anne’s only source of unease seemed to be the presence of Miss Elliot, who was determined not to acknowledge him. He wished he could tell Anne how little he cared about this himself, how she need not worry about it, that he was much more concerned about how she felt than by any behavior of Miss Elliot’s, but, of course, he could say nothing of the kind. Instead, he continued to babble on clumsily. He rather feared that whatever nonsense he was speaking was doing very little to recommend himself to her.

What a mess he was making of this.

It had started to rain again, and Frederick had just begun to think of several thrilling ways in which he could offer Anne his assistance, when the sound of a carriage and the announcement that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot was heard. Disappointed, but not altogether thwarted (he could attend Anne to the carriage, he could help her in, it was an opportunity to take both her arm and her hand), he turned to her, expectant and eager to provide his service.

“I am much obliged to you,” she said, “but I am not going with them. The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk; I prefer walking.”

He felt a rush of anger. The Elliots had mistreated Anne for as long as he had known her; even now, Miss Elliot would have her friend with her in the carriage but not her own sister. Anne finally looked as though she were regaining her health, she looked so much stronger than she had in Uppercross, and her family still did not think of her welfare.

“But it rains,” he said, a note of indignation in his voice.

“Oh! very little. Nothing that I regard.”

He paused, swallowing a rush of invective he dearly wished to release. Instead, he said, “Though I came only yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for Bath already, you see.” He pointed to his umbrella. “I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair.”

“I thank you, but no. I am sure the rain will come to nothing at present. I am only waiting for Mr. Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I am sure.”

Her eyes were instantly drawn to the door, where a young man had just walked in. It was the same man that had so admired her at Lyme; he smiled when he saw her. He approached them quickly, not seeming to notice Frederick at all. Frederick’s stomach had plummeted. So this was, indeed, Mr. Elliot, her cousin, the heir of Kellynch Hall, and with an air indicative of a man who had become a friend; it all painted a picture of a formidable rival.

“I apologize for staying away so long,” Mr. Elliot said, glancing briefly at Frederick and acknowledging him with a nod before turning back to Anne. “I am grieved that I have kept you waiting. We must hurry you away without further loss of time and before the rain increases.”

He tucked her arm under his and led her off.

Anne glanced over her shoulder at Frederick. “Good morning to you!” she said, and then she was out the door.

“Mr. Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?” 

“Oh! no, that is clear enough. One can guess what will happen there. He is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe. What a very good-looking man!”

“Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with.”

“She is pretty, I think, Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister.”

“Oh! so do I.”

“And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them.”

Frederick felt decidedly uncomfortable now. Perhaps this was why Anne had been so calm, so at ease, while he had felt nothing but consciousness and embarrassment. If she was intended for her cousin, she would certainly meet him with indifference.

The hope that he had been fanning since the news of Benwick and Louisa’s engagement had broken now seemed all but snuffed out.

Chapter Text

Frederick stormed out of the Octagon Room, his face red with anger and embarrassment, his stomach twisting with jealousy. 

He had been hoping to see Anne there that evening; he’d been reasonably confident that she would be there. And yet, determined as he had been to approach her, to talk to her and smile at her and generally make himself agreeable, when he had walked in and seen her, he had nearly lost his nerve. She had stepped a little away from her father and sister, and she looked so beautiful in her dark blue gown (blue had always been Anne’s color) that he had not felt capable of much more than bowing and walking away. He was not used to this unease and inaction; he had never been this way before. 

But Anne had spoken and he had been drawn to her instantly, despite the fact that he was suddenly very warm and his mouth was dry and his palms were clammy. 

He had felt about sixteen years old. 

He had barely noticed Sir Walter and Miss Elliot; he acknowledged them distantly, but he’d only had eyes for Anne. 

They had not been able to keep a conversation going; they had kept slipping into silence. Frederick had felt muddled and unfocused, and their talking about nothing was torture, but he had not been able to tear himself away. A moment of misery with Anne was still better than any other moment without her.

Were you supposed to suffer this much when you were in love?

And then - and then! - he had been very foolish indeed and said… well, entirely too much. They had talked of Louisa and Benwick, they had tiptoed perilously close to their own broken engagement, and then--

“Fanny Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not.”

Frederick groaned at the remembrance of it, his hand over his eyes. He might as well have knelt down and proposed to her again, as transparent as a statement like that had made him. 

He had shocked her, he thought. Her eyes had been wide, her breathing had become shallow. He wished he could say it was because she was feeling everything that he was; that she, too, was eager to right every wrong of the past eight and a half years. But she had immediately turned the subject, and she had soon looked, at least, much more composed than he had felt. They talked of Lyme and then were separated; Frederick had had the chance to recover himself. 

For all the good it had done him.

He had paid more attention to Anne than to the concert: Anne with her family, Anne with Lady Russell, Anne with her damned cousin. What was the use? With such relations, in such company, how could he ever hope to get her back? There was a chance, and not an unreasonable one, that he had lost her for good already. He had had over eight years to grow accustomed to the feeling, and yet it cut deeper now.

With all of that in mind, he had approached her again, graver and more reluctantly. God, he had wanted to leave. He should have left right at that moment. Anne had drawn him in again, as she always did, with her goodness and her sweet nature; she had broken through his pessimism again; he had grown more cheerful. And then there was Mr. Elliot, touching her shoulder, begging her pardon, requesting her assistance in explaining the next song. 

And Anne went with him.

What should he have expected? That she would refuse? That she would have stayed where she was, just because she was with him? Anne would never be so impolite. But his stomach had lurched painfully whenever she walked away.

It was getting harder to deny that everything pointed to Mr. Elliot as the admirer of Anne, if not the suitor, and his claims were great indeed. Mr. Elliot would be a baronet before too long; he would inherit Kellynch; he would have everything, in short, that Anne’s family would consider desirable in a potential husband. 

Frederick was rich and Frederick was successful, and it did not matter because Frederick was still not worthy of the Elliots.

He had not been able to stay any longer; he could not sit and witness her being won by her cousin. Living without her was bad enough; he could not watch as she chose someone over him. He had approached her again to wish her good night; he had to leave; he had to get home as fast as he could. Anne had looked surprised. 

“Is not this song worth staying for?”

“No! There is nothing worth my staying for.”

Lord, he had been dramatic. 

He needed to talk to Sophy. But what could he tell her? She knew nothing of his history with Anne, and he wasn’t about to go into the whole sorry tale now. But maybe she had heard something, some piece of gossip from some common acquaintance, about whether there really was something between Mr. Elliot and Anne. Frederick needed to know if there was anything worth knowing.

If the salt was going into the wound, better to get it over with at once.

Chapter Text

“And how was the concert?” Sophy asked when Frederick saw her the following morning. 

“Perfectly agreeable,” he said curtly. 

Sophy smirked. “Well, you have certainly convinced me.”

He made her no answer. 

“Oh, come now, Frederick. You know I hate it when you pout.”

“I am not pouting.” He loved his sister, but she had a knack for making him feel about four years old.

“You are sullen and moody, and you are definitely pouting. What is the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter. I have a headache, that is all.”

Sophy did not even attempt to hide her skepticism, but she did not press the issue - unusual for her. “And the concert was not good enough to lift your spirits, I take it? Surely it did not cause your current temper.”

He gave a huff of a laugh. “It did, actually. It was so disgraceful that I have sworn off music entirely.”

“Then I am not sorry that the Admiral and I missed it. Was the company pleasant, at least?”

There was something in her voice that made Frederick suspicious. She could not possibly know anything about his broken engagement. The only people who knew were Frederick, Edward, the Elliots, and Lady Russell. She would not have heard it from Edward - Frederick had sworn him to secrecy and his brother kept confidences more faithfully than anyone Frederick knew - and she certainly wouldn’t have gotten the news from any of Anne’s set.

But Sophy was a shrewd guesser - she had been like a second mother to all of her younger siblings and she had quickly learned how to detect the slightest hint of anything wrong in any of them - and though he doubted that she could know specifics, Frederick wondered if she had an inkling that his current ailment was a matter of the heart, and, if so, whether she had guessed that his object was Anne Elliot.

“Not particularly pleasant company, no. Some acquaintances were in attendance. And the Elliots were there, of course.” He said this last bit in the most flippant tone that he could muster. 

“That is no surprise. The Elliots are always sure to appear at these sorts of events, and they have relations here in Bath to impress.”

Frederick’s stomach lurched. Could she refer to Mr. Elliot? Did Sir Walter approve of this man for Anne? Was he eager to present his daughter as fashionable, cultured, and marriageable? 

“A Lady Dalrymple, I believe her name is, and her daughter… Carter, or Carteret.”

Of course. He had known of these relations. He must not be so agitated by every little thing. Anne was not married; Anne, as far as he knew, was not engaged. There was hope yet. 

“Was the other cousin there?” Sophy asked. “The one who is to inherit Kellynch?”

His stomach lurched again, this time with just cause. “He was.” 

“Have you been introduced to him?”

“Not as such.”

They always acknowledged each other briefly, whenever they saw each other… but they each only had eyes for and interest in Anne.

“I hear that he is quite an amiable man,” said Sophy. “He has been often with the Elliots here in Bath. They were estranged or something at some point - I know none of the particulars - but they seem to have made it up now.”

Frederick gave a little irritable twitch of the shoulders and answered vaguely. 

“There are rumors, you know, that he is intended for Miss Anne Elliot.” 

Frederick felt suddenly ill. He did not want to hear any of this after all. Better to remain in cheerful ignorance.

“He does pay her a great deal of attention,” Sophy continued. There was a curious look in her eye as she said this, as though she were gauging his reaction. She could not know. Not even Sophy was that prescient. 

“It would be a good match for her, with his being next in line for the baronetcy,” he managed to choke out. 

“Yes,” Sophy mused. “But, of course, these are all merely rumors, and you know how far off the mark these things can be. He does seem generally agreeable; his attentions may not be attentions at all, but simply goodwill towards the people who will be the means for his eventual prosperity.” 

Frederick hoped she was right… but he had seen the way Mr. Elliot looked at Anne, had always looked at Anne… the man’s interest ran deeper.

Frederick did not know or care what an amiable man Mr. Elliot was. It was impossible that he deserved Anne. He did not know her the way that Frederick knew her: the way her mind worked, her laugh when she was genuinely delighted, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked of poetry, the light touch of her hand when they danced…

But, of course, Mr. Elliot might know all of these things by now, or, at any rate, could be very near to finding out. Anne might find his attentions pleasing, especially after the cold and distant manner in which Frederick had treated her in Uppercross. She was reaching an age that society began to speak scathingly about. Perhaps she was ready to marry, and here was her cousin, charming and agreeable and set to inherit her home. Why wouldn’t she think carefully about the advantages of such a match? 

To be sure, Mr. Elliot did not deserve her.

But, after all, neither did Frederick.

Chapter Text

Frederick carried his ill humor with him into the next day. He was moody and sullen and short with his sister, which added guilt to his already overwhelmed spirits. He knew he should have greater fortitude, that he should bear better with the trials he was facing, but he could not seem to master himself. The thought of failing, once more, to secure Anne’s heart was too much for him. He could not conceal his emotion, as much as he wished to. He was forced to exert himself more when he met with Harville - a painful but necessary exertion - and upon learning of the arrival of the Musgroves in Bath, he knew his time of indulgent self-pity would become still more limited. 

He and Harville were soon greeted by Charles Musgrove - far sooner than he’d expected seeing any of the Musgroves - and after some inane and forgettable talk about the Musgrove sisters’ forthcoming weddings, during which Frederick tried not to appear too conscious of his own previous bad behavior towards them both, Musgrove invited both captains to join him and his party at the White Hart. Harville was enthusiastic in reply and Frederick agreed to the plan in a strained sort of way. 

His first thought, when he had heard that the Musgroves had come to Bath - before even lamenting the end of his unrestrained sulkiness - was that their addition to his society was sure to throw Anne more often into his path, and sure enough, the lady herself was among the company at the inn, looking very pretty indeed with her eyes sparkling and a faint blush adding color to her cheeks. He was torn between the pleasure of seeing her and the torture of wondering whether it was likely to be announced that she would soon become Mrs. William Elliot. He acknowledged her, briefly and coolly, and did not venture near enough to her to speak. He would have to resist that particular temptation, for his own sake. He could not bear to talk to her while he was in such suspense. Once he knew who had Anne’s heart - whether it was himself or Mr. Elliot or someone else entirely - he could gather his courage and face her, either with the warmth of his own happiness or the cold formality of societal expectation. 

"Anne," said Mary Musgrove suddenly, "there is Mrs. Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now. They seemed deep in talk. Who is it? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr. Elliot himself."

"No," said Anne, "it cannot be Mr. Elliot, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till tomorrow." She had spoken very quickly and with such authority that Frederick could not but suspect the reasons behind such intimate knowledge of Mr. Elliot’s whereabouts. His stomach lurched.

“Why do you suppose that I do not know my own cousin?” How different Mary was to her sister, with her grating voice and complaining manner. “He has the Elliot countenance, the Elliot air! It is Mr. Elliot, Anne, I assure you. Come look yourself if you doubt me.”

Anne seemed reluctant to indulge the request, though she attempted to appear nonchalant. Perhaps she fooled the rest of the room, but she could not fool him. Why this hesitancy? Was it the effect of the looks passing now between several of the ladies, with their smiles and glances and belief in the current gossip? 

"Do come, Anne," cried Mary, "come and look yourself. You will be too late if you do not make haste. They are parting; they are shaking hands. He is turning away. Not know Mr. Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all about Lyme."

Anne gave in. Anne always gave in to her family, as he knew all too well. She moved to the window and looked out briefly. "Yes, it is Mr. Elliot, certainly. He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be mistaken, I might not attend." She walked calmly back to her chair, and Frederick did not notice any flush of consciousness heightening her complexion.

Frederick proceeded to lose track of what was going on around him, consumed as he was by the meaning behind Anne’s behavior, and whether it was a sign that she was attached to Mr. Elliot or not. He could not discern anything in it to satisfy him with any certainty. It was all conjecture. He brooded alone, ignored by the rest of the party, until Charles Musgrove spoke. 

"Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for tomorrow night. A'n't I a good boy? I know you love a play; and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play. Have not I done well, mother?"

“I am perfectly ready for the play, if Henrietta and all the others like it, and--”

"Good heavens, Charles!” Mary Musgrove broke in irritably. “How can you think of such a thing? Take a box for tomorrow night! Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden Place tomorrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr. Elliot, and all the principal family connections, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be so forgetful?"

"Phoo! phoo!" said Charles, "what's an evening party? Never worth remembering. Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he had wanted to see us. You may do as you like, but I shall go to the play."

"Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you promised to go."

"No, I did not promise. I only smirked and bowed, and said the word 'happy.' There was no promise."

"But you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable to fail. We were asked on purpose to be introduced. There was always such a great connection between the Dalrymples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened on either side that was not announced immediately. We are quite near relations, you know; and Mr. Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with! Every attention is due to Mr. Elliot. Consider, my father's heir: the future representative of the family."

"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," cried Charles. "I am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising sun. If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it scandalous to go for the sake of his heir. What is Mr. Elliot to me?" 

Frederick could not but help glancing at Anne at these words. Her lips were curled up in a small smile, but whether it was a smile of agreement or a smile of irony he could not say.

Husband and wife continued to quarrel, but Frederick heard none of it. All of his thoughts were consumed by Anne.

Mrs. Musgrove finally attempted a reconciliation. "We had better put it off. Charles, you had much better go back and change the box for Tuesday. It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's; and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play, if Miss Anne could not be with us."

His eyes were once more drawn to her.

"If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home (excepting on Mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment,” she said, softly but firmly. “I have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you. But, it had better not be attempted, perhaps." 

There continued to be both agreement and teasing among the party, but Frederick paid it no mind. He stood up from his seat and walked to the fireplace. This change of position would provide him the perfect opportunity to speak to Anne without bringing scrutiny to his obvious intention. 

"You have not been long enough in Bath to enjoy the evening parties of the place,” he said, fiddling with his cuffs but otherwise affecting composure.

"Oh! no,” she said with a shy little laugh. He had always loved that laugh. “The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player."

"You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes."

"I am not yet so much changed," she said feelingly, then abruptly stopped, her cheeks coloring. 

She was not yet so much changed. Surely, surely that must mean...

"It is a period, indeed!” he said, almost involuntarily. “Eight years and a half is a period."

He did not know what to say next, what he would have blurted out in the emotion of the moment, when he was spared this eventuality by the bustle that followed, with Henrietta determined to leave and calling on the rest of the party to agree with her. Anne, of course, was among the first to accede, but Frederick thought (hoped?) that it was a cursory acceptance, contrary to her actual wishes.

He watched distractedly as they all busied themselves with their preparations, when the door was opened and Sir Walter and Miss Elliot appeared. He was almost too preoccupied with his own situation to notice them, but the effect they had on the rest of the room was immediate. Everyone seemed instantly on guard, instantly less comfortable. The next few minutes were spent in the usual way, with all the usual propriety and insipidity, and then Miss Elliot set about performing the task for which she came, inviting them all to an informal party and passing around her cards-- including, surprisingly, one for Frederick, delivered with a particular smile. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot then left, as suddenly as they appeared.

Frederick looked down at the card, contemplating it with disdain and intrigue in equal measure. Oh, he did not care one whit about the party. But Anne would be there… was that not reason enough to anticipate the evening?

"Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody!" said Mary Musgrove, her whisper carrying around the room. "I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card out of his hand."

He flushed; his mouth tightened; he turned away. Mary Musgrove really was one of the most vexing women of his acquaintance. To even suggest that he would care so much for any event that Miss Elliot hosted, that he thought of anything but Anne!

The party broke up soon after and Frederick and Harville returned to their previous engagements, though Frederick could not continue to exert himself the way he had earlier in the day. If Harville noticed, he said nothing of it, and he chattered away, covering the silence of his companion in a manner both gracious and considerate.

Chapter Text

Frederick, his mind full of Anne and Mr. Elliot and the idea that he might already be too late, was glad to have a task to distract him. Harville had commissioned him to obtain a proper setting for Benwick’s miniature - a gift originally meant for Fanny Harville and now intended for Louisa Musgrove - and Frederick had leapt at the employment. Anything to keep him busy. Anything to keep his thoughts off of his own situation. 

They were at the White Hart, this time with Mrs. Musgrove and Sophy, and he had just congratulated himself that their group was not larger when Anne Elliot walked in. Their eyes met. Frederick looked immediately away. 

“Oh, Anne! Here you are at last!” said Mrs. Musgrove. “Mary and Henrietta will be back soon. They were too impatient to wait for you, but they told me - quite strictly too! - to keep you with us until they return.”

Anne submitted to this with her usual gentle civility. Frederick glanced up at her again. She looked composed and serene and quite uninterested in his own presence. She was not looking at him anymore, but he could not seem to look away from her. There was a desperate sort of ache in his chest-- born, no doubt, from seeing her here and from her avoidance of his gaze and from his not knowing what it all meant. 

He had to focus. He could not do this to himself at the moment. 

“We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you will give me materials.”

The letter would keep him occupied. It would keep his eyes and his thoughts and his heart away from Anne. He sat down at a table, his back to the room, and tried to lose himself in his writing. 

It was not that easy. 

Mrs. Musgrove was telling Sophy - in a very audible whisper - all about the particulars of Henrietta Musgrove’s engagement to Charles Hayter. Sophy, he could tell, was humoring her, amused but polite, answering whenever she could sneak a word in. Frederick’s attention drifted in and out, never entirely distracted from the conversation but never interested enough to lay his pen down. 

“And so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them,” said Mrs. Musgrove. “At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement.”

His pen did pause then.

“That is precisely what I was going to observe,” said his sister. “I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement.”

Well, her personal experience gave her a reason to look indulgently on short engagements. He need not think of what had happened with his own.

“I always think that no mutual--” Sophy continued, but she was interrupted by Mrs. Musgrove.

“Oh! dear Mrs. Croft, there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long engagement. It is what I always protested against for my children. It is all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or even in twelve; but a long engagement--”

Frederick began to squirm in his chair. The subject was getting a little too interesting now.

“Yes, dear ma’am,” said Sophy, taking her turn to interrupt, “or an uncertain engagement, an engagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such a time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can.”

Frederick had stopped writing again, his stomach clenching painfully. He lifted his eyes involuntarily and turned to look at Anne. She was looking back at him. He returned to his letter, overwhelmed with feeling. He wondered if Anne was experiencing the same sort of hazy confusion, her own mind as restless and agonized as his, or if she felt something entirely different. Perhaps it was only embarrassment that had made her glance at him; only the shame of remembering her former engagement, just as she was on the precipice of a new life spent with Mr. Elliot. 

He stared down at his sheet of paper, the pen trembling slightly in his hands. He had to concentrate. 

He registered, through his own self-absorption, that Harville had moved to a window and that Anne had walked over to join him. He wished he were not always so aware of her movements. He wished he could not hear her voice as she spoke to Harville now, about Benwick and Louisa and how quickly the memory of Harville’s sister seemed to have faded.

“Poor Fanny!” he heard Harville sigh. “She would not have forgotten him so soon!”

“No,” said Anne. “That I can easily believe.”

“It was not in her nature. She doted on him.”

“It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved.”

Frederick’s heart seemed to have stopped. Surely it was fanciful on his part to dwell too closely on Anne’s words. 

“We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us,” she said. “It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.”

He wasn’t sure he was even breathing anymore. He strained to catch more of their conversation. 

Harville and Anne battled it out, good-natured but earnest, each claiming the greater depth of feeling for their own sex. Harville argued that as man’s bodies were strongest, so were their feelings. Anne disagreed.

“Your feelings may be the strongest, but the same spirit of analogy will authorize me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments.”

Frederick was very still now; he could not move even an inch.

“Nay,” Anne continued, “it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always laboring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed, if woman’s feelings were to be added to all this.”

He heard her voice falter slightly as she spoke this last sentence. His mind was a whirl of shock and uncertainty and sharp, shining hope. He could not be simply imagining it. She must be referencing their ill-fated engagement. She must be implying that her feelings for him had not diminished. 

He was so lost in his own emotion that he did not realize that he had dropped his pen until Harville and Anne paused to look at him. 

“Have you finished your letter?” asked Harville. 

He strove to look composed. “Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes.”

Who cared about the letter? He willed Harville and Anne to continue speaking. He had to hear more of what was on her mind. 

He was not disappointed. They went on in the same way as before, and every word Anne spoke shot straight through him, equal parts pleasure and pain. Something new was sprouting up in his heart, a feeling of expectancy; a wish, so recently despaired for, seeming less desperate now. Everything she said pointed to his having a second chance. Every utterance breathed new life into that dream that had not died even eight and a half years ago, no matter how often he had tried to convince himself otherwise. 

He took up another sheet of paper and began a new letter, this time to Anne. 

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

  F.W.

I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never.

His hands were shaking; his handwriting looked hurried and untidy; his fingers could not keep pace with his heart.

It was Sophy who finally broke through his preoccupation. “Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe. I am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. Tonight we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party,” she said, smiling at Anne. “We had your sister’s card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?”

He had barely taken any of this in as he folded up Anne’s letter. He wrote Miss A.E. on the front of the envelope, trying to trace as much of his love as he could into the characters, feeling sentimental and silly as he did so, but hoping that Anne would be able to discern it anyway.

“Yes,” he said, “very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute.”

He wondered if Sophy or Anne - the two most capable of discerning it - had heard the tremulous quality of his voice, not entirely hidden beneath his show of calm indifference. In great agitation, he sealed the letter and prepared to leave, placing it under a pile of scattered paper and deliberately leaving his gloves. He could not think straight. He knew not what to do or how to do it. His plan was vague and artful and hasty, but he knew he must be able to leave the room and then return to it, to somehow get the letter into Anne’s hands without drawing attention to its delivery. He was impatient to be gone, impatient to be back. Now that there was action to take, he must take it. 

Harville wished Anne a good morning and they swept from the room. Frederick did not look at her as they went. 

“I beg your pardon, Harville,” he said when they had taken only a few steps away. “I seem to have forgotten my gloves. I will be but a moment.”

Harville said something, jocular and easy, but Frederick did not hear it. He was in a hurry to do what must be done. 

He turned back quickly and opened the door to the apartment, catching Anne’s eye as he did so; he explained about his gloves, crossing the room to the writing table in a few long strides. He drew out the letter and placed it before Anne. Their eyes met again. He looked at her for what seemed like a neverending moment; attempted to imbue that gaze with everything that he was feeling, all of the love that he had held for her for so long; willed her to feel the same way.

And then the moment passed. He collected his gloves and left the room, rushing to catch up with Harville and trying not to think about what Anne would do next. 

His fate and his future were sealed in that letter. All he could do now was wait.

Chapter Text

The wait for Anne to emerge from the White Hart felt like an eternity. Eight and a half years of pain and bitterness and resentment had passed quickly in comparison to this. Frederick felt an odd sort of ache in his chest. He could not seem to get enough air into his lungs. His breath was coming in rapid, anxious bursts, making him lightheaded. He needed to get himself under control.

Finally, Anne appeared. He caught a glimpse of her face as she passed by on Charles Musgrove’s arm. She was pale, her eyes wide; she was trying for composure and not quite achieving it. He thought - he hoped - that there was nothing of displeasure in her countenance. His letter had been a shock, it seemed... but not, he flattered himself, a disagreeable one.

No. He must not get ahead of himself. He had to observe her more closely, to speak to her, to receive confirmation from her lips alone. He caught up to Anne and Musgrove quickly. He said nothing and merely gazed at Anne. He was sure he was as pale as she was, his stomach twisted in nervous, hopeful anticipation. And then she met his eyes, her expression warm and loving, her cheeks flushed, her mouth curling into a smile. That was all the confirmation he needed for now. Feeling quite flushed himself, he moved to her side, the rhythm of his steps easily matching hers. 

"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going?” asked Musgrove. “Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?"

“I hardly know,” he heard himself say, too full of emotion for sense.

"Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop."

Frederick happily agreed to this plan, rejoicing in so convenient an opening. By unspoken agreement, Frederick and Anne continued on in forced calm, even in Musgrove’s absence. It took everything within him to maintain this facade of propriety when he felt as though he might vibrate out of his skin. 

“Shall we turn here?” he asked Anne, breaking their silence. He wondered if she could hear the eagerness in his tone as he indicated a quiet gravel walk. He was sure that she could.

She smiled and assented, and they made their way from the crowd. 

“Anne,” he said, but faltered. The despair and the hope and the wretchedness and the felicity of the day had drained him. That letter had drained him. Waiting for her reaction had nearly killed him. He gathered himself and began again. “Anne, I did not deserve you in the year six and I do not deserve you now.”

She made a gesture of impatience but he stopped her, removing her arm from his and taking both of her hands instead, pausing in their path to face one another. There was no one around, no one to overhear, and he could not hold this in any longer.

“In fact,” he continued, squeezing her hands, tiny and cold and perfect in his, “I deserve you even less now than I did then, after treating you with such spite and resentment. It was dishonorable and ungentlemanly, and you are worth far more than the treatment you have received from me.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but he had to go on.

“I promised you, eight and a half years ago, that I would care for you, cherish you, and protect you from the ill-usage of your family, and I have failed you on every count.”

She shook her head but let him continue this time without attempting an interruption.

“My conduct has been cruel and disgraceful. But if you will forgive me, if you will give me a chance to show you how very sorry I am, if you will do me the honor of becoming my wife, I will spend the rest of my life atoning for all the wrong I have done to you.”

He scarcely heard her response, but her smile, so bright and beautiful that he ached just looking at it, was answer enough. 

At last, Anne Elliot was to be his wife, and this time, he knew, nothing would tear them apart.

***

And so Frederick Wentworth and Anne Elliot were finally married. It was highly gratifying for Frederick to have won the heart that had always held complete control over his own, whatever he may have told himself for the better part of a decade. It was almost equally good to take Anne away from the most hateful of her family and to introduce her instead into his, where she was welcomed warmly by all of his brothers and sisters, and most particularly by Sophy. 

“You are very fortunate, Frederick, to be loved by such a woman,” said Sophy, exasperation and fondness evident in every word. “Not many of her quality would forgive you for all of your foolishness.”

Frederick readily agreed.

For his part, and for Anne’s sake, he became gracious towards Lady Russell, unable to hold a grudge against the woman so like a mother to his wife. After all, Lady Russell’s folly had been slight in comparison with his; her prejudice, though offensive to him, had come from a place of concern for Anne. When he was at his most reasonable (and least emotional), he could almost see from her perspective.

He was, moreover, coming around to Anne’s way of thinking: that though the pain, while they experienced it, had been excruciating, their estrangement was worth the joy of their reunion; that, older and wiser, they saw more clearly, loved more deeply, cherished more thoroughly. 

Lady Russell would be like a grandmother to their children, when children came; she was as much his family now as his own was, and he had come to care for her in a way he never could for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot.

It had all - improbably, incredibly - worked out for the best. Despite outside interference, and despite his best efforts to destroy his own happiness, he had been rewarded with far more felicity than he could ever have imagined or dared to have thought possible. 

He looked over at Anne, reading quietly on the sofa, a lock of hair falling into her eyes. She brushed it away and, feeling his gaze, looked up at him with a smile. After over eight years of disappointment and misery, this lovely woman was his wife. He smiled back, so content that he could laugh aloud with the breathtaking miraculousness of it all. 

He did not think he had done anything to deserve it, but he wasn’t going to question it too closely.