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Chapter Text

"Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea. She had never been staying there before, without being struck by it, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her…"

Persuasion, Chapter 6

~.~.~.~.~.

Our story begins with a certain Mr. Henry Tilney who, for the second time in his life, found himself a most reluctant hero. While he was handsome enough and clever enough to be a hero all on his own merit, he was, in other respects, far too ordinary to play a very convincing one. Oh, Mr. Henry Tilney's earliest beginnings showed all the promise and possibility of heroism. He had grown under the gloomy shadows of an abbey, lost his beloved mother at a young age, and survived the rule of a tyrannical father, and yet the later years of his life proved far less noteworthy to aspiring audiences of gothic romances than its genesis.

For one thing, he was a clergyman by profession and had been for many years. While he was a very adept and compassionate parson, his years in the rural countryside of England were mostly uneventful. He had yet to banish any ghosts (other than the type which steal chickens and raspberry tarts) nor exorcise any spirits (other than the type which are imbibed) nor play the role of villain (other than when he required his daughters to learn their letters and mind his directives). No, Henry Tilney's days were spent tending his rather unexceptional flock of parishioners to the best of his ability.

For another thing, Henry Tilney was a widower. This, in and of itself, would not exclude him from the privileged title of "hero," if only he could manage it properly. However, despite all the years of domestic felicity he had been granted, he still was reluctant to throw himself off a cliff or drink poison after his wife's tragic departure from his life. Oh, it was all very grand and fine a thing for love to be everlasting and for a hero to pine away after the loss of his one true love all the days of his life, but Mr. Henry Tilney, for all his genuine grief, remained firmly planted in the Land of the Living. This was partially due to his own terribly unromantic appreciation for his own life and his selfish preference to rather keep on living it for as long as he possibly could. It was also due, in no small part, to the very real fear that if he chose to follow in the footsteps of his beloved wife, she would be furious with him. For as much as Mrs. Catherine Tilney loved her husband all the days of her life, she had struggled to birth three beautiful daughters and he had no doubt that her ghost would find a way to resurrect both herself and him only to find a way to painfully end him herself if he even considered leaving their daughters as orphans. No, for all her romantic notions and love for fantastical tales, his wife was equal parts imagination and pragmatism and she could just as easily rear chickens and tend to scarlet fever as she could concoct stories of vampires preying on the souls of beleaguered maidens and half-wit village sons who become lords. When it came down to it, he knew Catherine Tilney would admonish for him to remain with their daughters than to pine away without her and chase her to eternity and back again. Thus, Henry Tilney was forced with the insurmountable obstacle of continuing on... without her.

It was due to the influence of his wife that Henry Tilney found himself thrust into the role of hero the first time. This was many years ago, back in the days when he was still a semi-young man, long before he had gained his in-depth knowledge of domesticated country poultry and the best sermons to preach for Michaelmas. You see, it was not Mr. Henry Tilney who chose to embark on a romantic adventure with the heroine, the young woman who was then known as Catherine Morland. No, indeed, it was Catherine Moreland who first identified and chose Henry Tilney as a potential hero and it was due to her insuperable influence and unshakeable faith in his ability to fill such a role that he had no choice but to fulfill it- no matter how challenging or insurmountable the obstacles that threatened them along the way.

It was his knowledge of this fact… and his experience of the long and happy years that followed… that caused his reluctance now. Henry Tilney had been entirely contented with his life. He found great satisfaction in his role as a clergyman and Mrs. Catherine Tilney, daughter of a parson, was uniquely suited to be his wife and helpmate in all things. While he may have wished for a more genuine reconciliation with his father… and perhaps a few less foxes in his chicken yard… but, overall, there was very little else he could wish for… he was content.

Until she was gone.

The loss of his wife, four years ago, had nearly proved his undoing and it had taken many dark months… and the nearly relentless intervention of his sister and his wife's family, to help him learn to see the sun again. Henry's first marriage had been so blissfully happy, so entirely full of the delights of companionship and suitability of partners. For all that his early years had been brightened by Catherine's presence, it was that very fullness which made her death acquaint him ever more with his own lack and emptiness. How he missed his beloved wife! No matter the intermediary years, he could not escape her sweet memory or the bitter yearning her absence left behind.

He had fought against all comfort for a time. His anger had boiled like a whistling tea kettle and he had raged at the Hand of Providence most of all. Why must it be those he loved so dearly which were stolen away while his father and brother remained behind? It was uncharitable, unkind to think such thoughts, but grief is seldom lined with universal charity or even logic.

Yet, Catherine had not left him entirely alone. Instead, three perfectly miniature versions of herself were left behind- each as wide-eyed and earnest as she had been, each as affectionate and open-hearted. They proved a balm more healing than any other, save the comfort of the Almighty. He had finally reconciled himself to his fate and come to a place of acceptance when it was all upset again.

Who can possibly become a hero for a second time in his life without some great change of circumstances or overwhelming trial? For Mr. Henry Tilney, the second great looming loss he now faced, as a man walking straight towards a precipice, unable to stop the coming descent, was the fact that he would soon no longer be a clergyman but the master of Northanger Abbey.

He had loved his little parish. When his brother-in-law offered the Tilneys a living in his viscountcy, they had not hesitated to accept. Not only did this opportunity grant a more prestigious living, but it ensured only a few miles divided the two families from each other. Increasing the distance from Northanger and the continued discontent of General Tilney was an additional benefit from their relocation. The parish he had taken on delighted in him and he and Catherine worked tirelessly to see to their care. For years, he had presided over births, deaths, marriages, and all the intermediary joys and woes that befall a small community. He had planned to remain as he was, continuing to shepherd his flock through the days and years and decades that followed.

It was not to continue, however. For Mr. Henry Tilney, his greatest of foes proved to be the men of his family… and the French. If one wished to write a proper novel, it was the other Tilney men which made the better heroes – at least on paper. Long years of conflict on land and sea kept Henry's father and elder brother delightedly occupied doing what they did best – presiding over battles and soldiers and wars. With news of Napoleon's advancements, Major General Frederick Tilney had been only too happy to forego drawing room skirmishes, ordering troops of servants, and presiding over pristine row upon row of hothouse pineapples in order to pour himself fully into the true glory and grit of the war raging on the Continent. General Tilney, while reluctantly too advanced in years to lead troops into battle, eagerly threw himself into the affairs of the Home Office and blustered and raged and brought efficiency and order amongst the ranks. He, too, came to life like a bear out of hibernation when freed from civilian life and poured out for the glory of England.

Bonaparte was a far harder foe to vanquish than England hoped and the war continued waging for year after dwindling year. From Alexandria to the Peninsula, Frederick Tilney proved his merit and valiantly led his men to victory. Finally, when Old Bony was dealt with for good and trapped on Elba, and all England celebrated the end of the war, it was then that the forces of England could come home for good. Droves of soldiers and sailors washed up upon their natal shores, ready to embrace all that the new peace held for them.

While Major General Tilney had escaped French bullets and bayonets, life as a soldier had other methods of ending a man and he carried an illness which would prove his undoing.

"It may not be for some months yet, perhaps he may even last a twelvemonth, but prepare yourselves. The medicines are no longer working. There is nothing that can be done," the doctor said, his expression somber and apologetic as he imparted such terrible news.

Eleanor and Henry exchanged fearful, sorrowful faces. The General remained stoically silent, his entire posture fearfully rigid. Eleanor clutched to her husband's hand. Henry placed a consoling hand on his sister-in-law's shoulder. Mrs. Frederick Tilney, for all her pride and airs, refused to show a flicker of emotion- not even in so small a company and under such circumstances.

It was in this manner that Henry realized the precipice he now faced – one he had never thought would be his. Henry sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. It was unfortunate enough that Frederick was dying. While he could not claim they were always the best of friends or that he approved of many of his brother's decisions, Frederick was still his brother. However, it was not only the loss of his elder brother that preyed upon him, but the very disagreeable weight of Henry's necessary succession to his brother's former place. When Frederick died, Northanger Abbey would fall to Henry.

For his entire life, as long as he could remember, Northanger was the sole property of his brother, an extension of his father, almost an embodiment of the two most powerful men in his life. It was as if their souls haunted its halls and breathed life into its grounds. The strength of their personalities was the mortar that held its stones together. His mother, Eleanor, and Henry merely dwelt there as usurpers, temporary guests dependent on the well-wishes of two generals and their mercurial tempers. While the notion had always floated through the periphery of possibility that it all could fall to Henry – if fates so aligned- he had never let such a notion make a nest in his head.

No, Henry Tilney was content to spend his days as the vicar of his parish and live comfortably as the spiritual and moral head of his small parish. He read books. He wrote sermons. He presided over more weddings and funerals than he could count. He visited the sick and warmly clasped the hands of each villager who stopped to greet him. It was an unexceptional, ordinary life and one he was deeply contented in.

Until Frederick decided to make a mess of things- again.

Frederick was supposed to have settled things long ago. His father had made sure of it. With the ever-lengthening war and threat of the end of the heir at any time on the end of a French bayonet, the General very nearly hog-tied his eldest son and forced him to the altar. There, the most beautiful of heiresses waited for him- hand-chosen by the elder General. She possessed everything Henry's wife had lacked.

And Frederick Tilney despised her purely for the crime of being the bride of his father's choosing. Yet, when forced to choose between disinheritance and marriage, he found he much preferred marriage – or, if one can call such an arrangement a marriage. Frederick obstinately made his displeasure with his father's edict known to everyone around him - most especially the newly minted Mrs. Tilney. It was little wonder, then, when a child was not immediately forthcoming. After more pleading and arguing and threatening and cajoling, Frederick finally amended his actions enough that hopes for an heir were not unfounded. Yet, the requisite heir never came, despite the successive pregnancies- none of which came to fruition - and the unfortunate Mrs. Tilney was forced to remain with her husband far more often than she might have wished.

It had been hoped by all that now the war was over and Major General Tinley returned home; this would soon be remedied. Until he returned home and the state of his health was revealed. Frederick Tilney was dying. With no children of his own, Northanger would fall to Henry.

Even worse, all the expectations and meddling and invasive directing of his father would fall solely on Henry's shoulders. The General would do all in his power to make Henry conform into his image- an image that Frederick had been born to fulfill but Henry never could. Henry nearly shuddered at the thought of it. He had dwelt so long apart from his father, in the blissful happiness of life under his own direction and management. Not even the promise that he would someday be the master of Northanger could alleviate the intermediary years living under his father's tyranny again.

His father had never fully forgiven him for the great insubordination of his marriage. While he technically gave his consent out of a desire to appease his prestigious son-in-law, it was akin to the acceptance of a limb that must be removed due to gangrene. In the eyes of the general, such a mutiny was an offense that could not be overlooked.

It had been years since Henry last walked the halls of Northanger and its shadowed alcoves and vaulted ceilings held as many old ghosts as any of Catherine's well-loved stories. He spent long hours of the days that followed pacing the halls of his childhood home, resurrecting memories of days past, attempting to reconcile himself to his future. Yet, it felt as if he was preparing for his own burial in the sepulcher of that great house.

His sister sought him out, insisting they seek refuge together in the gardens. She understood – far better than anyone else would – the magnitude of the grief he felt. They spoke of everything and nothing. They remembered their childhood days in the apple orchard, the first time they met their beloveds, and how they longed to watch their children grow. They reminisced over their mother and discussed the implications of this new and impending change.

"I feel as though it is the end of my life, Eleanor," he said. "I hate to play the part of a melodramatic child, but this is not what I would choose for myself and I would much rather kick and scream and throw a vase on the floor."

Eleanor laughed. "I will not stop you – purely for the pleasure that watching you behave so would grant me."

He grinned and she continued, "but you must remember, it is not only an end, but it is also a beginning- an opportunity for something new. The Hand of Providence is with you in this as surely as in all the stages of your life up to this point."

"I thought I was supposed to give the sermons."

"Not for much longer, dear brother."

He sighed. "That is what I am afraid of."

"Henry…," she began, her eyes alight with a weight of persuasion he could not like. "You know what Father will say…What his first goal for you will be…"

Henry scoffed derisively and kicked at the ground with the toe of his boot. "Ah! The same subject he has derided us with for the better part of a decade, I imagine. 'The son of a Viscount will not have Northanger. It must remain with the Tilneys! You must produce a son!' Yet, despite all his persuasions, it is only you who has managed a son and Frederick and I who have failed him. Now, he will be relentless and throwing heiresses at my feet until I marry again.”

"Are you so against the idea? Father's reasons aside... Your daughters are growing older… and while they will always have the support of their aunts and Grandmother Morland…But, not only them. Henry, you… well, I hate to sound like our father, but you could benefit from a wife," she began hesitantly. She ceased speaking when she caught the frown on his face.

He was no stranger to the idea; it simply irritated him to consider it. Not a day went by that he did not miss his wife, that he did not wish she was still with him, but, as she could not be resurrected back to him and he was in no hurry to join her, he was forced to admit they were at an impasse. For as much as he missed his wife, he also missed having a wife and, as his sister kept exhorting him, he performed much better as a man and a human being and a father and a brother and a friend when he had a helpmate alongside him. However, it was the very happiness of his past marriage which both compelled him towards and constrained him from pursuing a new wife.

At Henry's expression, Eleanor reached out to clasp his arm, fond affection in the gesture. "I'm sorry, Henry," she whispered.

He was not sure if her sympathy was for his potential inheritance and change of position or the pressure to marry again or the loss of his elder brother. Perhaps, it was for all these and more. Whatever her reasons, he appreciated the sentiment and he forced himself to smile in return.

"I suppose I shall return to Bath, then. Afterall, that is the place to find wives, is it not?" He said, causing his sister to laugh.

"It is the lot of all the Tilney men to acquire their wives in Bath," his sister said, mock seriousness in her tone.

"True. Though, technically it was father who chose Ophelia…not Frederick"

"He also chose Catherine… his later recantation notwithstanding," his sister retorted.

Henry laughed. "True, sister dear. Perhaps I should send him to Bath in my stead and tell him to choose."

"In all seriousness, Henry. You already planned to visit Bath this fall. All I ask is that you try. News of Frederick's illness will not be so widely known yet, not with the strict restrictions Father places on the servants, and you have some few months yet before you will be required at Northanger. Once it is known that you are to be the heir, you will gain more admirers than even your vanity can handle."

"Eleanor, what manner of wife would I find who would accept her role as the second wife of a clergyman and succeed as the future mistress of an estate?  My vanity requires all the support it can muster under such circumstances!"

"I recommend you choose your wife this time – without the influence of Father… It may be one of the few choices remaining in your hands for a while yet... and the one which will have the most influence on your future felicity."

He sighed. "I fear it may not even be entirely my choice still."

"That is why I admonish you to act now."

If he had set out to Bath forthwith, he would, perhaps, not have earned the title of "reluctant." However, following the footsteps of the prophet Jonah, Mr. Henry Tilney did precisely the opposite of what he said he would. As soon as he had made up his mind to follow his sister's advice, he promptly sat down and accepted the invitation of his cousins in Somersetshire rather than heading to Bath. He told himself it was not cowardice or procrastination that compelled him, but a sudden desire to see family he had not sought out in years and accept a longstanding invitation he had up till now refused.

"It is on the way to Bath and it is not so imperative I go directly to Bath, after all," he told his sister.

"Oh, Henry," was all she could say in return.

Thus, it was that Mr. Henry Tilney embarked on his second journey as a reluctant hero in a story not quite all his own. Unwittingly, it was in Somersetshire that Mr. Henry Tilney - widower, father, and clergyman- found himself faced with an unexpected mystery. It would require all the intrigue and imagination imparted to him by his former wife in order to solve it… and to take on the role of hero once again.

Chapter Text

"The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new."

Persuasion, Chapter 5

If there was very little of mystery within the Great House of Uppercross, then the family that dwelt there were even less inspiring for gothic imaginations. The Musgroves were a numerous, lively, cheerful family that would have been downright unremarkable without the hint of scandal stirred up by the now-deceased second-born son. Returning to Uppercross was exactly as Henry Tilney expected… and desired. It was in the company of amiable, unexceptional, and sensible people that he wished to remain for as long as possible… for he knew it to be highly improbable that the residents of Bath would possess those characteristics.

Uppercross was bursting with lively cheer and children and warm-hearted hospitality. For all that they were not as stately, as wealthy, or as well-connected as Northanger, they more than made up for their lack in general felicity.

"Mr. Tilney! It is such a delight to see you again! How good of you to come visit us!" Mrs. Musgrove said when she greeted him upon his arrival at the Great House. "I only wish you had come with the children! Tell me, how are the little dears?"

"Very well, Mrs. Musgrove. The eldest are at school. The youngest, I am afraid, was sorely sought after by her Morland grandparents, who insist they have not seen nearly enough of her and wished to keep her alongside a few of their other grandchildren."

"Oh, such a dear family! How wonderful for the grandparents to be with their young ones! Come, you must tell us all about them all!"

It was into the square, shining parlor full of instruments and Musgroves that he was ushered into and settled in and fussed over. It was not a grand room, but it was lived in and warm. The room showed every effort of endeavoring for greatness—though a greatness defined by the sensibilities of those who dwelt within rather than by those who came from without.

The Musgrove girls greeted him with all the consciousness and elegance of manner that a well-educated girl of the gentry ought. He had forgotten how old the Musgrove girls had become – now returned from school and quite grown! They were no longer the little girls he remembered Catherine fussing over and wandering the grounds with. He was struck, for a moment, with the reminder of how quickly his own girls would grow and how soon it would be before they embodied the forms and manners of women rather than children.

How he missed Catherine, in that moment! The last time he greeted these people and graced these rooms, she had been alongside him. Her warm humor and easy cheer had been just as ready to be delighted as to delight. She had enjoyed their visits to Uppercross, even more than himself, and the appreciation of the connection had been mutual between their parties. It was painfully bittersweet to dwell on it now, for she was not alongside him anymore.

The gracious, truly heartfelt condolences he received from Mrs. Musgrove upon the passing of his wife had proved a stark contrast to his father's poor expressions of sympathy. No, the Musgroves had understood the value of a Catherine Tilney, even if General Tilney never had. Then again, he could not be surprised at this. After all, the General had never gained an appreciation for the Musgroves, either.

It was during his childhood that Henry had first become acquainted with the Musgroves. The General had always viewed his Musgrove relatives with apathetic indifference. General Tilney had been the second of three children. The firstborn Tilney— an elder brother and the one meant to inherit Northanger— died unexpectedly at age 30, leaving young Colonel Tilney to inherit. This he did and then soon thereafter married well, however he did not relinquish his military career upon his inheritance. He simply transferred his military ways to the management of his estate and family and declared war on any who stood in his way of victory.

Now, there was a third Tilney in their family. A younger sister who, as younger sisters are wont to do, married long before her brothers. She was married to a gentleman with a modest estate in Somersetshire whom she had met through connections in London. While not as fine a match as could have been wished for the daughter of Northanger Abbey, it was well enough to please her brothers and meant she would no longer be dependent on their care. Thus, Abigail Tilney became Abigail Musgrove. She was sent off to Uppercross, leaving General Tilney with very few thoughts of either his long-married sister or his dead brother in the years that followed. His head was far too full with battle strategies — both in drawing rooms and fields of war — to bother about such trifles as sisters or nephews or middling estates in Somersetshire. Without any potential for social climbing or an increase in respectability, the General had seen very little merit in maintaining the connection. While his sister may have sent a few letters a year to her older brother, he only reluctantly and sparsely wrote back.

It was after the General married and the new Mrs. Tilney met her husband's sister that a connection was resumed. Afterall, a connection which a military man might have no use for, a newly married bride with very few relations of her own might find her own reasons. Mrs. Tilney, as an only child, was more than willing to pursue any and all relations on either side of the family. While she did her best to pursue her own Drummond relations, her husband had very little patience for them and could only rarely be convinced to visit them alongside her. She hoped that in pursuing his own relatives, she might have better luck.

This method prove successful. The General could not protest a visit to his own sister and thus a visit was made to Uppercross one autumn. While the reunion was such that the General saw no reason to return, Mrs. Tilney was determined to continue the connection. Faithfully, she maintained a correspondence with her husband's sister and occasionally organized visits between the families. Afterall, it was only eighty miles between Gloucestershire and Somersetshire and conveniently close for the Tilneys to call upon Uppercross during their travels to Bath.

Henry's Aunt Musgrove had only birthed one child— a son, Charles. Henry had fond memories of summer parties at Uppercross and tumbling through the meadows with his older cousin. The squire was only eight years Henry's senior and yet he had always seemed like such a great man, always so tall and broad and old – even older than Frederick and to Henry's young mind, Frederick had always been a man. Charles had been very jovial and kind to his young cousins. He even went so far as to take them on rides around the estate, teach them the best places to find fox dens or fish for trout, and he had spent the evenings playing cards or reading aloud to them during their brief holiday visits.

Henry remembered when his cousin married the amiable, warm-hearted Henrietta Hobson. He had been twelve and Eleanor eight and his mother had insisted they attend. They had visited the Musgroves when Master Charles was still in a skeleton suit and they had visited again when he was old enough to chase after Henry and look upon him with all the awe and reverence that only a very young boy can have for an older one. Henry supposed the younger Charles Musgrove must have seen him the same way that Henry had his cousin.

Then Mrs. Tilney died and all visits between the families ceased. Afterall, it had been Mrs. Tilney who sought out the connection and without her influence, the interchange between the families dwindled to a handful of letters each year. With the passing of his Sister Musgrove and her husband, the General saw very little purpose in even corresponding with his remaining nephew.

In all that occurred after his mother's passing, Henry had thought very little of the Musgroves in the years that followed. He had been a very young man, then, and caught up in his own concerns. He might have neglected his Musgrove relatives entirely, if not for their dedication to the relationship. It was many years later when the Musgroves thrust themselves into his notice again, at a time when he was the most susceptible to their advances.

It was during that tense, tumultuous year when Henry was cast out of his own family for his determination to wed Catherine. During that year, the Musgroves not only attended the wedding of Henry's sister, but then they insisted on attending his wedding. Henry might not have been impressed by long-distant relations suddenly reappearing when a relative marries a viscount, but he was duly impressed when the Musgroves insisted on attending the wedding of Henry Tilney to Catherine Morland as well. They were one of the few representatives from Henry's family at his wedding and on that day, he gained a new appreciation for the connection. Catherine, too, was taken with them and she determined to pursue the acquaintance with all the zeal of a woman who knew how to value family.

Thus, the relationship was renewed again in his adulthood. The Musgroves sought a connection not to elevate themselves nor prove their own merit, but simply because they were relations and relations were to be valued for their own sake. If they added to the overall felicity of the Musgroves, then they were treasured all the more.

The Musgroves, he had noticed over the years, were a family with very little margin. While fiercely loyal and devoted to their own family circle, full of good cheer and kindness to those within their bounds, they were a numerous family. With ten children, it was no small feat to extend as much generosity of heart and mind as they managed to those outside their familial bounds. His cousins Charles and Henrietta loved their children. They doted upon them. They were their pride and joy and their purpose for living. Yet, it was this very same single-minded focus which was their enduring weakness— so focused were they on their family circle that they could become remarkably near-sighted, and only measured the worth of those around them according to their role and connectedness to their own family circle. While good-natured, they were incurably self-centered, placing the needs and desires of their own family ahead of all the rest of human-kind. Henry found this charming. Having grown up in a family where it was the desires and whims of those outside the family which were valued more than the needs of those within, it was endearing to be part of a family assured of their own worth to each other and only to each other.

At Northanger, Henry's father was constantly seeking out those of rank and situation and wealth that would add to his own importance, that would grant him consequence and increase his own conquest of Society. The Tilney children were but an extension of the General and they existed purely to add to his consequence and pleasure. The Musgroves prided in their children in the same way the General paraded about his pineapples and his troops and his properties. With the Musgroves, they were never so happy as when all the children were home from school and they filled the Great House with their noise. While they occasionally sought out other acquaintances, it was those times within that were the most treasured and it was the personalities within that were considered of the greatest of consequence. They had no need to seek out others except as it added to their own pleasure.

Yet, this same contentment could lead to a near-sightedness, an insulation to the wider world around them. Of course, all the world must think and feel like them. Of course, all must delight in the same pastimes, find the same delight in their own society, and declare all the virtues within the Musgrove family the very best of all virtues, as they themselves found them. It was unthinkable to be considered unimportant when, to themselves, they were the very most important of all.

It was in this self-assured, slightly spoiled (in the most loving, generous way possible) that the grown Charles, Richard, Henrietta, and Louisa burst into Society, convinced of their own importance, assured of their own loveliness, determined to be admired in the same unconditional, unquestioning way they were in their own home. Why, of course, they must gain the affections of all! How could they fail? Well, Richard was the first to prove the fragility of such a position and his downfall had been a blow to the entire family.

Young Charles Musgrove, however, had grown in form and manner into the image of his father before him. He had been the first to extend the Musgrove family and add to their number. Thus, the very pretty Mary Elliot became a Musgrove. Marriage granted her all the consequence she lacked in her natal home. She could add into all the bustle and noise of their goings ons. The third daughter of a baronet became important at Uppercross due to her marriage to the heir more so than through the connections of her father.

It was later in the day of his arrival to Uppercross when the younger Charles Musgrove, his wife, and his sister-in-law came to wait upon him. They were all eager welcome and open amiability. Charles, especially, was eager to add all the companions and variety he could to their small society around Uppercross. He was nearly bursting with all the plans for sport he hoped Mr. Tilney would accompany him in and he could not fathom that Henry could fail to find enjoyment in his favored pursuits.

"We are so full of changes here!" Mrs. Charles Musgrove declared eagerly, once they had settled down for tea. "My father and elder sister are to stay in Bath while Kellynch has been let to Admiral Croft and his wife. Now, my sister Anne is to stay with us for some few months, and she is already a great help to me. You do remember my sister, do you not, Mr. Tilney?"

Henry glanced over at the serenely patient composure of the sister in question, and he smiled.

"I do, indeed. I believe I have met her thrice," he said, with a polite nod in her direction. "It is an honor to see you again, Miss Elliot."

Miss Elliot granted him a small, but earnest smile. "Mr. Tilney, it is always a pleasure to see you again, sir. Tell me, though, I only remember meeting you twice before. When was our third acquaintance?"

"Ah! You have forgotten already, then? Truly, I would chastise you for the omission if it had not taken me some years to make the connection myself. No, I cannot hold the breach against you for the first time we met, you were hardly able to walk without assistance. You were a dear, cherubic little child full of dark curls and rosy cheeks and sweet smiles. You clung to your mother's hand as if she were a shield and it took all her encouragement to pry you away from her lap so you would toddle through the grounds of Kellynch with my sister and I."

"Truly, Mr. Tilney? I have no recollection of such a meeting! You must have been quite young!"

"I was sixteen, then, and quite put out at being commanded to accompany my mother to tea at Kellynch and even more disgruntled over being sent to chase after two little Elliot girls for my amusement during the visit. However, it was only after my sister mentioned her recollection of the day in recent years that I made the connection between my small playfellows and the fine, handsome women I have chanced to meet at Uppercross in recent years."

"How remarkable!" Mrs. Mary exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Tell me, Mr. Tilney, did you make my acquaintance then, as well?"

"I am afraid it was too early for me to have that pleasure, Mrs. Musgrove," he answered her. "Though, your husband was a fine, strapping lad of four back then who had a propensity for sneaking frogs into the house in his pockets."

"Ah! I see where young Charles has inherited the trait!" Miss Elliot said, laughter in her voice.

"It is, perhaps, the sacred duty of all young boys in reach of a creek or a pond, Miss Elliot. I have no doubt my young self would prove just as guilty of the same transgression. Even worse, I believe I encouraged my younger sister to follow my poor example, much to the exasperation of our long-suffering mother."

Mrs. Charles grimaced. "I cannot abide the creatures! I daresay I never considered subjecting myself... or my pockets... to such slimy, wriggling things! Now, my sons cannot have enough of them! I find them under beds and in saucers and within boxes throughout the house! I suppose it is my due for bearing sons rather than daughters, but some days, I wish I could drain all the ponds and creeks around Uppercross so I would not be forced to face another frog!"

"Oh, Mary, then our sons would only insist on bringing in grasshoppers or grubs instead," Charles said, chuckling at his wife's answering frown.

While Mr. Tilney may have only met Miss Elliot thrice in the past, he quickly lost count of their meetings in the days that followed. He did not think overmuch about it. In truth, her addition was as understated and unexceptional as finding a sparrow's nest in spring. During the inevitable stream of family parties, he found in her another conversationalist and an adept one at that. She, too, was caught between generations. She was not quite young enough or carefree enough to partake in the merriment of her young sisters-in-law and their cousins, nor was she quite old enough to remain settled with Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove and yet her brother-in-law and sister also did not provide a natural home or resting place for her.

Anne Elliot, as sister of Mary, by extension became a member of the Musgroves. Yet, it was her means of meeting the needs and desires of the Musgroves that made her invaluable and not her skills and assets in and of herself. She was praised for her contributions to the Musgroves and not simply for being Anne Elliot. She was of secondary importance. She was not a daughter and thus could not claim all the primary virtues dependent on such close blood ties and affections. She existed to fill the needs of those of primary importance- just as she did in her own home, but with the added benefit of genuine warmth and sincere appreciation in return. She was a shadow, an echo of their desires, and a reflection of their needs and wants.

The younger Musgroves and their cousin Hayters were quite grown now, ready to insist on their place in society, ready to be heard and admired. It was the role of their parents' generation to step back and allow the young ones to shine. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove were more than willing to bask in the light of their children and allow themselves to dim in comparison. There had been card parties and dances and walks through the countryside. The young people made merry and all were aglow with their own importance.

It was the addition of the Crofts who added far more color and spice to their party. The Admiral and Mrs. Croft, the new tenants of Kellynch, were entirely disposed to their own felicity and to enjoying life to the fullest. They were determined to be pleased with their company, regardless of rank or origin, and just as determined to be delighted with all future situations and companies their ever-shifting circumstances would thrust them into in future. They swept into Uppercross with a parade of parrots and typhoons and cannon powder in their wake. They would just as easily sweep back out of it again someday and leave Somersetshire behind without a second glance.

Then, the brother came.

Henry Tilney did not have the faintest inkling of a mystery until HE arrived. It was only a few days into his visit to Uppercross that the household was bubbling over with the excitement of the new addition to the neighborhood: Captain Frederick Wentworth.

Truly, Mr. Tilney tried to be a fair judge of character. Truly he did. He tried to remain open and not judge characters too quickly or without just cause. However, from their very first meeting, Captain Wentworth had irritated Henry Tilney to no end… and very little improved this opinion in the days that followed.

For one thing, Mrs. Croft's naval brother was, quite unfortunately, named Frederick. Now, Henry knew this was a failing which the man, himself, could not be held responsible for. It was not Captain Wentworth's fault that his Christian name put Henry in mind of his elder brother and their tempestuous relationship. Frederick was an admirable enough name and Henry, himself, had known other boys with his own name that made him wish they did not. Thus, Henry might have forgiven this offense… if not for the many other ways that Captain Wentworth reminded him of Frederick Tilney.

Unfortunately, Captain Wentworth was also a military man given to long-winded stories about his experiences in war. Captain Wentworth, also, possessed a sensible, far too indulgent sister and a clergyman brother. Henry's rational mind reminded him these were coincidences and ought not be taken as the deciding factors in judging a new acquaintance harshly, but it was not only these. It was his entire manner, his way of carrying himself that grated on Henry. Bold, dashing, handsome, charismatic, and entirely smitten with the attention of the fairer sex, he naturally captivated the attention of whatever room he entered and whatever company he found himself in… in a manner so similar to Frederick Tilney that it set Henry on edge whenever he was in company with the man.

It was the morning of the second day of their acquaintance when Mr. Tilney accompanied the three Musgrove siblings and Captain Wentworth to call upon Uppercross Cottage. Captain Wentworth wished to pay his respects to Mrs. Charles and inquire into the well-being of their injured boy. It was after the entire company departed from the cottage that Henrietta inquired into Captain Wentworth's perceptions of Miss Elliot.

"She is so altered I should not have known her again," the captain responded simply.

Mr. Tilney's curiosity… and irritation… was piqued by the comment. It was not the words so much as the manner in which they were spoken that bothered him. In light of such a comment, no one spoke up in Miss Elliot's defense. No one called out Captain Wentworth or questioned why he would speak so. They took the insult as a matter of course. It was the tone, the hint of bitterness within the comment which bothered him. Wentworth meant to demean. He intended to dismiss and Tilney could not discover the purpose. To make such a comment in front of the lady's family —it could not help but make its way back to her ears. Could he be so oblivious— or was that his intention? Did he wish the lady to know she was so changed in his eyes? For what purpose did he wish to wound?

In all of Henry’s interactions with the lady, she had been unerringly kind and polite. She had warmly welcomed his wife and exerted considerable effort to make her feel welcomed, despite the gap of years between them. He could not speak so warmly of her other relatives, though Mrs. Mary Musgrove had always been friendly and obliging enough. Still, what had occurred in recent years to warrant such an ungallant remark from an old acquaintance? There must either have been an old conflict, an old misunderstanding, or some great change in the characters of those involved. Henry wished to inquire further.

"Pray, tell me, Captain Wentworth, what is it you mean by this? Is it in appearance or manner that you find Miss Elliot so altered?"

Captain Wentworth appeared surprised but then gave a gallant smile. "In both, I would imagine. Truly, if I were to cross paths with Miss Elliot in London or Portsmouth, I would not have recognized her."

Mr. Tilney paused for a moment before inquiring further. "I must confess my curiosity into such a declaration. You see, I have only met Miss Elliot thrice, before coming upon her this month at Uppercross. Despite our limited acquaintance, I find very little alteration in her appearance or manner. However, you mentioned you were first acquainted in the year Six?"

At Captain Wentworth's hesitant nod, Tilney continued. "I first truly became acquainted with the lady at my cousin's marriage to her sister, in the year Ten, or our acquaintance as children not withstanding. Thus, I must presume that some great alteration occurred between the Year Six and the Year Ten. Miss Louisa, did some great tragedy or illness befall Miss Elliot during those years?"

Louisa shook her head. "Not that I am aware of. I was very young, then, you know, and away at school most of those years. However, Anne has always seemed as she is now."

Mr. Tilney considered this. Then, catching sight of the hill upon which Uppercross was built, some distance away, he spread out his arms in the direction of the Great House.

"Musgrove, I must come to this very spot some morning and sketch this view. It is quite lovely, now, with the sun illuminating the windows so."

"Do you draw, Mr. Tilney?" Miss Musgrove asked politely.

"I used to, though I do not often draw in recent days."

"You must come and take in the sights whenever you wish!" Charles said, good-naturedly. "I daresay my mother has some supplies around somewhere. After all, she ensured all of us children had lessons at one point or another. She would be delighted to oblige you."

"I thank you," Mr. Tilney said, acknowledging the offer with a nod of his head. "Yes. I believe I will do just that. However, I must come at just this hour of the day. It would do no good to come in the afternoon, you know, for once the sun is so far across the sky, the light will have changed, and the house will be altered beyond recognition."

At the dumbfounded expressions of his companions, Tilney cocked his head to one side, his eyes fixed on Wentworth. "Tell me, Captain Wentworth, what might occur that would cause Uppercross to be so altered in my eyes? When I was young, I found Uppercross far larger than I see it now. With each year that passes, is it Uppercross which changes or is it myself—my own perception of what I see—that evolves? Or, perhaps, I never gave the house the initial attention required to cast it into my memory. If, only given a passing glance, a quick dismissal, it would be more difficult to remember it, when I came across it in future. For, surely, a handful of years cannot create so material a change as to erase it entirely from my memory— unless my memory itself is flawed."

"I would not argue with your knowledge of drawing, sir, as I have no skill for it myself," Captain Wentworth answered carefully.

"I am sure you do not. Perhaps, that is part of the lapse in your observations." Tilney knew he was brushing close to an insult and yet he could not help himself.

Perhaps, he had spent far too long married to his dear Catherine and her overactive imagination influenced his own thoughts. Perhaps, it was her love for the romantic, but whatever the reason, Tilney sensed a mystery – some unfathomable question and he wished to know the answer. Just what cause would Captain Wentworth have to so dismiss Miss Anne Elliot? He determined to pay closer attention to both individuals to see if he could unravel the truth of the matter.

If he was very fortunate, the mystery would involve pirates or murder or some tragic failed romance and he could gain knowledge of a tale even Catherine would have appreciated.

Chapter Text

"And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else."

Northanger Abbey, Chapter 10

It was a merry party that gathered to dine at Uppercross together. The exchange of the Kellynch Elliots for their tenant Crofts could only be regretted by those who once carried the name of Elliot and to all others the introduction of the Crofts must increase the joviality and amiability of all the neighbourhood. The addition of Mrs. Croft's handsome, well-traveled, and very eligible brother could only add to the general air of anticipation and enjoyment of all. 

Mr. Henry Tilney was just as taken by the ceaseless tales of naval battles and travels as any other member of the audience. While he had grown up in a home nearly inundated with soldiers and generals and those of their kin, he was far less familiar with the trials and tribulations of their oceanic counterparts.   

“I must admit I am the son and brother of generals," he informed the company, after a vigorous recounting of the Battle of Trafalgar. "It is through a contagion of sorts that I have been forced into my understanding of recent conflicts, nearly entirely from the perspective of those who fight on land rather than sea. My father’s military pride as a general must bias him in favour of his own manner of fighting.  However, I have heard him reluctantly declare the praises of our navy and the battles they have claimed as their own.”

"Too true! France may rule the land, but it is England that is king of the oceans,” Admiral Croft declared proudly.  “Through these many years of war, where would our army be without our navy?"

"Still in England, I expect," Mr. Tilney answered with a rueful smile.

Admiral Croft responded with a booming, good-natured laugh. "You see! Until you teach our soldiers to swim or our horses to fly, you must rely on the strength of our navy!"

"Very true, Admiral… though, my brother does enjoy the tale of how the French cavalry managed to take a fleet of Dutch naval ships in the winter of 1795."

"How can that be?" Miss Musgrove responded, her eyes wide. "Did they teach the horses to swim or carry them aboard ships?"

Mr. Tilney grinned. "The Dutch ships were frozen in ice, enabling the French Hussars to approach the ships and negotiate their surrender."

"It is unfortunate such a victory is claimed by the French cavalry rather than the English," Captain Wentworth remarked.

"Too true, Captain," Mr. Tilney answered with a nod in the man’s direction. "While my father and brother pride themselves on the greatness of England's army, I am afraid it is only the cavalry of the French who may claim to have fought upon the sea.  Thus, we remain indebted to the efforts of our Royal Navy and their ships rather than our cavalry and their horses for our victory over Napoleon."

"Here! Here!" The Admiral said, lifting his hand in a mock toast which the entire company eagerly joined in from each side of the room.

While various Musgroves praised the bravery and fortitude of the navy, the Admiral turned to Mr. Tilney again with a thoughtful expression on his countenance. 

"Tilney… Tilney… Now that I consider it, the name is familiar. I do believe I have transported at least one officer or other with that name. It was some years ago, though. Let me see… it was across the Mediterranean, I believe… it was Egypt, yes?"

"Ah, then you have met my elder brother, Major General Frederick Tilney. He fought in the Battle of Alexandria, though he must have been a captain or major at that time."

"Capital! Capital!  That battle was one of those occasions our army proved their merit. Now, I remember the man! A fine, admirable fellow and a competent officer," the Admiral said. "He surely would not have survived as a sailor for he had no stomach for the sea, but he cut a very fine figure on a horse."

Mr. Tilney smiled at such an appraisal of his brother.  "My brother was born the son of a military man and he has ever taken after my father in all ways. My mother complained that Frederick learned to ride before he learned to walk and very little has changed since. He is never so happy as when he is astride a horse and tearing across the countryside at a gallop.” 

"Well, I am slowly learning to share his opinion, though I prefer the comfort of my gig over the back of a horse,” the Admiral said.  “Tell me, how has the peace affected your military men? Have your father and brother returned to Gloucestershire?"

"My brother returned to Northanger some few months ago, though the notion that the peace may linger suits him very ill. My father shares his opinion. During the war, General Tilney could not remain idle at Northanger long when there was conflict abroad. He was quite put out when he was not sent to the Continent to fight on the frontlines. Instead, he has been forced to content himself with serving these last few years at the Home Office. Once the peace was declared, my father charged straight to the Irish countryside.  He has no desire to surrender to the idleness of the peace yet and instead intends to spend the autumn with an old acquaintance in the County Galway."

“Very good, very good.  Fine country—Ireland,” the Admiral said.  The Admiral glanced around the room, then, and found where his brother-in-law poured over the Navy List with the young Musgroves.  “Frederick, did you ever come across a Tilney?”

“I do not believe I ever had the pleasure,” Captain Wentworth responded and he directed a polite nod in Tilney’s direction. 

Henry Tilney rather wondered if such an introduction would have afforded much pleasure to either party.  Then again, military men tended to manage a form of camaraderie, especially in times of battle, regardless of the colour of their uniforms. 

This line of conversation continued, leading inevitably into a discussion on comparisons of the army and navy and the life of those honorable professions.  There was no end to the inquiries into how daily tasks might be accomplished aboard a ship or how Mrs. Croft, specifically, had managed it. The young ladies of the party were overflowing with admiration and open-mouthed ignorance about it all. It was quite obvious this was their first exposure to the notion that a world existed outside of Somersetshire and their curiosity was boundless.

Henry Tilney watched it all in bemused fascination. Occasionally, he made quiet comments, though it was only Miss Elliot who caught these. Miss Louisa, on his other side, was too captivated by the conversation of Captain Wentworth to notice any of her cousin's wry observations.

It was during this discussion that Miss Elliot quietly addressed a question to him.  “Mr. Tilney, I am curious.  Why is it you chose the church as your profession rather than following in the footsteps of your father and brother?”

“Ah!  I am afraid I would make a very poor soldier, Miss Elliot… or so my father decried.  I am far too unserious to manage the life of a soldier at war and far too serious to manage the life of a soldier during peace.  No, I am far better suited to make pretty speeches before congregations of farmers in the Country and perform useless soliloquies before the gatherings of the gentry in Town.  Far more importantly, I have been told by those who assure me they are experts about such things that a red coat would suit me ill and it is the garb of a clergyman that most compliments the charm of my features.”

Miss Elliot laughed quietly at this. “Are these your own opinions or those of your father and brother?”

Henry’s eyes grew wide with mock affront.  “I dare not accept advice on fashion from my brother nor father!  No, Miss Elliot, it is my sister who has assured me that red is not suited to my complexion.”

 “You know perfectly well I was referring to your role as a clergyman.”

“I assure you my role as a clergyman is perfectly suited to both my complexion and my many charms,” he answered, causing the lady to laugh again, which suited her very well.

Henry Tilney was about to respond with another jest at his own expense when he was interrupted by the growing volume of the surrounding conversation.  Captain Wentworth and his sister had fallen into an argument over the suitability of the conditions of a ship to house women on board.  He rather suspected it was not the size or quality of the accommodations Wentworth saw as unfit for ladies. More likely it was the presence of a lone female or two surrounded entirely by men and water and the occasional bout of cannon fire. However, the true dangers and privations of such a circumstance could not be discussed in polite company anymore than he could discuss the varied types and professions of women who followed a military camp about.  

It was just the manner of argument intended to incite the feelings and opinions of everyone in the room.  He assumed it was the purpose of the man to stir up dissension amongst his audience and argue a point he did not, in actuality, hold.  If that was, indeed, his purpose then he accomplished it admirably.

"My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray, what would become of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?"

"My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all her family to Plymouth."

"But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. We none of us expect to be in smooth water all our days."

"Did Mrs. Frederick Tilney ever accompany her husband on his campaigns?” Asked Miss Musgrove, turning her attention to Mr. Tilney. 

"She did not, Miss Musgrove. She remained at Northanger to tend to the estate in place of my father and brother and found this much more suited to her education and tastes.  Though, I have met quite a few officers’ wives willing to accompany their husbands wherever their orders take them.  A military camp, I think, is as fraught with privations and challenges as any naval wife might face at sea.”

“Any privations and challenges must be less than enduring such separations!” Miss Louisa interjected with a sigh.  “When, someday, I have a husband, I would rather endure anything than a separation!  It must be a great comfort for your brother and his wife to have the war ended and for them to finally be together again.”

Henry fought back his humor at such a picture. In this company, he could not speak of how such a situation would have been loathsome to both parties involved. The elegant, fashionable Mrs. Tilney would no more grace a military camp with her presence then she would deign to grace her husband with anything resembling admiration.  The feeling was mutual.  He knew his brother would rather face “Old Bony” himself than his lawful wife.  The greatest hardship of the pair in their marriage was not in their separation but in the brief and contentious times they were forced to dwell together.  No, Frederick Tilney found no shortage of female companionship amidst those who “followed the drum,” but it was not his wife he longed to have at his side, even now in his illness. He dare not explain these realities to such an audience.   Instead, he simply nodded in Miss Louisa’s direction.

“For those fortunate enough to experience true felicity in marriage, separation must always feel a great evil.  Any reunion after such a separation must be all the sweeter for the suffering endured,” he answered.

"There is nothing so bad as a separation,” Mrs. Musgrove said.  “I am quite of your opinion.  I know what it is, for Mr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are over, and he is safe back again."

“That is the way of a husband and wife.  It is as I said,” added the Admiral towards his wife, "when Frederick has got a wife, he will sing a different tune. When he is married, if we have the good luck to live to another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many others, have done. We shall have him very thankful to anybody that will bring him his wife."

"Ay, that we shall."

"Now I have done," cried Captain Wentworth. "When once married people begin to attack me with,—'Oh! you will think very differently, when you are married.' I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say again, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it."

With such a pronouncement, Captain Wentworth put an end to the discussion by moving away from the gathering and allowing his sister’s accounts of her travels to come to the forefront of the room’s attention again.  

“Thus, the battle is won, not by our dashing bachelor captain, but by the admiral’s wife and her greater experience in the notion of women at sea,” Mr. Tilney said, quietly in an aside to Miss Elliot.  “I wonder that Captain Wentworth would argue such a point against his sister at all, though it may be the effect of a brother seeking to trifle with his sister more than the wisdom of a naval captain against those of us far better planted on shore.”

“You do not agree with Captain Wentworth’s argument, Mr. Tilney?” Miss Elliot asked.

“Oh, it matters little if I agree with him or not.  What is of greater import is whether or not he agrees with his own argument.  I am not convinced he is serious about the matter, though if he is, I pity his future wife.”

“Why is that?” Miss Elliot asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“Well, I have found that in a drawing room conversation, the greatest of military experts are those who have never been to war.  Similarly, those with the greatest eye for art are those who have never held a brush and those who have never mastered an instrument profess the greatest taste in music.” Catching her confused expression, he cast a wry smile in the direction of where the captain still spoke eagerly with Miss Musgrove about the Laconia. He dropped his voice lower and explained.  “If the good captain is serious, then I must wonder at the manner of marriage a man will have who insists his opinions and stances as a bachelor must remain unchanged into marriage. If the opinions of those already married and the desires of his future wife may hold no sway over his future felicity, then I pity the woman he will wed."

"Some would argue it is possible to be too persuaded by the opinions of one's family and friends," Miss Elliot responded.

"This is also true. I only speak from my ignorance as an old widower.  There were a great many things I was convinced of that were forced to fall away once I brought a wife home to wed and I was indebted to the wisdom of my father-in-law and brother-in-law and the elder parishioners of my flock who imparted more wisdom into managing the state than I obtained on my own accord.  Perhaps, I am also biased by my own experiences in the state of matrimony and there is little I would not give to have more time with my dear Catherine.  Any unnecessary deprivation of months or years at her side would be felt as sharp regrets, now, in light of her loss.  As dear Mrs. Musgrove has spoken, 'there is nothing so bad as a separation.'”

Miss Elliot leaned slightly closer and her expression was overcome with fervent pity.  "I was so grieved when I received news of Mrs. Tilney's loss. You must feel her absence very keenly.”

“Any man who truly loved his wife must,” he answered.  “Though, I suppose it is not very gallant of me to hold the ignorance of our bachelor captain against him.  When I was young and unmarried, there were a great many foolish opinions I espoused, though my pride might try to convince me otherwise.  It is the fate of old men to forget that they were once young and the fate of all young men to deny the fact that they will someday be old.”

ooooo

The only proper way to end a country dinner party was in a merry bout of dancing. With Miss Elliot pressed into playing country dances by the dozen, the younger members of the party happily congregated into pairs.  They took to the floor in lines and squares and circles together in submission to the dictates of each song. Laughter and youthful exclamations warred with the unerring notes from the pianoforte. Candle light flickered off the adornments in the room and on the dancers. In all, it was such a pretty picture that Mr. Tilney rather wished to admire it from afar than partake in its formation. However, it fell to him to assist in the dance and ensure more of the ladies present could stand with a partner.

It was the first time he had danced since burying his wife. No one else present might recognize the importance of such a moment, however he did.  He tried to remember the last time he had danced at all… it must have been that final ball the Viscount held… and Catherine had worn that lovely rose-colored silk dress.  Her eyes had sparkled with humor as she chided him for his jests made at the expense of Lady Holloway… and they had left the ball shamefully early, both declaring their days of late nights past. 

Such recollections must instill a warring sense of nostalgia and grief, neither of which were conducive to dancing with any number of Musgroves and Hayters.  He fought down his musings and forced himself to be agreeable… and not trod on anyone’s feet in his distraction.

It was the first step he must take, though it was far harder than he anticipated. For one thing, his partners were so very young and it made him feel ever more conscious of how many alterations time had wrought in himself. For another, his left leg began to ache, the longer he kept time in the dances and soon he began to tire of the activity.  When he decided he had contributed his share to the merriment of the evening, he was about to join the elder Musgroves again when he recognized the song Miss Elliot began to play.  With no desire to join a game of cards, he moved to her side of the room instead.

"You have the right of it, Miss Elliot, in refraining from such exertions as dancing," he said. He brought a chair beside her at the pianoforte and inelegantly collapsed into it. "I am feeling fully the error of my ways and will take a rest alongside you, if that is agreeable to you."

"Are you quite well, Mr. Tilney?" She asked, looking over at him in concern.

"Oh, I am. I am simply regretting the poor life decisions I have made," he said, a wry chuckle escaping as he took in the movements and formations of the dancers across the room.

"Poor decisions throughout all of your life, sir, or a particular decision?"

"Oh, perhaps it would be more profitable if I spent this evening reflecting on my life in its entirety.  However, it is my participation in the dancing this evening that I have come to repent.”

“Have you injured yourself?”

“Indeed I have.  I am afraid my pride and illusions of youth are both injured beyond repair… Have I told you, yet, my view of dancing?”

“I do not believe I have heard you speak on the subject,” she answered.

“Well, it is very simple.  I have long held that dancing and matrimony are very similar," Henry said, glancing sideways at his companion. "And both are meant for the young and foolish."

"And now you are old and wise?" She queried.

He laughed. "Well, at least I know for certain I am old. The wisdom may not yet be achieved. Truthfully, there was a night some five or so years ago when I believed myself younger than wisdom should have permitted me to believe. I thought I might take a jump on my horse, though I had not attempted such a jump since I was five and twenty. However, if I could manage such an exertion in my younger days, why should five and thirty be any different?

"This sounds the beginning of a cautionary tale."

"You are correct. I am afraid I did not hold my seat, though a nearby tree branch did a very fine job of holding me. I broke a leg and though it healed, the bone has never been quite right since. It does not bother me often, but I have discovered tonight that dancing gives me a bit of trouble. Permit me to rest alongside you for a time until I forget my age and join the young people again... or else abandon my pretensions of youth and join my elder cousins at Whist."

"You are most welcome, sir. As long as you wish."

He turned his attention to watch the young people dance in merriment and high spirits. It was a very pretty picture, and one that reminded him of dearly cherished memories of that visit to Bath, the one where he had first met Catherine. Catherine had looked upon him with just such admiration and untarnished delight as he saw the young ladies casting upon dashing Captain Wentworth.  He was flooded with a fond nostalgia until he was distracted from his musings by a the end of one song and the beginning of another.  He noticed, then, the tight expression on Miss Elliot’s face and how she failed to look away from the keys of the instrument.  While her playing remained flawless, she wrestled with some strong emotion that he could not quite identify.

Then, he realized it.  He had unintentionally mortified her.  Here he was, treating her just as callously as he had decried Captain Wentworth for only a few days before! How could he blather on so and take no note of his audience or the particular struggles she must face?  No, she, too, was caught between both parties— the dancers and the card players— and he had come upon her seated alone, entirely overlooked by both parties save for her necessary role as a performer.

“I must apologize, Miss Elliot,” he said, turning away from the room so he could address her more fully.  “You have every right to chastise me for my thoughtlessness.  I ought not have spoken to you as I did.”

“I do not understand, sir,” she said, no longer watching her fingers on the keys but looking up at him in confusion.  “What is this wrong I ought to chastise you for?”

“I did not… It was not my intent to infer… I did not in any way mean to imply that you are exempt from either dancing or matrimony.  Indeed, I am certain that you would prove a great proficient at both, if you chose to attend to them.  In seeking your company rather than those of the dancers or card players, I did not mean to imply that you must find yourself in the same category as one such as myself."

Miss Elliot’s countenance shifted from confusion to something closer to surprise and he rather wondered if he had read her previous discomposure wrongly.  He realized, then, that Miss Elliot did not display her emotions freely on her features nor did she easily express her thoughts through her expressions.  No, she forced herself to remain in perpetual composure, nearly an unwavering elegance that belied any true depth of feeling.

“Indeed, I took no offence to either your sentiments or your company.  You are apt in your descriptions and I cannot disagree with you.”

“Well, you very well ought to disagree with me and then you would be well within your rights to insist I stand upon my weak leg again simply to stand up with you in the next dance.  However, I am afraid I must defer my amends until the next time we are together to dance because I do not believe I can manage any more dancing this night.”

“I certainly would not hold such expectations, Mr. Tilney!”

“Ah, well, you shall have your choice, Miss Elliot.  Either I shall partner with you in a dance or a game of cards, whichever will grant you the greatest pleasure. Then, you will assuage my conscience and permit me to make amends for my unintentional carelessness.”

“And if I would ask that you would simply grant me your company while I play?”

“Then it shall be yours —with pleasure!” He said.  Then, he turned his chair to face the instrument more directly and began to attend more carefully to the music.  As he did, he recognized the song and he began to sing.  Miss Elliot glanced at him in surprise before her expressionless face melted into something a bit warmer and more earnest than her forced stoicism of before.

"You sing beautifully, Mr. Tilney," she said, after the song ended.

"Not as beautifully as those light fingers of yours can dance along this instrument."

She offered him a smile and he contended himself by turning the pages for her during the song that followed. 

Ooooo

The pleasant, easy autumn mornings were filled with sport alongside the younger gentlemen and afternoons calling on neighbors with the elder gentlemen. Tilney enjoyed the companionship of both groups equally, though he felt more natural affinity with Mr. Musgrove and the Admiral than the more vigorous, optimistic cheer of Charles and the Captain. However, it was on one morning that he decided he had experienced enough of both and decided to call upon Uppercross Cottage instead. He had not reached the Cottage when he came across Miss Elliot out for a morning walk. He cast her a wide smile and offered his arm so they might continue together.  She took his arm and asked him all the pleasantries a well-bred woman ought to ask.

"Why are you not out with the sportsmen?" She inquired, once the other pleasantries had been gone through.

"May I confess something quite shocking, Miss Elliot? No, perhaps I ought not... for you will never look on me the same way again."

She watched him curiously. Neither rising to his bait nor acting concerned.

He gave an overly dramatic sigh and placed his hand upon his heart. "I must confess... I do not enjoy hunting. There. It is done. Judge me as you will."

She laughed then. "In the company of Charles Musgrove, that is indeed a confession that might inspire trepidation. However, I assure you that your secret is safe with me."

"I am counting on your discretion. I put myself entirely in your powers for if it is discovered, I will surely lose my welcome at Uppercross."

Anne laughed again. "Surely not! Why do you not tell Charles and be done with it?"

"Ah! Well, I do enjoy parts of the sport and do not mean to avoid it completely. I find great satisfaction in traipsing across the countryside and in the companionship of these fine gentlemen. And, if Mr. Musgrove cannot find the time for us to call upon the Smiths or the Poles during a morning, then it is just as well I accompany his son on his latest expedition."

She turned thoughtful. "Is it the pursuit of game you do not enjoy?"

He thought for a moment. "You must understand... my father and elder brother are military men— trained and practiced and deadly in their efficiency. Hunting is not merely a game to them; it is a military drill. To attend them in sport is a very serious undertaking and there must be no jests nor light conversation nor errors. I am afraid I have spoiled their hunt more than once as a terribly verbose child and they ensured I knew my error. After I lost them a very fine stag one autumn, they refused me to join them in the hunts that followed. Instead, they bid me to remain with my mother and sister and I found their company far preferable. I suppose, I lost my taste for the activity and never quite gained a new fondness for it."

"That is quite understandable."

"I thank you, Miss Elliot, for seeing my side of things. I will count on your support when Cousin Charles discovers the truth of it. Well, Charles is not anywhere near as serious about the sport as Frederick…Frederick Tilney, that is, and Charles is a far more generous, hospitable companion. Thus, I do enjoy our jaunts in the woods and meadows. However, today I found I would rather accomplish only the walk and leave the birds and foxes undisturbed.” 

Then, he turned and motioned to the path and woods around them, dropped his voice into the cadence he often used for giving sermons.  "‘The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket:—lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!—'T is no sport for peasants.’”

"Byron," Miss Elliot said, her eyes alight. "‘As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow.’"

“Ah!  Do you enjoy poetry, Miss Elliot?”

“I do, sir.”

“Very good.  Then, I already see a more profitable morning spent in discussion of verse and prose and iambic pentameter than any number of pheasants or ducks or partridges could grant,” he said and he bowed in her direction.

"Did you plan to walk far, Mr. Tilney?"

"Seeing that I have come across a companion, I intend to walk as far as you will permit me the pleasure of your company," he said with a smile.

Chapter Text

"Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship."

Marguerite Gardiner

It was a fine autumn morning when Henry Tilney made his way to Uppercross Cottage.  It was a visit he had taken frequently, after the little Musgrove boy had been forced to lay abed, in order to be of some use to the family.  He opened the door to find Mrs. Charles and Miss Elliot within, the boy laying on the couch between them and the younger brother playing on the floor beside him. 

"I have come to call on young Master Charles," Mr. Tilney said, granting the little invalid a sweeping bow. "How do you do, Master Charles?"

The little boy answered politely, though he still had not regained the freedom of full movement.

“It is so good of you to call again, Mr. Tilney!” Mrs. Charles said with a genuine warmth of manner.  “We have had no end of troubles trying to convince Charles to stay in bed and Walter insists on disturbing him so!”

“Is that so?  Well, today I have come to call on Master Charles, but tomorrow, I will return for young Walter.  What say you to that, my boy?  Will you come on a walk through the woods with me tomorrow?”

The younger boy eagerly nodded.

“For now, I will sit alongside your brother for a time and keep him company.”

“And I shall take you outside, Walter,” Miss Elliot said.  “Come, let us walk through the apple orchard and see if we can come across any squirrels or rabbits.”

The boy eagerly rose and took his aunt’s hand.  She cast Mr. Tilney a grateful smile and left the cottage, all the while her sister did not cease chattering to Mr. Tilney over a quarrel with her cook and how no one understood the challenges of her health. 

“It is a very bad thing to have poor health, Mrs. Musgrove.  While I am here with the boy, I recommend you go and rest for a time so you regain your strength,” he said, fervently hoping she would take his advice.  This she did, allowing a blessed quiet to fall upon the room.

Mr. Tilney pulled up a chair to sit alongside the little invalid. For a time, he asked the boy a series of riddles until the boy began to grow tired.  Then Henry brought out a picture book for the boy to look through.  He read the book aloud until his patient finally fell asleep, leaving Henry to rest in the quiet. 

True to his word, he returned the next day and took Walter for a walk through the orchard. He assisted the lad in building a bow and arrow before returning him home to his mother to cause mischief at home again.

"It was so good of you to take the boy away from here! He has been so confined, I am afraid he has been quite wild," Mrs. Charles Musgrove told him.

"Walter is very similar in temperament to my youngest nephew," Mr. Tilney responded with a fond smile.  “My sister is perpetually exasperated on how to keep him out of trouble.”

Mrs. Charles Musgrove was excessively pleased that her child could be compared to the child of a viscountess and preened over this revelation for some time before she permitted Mr. Tilney to take his leave of them, with promises he would return again in a few days.

Miss Elliot escorted him from the cottage, explaining she intended to take a walk herself.  It was a frequent occurrence that the pair fell into each other’s company during their daily walks.  It was not intentional, at least, he did not think it was.  It was the inevitable coincidence based on their proximity in Uppercross and shared affinity for walks. 

They walked for some time along a path leading into the woods. They talked of books, and he was delighted to find her a well-read, intelligent companion, full of insightful opinions on the subject matter.

He asked her anything that came to mind— both light-hearted and serious.  Had she avoided the rain that morning? How did she enjoy her book that afternoon? What did she think of Bath and Plymouth? Who did she most respect as a young girl growing up?  Which flowers did she fancy most?  Would she prefer a career as a baker, a shoemaker, or a candlestick maker?

She was not used to his form of humor and he made her uncomfortable more than once when he stumbled into his native form of teasing. She was far too serious. She ought to laugh more, he thought, but he was not sure she had ever learned how.

Captain Wentworth became a daily visitor at Uppercross in the days and weeks that followed.  Tilney watched in fixed fascination as the dynamics in the party shifted and changed over time.  Every female Hayter and Musgrove eye remained upon the handsome, dashing Captain. Yet, it was the Miss Musgroves, the women of greatest standing in the neighborhood, who were pursued.  No one could tell which Musgrove he preferred and Tilney wondered if the man himself had decided upon one or the other or if he preferred to bask in the freedom of pursuing both at the same time.  He must wonder at what the man was about.

The Musgroves were amiable and well-mannered girls.  They were free and unbroken, unspoiled by the hardships of life, innocent and easy to inspire affection in. If Henry had been a young man, he also would have delighted in their youth and beauty and enthusiasm. He would have easily charmed them, as he saw young Wentworth doing. However, he would not have pursued both sisters so pointedly.  

If it had been Frederick Tilney, Henry would assume the dual pursuit to be intentional and as both a greater challenge and a shield to prevent him from having to commit to either sister.  However, Henry had spent enough time with Frederick Wentworth in the intervening weeks to think better of the man.  While certainly he had faults of his own, Henry could not attribute such intentional provocation to Wentworth.  He might be brash and a bit vain, but he was not without a basic sense of honour and true feeling. 

In nearly all respects, Henry had almost grown to like the man.  When it was just the men together, he came to a begrudging respect and appreciation for the man’s company and the passion which he brought into everything he did.  However, there was one aspect of the man’s behavior Tilney could not make sense of: he could not understand the biting, frigid undercurrent of the invisible slights - always directed towards Anne Elliot.   He made very clear that he considered every other woman in the room worthy of his compliments— but not her.  To her, he barely spoke three words together, if at all. 

Anne shrunk into herself, as if a flower wilted from a lack of rain. She spoke little, ate even less, and if not for the requests for her to play on the pianoforte, she would hardly have been noticed as a member of the party at all.

In the weeks since they had met, Henry had watched her. Her entire countenance and manner grew alight when she was with her nephews and it was as if a heavy weight was lifted when he caught her alone on her morning walks through the grounds around Uppercross. Years of cares melted off her features and her eyes were bright and engaged. Then, once she came into the sphere of the other inhabitants of the Great House and the cottage, it was as if she became an observer. She visibly dimmed and placed herself in the shadow of the bright fervor of those around her. It was as if she was in the long habit of bending herself into the stronger currents around her and letting the larger, brighter, stronger personalities shine.

Of the largest and brightest and fullest of personalities, Captain Wentworth shone the brightest. His entrance into a room demanded the homage of all eyes within. His voice was the most eagerly sought, the place next to him the most highly coveted. He was all fire and strength and masculine charm and he had no shortage of admirers. And to all he applied equal amounts of charm and flattery, attention, and due honour… all, except to Anne Elliot. It was as if her presence repelled his light, her shadow one that darkened his brightness and dimmed his impeccable manners. He hardly spoke to her and visibly avoided her presence. When he spoke of her, it was decidedly ungallant and tinged with an unfathomable disdain.

Henry took extra pains to sit beside her at gatherings and to inquire into her thoughts on a variety of topics. Too often, she was excluded from conversations by the more vibrant, gregarious members of their party. Few inquired into her thoughts and opinions and even fewer sat quietly long enough to hear her replies. Yet, she was invariably thoughtful and well-informed. She was by far the superior mind among those gathered and her accomplishments far outweighed the others, yet she did nothing to call attention to herself or seek to gain the admiration of any present. While the other women, married or otherwise, clamored over each other to bask in Captain Wentworth's light, Miss Elliott never tried. In fact, he seemed to cause her to shrink into herself even more — as if his light caused her to extinguish into absolute darkness, as if they could not both shine in the same space, as if there was space for only a single solar body in this system of heavenly hosts.

And Wentworth, while openly courting the admiration of all others, blatantly ignored her… or… even worse… flaunted his ignorance of her. It was as if he wished to impress her with how little regard he had of her and ensure she knew she was unimportant to him.

And she did not protest, though, Henry could not help but catch the way her breath caught under Wentworth’s little assaults or the way she avoided looking at him when he spoke so earnestly with the Miss Musgroves.

It was as if he purposefully wished to wound her… and was using the Miss Musgroves as both a weapon and shield.  And she was left entirely vulnerable and exposed, daily wounded by his assaults from all sides.

It was a mystery that drew Henry in more and more.  At first, he thought it must be a passion soured and curdled, some manner of unrequited love turned inside out into hate..  Oh, Henry could just imagine the much younger, less established Wentworth flirting outrageously with the lovely baronet’s daughter!  It was a very pretty picture… and yet… if this was the case, what had become of it?

Well, quite obviously, nothing had become of it.  Thus, either Wentworth had not been serious, Miss Elliot had not accepted him, or circumstances had been against them. 

If Wentworth, in the Year Six, had come into Somersetshire as a charming, brash, penniless, and idle naval man, with a similar affinity for flirtation as he now possessed, Tilney could see how it might have happened. The Miss Musgroves would have been too young. The Miss Poles had never been very pretty, even before their marriages, and it was the Miss Elliots who had been first in consequence and beauty and wealth in the neighborhood. Elizabeth Elliot, while the most beautiful, would not have tolerated the advances and flirtations of a man unable to support her. But Anne Elliot... well, she had too much sense to tolerate such a man, either, but she might have been kinder about the whole thing. In the same way Charles Musgrove felt encouraged enough to try his suit, Tilney could see Wentworth interpreting her kindness as encouragement and doing the same. After all, the propensity for risk and seeking the largest prize in battle was a characteristic of all military men.  A young captain who had known mostly victories and sought to prove his mettle on land would be the same. If he set to conquer a baronet’s daughter, well, that could go very poorly indeed.

Anne Elliot may have gently rebuffed him, quickly turning all Wentworth's ideas of his prize to humiliation and making him despise the object that proved his inadequacy.  Tilney was reminded of John Thorpe.  How quickly his praise of Catherine had turned into disdain and malignant disparagement!  

Yet, it was Anne Elliot who made Tilney question this.  She acted, in all respects, like a woman who had lost her heart in quiet tragedy, the pining and forlorn lover. Her demeanor reminded him of Eleanor, during those long years she remained separated from John.  Henry could not determine if Miss Elliot’s loss was due to unrequited love, death, or ill-favoured circumstances. 

Henry also suspected her lost love had been a naval man.  Her knowledge of the navy and the life of a sailor was far too particular for a disinterested woman of her station. Her intelligence on the affairs of the war and recent battles, too, showed a keen interest not solely motivated by curiosity. Yet, for all her knowledge of battles, she proved herself far more acquainted to the efforts of those who fought by sea and far less knowledgeable of battles fought on land. It could not be a general interest in warfare as much as the concerns of a woman whose heart has been given to one now in peril and separated by the trials of war.

Based on Wentworth’s current pattern of behavior, Henry suspected the trajectory of the affair.  Since his arrival in Somersetshire, an idle Wentworth had been drawn into the sphere of every pretty girl, willingly bestowing his attentions and flattery on all of them.  In idleness, the man postponed his departure to Shropshire repeatedly in order to remain with the society in Somersetshire.  Yet, he had not committed to one course of action nor settled upon one woman.

If, in the Year Six, Wentworth had behaved in the same manner… and simply disappeared one day without ever acknowledging his intentions, he  might have left a distraught Anne behind.  If a young, naive Anne Elliot had believed him genuine and allowed her heart to overcome her sense, heartbreak must quickly follow.

Tilney thought of his brother again and how quickly his passionate pursuit of his conquests transformed into disgust once the affection was mutual and the lady capitulated. A conquered city was no longer a challenge and thus given over to another’s care—for a military hero makes a very poor administrator and a conquering lover is not always the best suited to marriage.

There was also the possibility that the affection was requited… but circumstances of family or fortune might have caused divisions.  If Wentworth had proposed… Well, Henry chuckled at the thought of it.  Even if the Elliots’ sense was suspect, their pride was not. Marrying off a daughter to a military man in time of war with no property or family connections or set income to his name was setting her up as a dependent on her natal family forever— especially if it was the dowry the man was after—and the Elliots had no brothers to depend on, once their father passed.

No, Sir Walter would no more approve of an untried Frederick Wentworth than General Tilney would have accepted John Fleetwood before his elevation to viscount. And such rejection must sour the man to his object… and leave the woman bereft.

This explanation could not satisfactorily clear up the mystery either.  If an ill-fated romance was shared between the pair, why had the man returned to Somersetshire… and why did he linger here still? He made no move to resume a courtship with the lady, but did openly court her nearest relations.  Would Wentworth intentionally come into the sphere of his past love to flaunt his good fortune and new prospects in order to wound her? He must be a better man than that.  Henry must believe him better.  Wentworth was no John Thorpe and no Frederick Tilney.

Or perhaps Tilney had it all wrong. What if it was not Wentworth but a bosom companion of Wentworth who was rejected?  Between Wentworth and Dick Musgrove, there were plenty of opportunities for interactions with other naval officers.  It was in the code of all military men to carry such grievances along with their friends and feel slighted by the insults to their fellows. If it was a friend of Wentworth who, in days long past, pursued Anne Elliot and then faced the rejection of her family, Wentworth would take the affront personally. If the man never gained his fortune, or was lost along the way, then the tragedy would be the more poignant for both.   It would also explain Wentworth’s determination to ensure she knew she was no longer a potential object for matrimony. She had slighted his friend and thus was no object to Wentworth as well.

Henry must find this the most likely scenario.  However, the mystery of the absent lover remained.  Whatever the circumstances, Henry must assume Captain Wentworth’s introduction to Somersetshire was not a matter of indifference for Miss Elliot and she would much rather carry herself off as far from the man as she could manage.  He assumed this was also part of what caused her frequent countryside walks, especially during the times Captain Wentworth called on the Great House, or what inspired the head aches that caused her to miss a dinner in company. It was also just as obvious she carried her sorrows alone. No one noticed her heartache nor the tumult Captain Wentworth inspired. Henry was not certain whether he ought to applaud her composure and fortitude or chastise her for her lack of forthrightness.

There was one other who also looked with displeasure on the introduction of Captain Wentworth into their society.  Charles Hayter had no great appreciation for their new companion.  After the decidedly lackluster reception Henrietta gave him upon his return, Charles Hayter was at first confused and then dismayed.  When he could not regain the attention and favour of his chosen object, he grew decidedly jealous and disgruntled.  How could a hearth fire outshine a bolt of lightning? For the first-time, there was competition for his object, and he preferred to leave off the field than throw down a gauntlet.

It was during a dinner at the Musgroves that his displeasure became evident—at least, to Henry.  No one else spoke of the conflict out loud or brought it up to Charles Hayter, but it was evident in the storm clouds brewing on his brow, the frown on his face, and how he slowly crept out of the conversation with the general company to preserve himself in a corner of the room. 

Henry watched this all with rather more amusement than was proper.  He knew he ought not find entertainment in the conflicts of others or the pain of a fellow man, but the absurdity of the entire situation was too much for him to bear. 

Miss Elliot had claimed a headache and remained home this night, leaving Mr. Tilney without his usual conversation partner and source of interest.  This meant he was free to watch as the Miss Musgroves flirted and competed for the attention of the Captain while the man himself very nearly glowed under their admiration. 

No efforts from Charles Hayter to gain Henrietta’s attention bore fruit and soon the man sat by himself in a corner of the room frowning down at the inside cover of a book.  Henry watched him for a time as he flipped through pages—never once noting that the book he was holding was upside down. 

He rather suspected that the man wished he was anywhere other than in that particular drawing room and that he would have bolted for the door, if he could have done so without drawing attention to himself. 

With very little wish to participate in the conversation with the Miss Musgroves and their Captain or to join in the game of cards, Henry moved to sit alongside the conflicted clergyman. 

“I hear congratulations are in order and you have secured an excellent curacy,” Henry began. 

Charles Hayter looked up in surprise and then nodded, though the frown remained.  “I did, indeed, sir.  I am not required to reside in the parish but may remain at Winthrop.  It is a start and I am grateful for it.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

For a time, Henry spoke to Charles about his education, his curacy, and other topics which their shared profession allowed.  Gradually, Charles began to inquire further into Henry’s experiences at Woodston and then his later position under the Viscount’s patronage.  Yet, Henry’s stories and questions were never quite enough to keep Charles' eyes from drifting across the room to where Henrietta blushed and tittered and gazed up at the Captain with undisguised admiration.

Finally, after Charles neglected to answer Henry’s question for the third time, Henry sighed and decided to speak on the matter which truly captured his companion’s attention.   

“Tell me, Mr. Hayter, what are the laws in the Church of England on bigamy?”

Charles blinked up at him with a quickly reddening face and the former frown resumed.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Is bigamy lawful?” Henry asked again.

“Of course not! One could face transportation or prison for such an offence!” Charles exclaimed, rather loudly, before dropping back into a more confidential tone of voice.

Henry smiled and gestured to the other side of the room.  He spoke so quietly that only Charles could hear.  “Then, take heart, my friend. Our man can only wed one of the Musgrove sisters, leaving the other one to you.”

Charles Hayter’s mouth fell open for a moment before his ears grew three shades redder.  He spluttered and then shook his head.  “What manner of speaking is this?  If intended for comfort, than it is in poor taste.  I have no wish to be second choice and only acceptable when Wentworth weds the sister!’

"You would only be the second choice if you are second in line making an offer.  Be the first,” Henry said with a shrug.

Charles Hayter grew even more incredulous.  "Your advice, sir, is I ought to make her an offer while she has her sights fixed on another man?  She will hardly speak to me!  Surely, she would reject my offer!”

“She might.  Or she might not.  You might well be safer to quit the field entirely, but then, you will also not have gained a wife. To gain a wife, one must suffer some exertions and possible risks."

"You speak as a man familiar with my situation."

"I am afraid not.  I was certain of my wife’s affection long before I offered for her.”

"Oh,” Charles Hayter responded in obvious disappointment. 

"But it is the lot of a clergyman to give advice about a great many things that one has never personally experienced.  It is our lot to perpetually observe the lives of others. If you find my interference meddlesome and ill-timed then take it as a lesson in how not to be a clergyman.

"Now,  my question for you is if Henrietta is the very best wife you can imagine? Is she worth whatever humiliation and effort is needed to secure her?  Is she worth knowing you are her second choice? Or, would you rather find another woman whose heart has never been tested and tried and start over again?”

“Oh, I have no desire to start anew!” Charles exclaimed.

"Well then, stop hiding away and refusing to speak to her. Seek her out. Remind her she is the object of your affections."

Charles Hayter’s expression turned rather petulant.  “What if I am having second thoughts?”

“Then, all I can say, is that I wish you all the best and it is better to sort through such doubts before anything irrevocable has been decided.”

Charles’ attention turned back to the interactions between the Miss Musgroves and Captain Wentworth again, his jaw set in firm determination.  Henry hoped that meant the man would do something decisive in the days that followed.

He did not.  Instead, the man chose the path of retreat and surrender, allowing Wentworth first choice of both sisters.

My Dear Eleanor,

While I appreciate the rather unsubtle hint, I am afraid I must disappoint you.  The Musgrove girls, while being very good sort of girls, are not quite the sort I could think of pursuing for myself.  Indeed, just the thought of such an alliance is enough to put me out of temptation of matrimony for many a year and while I would not mind such girls as companions to my daughters, they cannot very well count as companions for me.  No, Eleanor, I am droll enough of a companion for my own kin to barely tolerate and there is little enough temptation for a young woman, freshly out and still finding her way, to turn her sights to one such as myself.  Before you say it, no.  I will not dangle the prospect of Northanger before anyone to make myself appear more tempting… for such a temptation is rather more akin to a curse and the poor woman is as likely to find herself locked in a tower there than made queen.  

Now, I am sorry to hear that Frederick is being disagreeable to everyone and that the mercury is not accomplishing what the doctors hoped. Have any of the London doctors suggested other ideas for treatment? What are their suggestions for his fits and delusions?

Regarding the other matter of which you wrote- I would be delighted to stay with you and the Viscount in Bath.  In fact, I would be excessively grateful for your presence and was tempted to throw myself at your feet and beg for you to join us there, before you wrote making such a display unnecessary.  That circumstances have cleared up can only be in my favor and preserve both my sanity and my dignity.  

I have written to Sarah, as well, but the Musgroves have assured me they would love nothing more than for the girls to join us at Uppercross for Christmas.  The rest of their children will be returning home from school and they will make a very merry party together.  If Sarah will come with them, she can choose whether to remain or return home directly – though, I think she ought to come to Bath.  Afterall, that is the place to find husbands, or so everyone tells me.  It is certainly a far better place to look than around Fullerton where there are more Morlands than anyone can keep track of and those who wished to marry a Morland have already done so.

The only addition we require to make it a more cheerful party is you, dear sister.  Are you certain it is beyond you to join us for Christmas?

Yours affectionately,

H.T.

Chapter Text

"To be always firm must be to be often obstinate. When properly to relax is the trial of judgment."

Northanger Abbey, Chapter 16

Far too many days had passed without any visit from Charles Hayter. Henry did not think this would bode well either for the gentleman or the lady. He wondered if the young man had given it up in despair or wounded pride. He determined to set out to Winthrop one morning in hopes of calling upon the man and seeing for himself how he fared. Henry expected to either find the man stubbornly intent on some flurry of tasks that must take all his time (though did not actually require anyone's immediate attention) or else locked in a dark room licking his wounds and bemoaning the existence of women in general (and Henrietta Musgrove in particular). There was a slight chance his ire would be directed at all men instead and the young clergyman might be brandishing his sword and practicing for the duel he planned to challenge Captain Wentworth to. Henry knew he must be prepared for any and all contingencies.

It was a beautiful fall morning and the walk through the golden orange trees nearly made him forget his object. He was pleasantly surprised to find Mr. Hayter working with a pair of horses in a pasture. His coat had been discarded on a fence post and he held a bridle in one hand and a rope in the other.

"Mr. Tilney!" Hayter said in surprise, when he caught sight of him. "Good morning, sir!"

He quickly passed the charge of the horses to a nearby stable hand. He donned his coat and came to shake Henry's hand.

"What brings you to Winthrop this morning?" He asked.

"I came to call on you," Henry answered. "Since it appears you have no intention to come and call upon me at Uppercross."

Hayter's face immediately clouded over and he frowned. "I hope you understand I mean no slight against yourself… it is the company of some of the others I would find at Uppercross that I am avoiding."

"Oh, I am well aware," Henry said. He motioned for Hayter to take him on a tour of the estate for a time before they sequestered themselves in one side of the kitchen garden. Henry tried every argument he could think of to cheer the young man up and encourage him to return to Uppercross again. It was as he suspected. Hayter had determined a sudden need to review each of the Thirty-Nine Articles in depth and could not find the time for such diversions as the company of women who preferred men who were not clergymen. Happily for all, Henry saw no sign of swords nor pistols nor vials of poison and so he hoped for a peaceful resolution for all involved.

Despite multiple rounds of arguments, Henry made no headway. Thus, he was about to give it up as lost and seek a reprieve in Mrs. Hayter's offer of tea when he caught sight of two unexpected visitors coming their way.

"Mr. Musgrove! Miss Musgrove! Why, here is a sight that must put a smile even on your downcast face, Hayter,” Henry remarked.

It did not take long to discern that Charles Musgrove had decided to do some meddling and matchmaking of his own. His manner of meddling involved depositing the woman in question directly in front of Charles Hayter- a strategy which proved far more efficacious than all of Henry's words and arguments put together. By the blushes and stammers and long-eyed stares of the discordant lovers, it was obvious very little meddling was required to put all to rights again. Tilney and Musgrove took to speaking with Mrs. Hayter and Miss Hayter, permitting the young lovers to walk through the garden, arm-in-arm, speaking quietly to each other.

"You must stay for tea!" Mrs. Hayter pressed her nephew. "It is nearly ready and we have some very sweet lemon cakes prepared especially for Mr. Tilney."

Charles Musgrove scowled and cast a glance over his shoulder to the hilltop beyond. "I am afraid it is not possible, Aunt Hayter. You see, Henrietta and I came along with a larger party. The walk proved too much for some of the ladies and we left them to rest on the hill rather than face the remaining distance to Winthrop and back again."

"Oh! This will not do!" His aunt responded, her round, red face pursed into a disapproving frown. "After such a walk! They must come and refresh themselves! You must tell them they are very welcome and the tea is already prepared. Even Mr. Hayter will be coming in from the fields soon and he will be very glad to see his nieces and nephew here. It has been so very long since you called on us last!"

Charles Musgrove mumbled something unintelligible before he looked over at Henry again and his face lit up.

"Of course, Aunt Hayter. We would be delighted! Only… Mr. Tilney—would you be willing to go and offer the invitation on behalf of the Hayters? There are some little particulars my mother wished for me to discuss with my aunt. We should be quite done by the time you return with the party."

Henry arched a brow in question but agreed without comment. He made the walk up the hill lined with hedgerows and shaded by nut trees. He could hear some of the party before he caught sight of them. It was Captain Wentworth's voice he heard first:

"Your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see. If you value her conduct or happiness, infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can. But this, no doubt, you have been always doing. It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on. You are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody may sway it. Let those who would be happy be firm. Here is a nut," said he, catching one down from an upper bough, "to exemplify: a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn. Not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere. This nut," he continued, with playful solemnity, "while so many of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of." Then returning to his former earnest tone—"My first wish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind."

Doubtless, it was a conversation not intended for Henry’s ears. He cleared a clump of trees at the moment he caught sight of Louisa Musgrove lost for words and gazing in earnest admiration into Captain Wentworth's eyes. Henry cleared his throat and called out to them, startling them both into turning in his direction.

"Tilney? Good heavens, man! Where did you come from?" Wentworth exclaimed with an exuberant welcome.

"From Winthrop. I was paying a call to Mr. Hayter this morning when we were interrupted by a far more welcome set of visitors than myself," he said with a bow to the company and a wide smile. He caught sight of both Mary and Miss Elliot when they stood behind the hedgerow. Mary looked over at him with her entire expression one of bafflement.

"You were at Winthrop? Whyever, would you pay a visit there?" Mary Musgrove asked.

Henry raised a brow in question. "Why would I visit Winthrop? Well, to call upon Mr. Hayter, as I said before."

"But… it is Winthrop!" She said again, as if such a statement would clear up everything. It did not.

"It is. The home of Charles Hayter… who I wished to see… Unless I am greatly mistaken in some nicety of polite interactions, that is how things are arranged, is it not? If I wish to pay a social call then I descend upon the place where my companion lives."

Mary muttered something about "obstinate men."

"Where is Charles?" She asked, then, as she looked around in search of her husband.

"Both Charles Musgrove and Charles Hayter await our presence at Winthrop. Mrs. Musgrove, Miss Elliot, Captain Wentworth, and Miss Louisa—I have been sent on behalf of all the Hayters to invite you to join us for tea at Winthrop. I have been assured the best rest for tired feet is a hearth fire and the best restorative before resuming a long walk is a fresh cup of tea. While the lemon cake may have been prepared to impress my delicate palate, I have also been assured there is enough to share with our entire party. Indeed, I would beg your assistance in consuming such a cake as I might be liable to fall into the unpardonable sin of gluttony if you do not come to my aid."

By Mrs. Musgrove's expression, it was obvious she wished to protest and plant her feet back into the hedgerows in refusal. However, she also had no desire to offend Mr. Tilney. With an uncertain glance between Captain Wentworth and Mr. Tilney, she offered a few more lackluster arguments. When both Anne and Louisa made to walk the rest of the way to Winthrop, Mary knew her cause was lost. Mr. Tilney offered his arms to each of the sisters and escorted them the rest of the way to Winthrop, following after Louisa and Captain Wentworth.

It was a merry gathering in the drawing room of the Hayter's home. While not so grand as Uppercross, it was far grander than any of the parsonages Henry had ever occupied. While the Hayters might not have the refined manners and accomplishments of the Musgrove girls, they were an amiable, warm-hearted family and they eagerly congregated around their visitors in genuine delight at the honour of the visit.

Thus, an hour passed before the fire with a plentiful supply of tea and cakes. When the party set out to return to Uppercross, not even Mary could argue that the stop at Winthrop had not refreshed the travelers. Thus, the party set out across the meadows and woods that would lead them back to Uppercross again — with the addition of Charles Hayter and Henry Tilney. Charles Hayter's spirits were entirely revived and showed every symptom of perfect happiness unique to those in the intoxicating thralls of requited affection. Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. Charles Musgrove, his opinion of his wife entirely restored by her acquiescence to tea at Winthrop, took his wife's arm and chatted eagerly with her as they walked.

This left Miss Elliot and Mr. Tilney to follow along behind the rest. Henry offered her his arm and she accepted without protest.

"Tell me, Miss Elliot, why was your sister surprised that I would find Charles Hayter at Winthrop?"

Miss Elliot sighed and dropped her eyes. "My sister… does not think well of an acquaintance with the Hayters. She refuses to call upon Winthrop unless absolutely necessary."

Henry fought back a bark of laughter, though his eyes gave away his merriment. "Is that so? I suppose, in her opinion, the brother of a viscountess ought not keep such connections, then, though I would hate for her to discover my father views Uppercross quite the same way as she does Winthrop."

"Oh!" Miss Elliot exclaimed. "I do not believe she would appreciate such knowledge!"

"We, all of us, have very different ideas of who… and what… we find of import in those around us. It is rather inconvenient when we discover the aspects of ourselves we take great pride in are entirely unappreciated by someone else. It is even more inconvenient to discover our own nothingness to the wider world at large, despite our own assurances of our importance."

They were continuing to fall farther and farther behind the rest of the party and Henry noted how heavily Miss Elliot leaned on his arm.

"You have overexerted yourself, I am afraid," he observed.

"I shall be well," she answered. "We are very nearly through."

They managed to catch up with the rest of the party when they stopped alongside a stile. Louisa had discovered the very great pleasure of having Captain Wentworth jump her down from its height and she insisted on repeating the pleasure thrice before continuing on. Her squeals of delight echoed across the meadow and she gazed up at the Captain in eager admiration.

"Well, I suppose we know how this will all end," Henry observed to Miss Elliot, once they continued walking again. At her questioning expression he nodded to the pair of sisters and their beaus up ahead. "I predict two weddings before the year is out."

Miss Elliot did not respond at first. The, quietly, she remarked how she hoped for their happiness.

Henry did as well, however, his mind returned to the conversation he had overheard near the hedgerows.

"I must share your sentiments… but I admit I am not quite so sanguine on their union," he admitted.

Miss Elliot looked up at him in surprise.

"You see, in one breath, I have heard Captain Wentworth speak of how marriage will not change his mind or opinions and in the next breath he states his admiration for a steadfast, firm-minded wife. I must assume the man either will marry a woman who shares his opinions exactly or else one of them must give way. If he will not permit marriage to impact his opinions, then it is not a firm-minded wife he ought to seek. He would be far happier with a wife of malleable, impressionable temperament than one as unyielding as a hazelnut. Yet, it is Louisa's unchanging, unpersuadable temperament he praises. I cannot understand it."

"Unless, perhaps, the Captain wishes for a wife who will give way solely to himself and to no other," Miss Elliot remarked quietly.

"Very possibly. Though, such a sentiment puts me in mind of Katherine in 'Taming of the Shrew.' 'But sun it is not, when you say it is not, And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it named, even that it is.'"

"You do not agree, sir?"

He shook his head. "Can you think of an example of marital felicity or family harmony in your circle where such is the case? Certainly, I would never have developed my connection to the Musgroves if my mother had been the one to give way and I daresay your own mother did not always agree with your father, or you would not have grown into the sensible woman you are. Mrs. Croft does not appear the manner of woman who would tolerate her husband's foolishness without taking the reins of the gig and speaking her mind. Even Charles Musgrove and your sister have their own balance of wills and whims to contend with. Both must have moments of firm-mindedness and both must learn when to give way or there is no very strong foundation for matrimony."

"Perhaps, the trial of judgement is knowing the limits of persuasion," she observed.

"At times, I believe that a firm mind is an admirable trait and in others a great weakness. It is all a matter of what the mind is firm in and for what cause. A mind firm in what is right and just, regardless of who tries to persuade them from their chosen course, is admirable. A mind firm for the sake of having its own way can be exceedingly difficult to admire… and even harder to live in harmony with.

"My father possess the firmest mind and most unyielding of wills that I have ever come across. While these traits make him an excellent general, they do not enhance the domestic felicity of those around him. My sweet wife, may God keep her, was firm in what was right and in her desire to see the best in people. She was also open to novel opinions and these she evaluated against her own judgements to determine what she thought was best. She was willing to listen to the ideas of others while not being bent entirely by them."

"You would argue, then, that it is a balance between perspectives that proves a better foundation for felicity in marriage?" Miss Elliot surmised.

"I suppose… or perhaps these are ramblings of a man who has forgotten what point he is arguing. The day's events have provided much to think over."

"They have, indeed," she answered, rather wistfully.

”Well, come, Miss Elliot, let us turn our thoughts to simpler subjects. Tell me, do you prefer sheep or goats? Then, perhaps, you will enlighten me as to your opinion on the various types of poultry,” he said, with a broad grin and an overly dramatic bow of his head in her direction.

oooo

In the days that followed, the dynamics between the parties around Uppercross shifted and morphed like the autumn leaves taking on the garb of winter. It was not so much that Captain Wentworth pursued Louisa more directly, but that the lady, herself, determined that she would be the object he pursued. With her competition vanquished, all his flirtations and attentions were no longer split between sisters and she could receive them all upon herself. It was obvious to anyone with eyes that Louisa Musgrove would marry the Captain — that her course was set, her mind determined.

Henry smiled as he watched the pair — they were so like he and Catherine had once been. Louisa’s open awe of him, his delight in her flattery, their shared desire to admire and be admired put him in mind of his own early courtship. Louisa Musgrove was so easily impressed, so willing to be delighted, so entranced by her Captain’s every word and action. This infatuation and determination to see Wentworth as the image of male perfection would be entirely intoxicating and heady to the man himself. Henry wished the Captain well in it and he could not fault the man for his weakness to such allures.

Henry knew such idolizing of the man would not last. It could not. Long years would dull the shine and force Louisa to place her object far from the altar she had initially placed him on. Wentworth was only a man, after all, and it was a lesson the pair both must learn someday. Yet, they would be better for it, once the initial disappointments and conflicts passed. They would finally be equals forced to see each other face-to-face rather than positioned with him stationed above and her worshipping from below. Louisa was a very fine girl. She had the fortitude and cheerfulness to make a good wife to any man. Long after her initial bloom faded, she would prove a capable companion to her sea-faring husband. If Wentworth could learn how much he needed her strengths and she learn how much she guarded his weaknesses, why, then they would come closer to the nature and heart of matrimony.

He must be reminded of his own early days with Catherine. How sweet it had been when she remained convinced he could do no wrong! While flattering, it was not true and thus it could not remain. He remembered the day he had promised Catherine a new book from the bookseller in town. He had forgotten entirely and returned home with a fine new riding crop and pair of boots, but no book. She had been so disappointed in him. They quarreled over it and he was too harsh in his response. He had not minded his tongue, had spoken too carelessly, and had mortified her. She hardly spoke to him for the week that followed and it took another month of groveling to restore her into anything resembling good humour again.

It was their first great conflict. It was not their last. Each quarrel peeled back layers of his pride and revealed the depth of his own failings. He was mortified by the loss of his own perfection in both her eyes and his own. No, the woman he had once teased and chastised for her youth and inexperience had grown into her own form of strength and she grew to see him for both his virtues and weaknesses as a man. How could he not change? Over the years spent alongside Catherine, after the births of their children and the years spent working in their parish— of course they were not the same as when they had first married. Yet, in those essentials which mattered most, they remained unchanged. The long years taught him ever deeper layers of his wife's weaknesses and ever-growing heights of her strengths. As she grew from the wide-eyed girl to the mischief, sparkling matron, he must change how he loved her, how he saw her, how he responded to her. Her love for him had shifted and changed, as well. Sometimes love altered and sometimes it remained fixed. Sometimes it was love itself which did the altering, and that same love which held everything together.

Henry Tilney fervently hoped both Musgrove girls and their beaus would allow their infatuations and initial sparks of attraction to develop roots of true, long-suffering attachment- firm enough to carry them through any storm or shift in currents that inevitably followed matrimony.

ooo

It was during an evening at the Great House that he stumbled upon the answer to the mystery of Anne Elliot's lost love. Captain Wentworth had spent a quarter of an hour recounting, in great detail, a failed attempt at hunting he had during his first visit to the countryside in the Year Six.

"It was when I stayed with my brother, who was the curate of Monkford, then," he explained. It was this phrase which struck Henry between the eyes and made him deaf to all conversations that followed for some time after.

Of course, Henry had heard about the third Wentworth sibling… and how he was the primary connection that drew both his siblings to this side of the country. However, with the man absent and no longer in residence, Henry had thought very little of it. Now, though, he realized the answer to the mystery had been before him the entire time.

It was so simple! Miss Elliot's lost beau was the Other Wentworth! This explained everything!

Mr. Wentworth had been the curate of Monkford for years!

She must have an intimate knowledge of the navy if the man she loved spoke frequently of both his sea captain brother and his sea faring sister.

Of course, Sir Walter could never approve of an alliance between his daughter and a mere country curate! Why, it would take years to get an appropriate living and even then, it was doubtful that such a station in life would be enough for a baronet's daughter. Thus, the family refused.

If forced to choose between family and heart, what choice was there? Both required an internal rupture, a tearing apart of the soul. Miss Elliot had been very young. She was forced to end the affair, all while remaining in close proximity with her love for an untold number of months… or years… after.

To add to this, Henry knew only too well the hardships and comforts of keeping company with the sibling of a lost love. Catherine had siblings to spare and each shared enough of her mannerisms, her patterns of speech, her features to be a prick to his heart with constant reminders of her loss.

If Anne's reunion with Mrs. Croft and Captain Wentworth reminded her of her secret lost love, it was no wonder she had grown so quiet and pale in recent months. Constant interaction with the family that might have been hers must inspire regrets. He wondered if the decision to rent Kellynch had been in part revenge against the family that caused the heartbreak of their brother and the former love of the baronet's daughter.

This explained her reluctance to marry elsewhere. Her heart remained engaged elsewhere. Yet, what could she do about it?

This also shed an entirely new light on Captain Wentworth's recent acts of disdain. Of course, a man could not approve of the woman who broke his brother's heart. Nor could he pursue her himself. For Anne to have to face the mortification of Captain Wentworth's displeasure and intimate knowledge of her loss must be nearly unendurable.

To make matters worse, Mr. Wentworth, by all accounts, had recently married. What a blow that must have been!

Poor Anne!

How she must have suffered!

How she must suffer still!

To live with daily reminders of the object of her affection would be a trial to anyone. Henry was too near his own experience with loss and heartbreak to remain unmoved at such a prospect. And, here, daily watching young couples in their courtship must resurrect all her old pains and losses!

Anne Elliot's emotions were hidden beneath a thick frame of composure. She was unerringly kind and unruffled – no matter the slights she faced or the mistreatment heaped upon her. How was he to determine her true feelings, her true motivations? His first wife had proved as easy to read as a child's primer— all large letters and simple words-—all her motivations and emotions spoken plainly and revealed plainly. It would be much harder to discover Miss Elliot's true thoughts and emotions. She kept it all under locked box and key. Now that one mystery was solved, another mystery remained: how was Miss Elliot to be convinced to speak the truth of her past and be encouraged to move into her future?

Chapter Text

"And yet," said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the party, "he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have. I cannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man. He will rally again, and be happy with another." 

Persuasion, Chapter IX

oooo

The sea waves crashed against the solid form of the Cobb, thrusting spray into the air and nearly drowning out the exuberant cries of delight of the Miss Musgroves. The gray clouds overhead muted the face of the sea into rippling shades of charcoal and the wind proved both brisk and damp against the small party on the harbour wall.

"It is so beautiful!" Louisa exclaimed, her cheeks rosy and her eyes bright with wonder as she clung to Captain Wentworth's arm.

"The sight of the sea is one I can never tire of," her companion said, his gaze lost in the expanse of horizon far beyond the waves.

For a brief moment, Anne Elliot wondered what it was the Captain saw there, as he gazed out over the sea. Perhaps it was the promise of future adventures, potential fortunes, and the glory he might attain. Perhaps, it was the lure of the sea itself and a conjuring of the deep love of the sailor for the sea. Or, perhaps it was the past his eyes saw. There were untold memories cast upon the waves and wind, formed over his years and years of life upon the sea. Indeed, he had spent more of his life onboard ship than on land and he had once told her how it was on land that he felt the most seasick and unsteady.

There had been a time when, at such a vista, Anne would have imagined a future for herself, alongside Frederick, and what might await her there upon the open sea. Those times were long past. Oh, what a cruel twist of fate which would allow Anne the long-sought pleasure of a glimpse of Frederick by his beloved sea!

Now, Frederick Wentworth had returned to Somersetshire- but not to Anne. The walls of Kellynch had held her fast, the years reaching onward and siphoning her of both potential and opportunity. Frederick could stand alongside the sea without a backwards glance in Anne's direction. There he stood, alongside another woman. The pair made a pretty picture together, arms intertwined and fair faces looking out over the sea. Anne Elliot watched them from a distance, unnoticed, before she finally tore her eyes away.

Anne paid no heed to the rest of their party or the exclamations of the others. Her attention remained fixed on the sights on either side of the breakwater. It was not so much the wilds of the open sea or the siren's song of what lay beyond which captured Anne's attention most. No, Anne Elliot's focus remained fixed on the calm harbour on her left created by the firm stone wall of the Cobb. She scraped her boots against the roughened rocks, feeling the grit and uneven surface, slightly damp with sea spray and ocean mists. Gentle waves lapped against the rocks, only occasionally disturbed by the turbulent waves of the tides kept at bay by the opposite side of the wall. Within the harbour, buildings and boats were sheltered from the storms, the strength of the Cobb protecting the inhabitants beyond. A handful of boats were tethered in the harbour, gently rocking with the rippling of tamed waves beneath them.

What a difference such a small pile of rocks could make! How different Lyme would be without its breakwater!

She sighed deeply and felt that familiar ache in her heart again. She was melancholy. The rhythm of the waves and competing greys of the ocean against the Cobb caused her imagination to turn inward on herself. She wondered if she felt more kinship to the harbour wall or the boats that floated upon the ocean? She was drawn to both and she could not tear her eyes away from the pathway of rock and the way it divided the calm serenity from all that was wild and unknown.

For so long, Kellynch had been just such a breakwater and Anne but a small boat moored within its harbour. Oh! How she longed for the quiet, predictable refuge of Kellynch and the unexceptional and unvarying order of a life now so out of her reach!

For so long, she had given over all her energy and attention to managing Kellynch and its finances, and tempering the excesses of its inhabitants. She worked tirelessly to counter their extravagance, fill where they lacked, and hold together all that they would let fall apart.

Yet, it had all fallen apart, anyway.

Stone by stone, the breakwater of her life had been dismantled and so little remained to shield her from the tempests that must come. All her greatest efforts and exertions proved to be for naught. With her removal from Kellynch, she was entirely uprooted. She was purposeless, adrift, like one of these small fishing boats untied and unmanned and set loose into the tide.

The Elliots had left Kellynch behind, and part of Anne remained there, amidst the ancient oaks and marbled halls of her ancestral home. It was rented out to make space for Sir Walter's particular embodiment of baronetcy. Into this new life in Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth had very little use for Anne.

It was not that Sir Walter did not acknowledge Anne's merits. It is that he only had so great a margin for appreciation. Elizabeth was his every delight, his very incarnation of all his greatest of virtues. She was the delight of his eyes and heart. He loved his firstborn daughter with every ounce of his being and had so little margin left over for the other two children who followed. It was into Elizabeth he lavished all his focus and attention. It was Elizabeth he doted upon and delighted it. It was Elizabeth who most resembled her father-in looks and manner.

It was Lady Elliot who had naturally gravitated towards her second daughter— the one most like herself. In the arms and affection of her mother, Anne had dwelt entirely, certain of her consequence and filled to full measure with her love.

Anne Elliot was a woman who had always loved her family. She knew their faults, only too well, but she loved them still. Her example in familial duty had always been her mother. Lady Elliot, in her long-suffering patience, had modeled a form of love built entirely on self-denial and the gentle mediation of the faults of those she loved.

And then there was Mary. The unfortunate third daughter who failed at being a son. The unfortunate third daughter who most resembled neither father nor mother and instead came into the world squalling for whatever attention and love she could grasp as her own— whatever remained after her elder sisters drank their fill.

After their mother's death, Sir Walter and Elizabeth gravitated even more to each other, bound by grief as much as similarity in temperaments. Anne, well, she was sheltered by Lady Russell and spent more time in that great Lady's company and molding than she did with her father. Then there was Mary. The only one who paid her any heed was Anne and she clung to Anne with all the desperate longing for love and attention only a neglected, motherless child can. As the squalling child grew into the clamorous woman, it was Anne who bore the weight of Mary's incessant thirst for attention.

The same love which required Anne to forgo new gowns in a season so Elizabeth might have even greater finery and meant she denied her own small pleasures in hopes of sustaining Kellynch in some way, this same love made her swallow her own grief and tears and wall them up behind a breakwater of composure. Anne would pour all the patience and love she could muster into her youngest sister’s grasping, desperate hands.

Even now, Mary would insist on keeping Anne with her as long as Anne would remain. There were always grievances to air, challenges to face, and lonely hours to fill. At least with Mary she was wanted and had some use. It was some form of rootedness, even if temporary. However, Kellynch was gone from her and with it remained part of Anne, herself.

Who was Anne Elliot apart from Kellynch? She still did not know. She had never had the opportunity to find out.

It was her mother's pattern of love and duty that Anne followed when she first gave her heart away. She had been so young, so untested, then. In her own dearth of affection, she had clung to his impassioned attentions like a shipwrecked sailor clings to a driftwood log. How she had wrestled between the expectations of her family and the inclinations of her heart!

Her love had never been blind. She had known Frederick to be both rash and impulsive. He had no fortune and his great love —so true and deep—would serve as both goad and millstone in his burgeoning career. Out of love for her, he would rush headlong into storm and battle. Out of love for her, he would face death twice over and go straight to the depths of hell itself in hopes of climbing out with the means to wed her after.

She loved him for it. And she loved him too much to let him.

It was the greatest proof of love she could pour out before him. To deny her greatest wishes and relinquish the one she loved dearest— for his own good— was the only gift she could grant him. She could not fight the French nor still the storm but she could remove the goad from his back and millstone from his neck. She needed him to live more than she needed him to live for her. Even if it was for the benefit of another woman, at least he carried on.

Thus, she broke her own heart along with his. A single dawn had not passed before Anne deeply regretted her decision. If he had returned to her the next day, she would have recanted in a moment.

Yet, he was gone.

And there was nothing she could do to remedy the situation.

She could not write to him to beg his forgiveness nor explain her change of heart. She could not seek him out nor even tell him of her feelings. She was as powerless to change matters as she was to turn back the tide or summon the dawn from the depths.

So, she had remained at Kellynch. Each winter and spring, each passing of days and seasons, Anne Elliot devoted all her attention, all her devotion, to her small world within its walls and the people she was inextricably tied to through bonds of blood and filial duty. Somewhere, beyond the breakwater, she knew Frederick still lived and he continued to conquer the wilds of the world of the sea.

Each promotion and prize she cherished and felt as though it were her own. He yet lived. And thrived. He had not felt tied to return nor compelled to look over his shoulder to the wife left behind. He willingly took up post after post with no thought to shore leave nor the length of time spent away at sea. He remained whole— not split by distance and the irreconcilable differences between the duties of his occupation and the inclination of his heart.

Yes. Once Anne Elliot had been loved. The memory was both a treasure and a torment. It was this that would haunt her forever after. The passing of years had wrapped his memory in the gentle haze of time. He had become more a specter of her imagination, a shade of a dream long extinguished, then a man of flesh and blood and change. A memory of a visit to the seaside is a far cry from the present experience of a wave upon one's boots and recent months had toppled Anne headlong out of her cherished imaginings and deepest memories and into the hard, turbulent reality of Frederick Wentworth as a daily part of her life.

She never, not in all her wildest imaginings, could have expected she would one day stand along the sea with Captain Wentworth— while he paid court to another woman.

If anyone had asked Anne Elliot only six months previous what this year would entail, she could never have imagined such unorthodox events or unexpected people. For so long, her social sphere had been so stagnant, so unchanged. To have it suddenly turned upside down and inward and outward was like casting open the windows on a room too long shut up. Some days, she appreciated the fresh air and other days she wished she could slam the window and keep out the bitter drafts it carried.

She had been turned out of Kellynch and cast out into the world beyond, tossed from home to home as she sought for her new purpose, her new place of belonging. It was into this season of turbulence and change that Captain Wentworth returned— but not for her. He made it very clear that his great passion for her had turned gangrenous and corrupted even his memories of her. Neither the old Anne Elliot nor the new held any sway over him now.

It was fitting, then, that it was into Kellynch he now came into harbour. The person she loved best now dwelt within the place she loved best… and Anne had no more a part in either. How very small and insignificant she felt!

She was startled from her thoughts by the crash of another wave and the shrieks of laughter from Henrietta Musgrove. Anne blinked her eyes in surprise and looked up to where Henrietta jumped back from the sudden splash of water alongside her Tilney cousin, a broad grin of enjoyment on her pretty face. Charles and Mary stood nearby. Charles questioned Captain Wentworth over the types of fish that might be caught from the Cobb and the myriad of seafowl which frequented the shores around Lyme. Mary's own flurry of questions warred with her husband’s, making his questions nearly unintelligible, and yet she could not defer her curiosity in homage to his.

"Ah! What think of you Lyme, Miss Elliot?"

Anne looked up in surprise, her attention torn from the rest of the party to where Mr. Tilney addressed her from nearby. The question, itself, was polite, but by the slightly mocking tone and teasing expression of his eyes, she knew he was not entirely serious.

"While a half hour ramble along the Cobb is hardly enough to form an opinion, I will admit the sea is very fine," she answered, forcing herself to smile.

"Fine? Fine? Come now, Miss Elliot, you will forgive me if I wish for something more! No, it will not do!" He answered, bowing towards her and motioning towards the expanse of sea beyond. A wave crashed upon the Cobb as he spoke, as if illustrating his point, and cast a veil of spray between them.

She grew thoughtful and looked out at the sea again.

"'There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more…,"' she quoted.

With a pleased expression, Mr. Tilney nodded to her again. "Byron. Very good, Miss Elliot. Now, can you guess at what comes to my mind while we appreciate the majesties of the sea?"

"I cannot begin to, sir," she answered, quite truthfully. She had learned, quite quickly into their acquaintance, that the clergyman was equal parts wry humor and profound observation. It did her very little good to predict which aspect of his character would emerge in each moment and she had yet to fully comprehend either aspect.

He grinned widely. "Ought we to exclaim, 'Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.”

"Coleridge," she exclaimed.

"Appropriate, considering the company of mariners, is it not?"

She laughed and shook her head. It was not long into his acquaintance that she discovered his voracious love for reading… and how far his knowledge of literature outpaced her own. It was a familiar game of his — to cast quote upon quote of poetry and prose upon her to see if she could keep pace with him. She did her best, but his many years of study gave him a distinct advantage. She had no doubt he would quickly prove the victor over her again, if not for the departure of the entire party back to the shore.

Oooo

While Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the room, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance to occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed rather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her nature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him. He was shy, and disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well repaid the first trouble of exertion.

While the tales of nautical nostalgia and maritime heroism continued unabated, Anne noticed with some pleasure when one member of the party gently broke off and made his way to the side of the room where she sat speaking with Captain Benwick.

"What are your thoughts on Marmion?" Anne asked, turning to their new companion with a welcoming smile.

Captain Benwick's face lit up. "Do you enjoy poetry, Mr. Tilney?"

"I do," Mr. Tilney answered as he moved over a chair to join them.

"It is many a long voyage and late night that has seen a book of verse as my closest companion and the only anchor in my sorrow. The words of the poets have upheld my spirits as firmly as those of my dearest friends."

"It is Marmion you found us discussing, sir," Anne said. "What think you of the tragic drama of Clare de Clare and Sir Ralph De Wilton?"

Mr. Henry appeared to consider this while he leaned closer to them in his chair. "Ah, yes! Marmion has many important lessons it can teach us. For instance, it is always advisable for love sore gentlemen to conspire, steal, duel, and trick to gain their feminine objects. 'Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive!'"

"Oh, but isn't there something fine in Lochinvar rescuing his beloved from her wedding to that vile man and stealing off with her on his horse!" Anne said, her eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Almost as fine a thing as Constance being walled up alive," Mr. Tilney answered. “I do not advise either as the ideal means of courtship. Perhaps, the moral of the story is that a woman ought not aid her illicit lover in forcing his attentions on another woman.”

"Yet, in the end, Clare de Clare and Sir Ralph De Wilton are reunited and able to wed," Benwick interjected. "And all is as it should be again."

The trio fell silent as a round of laughter burst out from across the room. Captain Harville gesticulated wildly as he spoke. It was Benwick who resumed their conversation again.

"I must wonder,” he said. “What would have become of Clare or Sir Ralph if they were permanently separated from each other? What if Lochinvar was not in time and his love was forced to marry another?"

"It would have been up to the characters involved to determine their own happiness in their circumstances, I suppose," Mr. Tilney answered, attempting to match Benwick’s seriousness with his own.

"Do you believe it possible? Could they ever have loved again?" Benwick asked.

Anne heard Mr. Tilney sigh. She knew he had heard of Benwick's history alongside the rest of their party, and he knew what the gentleman truly wished to speak of.

"I must believe it is possible,” Mr. Tilney responded. “No, I must believe that even the characters of Marmion must find some form of happiness, even if the ending were written in another way. Or poor widowers, like myself, have very few prospects to look forward to.”

“Oh! You lost your… Oh! Then you must understand!” Captain Benwick exclaimed, eagerly intuiting a kindred sufferer in the clergyman. His eyes brightened even more than they had during the discussion on poetry and he leaned towards Mr. Tilney. “Do you believe second attachments are possible? Is it not unfaithful to the memory of your first love?"

Mr. Tilney nodded. “I do not claim to be an expert on the subject, however my experience as a clergyman forces me to walk alongside my parishioners throughout many of their stages of life. I have known some who prefer to never marry again. I have seen some who truly grieved the loss of a husband or wife go on to wed again and forge a new form of happiness again in future. It is this which compels me to believe that second attachments are possible.

“My sister, who has twice as much sense as myself, reminded me that I am much better with a wife. As Proverbs says, 'It is not good for man to be alone,' and 'Two are better than one, for they have a good return for their work.' I would give anything for my wife to have remained with me till our dotage, but I am not the all-powerful commander of life and death. With lack of such power, I must content myself with the less than ideal. Catherine is gone. I must accept that if I am to marry, it will be to a second attachment and thus I hold hopes that it is possible— nay, even probable—that I can learn to love again.

“I enjoy laughing far too much to remain somber all my days. I enjoy companionship too much to choose isolation. For all that I loved my wife, I find I also enjoyed marriage and would like to try it again, even if not with my wife. Perhaps that proves my lack as a romantic. Perhaps it shows my own limitations as a man. However, it is what it is.”

"But do you think you will ever find such a woman again?" Benwick asked.

"Such a woman? No. Catherine Tilney was her own— and no one will ever be quite like her. If I marry again, I hope to find another who I can appreciate for her own merits— not as a replacement for Catherine or an imitator of all she once was but for herself.

“After all, I am no longer the Henry Tilney my wife first married and it would do me little good to marry someone in her exact image. Then again, how could I marry someone like my beloved wife after five years, after ten years, of our marriage? We both changed and grew along with each other and we became something else entirely. No, I must someday marry a woman who can be the companion of the Henry Tilney that is— this old widower— and share the days that follow after us together. Lord-willing, there are more days yet for us to learn and grow yet and I am not done growing.”

Then, in a gentle gesture, Mr. Tilney motioned to Anne. “It is not only I who ought to speak of such things. What say you, Miss Elliot? We need a woman's perspective. What do you believe of second attachments?"

Anne had hoped to remain quiet and listen. She flushed, but tried to maintain her composure, despite her discomfort at being applied to so directly on such a subject. 

"I cannot speak for all women. However, it is hard, I think, to relinquish a love so deeply felt and earnestly granted. I believe it is the claim of women to love far longer, when all hope is gone,” she said in a low voice.

"Thus, you would despise your male counterparts for seeking out a new object, once all hope of our first love is gone?" Mr. Tilney asked, though by his tone, she knew he was half-teasing, half-in earnest.

"No. I could not!" She protested warmly. "I must wish you every happiness… it is only… I doubt my own ability, or those of my sex… to find such happiness again… once we have experienced true attachment."

"You do not believe a woman can love again? Though, men, the hard-hearted scoundrels, can move on. No, Miss Elliot, I must protest! I will use your own experience against you! Have we not spoken before about the condition of our fathers? For all their faults and foibles, surely, they both excel at giving an example of masculine fidelity after the loss of their wives! They married such excellent women, how could they ever find their equals again? No, they must forever remain chained to the memory of their first wives and thus leave the work of marrying and remarrying to their offspring.”

“I do not believe such an example proves the point you were trying to argue, Mr. Tilney,” Anne answered. “Unless, you wish to prove that both men and women are equally incapable of second attachments.”

"Ah, you have called me out Miss Elliot!” Mr. Tilney answered. “And perhaps, I ought to prove as faithful as my father before me, though, I must admit, I prefer to uphold the idea of fidelity to my wife's felicity and marital harmony for the duration of her lifetime as opposed to only valuing her after her death – though, there I must digress into challenges particular to my own family. However, it is just as likely I am admitting to my own weakness as a man. I am not so overcome by a desire to marry again that I will take the first willing young daughter of the gentry into my home to wed, however, if a woman proves herself both intelligent, kind, warm-hearted, and of strong enough character to pique my interest, why, who would I be to refuse to pursue her on principal of Catherine's memory? If it had been I fortunate enough to depart this life for the Hereafter first, then I would have wished the same for my wife."

He withdrew from his pocket a rock and held it out for them to see. "This was given to me by one of the Harville children today. Captain Benwick, you have seen these before?" At Captain Benwick's nod, he continued. "They found it upon the beach, they told me. 'Snakestone,' as they call it. You see, there is some ancient creature preserved here," he said and handed the rock to Anne. She felt the smooth, rounded shape of the coiled shell. "Some say it was once a living creature and now turned to stone, immortalized in death. Forever preserved. It has become something else," Mr. Tilney continued. He held the rock before them both again. "Perhaps, it is a very poor example, but this snakestone must put me in mind of our discussion. You see, I am a man of flesh. I grow and change and decay. It is to a living life I must turn my attention, not one immortalized in stone. I cannot erect my wife as an idol. She too was once flesh, and my mind might wish to cast her into stone instead, to preserve her as she was for all eternity. However, there is no life in that.

"To quote a poet, 'Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most. Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.' Which of us remains unscathed by death? We must come out changed and altered, but to love again- after the ravages of death- that must make us all the foolhardier or all the braver."

The trio fell silent for a time before Captain Benwick, once again, began quoting a particularly sorrowful poem.

“Is there not something very fine and admirable, though, in the notions of remaining true to one’s beloved, even after death?" Benwick asked, when he had finished, his eyes shining with unshed tears and deeply felt emotion.

Tilney sighed. “Oh, a very fine picture— one all poets and authors alike can praise and find merit in in their works. I am no poet by nature, Captain Benwick. However, the examples of constancy of Lord Byron or Wordsworth or Coleridge or Shelley do leave something to be desired," Mr. Tilney said, one eyebrow arched in emphasis. “If any man is to argue the possibility of a second… or third… or tenth attachment, it will be the poets.”

Captain Benwick responded with such a bark of laughter that the entire room turned to look upon them. It had been so long since Benwick laughed… or even smiled… that Captain Harville was all amazement.

"What is so humorous?" Mary Musgrove interjected. "What is it that makes you laugh so?”

"The efficacy of the lives of poets in reflecting the virtues of which they write so many sonnets about," Mr. Tilney answered, his smile growing wider as he saw Mary Musgrove's confusion grow.

"I do not see what is so entertaining about that," she huffed.

In hearing their topic of conversation was poetry, the rest of the company quickly lost interest and returned to the heroic tales of Captains Harville and Wentworth again. Anne fought to hide her own amusement but Captain Benwick and Mr. Tilney easily saw her struggle which only fueled their own amusement further.

"Ah, but the poets, themselves, will be the first to admit that they are the all a 'bit touched in the head'. It was Byron himself who said, 'That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane,’” Mr. Tilney observed, causing his companions to fall into another round of laughter.

Once again, they tried to soften their sound to not draw attention to themselves, but to no avail. Mary, unable to participate in two conversations at once, but unwilling to miss out on whichever proved the liveliest, insisted on being informed of what they found so amusing.

“The madness of poets,” Mr. Tilney explained. "Did you know, Mrs. Musgrove, that it was Lord Byron who compared love to measles?"

"What is that to mean?" Mary answered, her eyes wide. "What would love have to do with the measles?"

"Oh, that it is contagious?" Louisa said.

"Or prone to leave life-long scars, if one can survive it," came Captain Benwick's soft answer.

Mr. Tilney grinned. "'Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life," Tilney quoted. The rest of the gathering, having been excluded from their previous conversation, remained entirely baffled by such a statement. Mr. Tilney, however, glanced back between Anne and Captain Benwick, and winked.

The trio continued their conversation of poetry for some time, though Anne attempted to encourage the grieving man into more prose and to dwell less on the sorrowful poetry he so delighted in.

Captain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the interest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which declared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like his, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to procure and read them.

When the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of her coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man whom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and preachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear examination.

Chapter Text

“I have just learnt to love a hyacinth.”

“And how might you learn? By accident or argument?”

“Your sister taught me; I cannot tell how. Mrs. Allen used to take pains, year after year, to make me like them; but I never could, till I saw them the other day in Milsom Street; I am naturally indifferent about flowers.”

“But now you love a hyacinth. So much the better. You have gained a new source of enjoyment, and it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible….And though the love of a hyacinth may be rather domestic, who can tell, the sentiment once raised, but you may in time come to love a rose?...The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a teachableness of disposition in a young lady is a great blessing.”

Northanger Abbey , Chapter 22

Anne could hardly sleep that night. The conversation between Mr. Tilney and Captain Benwick played over and over in her mind. Their arguments must call her own into question and she was forced to reflect on the stances she had cherished for so many years.  At first, she had compared herself, her own situation, with theirs and saw her own sorrow and heartbreak reflected in their expressions, their longing. Yet, she thought they could rally and marry again.  She never could – for her own love still lived, only pursuing another.  Her heart, once given, could never be retracted, or so she told herself again.

When sleep finally came, she was granted no reprieve from her strife, for it was then that the logical thoughts ended and the illogical dreams began.  She was no stranger to the disturbances her dreams could create.  From their very first introduction, Captain Wentworth had commandeered both her heart and her dreams.  Not even his departure or subsequent absence relinquished his hold on her.  No matter how she forced him from her waking mind or barred him from her conscious thoughts, he simply waited until her guards were down.  Then, he effortlessly intruded into her life again during the deepest, darkest hours of the vulnerable night.

The dreams varied in images and tone.  Sometimes they were forged of sweet remembrances, sometimes of bitter tears. She was most familiar with the furious specter who towered over her in fire and shadow, spitting the harsh words that had been etched into her memory from the final disastrous parting.   He could neither understand her nor forgive her, not even in her dreams.

Then there were dreams in which she chased him through an endless labyrinth.  Sometimes the walls of the maze were those of the Kellynch gardens or the busy streets of Bath.  Captain Wentworth and the naval blue flashes of his uniform were always just a step or two away from her — just across a road or behind a hedge— and, oh, how her heart would pound and stutter!  She knew, if she only exerted herself, she might reach out and grasp him.  He was so very close, if only she might run faster, turn quicker, find a shorter way!  No matter how she ran, he remained beyond her reach — so tantalizingly close and yet separated by an uncrossable chasm.   Inevitably, she woke from these dreams with a start, her object as elusive in her waking hours as he had been in her sleep.

Worst of all were the dreams which conjured her memories of the past.  In these, Anne found herself wrapped in his embrace, his voice in her ear resurrecting those long cherished and short-lived endearments only he had ever spoken. Oh, those were the most terrible dreams of all! To bask in the warmth of his affection, entirely convinced of the reality of the moment, only to awake to the frigid cold and silence of a new dawn caused the bitterest tears of all. 

Anne Elliot had once been loved.  She was loved no longer.

Since his return to Somersetshire, he had determined to inhabit her dreams with an even greater and more exasperating frequency.  How was she to face him in the light of day after a night of such dreams?  They had taken on new forms and cast their object into new images than before.  This was not the Captain Wentworth of before, but a new version— forged out of new slights and fears and failings. In these dreams, this version of Captain Wentworth walked into Kellynch and was all that was handsome, charming, and enticing.  However, he did not see Anne.  No matter how she might cry out or pull on his arm or throw herself before him, he remained as resolute as a statue and neither spoke to her nor cast his eyes on her.  She remained entirely invisible to him — lost to the haze and shadows of the dream world’s version of Somersetshire.

Last night's apparition had not only recognized her but had insisted on conversing with her.  There, with another woman held securely in his arms and gazing up at him in adoration, he caught sight of Anne.  Rather than releasing the woman, he gazed fixedly at Anne before lowering his face to kiss the woman in his arms.  When he looked up at Anne again, his smile was cruel and his expression smug. 

“How can you believe in second attachments when you did not believe in first?” He accused her, before leaving her bereft and humiliated in his wake. 

Anne woke with a start, her chest heaving with rapid breaths.  The sun had already woken for the morning, though it was not yet high off the horizon.  She knew more sleep would not come and she had some hours before breakfast.  She dressed and came down the stairs of the inn, only to find she was not alone in her early rising.  Henrietta was there, eager for a companion to join her in a stroll along the sea.

They went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted. They praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze—and were silent for a time before Henrietta began to speak of what was truly on her heart: Charles Hayter and her wish that circumstances would soon align to permit them to wed.

Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence?

While they wandered, Anne saw two other pairs of familiar figures walking along the sea.  Captain Wentworth and Louisa wandered the shore, Louisa delighted to explore each rock and shell and gushing over the colors of the dawn while Captain Wentworth listened attentively to all she said. Anne was distracted from further dwelling on their early morning rendezvous by the sight of a second pair of companions who she could see further along the Cobb.  There, Captain Benwick and Mr. Tilney walked together in earnest conversation.  By their postures and slow movements, Anne assumed the pair had determined to continue their conversation from the night before. 

She smiled to herself.  Of course, Mr. Tilney could not remain indifferent to the suffering of another man. It was so very like him to seek out the loneliest, most suffering soul of the company to attach himself to and insist on bringing them both cheer and companionship. He had a preternatural ability to appear just when one was the most discomposed, and an intuition for when any of their party was the most distressed. She supposed it must be part of his occupation— and part of what made him excel as a clergyman.  She had benefited from this ability on more than one occasion and it warmed her heart to see poor Captain Benwick as the current recipient of his goodwill.

Anne had received the news of the arrival of the cousin complacently.  She was glad for any new company in the neighborhood, most especially when such an arrival was greeted with anticipation and delight by the society in which she now dwelt.  Inevitably, the rumors surrounding Mr. Tilney preceded his arrival and the Musgroves had spoken of him for days in preparation for his visit.  Mrs. Musgrove spoke of him with warmth and firm affection, as was her wont with any relative within her circle. She had a special affinity for children she saw in need of mothering and in her eyes, Mr. Tilney, despite his age, was just such a one.

"None of his family attended his wedding to Catherine," Mrs. Musgrove clucked disapprovingly. "Poor child! I believe there was a break in the family and over his choice of wife. Mrs. Tilney, God rest her, she was a sweet, amiable woman from a clergyman's family. She came with a respectable three thousand pounds. However, she was never considered grand enough for General Tilney. Henry, good man, he insisted he would marry her anyway. He had a good living and a portion from his mother, besides. And the General could do very little about it. They married. I know the Viscountess has restored relations with him since and the Viscount even gave Henry a living some years later. However, I do not know if the General or Frederick ever reconciled with Henry. It is very bad— such a break in a family ought not be! Especially, after a marriage is already in place — what will such conflict and discordance achieve after all is done?"

Initially, the elder Musgroves wondered if they might cast one of their daughters in his direction, though they never spoke of it to Henrietta and Louisa.  The Musgrove girls, while considering their cousin quite the tragic, romantic hero for all he suffered on account of his wife, did not ever realize him as a potential suitor for themselves.

There was a general consensus of affection and pity for the bereaved man.  All were eager for his visit and spoke highly of him.  For her part, Anne had not expected any great pleasure for herself from his arrival. Anne’s previous interactions with Mr. Tilney had been all that was civil and amiable. However, in truth they had spoken very little and she had spent far more time conversing with his wife. Mrs. Tilney had been a slightly stout, cheerful woman with open manners, sparkling eyes, and an indominable desire to befriend everyone. Anne had liked her immediately and spoken with her in-depth each time they found themselves in company together. Anne had been grieved to hear of her death.  Even without her acquaintance with Mrs. Tilney, one of Anne's heart must feel sympathy for a fellow sufferer and one who had experienced such loss. Her affection for the deceased woman made her all the more determined to bestow kindness on the poor widower.

She had expected a few polite, brief conversations together during the inevitable interchange of society of Uppercross— similar to her relationship with Mr. Musgrove or Admiral Croft. They were unfailingly kind but did not often converse.  She expected very little heed to be paid to her other than the most cordial, polite indifference that neighbors— in the same circle and often in the same party — can feel towards one of their own.

Thus, Mr. Tilney had easily settled into the affairs of Uppercross — as content in the companionship of the younger Musgroves as that of the elder. No more was whispered about his potential as a husband for any of the Musgroves and it was Captain Wentworth who became the cherished object instead. This arrangement often left Anne and Mr. Tilney as companions for each other and Mr. Tilney had not been quite what she expected.

She could not regret his presence nor prefer solitude over his clever, witty perceptions on their company.  He was a man with a mind, manner, and education which held a natural affinity with her own.  They had more than taste in books in common. They had both experienced a tragic loss of their excellent mothers... and many long years wondering how their lives might have differed if it was their mother that remained alive. The similarities between their fathers and the complicated relationships with their proud, beautiful elder siblings also provided common ground between them

Even his grief over the loss of his wife gave her a deeper kinship with the man. It is not that he spoke of her all that frequently, but that she could see all the myriad shades of sorrow that hung on the crevices of his statements or sank into the folds of skin around his heart. It was a grief far deeper and more permanent than she had yet embraced and she was impacted by the weight of it – as if moving from the sunlight to the flickering shade of a sapling to the deep, cold cavern of an underground cave— cut off from all sunlight. Yes, Anne had known grief and loss and been deeply impacted by the death of her mother and the loss of Frederick Wentworth… but Mr. Tilney had gone into far deeper, colder places than she and Anne felt the chill that lingered on his soul. It was not that he wished his sadness to be contagious as much as he had grown to encompass it as part of himself, to carry it with him always, like a pocket watch that reminds one of mortality.

For all his teasing and attempts at appearing light-hearted, Mr. Tilney noticed far more than most of the other inhabitants of Uppercross. While admiring Mr. Tilney’s unusual perceptiveness, this trait also discomfited Anne in his presence. In the amiable obliviousness and kind-hearted self-centeredness of the society around Uppercross, Mr. Tilney insisted on unnaturally acute attention to the well-being of those around him. 

It was endearing — the attention bestowed upon Charles Hayter by the older clergyman. Anne noticed, even if few others did, how attentive Mr. Tilney had been to the younger man's growing turmoil and jealousy. She had seen it, as well, in his attentions to her sister and her poor, injured nephew.  She had seen it these past two days in Lyme and his attentions to Captain Benwick. 

Anne had found herself the recipient of his gift on more than one occasion.  It unsettled Anne more than she wished to admit.  For such of her inner feelings to be observable by any was an affront to her ability to maintain her composure.  She could not like such notice nor wish anyone aware of her distress. 

Anne had taken great pride in her ability to suffer through Captain Wentworth’s arrival in silence and autonomy, to endure any pain and hardship without flinching or loss of composure. She had insisted she would continue steadfast in her course, no matter what he said or did. Despite her exertions, Mr. Tilney insisted on appearing at her side each time she was slighted or felt prone to melancholy.  She wondered if it was purely instinctive or if he consciously noted her distress.  

Now, as he walked the Cobb alongside the grieving Benwick, she could not hold such a trait entirely against him.  However, she did hold Mr. Tilney partially responsible for her lack of sleep the night before.  Such a topic!  Such questions!  Oh, how was she to recover her composure after such a night… and in company with Frederick and Frederick’s closest companions as well? 

She felt entirely raw and wrung out— like a crustacean with its shell torn off and exposed on the shore of the sea.  To encourage Henrietta in her hope for her engagement while watching Captain Wentworth walk arm-in-arm with Louisa in the morning light was almost more than she could bear.  It was salt in the open wounds of her heart and she found she would much rather retreat into isolation.  How she longed to sit along the side of the sea by herself and seek solace in its waves!  It was not to be for Henrietta had more to say and Anne must offer herself as an attentive listener for another turn about the shore.

All subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards them along with Mr. Tilney and Captain Benwick.  The latter appeared quiet, subdued and Anne wondered if he had found sleep any easier than she had.  By his looks, she assumed he had not. They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. They were all at her disposal.

When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again."

Mr. Tilney, the last to pass that way, paused to speak to the man. "Good morning to you sir! Here we are again!  Why, I believe we have past each other thrice now. Are we not staying together at the same inn?"

"Good morning again, sir.  Indeed, I believe we are!" Answered the man, quite amiably. He cast a warm, curious glance at the rest of the party and he bowed to each in turn. "Though I do not believe I have had the pleasure of crossing paths with all of your party yet," he said, with a meaningful look towards Anne.

"How are you enjoying Lyme?" Mr. Tilney asked.

"Very well, very well. It is not, perhaps, quite as populated as I might have wished nor the weather as fine as it often is during other seasons, but the sea is always worth visiting," he answered, with a pointed nod towards each of the sea captains. "And yourself... Mr...?"

"Henry Tilney," he answered with a bow.

"Tilney... Tilney...why… any relation to Colonel Frederick Tilney of Northanger Abbey?" The man asked.

"Ah, that would be Major General Frederick Tilney now.  You must have a past acquaintance with my elder brother, then?"

"Remarkable!  Yes, though the acquaintance was brief, as my outdated information reveals. A mutual companion, a Colonel Wallace, introduced us some years ago during a visit to London.  It is an honour to make your acquaintance.”

"The honour is mine, I am sure.”

“Might I inquire into the health of the Major General and Mrs. Tilney?  What of Lord and Lady Biscopham?"

“Well, if you are at all acquainted with my brother’s character than you must understand how he is sorely disappointed that the war has come to an end and thrust him back on England's shores. Mrs. Tilney and Lord and Lady Biscopham are all in good health, though their tempers are tried by my brother each day and they have their hands full at Northanger ensuring he behaves as he ought."

The man laughed in such a way that showed him to be rather more familiar with the temperaments of those involved than might be expected. "Ah, yes!  It is very hard for a military man to revert to civilian affairs, or so Colonel Wallace always complains, when he is out-of-temper with the company around him.  Now, I must beg an introduction to the rest of your party and inquire into your presence in Lyme."

“Ah, forgive my lapse of manners. Allow me to introduce Captain Benwick, who resides in Lyme, as he provides one reason for our presence here,” Mr. Tilney said.  After Benwick’s polite response, Captain Wentworth was also introduced before Mr. Tilney went on to introduce the Musgroves and Anne. The man’s eyes grew wider in surprise and recognition as the introductions continued. 

"Miss Anne Elliot... of Kellynch... the daughter of Sir Walter?" He asked.

“Indeed, sir.  Are you acquainted with my father?”

"More than acquainted!  We are related!  Why... forgive me for my presumption... but... well, it is such a coincidence! Allow me to introduce myself... I am William Elliot— your cousin."

He looked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his eyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the relationship.

"My cousin!" Anne exclaimed, her cheeks growing red. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance!"

"The pleasure is all mine. Indeed, I have had the honour of making the acquaintance of your charming father and elder sister some time past, but I see I was bereft by waiting so long to meet the rest of my cousins. Do I understand correctly that there remains one more sister?"

"Yes, sir.  Indeed, my youngest sister is here with us in Lyme, though she remained at the inn with her husband this morning."

"Why! What a merry coincidence this all is! I am on my way to London this very morning and then to Bath some days after.   I hope, most fervently, to call upon Sir Walter and Miss Elliot while I am there. I am afraid we have had some unfortunate misunderstandings in the past that I had hoped to put rights to. Yet, imagine coming across the rest of my fair cousins before I had even reached my destination! Please, where is it that your party is going to now and may I have the pleasure of an introduction to the rest of my relations?"

It was quickly determined that the excursion to the shops must be delayed in favor of introducing their new acquaintance to the rest of their party for everyone knew Mary would not forgive a moment’s delay in her introduction to her father’s heir.  The party turned back to the inn together. Mr. Elliot’s opinions on Lyme were equally sought by both Musgrove girls for the duration of the walk until they reached the inn.

The task of informing Mary of their new acquaintance fell to Anne and she took it with all her usual grace. 

"Mr. Elliot? My father's heir? Mr. Elliot who will inherit Kellynch? The future baronet?  Oh, Anne, how does my hair look? Perhaps I ought to change my gown."

“I do not see why you would show more care to breakfast with a cousin who has never bothered to meet you before than you would for breakfast with your husband,” Charles groused, slightly out of temper from Mary’s enthusiasm.

"You look very well, Mary,” Anne interjected placatingly.  “Come, he has agreed to join us for breakfast and he wishes to meet you.”

"And he asked specifically to be introduced to me? What an honor that is! What stories I will have to write to Elizabeth! Will not she be very jealous?”

In truth, Anne did not know what ought to be communicated to their relations in Bath or what gentle reminders she ought to give Mary about the past conflict between Sir Walter and Mr. Elliot.  From what she had understood of past relations between the families, Mr. Elliot had shown no interest and, indeed, had deeply offended both her father and her sister.  Anne was entirely baffled by Mr. Elliot’s sudden interest in the connection.  She was prevented from speaking by Mary’s continued fussing.

“Well, do not linger, Anne!   What have we ordered for breakfast? Is it fine enough? Ought we order something else?"

"The man has been staying at the same inn as us, Mary. I am sure whatever we have ordered is the same fare he himself would have had if left alone,” Charles answered with a roll of his eyes.  Then, with an overly exaggerated motion, he took the arms of both his wife and sister-in-law in order to escort them into breakfast.

It was a merry party that dined together that morning.  The addition of Captain Benwick and Mr. Elliot could only improve upon the overall mood and congeniality of the party .  

Mr. Elliot sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much. There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man. Ten minutes were enough to certify that. His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but especially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to be guests in the same inn at the same time; to give his own route, understand something of hers, and rejoice that he should have… such an opportunity of paying his respects to her. She gave him a short account of her party and business at Lyme.

“Why I spent the whole solitary evening last night in the room adjoining yours. I heard your voices and mirth continually and thought you must be the most delightful set of people.  I longed to be part of your company, but certainly without the smallest suspicion of possessing the shadow of a right to introduce myself. If I had but asked who the party were! The name of Musgrove would have told me enough,” he said.

“Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together,” said Captain Wentworth, “we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence, that you should… be introduced to your cousin.”

  “Too true, sir!  Providence, indeed!  Imagine, I might have departed for London this morning without ever knowing I had such company as some of my nearest relations here in the same inn as myself!  Well, it would serve to cure me of an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which I had adopted, when quite a young man, on the principle of its being very ungenteel to be curious.The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty…as to what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more absurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world. The folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the folly of what they have in view.”

Mary’s delight at his future accession to her father’s title was only rivaled by his amiability and ease at flattery.  Charles, too, quickly disbanded his previous dislike when the man inquired into the best sport in the neighbourhood and his favoured pursuits in the areas around the countryside.  Charles could not be disappointed at the prospect of such a future neighbour inhabiting Kellynch.  Henrietta and Louisa must be captivated by such a new acquaintance, especially when it became apparent that he was quite… good-looking, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable.  He easily became a new favourite of the company.  Even Captain Benwick, upon noticing Mr. Elliot’s state of mourning exerted himself to offer his condolences and try to speak with the man. 

Captain Wentworth, while slightly disgruntled by his displacement, took the opportunity to converse with Captain Benwick on one side of the breakfast table in low voices.  Occasionally, Louisa or Henrietta called for their input into the best seaside towns in England or how the vistas of England compared with those of Spain and Portugal. However, Mr. Elliot remained the focus of the party throughout the meal.

“My cousins appear quite enraptured with yours,” Mr. Tilney whispered to Anne, amusement twinkling in his eyes. 

“Indeed, sir.  It must bode well for the future felicity of the neighbourhood for the heirs of both the principal estates to form congenial relations.”

“I wonder that he has never visited Kellynch before,” Mr. Tilney asked, dropping his voice so it might not be overheard by the rest of the party.

“It was not due to a lack of invitation,” she answered.  “There was a time Elizabeth and my father eagerly awaited his arrival at Kellynch and they were quite disappointed when he never came.”

“Well, considering the inducements he now sees, I predict he may find more reasons to call upon your family in future,” Mr. Tilney said, casting her a rather pointed, discomfiting glance. 

Anne flushed and dropped her eyes, but not before she caught Mr. Elliot’s openly admiring gaze firmly settled upon her from across the table.

“It is very likely we will cross paths in Bath," she said, rather fearing what such a future might entail.

Chapter Text

“Ah! You make the most of it, I know,” cried Louisa, “but if it were really so, I should do just the same in her place. If I loved a man, as she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven safely by anybody else.”

Persuasion, Chapter X

Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and Mrs Harville…; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could.

Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time, talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike of the merits of either.  Each impasse must be placed before the judgements of Mr. Tilney and Mr. Elliot who followed close behind.  While not as well-read as either Captain Benwick or Mr. Tilney, Mr. Elliot was familiar enough with the most popular works of current poets that he proved an adequate addition to their discussion. While not quite tragic enough of a widower for Captain Benwick's taste, Mr. Elliot could at least recognize enough lines of verse to keep his interest.  

Mrs Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have quite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the direction of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they would accompany them to their door, and then return and set off themselves. By all their calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb.

Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron's "dark blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way.

There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will.”

Captain Wentworth put out his hands.  Louisa was about to leap when the rap of a walking stick across her knees forced her to pause.  Mr. Tilney’s outstretched arm held the stick in place, not permitting her to accomplish her aim.  He cleared his throat once and down at her, his expression that of a father chiding an erring child. 

“My dear cousin, when the one to catch you begs you not to leap, it is folly to continue,” Mr. Tilney said. 

Emotions flickered quickly over her face: defiance, stubbornness, determination.  It was enough of a pause where Captain Wentworth was able to come closer to her, arms still outstretched, his eyes fixed on hers. She cocked her head to one side and considered both men.

"These steps are slippery and you are quite high," Captain Wentworth urged.  "It would be too easy for you to injure yourself.  I have enough experience tending the wounds of midshipmen who have fallen from the rigging.  I have no wish to see you experience the same.”

Mr. Tilney lowered his walking stick from her knees and tapped it against the stone stairs.  “My dear Miss Louisa, while some men may praise obstinacy and admire a firm-minded woman, most men of sense would still prefer their women alive and not in the habit of collecting self-inflicted injuries upon their person,” he said. Then, turning to Captain Wentworth, he asked pointedly, "Sir, would you not agree there is a limit to tenacity?"

Before Captain Wentworth could answer, Louisa turned to Captain Wentworth, every aspect of her attention fixed on him. "Such limits are only admirable if instilled by a worthy object. It would prove no credit to my character to be persuaded by the precepts of society in general. What say you, Captain? Ought I leap again and will you intend to catch me?"

“Please, Miss Louisa.  Allow me to take your hand and accompany you down the stairs,” Captain Wentworth urged.

Louisa Musgrove squared her shoulders and pressed her lips in a firm line.  “I will acquiesce, Captain, but only because it is you who asks it of me.  However, you must know I have faith in you.  If I were to jump, I know you would always catch me.” 

Then, with another daring glance at Mr. Tilney, she walked down the remaining stairs until Captain Wentworth could reach out with his hand and help her down the final steps.  Then, with her hand still in his, her eyes gazing up at him with shining adoration, she smiled. With one smooth, elegant movement, Louisa Musgrove took his arm, her expression still fixed entirely on him, as if he alone were the one to direct the tides and the ships that sailed them. 

The entire party watched this scene in rapt attention, all other conversations falling into a weighty silence.  Reluctantly, the party continued on, whispers slowly growing in strength until conversations continued again, however stilted.  All thoughts remained fixed on the scene they had unwittingly born witness to – with a range of reactions and expectations. 

Anne Elliot fell entirely silent, nearly unable to speak.  Her thoughts were lost and mired—caught entirely into the recollection of the scene she had witnessed.  She did not hear Captain Benwick’s attempts to continue their speak of Lord Byron.  Mr. Elliot’s amused observations on the challenges of spirited, young wives remained only for Mr. Tilney’s ears.  She did not even hear Charles’ exulted cries of “I told you so, Mary,” which rang out behind her.  She hardly noticed anything at all until they reached the path to the inn.

She was roused from her musings by the effusive farewells of Mr. Elliot to each member of their party.  He was delighted to have met each of them and he promised to call upon them all again in future.  He would look forward to meeting Anne again in Bath… she must write her father and pass on all his best wishes.  It must not be long until they meet again.

It was only after his departure that the party spoke of making their own way to home.  It was very nearly one o’clock and they ought to leave.  However, it was Louisa who delayed them a second time.

“I saw the sweetest fan in a shop window and I meant to buy it for Mother this morning,” she said.  “We were very nearly there when we met Mr. Elliot and had to give way.  It is not so very far and it is not so very late.  What is another quarter of an hour on so fine a day?”

Louisa was not to be dissuaded and, indeed, the rest of the company appeared as reluctant to leave Lyme as herself.  Thus, Captain Wentworth, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta offered to accompany Louisa on one final walk through the town. 

Mr. Tilney, still rather out-of-temper with Louisa and much preferring another turn about the Cobb over a shop full of ribbons and fans, told the company he would accompany Captain Benwick on another turn along the shore.  They would reunite at the inn.

Anne declared herself very tired and requested she be permitted to remain where she was.

“There is a rock, just here, which will make an excellent little bench and I am in easy view of Captain Benwick and Mr. Tilney.  I would much rather sit alongside the sea for some few moments more before we must leave again.” 

This was agreed upon by all and the party separated again.  Despite all of Captain Benwick’s assurances that she was welcome to join his conversation with Mr. Tilney, Anne begged for them to permit her some few moments of solitude.  The men reluctantly accepted and she heard their voices grow fainter as they walked farther down the beach.

She sighed in relief and inhaled a deep breath of the salted air. Anne stared out over the sea, her eyes fixed on the undulated rows of foam and water. Yet, somehow, all she could see was the image of Louisa in Captain Wentworth’s arms. 

She inhaled another shuttering breath, tears beginning to prick at the corners of her eyes and her breaths coming in ragged and shallow.  It felt as though her entire chest would burst or that she had swallowed a hot iron.  Her composure began to crumble away.

Of all the women in England, why did it have to be Louisa Musgrove?  Why could he not have married a woman from London or Wales or Shropshire…a woman from any other place?  Even in such a fate, she must hear of his affairs for as long as the Crofts rented Kellynch.  However, she would not have to daily bear witness to it. No, Frederick must choose to marry her sister-in-law.  Anne must have intimate knowledge of their lives in future and continual involvement in his life after marriage.

How could Frederick be so entirely unfeeling, so detached from the past, that he could willingly align himself to her forever?  Charles Musgrove had done precisely the same thing, she reminded herself.  Once disappointed with Anne, he then pursued Mary. 

Frederick must truly have forgotten me, she realized.  It is the only way he could bear it.  He has pushed me entirely from his mind and heart. 

He would not have her. She knew that now. She had fought against that truth for eight years but she could not deceive herself anymore. When he was oceans away, when he only haunted her dreams and her memories, then she could pretend that his next time on shore he would reach out to her, that someday he would contact her again. Yet, here he was, daily within her reach, and he had nothing left of those precious sentiments of the past. 

All hope must be gone.  He would marry another.

Her tears fell unhindered and dropped into the waves below. Her shoulders shook as she finally let herself openly grieve, to let herself accept the truth. It was a truth which pierced her from the inside out.  In her tears, she finally allowed her heart to release him and pour out her hopes upon the waves.

She must wish him well.  She must rejoice in his good fortune.  Louisa Musgrove would make Frederick an affectionate, spirited wife.  She would adore him and he would learn to love her in return.

Louisa Musgrove had so much to offer that Anne never could. While Anne’s family gave nothing to Frederick but coldness and rejection, the Musgroves would give him a place of genuine warmth and affection. They would welcome him with open arms and be there to help weather any storm. If anything happened to him, Louisa would have a place to return to. Even if there was a loss of fortune or status, they would assist and provide a safe refuge. 

Not like Anne.

How she had longed to give him more! That she had more to give! Her lineage and rank were cold and meaningless to Frederick. She felt it keenly. Even her fortune was so little to provide for happiness – not when compared to the felicity of true attachment and familial acceptance. No, Anne Elliott was the daughter of a baronet and thus had nothing but cold, empty rooms and wrung out coffers to offer. Her beauty was dimmed by age and tears. Her accomplishments were meaningless outside a drawing room or country estate.  Worst of all, she had proven herself faithless in Frederick's eyes.

Yes, Frederick would marry Louisa and they would be happy.  And what of Anne?  She hid her face in her hands and wept.

She saw in Louisa parts of the girl she had once been: bright eyed, excited, full of admiration.  Captain Wentworth had been her world, her delight, and her future. Her world was still so small, so fragile, so lovely. Her heart still clung to the fragile beauty of hope for the future.

Sometimes, she wished she was still that girl.

While the crash of waves may have muffled the sound of her quiet sobs, it also hid the sound of footsteps.  She was surprised, then, when a voice interrupted her solitude.

"It takes at least seven, or so I've been told."

"I beg your pardon," she said, quickly seeking to wipe away her tears.

"To summon your selkie lover from the sea. Seven tears at least," Mr. Tilney said.  He stood on a rock nearby, his eyes fixed on the sea rather than on herself, as if expecting the appearance of just such a seal in the waves. 

"Are you speaking from experience, Mr. Tilney?"  She inquired, accepting the handkerchief he handed her with gratitude.

"Ah, I am afraid I have yet to come across a selkie lover of my own. Perhaps, I should be the one to weep into the sea."

“Is that the advice you gave to Captain Benwick?”

“I am afraid he is not quite ready for a selkie lover of his own.  You will remember— he does not believe in second attachments yet.  When he is ready, I must admit it is a capital plan.  What better wife for a sailor than a selkie or a mermaid?  Far more convenient, if you ask me.”

“Probably more convenient for a sailor than a clergyman— unless you live a close distance from the sea.”

“Ah, you are wise, Miss Elliot! Perhaps a dryad or nyad might be preferred for a man in my occupation and station of life.”

Anne gave him a thin smile.  When she did not speak, he apologized for disturbing her. 

“Our time for departure nears and the others will return soon,” he said. 

She nodded in understanding, grateful for the few moments to gather her composure before facing the rest of their party.   

“Captain Benwick has decided to accompany us to Somersetshire.  He goes to inform the Harvilles and pack.  He will then meet us by the inn,” Mr. Tilney informed her. 

"Captain Benwick has agreed to accompany us?  I must admit I am surprised.”

“I have done my best to convince him a change of scene and air will do him good.  Even if it is only a day or two, the paths and woods around Kellynch and Uppercross must give him something to dwell on other than the too familiar, melancholy sites of Lyme.”

“It was very good of you to speak so with Captain Benwick," Anne remarked. "The poor man suffers keenly and you are better equipped than most to offer words of encouragement."

"I fear my own conduct does not always follow the advice I offer to the young mourner," Mr. Tilney observed. There was no hint of humor in his voice. "I do hope something I say gives comfort and perhaps it is myself that ought to follow my own words of wisdom."

"He will rally. He is young and there is much life before him."

"Ah, yes. Let all the selkie maids rejoice and wait in eager anticipation for their dashing sailor to come and claim them!” Mr. Tilney said.

“Perhaps, though, I think it more likely he will find satisfaction with a woman of flesh and blood and humanity,” Anne remarked. 

Mr. Tilney's expression shifted to one of thoughtfulness.  “If he will permit another woman to stand in Miss Harville’s shadow,” he mused.  “I wonder if I would prefer the victorious and unfading glory of a dead rival over the hopeful possibility of a living one? Benwick will forever be comparing every successive woman to one whose very absence has immortalized her in the essence of unbroken perfection. She will never age nor fail nor quarrel. She will forever remain as his feminine ideal that none may touch or dislodge. Now, if Fanny Harville still lived and simply preferred another, well, how different his sentiments might be!"

"I suppose he might not hold her up as such the embodiment of female excellence," Anne said with a smile, picturing just how Captain Benwick's profusions would change course under such circumstances.  Anne tried to suppress her laughter, the response appearing indelicate to the situation, yet she could not help it.  “Thus, your argument, sir, is it is preferable for one’s beloved to languish and die and thus achieve immortal devotion rather than the inconstancy of living a happy life married to another.”

It was his turn to laugh. “I suppose it does not sound quite so well, if explained in such a manner.  It is far more poetic to pine away after a dead love than to pine away of jealousy after one in the throes of marital felicity with a new love.  I wonder, Miss Elliot, how you would advise Captain Benwick, if such was the case? Ought he pine forever out of reverence to his lost opportunity or do you believe he ought to move on again?"

"We spoke of this last night, sir."

“Not quite.  Last night, we spoke of second attachments after our first have died.  Now, I wonder what your beliefs on second attachments are when the first still lives— only prefers another.”

She sighed and looked away. His gaze was too penetrating, too knowing. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if to shield her secrets away, as if it would keep him from admitting the truth.

He knew. He must or why else would he insist on this line of questioning? Her heart sank within her breast.  He must know it all and that was why he questioned her so.  For a moment, she was overcome with chagrin at the thought that she might be so exposed.  She could not answer.

Mr. Tilney grew silent for a time and he stared out over the ocean again.  She rather wondered if she preferred him to keep his silence rather than inquire further into any of the topics that floated uncomfortably close to the surface between them. 

“Allow me to be frank with you… as frank as I have sought to be with Captain Benwick.  I know you suffer keenly from a past disappointment.  Do not allow the strength of your previous attachment to keep you imprisoned to an object you may never obtain. I have no desire to chastise you over the worthiness of your previous object, the justification for your separation, or the subsequent decisions made. These are irrelevant.  Your former object has moved on to a new love and you have not.  Miss Elliot, you have a great capacity for love and you are worthy of every happiness you would wish upon Captain Benwick.  Do not let pride keep you bound to your past."

“Pride, sir?” She asked in confusion, lifting her head to meet his eye.

He arched a brow in her direction. "Pride in your fidelity.  Pride in your constancy that endures against your own self-interest, against all sense, against any possibility for future happiness.  Perhaps, even pride in your ability to endure all heartbreak and suffering silently and with perfect composure.”

She was equal parts mortification and affront.

"It is not so!  It is far easier for a man to have second attachments. You have freedom of movement, freedom of choice, your own biology permits more possibilities."

“Perhaps. I will not deny it.  However, this is where I will challenge you, Miss Elliot.  When was the last time you granted a man a dance... or sought opportunities to interact with company outside of your neighborhood? When was the last time you truly considered a man other than your former object? I would ask you the same question I asked my cousin earlier: is there a limit to tenacity?"

At her silence, he turned away to face the shore rather than the sea.  

"Try, Miss Elliot…And, might I be bold enough to say, just these two days in Lyme, there have been at least three men who have openly admired you and who, with very little encouragement on your part, would gladly pursue you.”

Her cheeks burned. She did not know where to look. "What can you mean, sir?"

“I mean you are a woman who ought to dance again, Miss Elliot.  Any unmarried gentleman over the age of five and twenty with any sense at all will notice you and must admire you… if you will but allow it."

Chapter Text

“That is the woman I want,” said he. “Something a little inferior I shall of course put up with, but it must not be much. If I am a fool, I shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than most men.”

Persuasion Chapter VII

Oooo

Frederick Wentworth was precisely the sort of man born to be a hero. Well, perhaps not initially.  His family was nothing extraordinary and he lost both his parents far sooner than he would have wished.  His brother and sister, too, for all that he adored them, they were not the sort of people that were exceptional, save for the way they lived, the decisions they made, the fortitude of their souls, and the strength of their characters.  This, too, was how Frederick Wentworth made a name for himself in the world.  He was optimistic enough to believe only the best would occur to him and brash enough to face insurmountable odds without flinching or giving way.  It was through the force of his will and the natural charisma of his personality that he was ordained by nature to someday become a man of note, renown, and heroics.

Frederick Wentworth was also handsome, as all heroes ought to be if they can manage it.  His fortune had been made in the war, as he had always known it would be, and so now he was in possession of an independent fortune — and he was fully prepared to appoint a wife to spend it.  This was a task he did not anticipate any difficulties in completing for, as we have already surmised, he was precisely the manner of man that young women would wish for as a husband. 

He appreciated this new change in his importance for it had not always been so.  There had been a time when he had been far less wealthy and his future less established.  He had been able to boast of nothing more than looking very dashing in his naval uniform, possessing very gallant manners, and an unshakeable belief that he would someday make post.  In truth, he possessed far more luck than prospects and far more courage than connections.  It was during this very precarious and uncertain time that he had made his first attempt at gaining a wife. 

Perhaps, if he had set out with the intention to marry, he might have achieved more success.  After all, a prudent man who intends to set up an establishment for a wife is more likely to save what he earns and less likely to spend it all freely.  However, Frederick Wentworth had no more intended to acquire a draft horse than a bride when he entered the county of Somersetshire in the Year Six and thus it was all the more unexpected when he became overcome with a desire to join the state of matrimony. 

He had been a newly appointed commander without a ship cast ashore for six months together with nothing to occupy his time but an enthusiastic enjoyment of what life on shore had to offer an up-and-coming naval officer. He had risen rapidly in the ranks and had every confidence that he would rise farther still.  It was into this season that he stumbled upon Anne Elliot.  When a very idle man comes across a very pretty woman, it is no very strange thing for the man to openly flirt till the woman sends him away.  In this case, the woman had no intention of sending him anywhere and she proved just as eager to admire him as he was to reciprocate.   

While it began in frivolity and enjoyment… it quickly spiraled into something more.  Frederick Wentworth never did anything by halves and he was entirely consumed by the fires of first passions before he recognized his danger.  Frederick fell harder than a cannonball from the crow’s nest and soon his aim of flirtation was replaced by one for matrimony.  However, so taken up was he that he paid no heed to possible complications nor hindrances, no matter how his far more sensible brother tried to warn him.  No, he sailed full speed ahead with no care of the rocks immersed along his path.  Sooner or later, he must run aground and flounder, but by then it was too late to change course.

“Of all the women for you to fall for, it must be Anne Elliot,” his brother had complained.  Edward had sighed in that familiar, overly pragmatic and long-suffering way of his, and said very little else.  His previous warnings had not been heeded and he was not a man given to speaking his opinion more than once.

Of course, of all the women in the world, Frederick Wentworth had fallen in love with Anne.  The problem, though, was that Anne was not only Anne.  She was an Elliot.  She was the daughter of a Baronet.  She was everything that Frederick could never hope to achieve, everything that was beyond his reach.  By circumstances of family and birth, their union was never meant to be and that made him pursue her all the more. 

He had struggled to make his way in the world, to earn the respect of those who naturally looked down their haughty, powdered noses at him.  He had grown up knowing well his limitations and the boundaries of his social ambitions. Yet, he could not accept those boundaries and he attacked Society with the same brash confidence that he attacked Napoleon’s fleet.  He would overcome.  He would beat them at their own game and take their treasures as his own. Even if he was not naturally born to wealth and titles, he would achieve these by his own merit an audacious, undaunting courage.

Thus, while Edward Wentworth would never even consider courting a baronet’s daughter, Frederick felt no qualms or hesitations.  If he could face down French ships full of privateers without flinching, he could look Sir Walter in the eye and ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage.  Sir Walter was a peacock of a man— easily dismissed and set aside.  Wentworth had no expectation nor desire for his good opinion.  Why, if the man could not even see the value in his own daughter, how was he to recognize the good in anyone else?  No, the opinions of Anne’s closest family members could easily be disregarded. 

Despite the vast chasm in their social standings, Anne said “yes.”  She did not see him for his position at birth nor question his lack of wealth.  She accepted who he was as a man and held every assurance in her confidence in his quick rise in position.  Frederick had never felt so confident of his value, so important, or so full of pride as the day she accepted his proposal. 

And yet… and yet… in the end the French proved easier to overcome than the iron-clad constraints of Society and he would much rather face down a twelve-pound cannon than the maneuverings of a Lady Russell any day. It was her godmother who declared that Frederick was all bluff and empty muskets— as unreliable and unlikely to overcome as the Asp was to make it back to England without floundering.  Expectations, courage, and certainty were not enough to sway the matron and she declared the match imprudent. 

Frederick Wenworth was not enough.  It was as if she saw through him and declared him unworthy. 

It was a sentiment he was all too familiar with.  One he had fought against all his life.

If only Lady Russell could be called a fool or a social climber, he could have dismissed her opinion.  However, he knew Lady Russell to be an intelligent, sensible woman who cherished a special attachment to Anne and loved her as a daughter.  Knowing the woman possessed enough understanding and goodness to earn Anne’s respect, her disapproval struck him keenly, but nothing prepared him for the depth of pain he experienced when Anne was persuaded to call off their engagement. 

Absolute loyalty was a virtue vital to the survival of sailors on board any ship. When Frederick had first gone to sea, as a mere boy of twelve, he had been forced to leave all behind him.  England, his family, his home, and all that remained of his old life left were replaced by life on the open ocean, surrounded by wood and sails and rigging.  While he maintained some connections to his former home through letters and the occasional shore leave, for the most part, his new life as a sailor was all that mattered.  Very quickly, he learned there was little use in wishing for what he had left behind and he must rely entirely on his own hard-work and the skills of the rest of the crew if he wished to survive.  If he could prove himself especially clever and quick-witted, he might even thrive.

The Royal Navy functioned through a balance of rewards and punishments. No one was promoted by connections or situation of birth alone.  An elaborate hierarchy existed on board ship based on one's behavior, skills, and achievements, as well as one's connections to others in the navy. Merit must be proven or the survival of entire ships was put at stake.  In exchange for admirable service, there were material rewards and elevations in rank, honor, and prestige.

Sailors relied on each other completely. If someone failed to keep watch, it might be the end of them all when they dashed to pieces on rocks. If someone failed to keep clean, it might cause sickness for the rest of the ship. If the carpenter was remiss in fixing a leak, the ship could sink. If someone stole rations, the rest would go hungry. Strict discipline was required so that they all might survive together and morale was upheld.

In the fight against Napoleon, the strength of the navy was the key to victory. However, as the war continued for year after year without reprieve, the navy required more sailors than England willingly produced.  Sometimes regular civilians were captured and forced into a life at sea and other times known criminals were sent to fulfill their sentence onboard ship.  A ship must have bodies to fill all its positions— from the menial powder monkey to the highly skilled carpenter to the well-educated captain, each was imperative to the survival of not only the ship but the crew.   

Such a situation was like a powder keg, ready to explode at any time. To keep order with such rabble, both harsh measures and rewards were employed. Captains must lead well and gain the respect of their crew or they risked loss of morale.  Most of the time, the threat of death was enough to keep the unwilling sailors from rallying against their captain and enabling the ship to complete its stated purpose. If that threat failed, then the transgressors must be punished or the navy risked chaos. Mutiny was punishable by death.  Failing to heed the directions of a superior officer during a battle could mean the loss of a war.  If the navy fell into chaos, then trade could be hindered, borders unprotected, and ultimately, the war could be lost.   

Thus, naval power relied on absolute trust and loyalty.  Since his first day at sea, this had been instilled into Frederick.  He held the same expectations for his crew and his captain as for himself.  As he rose in leadership, he expected the same out of those under his authority.  It was little wonder, then, that he wished for these same virtues in a wife. 

When Anne Elliot called off their engagement, she called his leadership and trustworthiness into question.  She doubted his love, doubted him.  She would not leave all behind her and take up her new post at his side. She declared him unworthy as both captain and man.

His heart had been shattered— but not his pride.  He was determined to hold his head up high and turn his back on the faithless woman who had cast him off.  He decided, when he married, to find a woman with a character so opposite of Anne Elliot that no resemblance could be found between them.   He would not remember Anne Elliot nor think of what might have been. 

He would do what he had always done when plagued with heartache and difficulties— he would sail away and throw himself headfirst into action and exertion.  He would prove to both Anne—and himself— that he could achieve everything he once claimed would be his.

And this is exactly what he did.

Ooo

Eight years later, Captain Frederick Wentworth was a man who was not easily dismissed.  With enough battles and heroic deeds in his wake, he had earned the respect of those both within his profession and without.  Men who once spurned him now sought out his acquaintance and wished for his notice.  While he had once been dismissed and overlooked as beneath the notice of the ladies of the gentry, now, as a prominent captain with a good fortune behind him, he was welcomed with open arms and batting eyes.  He had achieved all he set out for…

Except his one final conquest. 

Now, he dwelt in the very house that had once spurned him from marrying its daughter.  Sir Walter had retreated in disgrace, leaving the house to be inhabited by Captain Wentworth’s own family.  Frederick Wentworth was despised no more but was sought as a husband for Anne’s own sisters by marriage.  His return to Somersetshire was a triumph— a mark of all he had achieved since he last walked these roads and fields.  It was more satisfying than he could have possibly imagined.

When Frederick discovered Anne Elliot with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind transformed into a faded, forgotten creature, he must be equal parts dismayed and relieved by the fate he had escaped.  This was not the Anne he had once known.  She did not dance.  She barely spoke at meals.  Hardly anyone remembered even to ask after her well-being or notice her presence. 

The woman who had scorned him had found no greater fate for herself.  Indeed, she was in far worse straits than when they had first met.  She had sunk and he had risen.  He had the world before him — everything he had hoped for, claimed, and predicted— but she was relegated to the role of spinster aunt, passed from relative to relative, without a firm anchor in the world. 

If she had married him…

Well, it was not worth thinking about.  She had cast him off and it was her who must pay the consequences.  He felt none.  His only regret was in having once allowed such a woman the power to wound him.  He was wiser now. 

Thus, Frederick faced not only the society which once disdained and spurned him as inadequate, but he faced the woman herself.  He did not shrink away nor feel anything but indifference in her presence.  He had overcome his heartbreak.  He had proved himself, despite Anne Elliot.  Now, her own relations wished for him as a husband. 

Let Anne see them fight and preen and seek his goodwill.  Let her rue her own relinquishment.  He would prove to himself that her lack of trust and faith in him were faults indeed and that he was worthy, despite the deep, dark part of himself that still declared he was not.

Frederick Wentworth would meet a woman of firm convictions, a strong mind, and a loyal temperament.  He would find just such a woman and then he would marry her.  And he would be grateful, each day, that she was not Anne Elliot.

Oooo

Captain Wentworth sometimes felt as unsteady on land as others felt upon their first time at sea.  So much of his life had been spent outside of England, surrounded by the eccentric, world-weary collections of diplomats, sailors, traders, merchants, and outcasts who were drawn to the furthest corners of the compass.  While his education at the Royal Naval Academy had taught him all the etiquette and manners he was required to be successful in even the highest circles, the practice of such knowledge among the landed gentry remained a slightly clumsy affair.  Even the Admiral and Sophie felt more at ease with their naval acquaintances than with the high-ranking families of the gentry. 

Thus, it was with great pleasure that Frederick stumbled into the warm, generous, open-hearted company around Uppercross.  Rather than cold formality or self-serving flattery, the Musgroves welcomed him immediately as if he was already an accepted member of their family.  It had been so many years since Frederick dwelt with his own brother and sister and even longer since his parents lived, to be surrounded by such a vibrant, cheerful family was entirely charming.  To find himself the center of attention and open admiration of such a family was intoxicating. 

He eagerly threw himself into the affairs of life in Somersetshire.  Hunting parties, long horseback rides through the countryside, informal concerts and dances, and long walks searching for nuts were all novelties that he rarely experienced during his years at sea.  There were new acquaintances to meet, old stories to share, and each day a new experience in what it meant to be a man on land and not at sea.

Once again, finding himself idle and without anything to occupy his time, he intended to fall in love.  If he had managed the thing in the past by accident, it must come easier with pursuit.  This time, with his current fortune and position, there should be no hindrances to keep him from gaining a wife.

Ooooo

It was during the return from Lyme that Frederick was granted leisure to reflect on all that had occurred since he arrived in Somersetshire.  A man of action, he naturally preferred exertion over reflection and the momentum of moving forward over the hesitation of looking back.  However, he was not a man of mean understanding and he must admit time for honest assessments of himself and his circumstances. 

The trip to Lyme had unsettled him in ways he had not anticipated.  While it had been an undeniable pleasure to introduce both social circles to each other and enjoy the amiability of the people he considered his friends, such introductions had produced surprises of their own. After the hours the Musgroves spent in rapt attention and admiration of the tales of the sea captains, it was not their company that Harville praised.  No, it was the two members of their party who paid them very little heed at all. Mr. Tilney and Miss Elliot had spent nearly the duration of their time in Lyme in the company of Benwick— drawing him out and drawing him in —so much so that the man agreed to accompany their party back to Somersetshire for an impromptu visit. 

“I have never known Benwick to form a friendship so quickly,” Harville had observed. “It has done him a world of good.  I cannot remember the last time I heard Benwick laugh.”

Captain Wentworth could not begrudge Benwick the opportunity to find comfort in new companions nor even his choice of friends.  It warmed his heart to see his old friend smile again and acquire some interest in the world outside his sorrows.  However, there was a lingering unease about it that caused him to reflect on it all now.

Frederick was cast out of the center again in favour of others.  He had basked so long in his position as the center of everyone’s admiration and attention.  He had been the one to comfort Benwick.    He had been the one everyone listened to and wished to know.  Now, to be displaced… it revealed to him some uncomfortable truths of his own character that did not sit well with him.

Frederick wished for Harville to praise the Musgrove girls and notice their attentions on Frederick.  He wished for Harville to recognize his achievement in gaining Louisa’s admiration and respect.  Yet, it was Anne who Harville praised.  Why must it be Anne?

His unease had increased when their party expanded to include the irritatingly amiable and outrageously charming Mr. Elliot… the mysterious heir to Kellynch and the future baronet.  The man was everything Captain Wentworth disdained— all polish and no substance, all gilded edges without steel.  The man would inherit Kellynch through no merit but that of blood— his presence a reminder that Frederick’s inhabitation of Kellynch was still temporary.  He remained an interloper and not a man who truly belonged.  Of all people in the world to come across in Lyme, it must be him… and of all possible times, it must be now. 

Oh, Mr. Elliot had been everything he ought to be and he had been admired immediately… and, as if that had not been enough, he had done his share of obvious admiring in turn.  It was this which had rankled Captain Wentworth further.  Of all the women to admire in the company, it would be Anne.  For so long, she had been ignored and forgotten and all the sudden, she rose to the center of attention. Of course, he should expect other men to seek her out, to admire her worth, to recognize her value.  Charles Musgrove had— and yet he had so easily settled on the youngest Elliot sister and that alone made Wentworth dismiss him.  What had he truly valued in Anne that he could replace with Mary?  No, he had not truly loved her.  He was amiable and easily pleased and unparticular in his desires for a wife. 

And this man, well, he obviously admired Anne’s countenance and figure.  Frederick should not be surprised by that, and yet, for so long he, himself, had easily forgotten that he had once found her lovely.  Or, perhaps, he had convinced himself to remain blinded and immune to it.  Yet, he had been the one that admired Miss Elliot before anyone else had noticed her.

He was angry.  During their walk along the Cobb, he had been simmering— unwisely so, it turned out, for he had been unprepared and out-of-temper.  Louisa had attempted to flirt and act coyly, in the manner she had always done, and which he had previously found charming.  It irritated him now for he knew the eyes of the company that morning were not on Louisa nor him.  They were on Anne, whether she recognized it or not.  Harville wished to speak to her and thank her for her exertions for Benwick.  Mr. Elliot, Mr. Tilney, and Benwick jostled each other in an attempt to draw her into their conversations.  And Anne… hardly looked Frederick’s direction. 

He did not need her notice.  He certainly hardly paid her any attention at all.  

His unease only grew as their party moved to walk along the Cobb.  For all that the day was fine and the walk refreshing, he could hardly attend to Louisa who chattered away beside him.  

“The Harville’s are lovely!  I have enjoyed my time with them so much,” Louisa exclaimed.  “The navy must have the very best people in all the world.”

He smiled at the notion—fully cognizant of the many exceptions to such a statement, but enjoying her enthusiasm, nonetheless. 

She continued to flirt and when he did not respond as whole-heartedly as usual, she requested for him to catch her as she jumped from the steps.  The scene that followed could not easily be forgotten nor banished from his mind. 

“I will acquiesce, Captain, but only because it is you who asks it of me.  However, you must know I have faith in you.  If I were to jump, I know you would always catch me,” she had declared, before the entire company.

Louisa Musgrove trusted him to catch her.  Anne never had.

Her complete trust in him charmed him.  Her respect of what he said and thought was captivating.  He must feel gratitude for her determined devotion… and he must be flattered by her unashamed admiration. 

His first instinct was to wonder if Anne had taken note... If she could recognize the virtues Louisa Musgrove embodied that she had not.

Chapter Text

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love."

Northanger Abbey, Chapter IV

Change clung to the air around Uppercross more than frost clung to the windowpanes and fallen leaves each morn. The party returned to Uppercross murmuring and vibrating with the undercurrent of anticipation they all shared. Their former amusements were easily replaced with future expectancies and talk soon turned to what was ahead rather than what was behind. The Christmas holidays promised days of lively bustling and cheerful chaos for the house would soon be overflowing with the young Musgroves, their Tilney cousins, and an accompanying Morland aunt and uncle. It was determined that they all must be grand and merry together as much as possible.

One newly arrived visitor to the neighborhood, Captain James Benwick, found his grief-stricken sensibilities to be mortified— in the best and worst possible way. The change from Lyme to Somersetshire was like the painfully searing heat of a hearth fire after being caught in a blizzard. Uppercross was a cesspool of joy, motion, expectation, and laughter. So great was the change it nearly compelled him right back to Lyme.

How could he bear to observe the brewing engagements or the perpetual merriment of such company after so many months spent closeted in his grief? These people did not know or speak of Fanny. Sorrow was not worn as a noose on their hearts. Their attention was fixed entirely on the pleasant present and joyful future.

And yet... and yet... it was a reminder that life continued on and there was a world that carried on even without Fanny Harville.

He was struck with guilt at the relief that flooded him at such a prospect. How could he enjoy amusements again or recognize the warmth of friendship after her loss? How could he willingly wake on a morning and face a day without a heavy grey fog of desperation sapping him of all desire to live? All must remain dark and desperate without his Fanny!

Yet laughter cauterized his wounds and the apathetic, indifferent anticipation of the lives of those around him must plant seeds of hope in his own heart.

Thus, despite his many misgivings, James remained with the Crofts, accompanying Captain Wentworth to Uppercross each day as his old friend paid court to a daughter of the Musgroves. He wondered at himself— how could he bear watching his friend form his own happiness? Yet, James found an unexpected comfort in the hope that his friend would find a felicity that James, himself, had been denied.

Beneath all the preparations for the holiday there was the simmering expectation of even more changes to com. It was the exquisite agony of anticipation- like a daffodil bulb freshly planted, awaiting the arrival of spring from its wintry hearth. The changes occurred within, deep underground, long before any delicate sprouts could be seen above the surface, letting all know that spring had come.  

It was generally (and privately) agreed upon that not only one but two weddings should soon befall the Musgrove family… and yet the exact details of both remained a matter of debate for all involved. The first affianced pair— while formally engaged and eager to wed— had very little fortune or future prospects to enable both a prudent and immediate union. The second pair— while in possession of a very fine fortune and no obvious reasons for delay— had yet to formalize their attachment, despite every obvious sign that such an engagement must be forthcoming. That two weddings must occur was beyond a doubt. Thus, the question remained on the minds of all: who would be the first to wed and when might such unions occur?

It was both the greatest shared delight and shared misery of the Musgrove sisters to dwell on their situations together in the privacy of their room each night. For, Henrietta assured her sister, Louisa's very handsome, dashing, and wealthy captain must offer soon and then she might be the first to marry. Louisa, while very pleased with such a prediction, could only bemoan what kept the man from speaking forthrightly. 

Louisa Musgrove had every expectation of being loved by Captain Wentworth. After all, her entire childhood till this point had taught her to be the treasured object of a doting family. She had no reason to doubt such adoration must extend to those newly appointed to their circle. She knew herself to be cheerful, pretty, firm-minded, and in possession of a respectable dowry— all the qualities a man such as Captain Wentworth must desire, if his own attentions were to be believed. Thus, Louisa orchestrated stolen moments alone together in expectation of a proposal.  Still the man had yet to speak.  it must only be a matter of time before the man made his intentions known and Louisa knew determination in her course must carry her point in the end. 

How much more fortunate Henrietta must be in her assurance of the affections of her chosen object, even if the means to wed was still uncertain! Louisa declared her sister the most fortunate of women for her assurance of Charles Hayter's affections. "For Charles Hayter must find an adequate position soon and then what will keep you from the greatest of happiness together!" She declared.

Whether the misery of one sister had greater justification or merit than the other is perhaps easier for an impartial observer to decide than for a devoted sister longing both for her own happiness and that of her sister in equal measure.

It was not only Henrietta and Louisa who frequently spoke about the anticipated unions. Mary Musgrove, while well-pleased to be gaining such a brother-in-law through Louisa, remained slightly put out that Henrietta had not been convinced to marry higher.

"If only Henrietta had waited a few days more before agreeing to wed Charles Hayter. She might have set her cap at Mr. Elliot. Now, that is a connection one's family could be proud of!" Mary said.

Charles Musgrove, while convinced Mr. Elliot's attention had been firmly fixed in a different direction, dared not correct his wife. He only shook his head and said he was well-pleased with the matches of both his sisters and his greatest wish was for their happiness.

The happiness of the Musgrove girls was equally discussed by their concerned, and very devoted, parents. The greatest object of Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove was the happiness of their children and they were not immune to the impatience of the young lovers. More than one closed door conversation occurred with Mr. Hayter over whether to grant their children their dearest wish sooner rather than later or to force prudence to carry the day.

A slightly different conversation occurred between Mr. Musgrove and Admiral Croft in the study of Kellynch one afternoon.

"I cannot say what the delay is about, Mr. Musgrove," the Admiral admitted. "Young people these days… it is as if they think they have all the time in the world! I do not know what Frederick is about, but he is of age and must know his own mind. Sophie cannot get a word out of him on the subject any more than I can. If I were Frederick, I would already have returned from my wedding trip and be setting up house as we speak."

Quietly, some of the Uppercross party wondered about the possibility of a third wedding. It did not go unnoticed that Anne Elliot had acquired her own share of admirers in recent days. Whispers of just what might follow began to simmer in quiet spaces outside of drawing rooms and behind bedroom doors.  Predictions were not yet firm enough to speak them aloud in company, but hopes were kindled in the hearts of a few of the most observant of residents.  

The time now approached for Lady Russell's return: the day was even fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it.

It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there must be intercourse between the two families. This was against her; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross, that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary for Lady Russell.

She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain Wentworth at the Hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious for the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting anywhere. They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance now could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little.

These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough. Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some sweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was gaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for.

Mr. Tilney, on the other hand, could not look favorably on the upcoming departure of Miss Elliot from Uppercross with the same eagerness as Miss Elliot. Change was coming and could not be avoided. Anne's removal from Uppercross to Kellynch must prevent their frequent and (nearly) unintentional meetings. Up until this point, Henry had relied on the coincidences of proximity to cast him into the sphere of Anne Elliot. He enjoyed her companionship. He sought out her opinions. He preferred her presence to most others.

However, Lady Russell's imminent return must cause a separation between Miss Elliot and the party at Uppercross. Thus, if he wished to continue to seek out Miss Elliot, he must no longer rely on the incidental meetings inherent in remaining part of the same party. No, it would fall upon him to seek her out. However, an unmarried man intentionally seeking out the companionship of an unmarried woman must raise certain expectations…

Expectations that Henry Tilney discovered no qualms about raising.

In truth, Henry Tilney was inspired into a change of aspirations by the combined influence of Captain Wentworth, Captain Benwick, and Mr. Elliot.  Through their actions and attentiveness to Miss Elliot... and her subsequent response to each... Henry came to the realization that when he travelled to Bath, he would indeed be seeking a wife.  Really, Tilney must shake the hand of every man between London and Bath for neglecting Anne Elliot until now. 

It was strange. He might not have taken notice of Miss Elliot at all if not for Captain Wentworth's obvious and pointed lack of attentions. His lack of interest captured Henry's curiosity and thus his attention.  The second impetus in Henry's change of determination came through the introduction of Captain Benwick. Benwick, for all his talk on fidelity and constancy, was still only a man and he already had the flush of a smitten school boy about him. Henry did not think Benwick had yet realized his danger.  However heart sore for his lost love, the romantic sea captain was ripe for a new attachment. With her gentle manners, dark eyes, and intelligent mind, Benwick would be a fool not to take notice.  It was only a matter of time and exposure before he transferred his affections onto a new object.  Anne's dedicated compassion to the suffering man and her poignant insights into the literature he so loved must quickly attach himself to her… and Henry was not immune to the same danger.

The third push came through the introduction of Mr. Elliot.  Henry could not like Mr. Elliot. He knew he ought to give the man the benefit of the doubt. He really should grant more charity and less prejudice to a near-stranger. However, the man's first introduction came as an acquaintance of Frederick Tilney. If there was one truth Henry was certain of, it was that he could not like any friend of Frederick Tilney. They were a debauched, boisterous lot and there were very few virtues to be found between the lot of them.

The keen, assessing glance Mr. Elliot cast over Anne Elliot was enough to make Henry wish to smack him on the head with his walking stick and then hide her away from his sight. Her father's heir must be an advantageous match, and one her relations would no doubt promote, but what manner of man was he? One with flattering manners who seeks to please… rather like Henry's father when in company with a titled gentleman… and Henry's suspicions were immediately raised.  Yet, Mr. Elliot's knowledge of the world was acute enough to aptly point out what ought to have been obvious already: Anne Elliot was a woman worthy of admiration.  

The combination of these factors must impress upon Henry his own situation. He was, of course, also in want of a wife. And were his claims any less? The accomplished, pretty daughter of a baronet must even please his father. Her father's dwindling finances would be more than compensated for by his title in the eyes of General Tilney. She was no stranger to navigating the perpetual slights and tempers of difficult relations with grace... and she might be the sole woman in England he could see embodying both the wife of a clergyman and mistress of Northanger with elegance and virtue.

This was where Henry Tilney made a very poor romantic hero because he had never been forced to face unrequited love or the possibility of rejection. He had never chosen a potential wife for himself and then sought to earn her regard. He had no idea how to court a lady who was not already half in love with him.

Now, he was forced to face the very real possibility that his chosen object might not return his choice. It was not so much that he had fallen in love with her already as that he knew he very easily could fall in love with her, if she would but reciprocate. With her broken and battered heart and her views on second attachments, he did not know if he could convince her to try again.

Unfortunately, her departure from Uppercross meant he must either relinquish her frequent company or declare himself sooner than he might have wished. Thus, only a handful of days remained where Anne would daily be a part of their company. He intended to make the most of them.

While the dreary, rain-soaked November mornings were not conducive to walks, Henry Tilney sought out Miss Elliot at each gathering of the party at the Great House and called upon the Cottage on each afternoon in between.

ooooo

It was during an evening at the Great House that the Hayters and Crofts descended into the merriment of Uppercross again.  After the meal, the party dispersed to various sides of the room in smaller groups for a time before the inevitable requests for music and dance must come. Anne sat alongside the hearth with Mr. Tilney and Captain Benwick, deep in a discussion of "The Lady of the Lake," as had been their wont whenever the trio found themselves together in recent days.  It was then that Charles Hayter entered their discussion, surprised to discover Mr. Tilney's enjoyment of both poetry and novels.

"I have been chastised more than once that it is quite improper for a clergyman to enjoy such things," Charles Hayter said.

Captain Benwick appeared surprised. "Is it not?  It was from our chaplain on the Asp that I was first introduced to poetry and the man collected novels from every port."

"There are some among my profession who have unwieldy and rigid notions of what is proper,” Mr. Tilney said. “ I would say it is no more proper than it is for a clergyman to read Homer or Shakespeare or even the gossip columns of our own age. It is the fate of the clergyman to be forever mired in the mud of humanity while ever reaching for the ideals of the divine. I am afraid there are some of my profession who tend to either remain too stuck on earth that they forget the divine and others who remain so captured by the divine that they forget they are partially made of earth. No, if a clergyman cannot read Homer then he cannot read the Chronicles or the Prophets. It is somewhere between our feet of clay and heads of gold, between our fleshly bodies and our inner souls, where the divine is incarnated and dwells within. It is both the sinner and the saint who are the responsibility within my parish and it is better to know the affairs of both."

Nearby, Frederick Wentworth spoke quietly together with Louisa Musgrove.  Overhearing the conversation of the others, he grimaced.  The values of the men of the sea and those of the clergy rarely aligned.  It was the lot of naval chaplains to read prayers each day, maintain religious observances, keep up morale, and serve as an intermediary between the various social hierarchies onboard ship.   Sailors were a superstitious lot— used to surviving the unpredictable nature of the sea. Whatever they could use to gain a sense of control over the uncontrollable was clung to with both hands. They were known to seek out the intervention of God with as much fervor as any other spirit or deity or force of nature. This aspect of naval life did not always suit their chaplains. The tendency for sailors to spend all their earnings on drink, cards, and female companionship whenever they came to port proved another area of contention for clergymen and sailors. Clergymen who did not smoke, gamble, and use profanity were looked upon with suspicion by those they now dwelt with in the small confines of a ship for months on end.   Yet, those chaplains who indulged in the vices of sailors must be equally suspect.

Ever since the early days of their introduction, Frederick had the distinct impression that Henry Tilney did not like him and he was not entirely sure the reason. At first, Frederick attributed this to a pride of rank and disdain for Frederick's birth and occupation. This, however, he was forced to abandon through more time in the man's company. By the time Mr. Tilney had firmly taken Captain Benwick under his wing, Frederick was forced to throw such a notion away entirely. 

Frederick did not know what to make of the man. His first impressions were of a man of a height near Frederick's, but half his breadth. He was forged of all the lean elegance of a man who has spent long years on horseback and in the solitude of a study surrounded by dusty books. His manners were those of one used to conversing with both the high born and low born and equally at ease poking fun and finding amusement at both. Both his temples and his manners were frosted at the edges and it was difficult to discern when he was serious and when he was in jest, for he easily transgressed the line between both without warning.  

Oh, Mr. Tilney was polite enough and amiable enough, most of the time, but on occasion, he thrashed Frederick with a whip of sarcasm that caused Frederick to take a step back in surprise. Frederick did not appreciate the chastisement—especially when his conscience told him the chastisements were apt and well-deserved. Each rush of anger must give way, eventually, to the calm assessment of the sting of truth they carried.  It was an aspect of the clergy that Frederick did not appreciate.  

It was true that in the intermediary months, Tilney's manner had thawed towards Frederick and they had developed a begrudging, hesitant friendship.  However, since Lyme, Frederick had grown increasingly uneasy with the man and the amount of time he found Tilney in the company of Anne Elliot.  Why was it that they were so often together... and had it always been so?  Anne's choice of companions was no concern of his, of course, but Louisa had shared something she had overheard on Tilney's need for a wife that raised Frederick's suspicions.

Frederick's attention was torn between listening to the continuing discussion on the merits of reading novels and attending to Louisa's enthusiastic tale of picking apples with her brothers when she was young. A conversation occurring between Mrs. Musgrove and his sister behind him soon took precedence as Mrs. Musgrove shared the particulars of the most recent discussion with the Hayters.

"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet, altogether, we do not think it fair to stand out any longer, for Charles Hayter is quite wild about it, and Henrietta is pretty near as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement."

"That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft. "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. I always think that no mutual—"

"Oh! dear Mrs Croft," cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her speech, "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—"

"Yes, dear ma'am," said Mrs Croft, "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."

Benwick's face had grown ashen and pale as he overheard the discussion on engagements. Noting his distress, Anne turned to comfort him.

"Not everyone is fortunate enough to possess the means or support for such early marriages. Each couple must make their own way in accordance with their own judgement," Anne said quietly.  

With his eyes fixed on the floor, Captain Benwick inhaled sharply.  "I cannot help but regret my past decisions... and wonder what might have happened... if I had not let prudence guide my actions."

As one of the principal parties involved in the topic under discussion, Charles Hayter was less impressed with Benwick's regrets than his own prospects. Thus, he addressed his curiosity to the elder clergyman, whose opinion he held in high regard. "Mr. Tilney, do you think a long engagement is preferable to a short one, if means are lacking?"

"I am afraid I will be a very poor addition to such a discussion as the inclinations of my heart and those of my experience differ so greatly," Tilney answered with a nod of his head in the direction of Charles Hayter.

"I would wish to know your opinion, sir," Hayter said.

"Very well.  If there is support and acceptance from an amiable and well-established family, such as this one, then I do not wonder at a preference for a short engagement, despite lingering uncertainties. However, not every couple is so fortunate.  I was not, nor was my sister before me, and so we were forced to endure long separations and many uncertainties before we could wed the choices of our hearts."

"But I was under the impression that your sister married a viscount! What manner of objection could there be in that?" Hayter asked in surprise.

"Ah!  John Fleetwood was not always a viscount and I am afraid it is rather a long story of how he came to wed my sister.”

”I would wish to hear it,” Hayter said and so Henry settled himself and acquiesced.

”I first became acquainted with him during my university days when we both prepared to join the church. He was only a cousin of the former viscount and no one believed he would ever inherit. My sister would have married him, as a clergyman, but my father never would have borne it. To be forced to choose between one's family and one's heart is a terrible choice and one which can only ever lead to heart break."

"Do you mean the General refused?" Came Louisa's voice. 

Henry's story had captured the attention of more of the room than he had noted and he turned to smile at his cousin.  "Mr. Fleetwood, as he was known then, knew better than to ask. No, my father was always perfectly clear in his expectations over who we would wed and what status we must adhere to. Mr. Fleetwood had to choose between daring open rejection from my father or perpetually clinging to a separated attachment with no hopes of any possibilities in future. He chose the latter.  As long as my sister and he were quiet and discreet, they could continue to correspond through me and organize meetings in my presence, and I was only too happy to oblige them. However, if ever my father learned of their attachment, he would have moved very quickly to ensure they never spoke again."

"With all due regard to the Viscount, I cannot admire a man who did not speak as he felt and pursue his object openly and directly. He ought to have spoken to your father immediately," Captain Wentworth said.

Reverend Tilney gave a wry chuckle. "You, sir, have never met my father."

"I believe I have met fathers and generals and admirals enough."

"Yes, Captain Wentworth, I have no doubt you would approach such a conflict head on, sails billowing, cannons at the ready. You would charge prow first into the fray, seize your lady love like a French war ship, and ensure her colors were changed immediately and her loyalty was only yours. In this, you may win the battle, but I am afraid you would lose the war. In gaining a bride, you not only wed the woman but her family and any battle wounds inflicted will scar and be felt by your children. No, in marriage, the battle sometimes goes to the one carrying the white flag and peace accords. Because, at the end of the day what is sought is an alliance and not a conquest.  In the end, it was patience- dogged and optimistic and long-suffering patience that carried the day more than any passion or bluster or force of will.

"As I have said, I do not think the question is a simple one to answer or that there is a right course of action for every couple. For some, the Captain's way may, indeed, be the best.  However, for all Mr. Fleetwood's affection for my sister, it would have been a hard road if he had continued as he was and insisted on eloping. As a clergyman with a very small living, he could hardly support himself. What, then, would he do to support my sister? Without my father's approval, she would not receive her dowry and she would be entirely dependent on her husband for everything.  A clergyman who weds under a cloud of scandal will not gain the respect of his parishioners.  In their case, they agreed to hold off on any promises rather than maintaining an uncertain engagement in secret. It was considered more prudent to wait and pray for divine intervention… which, in the end, turned in our favour.

"Well, a bout of measles and a drunken night's ride ended both the former viscount and the heir, overnight turning Mr. Fleetwood into the 15th Viscount Biscopham.  The day Mr. Fleetwood became the Viscount, he immediately called for his horse and rode through the night to arrive on Northanger's doorstep, hat in his muddy hands, ready to ask the General for his daughter's hand. It was immediately accepted."

"It is so romantic!" Henrietta exclaimed, her eyes bright. "It is like a tale from a novel!"

"Did your father look upon your own match more favourably?" Asked Miss Elliot.

Henry Tilney smiled fondly. "Initially, he did. It was, after all, on account of my father's meddling that I gained my wife. I do not think I would have ever considered Catherine Morland on my own, if my father had not chosen her for me and thrust us together as he did. I did not understand why he chose Catherine, but I decided not to question the hand of Providence and willingly complied with his uncharacteristically sublime meddling.  Yet, it later came out that it was all a grand misunderstanding. The General thought she was an heiress. She was not.

"When he discovered the truth of it, he tried to separate us, but the damage was already done. By then, I had been quite persuaded to think my father's idea a capital one and agreed that Miss Morland would be the very best of wives. I was far too attached to give it up, no matter how he raved and argued.  In the end, he cast me out.  Thus, it was I who rode through the night to appear on the doorstep of Fullerton Parsonage, hat in my hand, asking for the hand of my dear Catherine.

"The Morlands, however, would not consent to the match until my father gave us his blessing. They did not wish for us to begin a marriage at the cost of familial harmony and they wished to see me reconciled to my father.  Thus, we entered into an uncertain season of waiting — for what we did not know.  It took far longer than either of us would have wished and those were long, precarious months, indeed. Happily, Catherine's parents were both kind and understanding.  They turned a blind eye to our correspondence. I do not know how I would have managed those long months alone — cut off from my family as I was — if I could not have maintained a correspondence with Catherine.

"It took time and the unexpected marriage of my sister to a viscount to bring him around to approve the match.   Indeed, I am indebted to the efforts of my sister and brother-in-law who pressed for my father to relent and grant his blessing, however reluctant, and so I was finally able to obtain my bride. Till now, my father has never looked kindly on my wife, God rest her, and it has been a source of sorrow and contention for many years. It remains a constant conflict for now my daughters must continue in the shadow of his displeasure. It is more the principle- it was a battle I refused to concede and thus a reminder of his overpowering and my rebellion. A general cannot tolerate a mutiny and if I had been a soldier, not a son, I would have faced the firing squad. However, I was fortunate enough to have my own fortune, independent of my father, and have the support and unconditional acceptance of Catherine's family. Without that, I do not know if we could have managed."

"What would you have done if he never approved?" Henrietta asked.

"I have wondered that myself. If there was no such happy solution, I do not know. I did not require any fortune and had possession of a good living. However, to raise the ire of two families with our union would have been a difficult road to travel. Catherine's father was not unjust. I believe he would have eventually relented, even if my father remained firm. Mr. Morland maintained, afterwards, that it was for my benefit that he postponed our wishes. 'Catherine must learn to keep house first,' he said, 'and the delay gives her time to learn what she must.' Perhaps, it was for the best. She had been very young and those months of writing gave us leave to learn each other better. 

"Mercifully, I was not forced to struggle so hard nor wait so very long. Perhaps, it would have made a more romantic, tragic story if we had faced more opposition. However, we did not for hardly a twelvemonth had passed before we were able to wed.  I cannot help but feel sympathy for any young couple fated with an uncertain engagement for it is a painful trial I would not wish upon anyone."

How could such a tale not move its audience? The young people around Henry Tilney listened in rapt attention as he spoke.  All ladies saw themselves cast as the heroine and all men as the hero.  It is always preferable to face heroism in imaginary circumstances than real. For some, it inspired their romantic aspirations and kindled a desire for similar long-suffering passion (with less of the suffering and more of the passion) and for others it was a painful remembrance of their own regrets.

Benwick dearly wished he had thrown prudence aside and married Fanny before that final trip to sea.  Louisa was taken with the notion of a man riding all night to desperately propose to her. Henrietta was doubly grateful for the support of her parents and lack of discouragement she faced in her own choice. 

For two present, the misery was of the acutest kind. Frederick could not yet admit to any error in his judgement or behavior. Nor could Anne. To both- convinced of their duty on opposing paths- there was only discomfort in such a retelling in the presence the other.  No one saw the eloquent look shared between Anne and Frederick. In that laden, silent glance they spoke more of their shared past than in any of the intervening years between them.

Then, Frederick's expression turned grim, resolute, and accusing. Anne turned away, struck by the impermeable breach of the past between them.

He would not bend. She had already broken. He could not forgive. She could not forget. Thus, the impasse remained. Not truly an impasse. For she was already defeated and he had determined himself the victor.  

Anne went very pale and turned her head away. Then, once the conversation had turned to other matters, she quietly left the room.

Chapter Text

“An obstinate man does not hold opinions, but they hold him; for when he is once possessed with an error, it is, like a devil, only cast out with great difficulty.” 

Samuel Butler

Anne paced the quiet rows of bookshelves in the library at Uppercross. It was a room rarely occupied and one which she knew would grant her a short burst of solitude. She ought not have left the party as she did, but she would not lose composure in front of the company. Anne could not stop thinking over all Mr. Tilney had said that evening.  She could not remain unmoved after such an evening... such a conversation... in company with him, with her own failed first engagement. It was more than she could bear.

The parallels and contrasts to her own situation were striking... and compelled her to visit her own long-held regrets again. Frederick had wished for Anne to sacrifice her home, family, fortune, and security for him. Henry had given all he had for his Catherine— and it was Henry who faced isolation and disgrace from his family in return. Was he an example of how Anne ought to have been? Or was it Frederick who ought to have been other than he had? The days of certainty were as set aside now as her father’s mirrors at Kellynch and she was no longer as sure as she once was.  She had been so very young, then, and all that mattered most to her in the world had fought to tear her into pieces.  There had been no tenable bridge between duty and love, conscience and passion. She felt all the more keenly the chasm of time and the distance between their positions.

Frederick had never understood her. He still did not.  He probably never would. It was one of many fixed points in his character.  There were some things about Frederick Wentworth that would never change. Other things must.

When first reunited, she thought the intermediary years had left him unaltered. She had been wrong. Two months of fireside silences and forced politeness must alter his image in her mind.  He could not exist as the utopian memory in her head, tinged with lost love and ideals of unreachable happiness. Not when the real Frederick Wentworth was before her each day, in the flesh, and forcing her idealized version of him to pay homage to the real manifestation. In many ways, Frederick Wentworth was not the same as he had been, back then, but neither was Anne Elliot.

Time alone had not healed her. Eight years had softened the wound, allowed it to scab, and turned it into a dull ache rather than a bleeding gash. Frederick's return had opened up her old wounds all over again. She realized, though, something was slowly shifting in her heart the longer they were thrown in company together.  It was a growing hardness around her edges, a knitting together of the torn flesh of her heart, and a gradually shifting awareness into accepting the realities of her present circumstances without further protest.

What future must be hers if she did not marry? She had expected to spend the rest of her life caring for her sister's children, shifting between Mary and Lady Russell and her father as they saw fit. She would pour out all her energy and devotion into meeting their needs and making herself useful where she could.  She had reconciled herself to this fate and found a certain contentment in it. 

However, in light of the growing attachment between Louisa and Frederick, Anne must reconsider this course of action.  Accepting her fate as a spinster aunt was one thing, but reconciling herself as a spinster aunt to Frederick and Louisa’s children was something else entirely. What future would there be for her in that? With Charles and Mary set to inherit Uppercross and Charles Hayter to take over Winthrop, Louisa's firmest domestic ties would remain in Somersetshire indefinitely — the same as Anne's. Their family circle, their neighborhoods, their homes would be forever intertwined— even if Louisa chose to follow Captain Wentworth to sea or settle in a port city to be near him. They must, at some time or another, return to Somersetshire... as must Anne.  Cast between sisters and friends, a burden to all, another drain on Sir Walter's resources… could she bear also being tied to Frederick in such a way forever?   

She must— unless she changed her circumstances. The days which would allow another future for herself were quickly dwindling… and her present contained possibilities for something else.  Ever since their return from Lyme, Anne had been struck by the words Mr. Tilney had spoken to her by the Cobb.

"You are a woman who ought to dance again, Miss Elliot. Any unmarried gentleman over the age of five and twenty with any sense at all will notice you and must admire you… if you will but allow it."

It was strange. The flood of emotions, of possibilities. If she married... she could do something else, go somewhere else. Leave Somersetshire behind and start afresh, mistress of her own affairs.

Could she, like Frederick, choose another? Was it her pride and her obstinacy which kept her back or long-suffering and unrequited love? Was it guilt and a martyr’s shroud which held her back or a constancy to the promise she once made (and broke)? Could she ever truly open her heart to another path, another future, another possibility than the one she had cherished for so long?

She may not have considered any other path before Frederick arrived, but his return had disillusioned her.  If Henry Tilney's words were to be taken seriously, she had paths before her that her own actions—or inactions—could influence. She had felt powerless for so long— her last true decision of import had been her disavowal of her engagement. All others were passive resignation to her fate and the decisions of those around her. She mitigated, where she could, but direct influence had been beyond her.

Could such notions be true? This was one truth she could learn from Louisa Musgrove's example. Perhaps, there were choices Anne had at her disposal as well and it was not solely the "power of refusal" that she held.

She did not know and no manner of pacing or musing helped to ease her heart or mind. After a quarter of an hour of quiet reflection passed, Anne knew she could not remain hidden away as she was for much longer. The brief reprieve had patched together her composure enough that she could face the eyes of the company again.  They would wish to dance and they would seek her out. She must not reveal the depths of her turmoil or how the discussions on engagements had upset her. Thus, she steeled herself and returned to the party of her own accord.

She had not stepped two steps into the door when Louisa came to beg her to play for them. Anne sighed deeply, nodded and resigned herself to her position at the pianoforte. Then, she began to play.

It was not long before Mr. Tilney took the seat alongside her as she played. This was not unusual. He had done just so more times than she could count. Previously he had only taken a seat after dancing multiple sets along with the others. This time, without a single dance, he took the seat alongside her and watched the company intently for the first three dances. This—and the intensity of his expression as he watched— were unusual. His behavior combined with her musings from her time in the library unsettled her even further and caused a rush of consciousness to overtake her.

She hoped, fervently, he would not ask if she was well or why she had left the room. She hoped he would become uncharacteristically obtuse and not notice her discomfort at all.  She focused on playing, hoping not to think of anything else but the sound from the instrument. Henry permitted this for a time, deep in thought as he appeared to be, before he finally spoke.

"Your sister took lessons on the pianoforte, did she not?"

"She did, sir," Anne answered in surprise.

"Yet she rarely plays in company?"

"True. She is proficient but not excellent. In company, she is easily distracted and would rather converse than play."

"And my cousins, while eagerly displaying their musical prowess in company, will not relieve you on the pianoforte?"

She blushed then, at this turn of his thoughts. "They take such pleasure in dancing; I would hate to deprive them."

"But what of your pleasure... and mine... for you owe me a dance, or I owe you a dance... I rather forget which.  Regardless, the end result is the same— those pretty fingers of yours ought to be put to another use for once and you should stand up with me.”

She looked up in surprise, nearly missing a note.  She did not know what she ought to say… how to speak…how to answer.

“Do not trouble yourself, Miss Elliot,” he interjected again.  “I have embarrassed you. I can see it in your expression."

"I do not wish to draw such attention to myself, sir," she said quietly. "It has been such a long time since I agreed to dance with anyone."

"Have I told you, Miss Elliot, my theory on how dancing is akin to matrimony?" He asked, once again taking her by surprise with his meandering thoughts.

"Yes, sir. I believe you said both were for the young and foolish."

He laughed. "Ah! There is more! Dancing and matrimony  are performances for our neighbors and all eager busybodies that must show how well a couple may perform together elsewhere. It reveals our training and education and ability to perform our roles in society, does it not?"

She nodded. "I suppose so."

"And you are not ready to be on display?"

"No, sir. Truthfully, I mean no slight to yourself. I am not opposed to the notion of standing up with you in general, I am simply not equal to so much attention on me tonight."

"Tell me, do you believe the Miss Musgroves will succeed in their petition for a ball?"

"I do not doubt it. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrove are as eager to please their children as to surround themselves with merry company."

"Then, Miss Elliot, if the Musgroves succeed in their scheme for a ball, would you grant me your first set?" He asked.

Slowly, with a searching, curious expression, she nodded.

"Then I will be satisfied with your promise and will not press you further about it now," he said.

Ooo

It was a week after their return from Lyme that Frederick Wentworth came across the person he least expected… or wished… to see.

Edward Wentworth had never been as brilliant nor as brash as his siblings. He was the voice of calm, of reason, of domesticity between them. He was the one solid place that the other two would always return home to. He was the voice who listened to their cares and spoke into their trials. It was Edward who told them news of England and each other— for Frederick often forgot to write, and Sophie was not terribly much better.  And, everywhere he went, he kept boxes upon boxes of belongings in store for whenever his siblings inevitably returned home to him again.

In truth, Frederick did long to see his brother... just not at Kellynch... and not quite yet.  Edward Wentworth was both far too well-informed and far too perceptive to make Frederick at ease in his presence.  This was one reason he had delayed his visit to his brother.  Frederick knew his brother would ask difficult questions and Frederick was not yet ready for such conversations. Intimate knowledge of his brother informed him that it was for just such a conversation that Edward had come to Kellynch.

For an evening together, Frederick lightly conversed with his brother and the new Mrs. Wentworth and delighted in his brother’s happiness.  It was a joy for all the Wentworth siblings to be reunited again and Edward would not address his true reason for surprising them at Kellynch while they were yet in company.  It was not until late at night that Edward could finally excuse himself from the Admiral, Sophie, and his own wife… and then seek out his brother (who was, quite obviously, avoiding being alone with him).   

“Freddie…,” Edward began, as he collapsed on the library chair nearest his brother.

“Eddie,” Frederick answered, one brow arched.

“What are you doing here?” His brother asked.  Frederick knew his brother did not inquire into his reason to seek solitude in the library. 

"I believe I might ask you that same question," Frederick retorted.

Edward snorted and leaned forward to rest his head on his hands.  "My little brother— who I have not seen in the flesh for these three years— turns out upon England's shores and instead of coming to call upon his brother and new sister-in-law, he remains with Sophie. I ought to be quite put out with you, Fred."

"I meant to come— soon."

"The grandness of Kellynch is more to your taste than a humble parsonage, is it?"

It was Frederick’s turn to cast a sidelong glance at his brother.  "I have enjoyed spending time with Sophie and the Admiral again… and the society around Kellynch I find much improved from the last time I was in the neighborhood."

"So I hear. Imagine my surprise when I hear from our sister that you are on the verge of matrimony… with one of my former neighbors… and not the one I expected to hear wedding bells toll for!"

"You and Sophie have been trying to get me to wed for years. I am only obliging," Frederick said.

"Frederick Timothy Wentworth, do not be a fool."

"And you mind your own business, Ed. I do not care for meddling clergyman," he said with a grimace.

"What of elder brothers who wish to give Providence a push?"

"Even worse."

"Thus, you will refuse all interventions purely out of stubbornness?"

"You have no right to interfere in my affairs."

"I have interfered in your affairs since you were old enough to chew nails and walk on hot coals. I will continue to interfere when I see there is need.  In this case, I believe my interference is justified.

“For years, Anne Elliot has remained unmarried, dwindling into a shadow of the woman she once was.  I watched as she pined away from the moment you left and grasped for any crumbs of information she could glean about your whereabouts. Then, her father's house requires a tenant at just the time our sister is in search of a grand country house to putter about in. Here you are, returned to England, unmarried and finally rich enough even for a baronet’s daughter. Forgive me if I see your current circumstances as the Hand of Providence bringing you both back together again."

"It was you, was it not? It was you who informed Sophie of Kellynch?"

"It was."

"Well, then I have you to thank for my current happiness. My return to Somersetshire has enabled me to court the woman I hope to be my future bride— Louisa Musgrove."

Edward threw up his hands in exasperation. "I will say my piece and then you may depend upon it, you will never hear another word of the matter from me. Fred, you have a choice and one which cannot be unmade again. Do not allow your pride and your bitterness with the past to keep you from your chance at happiness."

"Six months of happiness was not worth eight years of misery. I do not wish to experience any more of such a high price for happiness."

"Fred— it is not every day that a man meets a woman capable of causing such a strong attachment.  If you settle for a woman without the power to cause you such misery… or corresponding joy… then you will regret it someday," Edward said between gritted teeth.

“My only regret is in ever having given such a weak-willed woman a hold over me in the first place,” he answered.  “I have determined my current course.  I will not be persuaded to change it.”

“Then I wish you every happiness,” Edward said, irritation and sarcasm both playing in his tone.

The brothers parted from each other in very poor humour that evening.  In truth, Frederick had fought more to spite his brother than out of his own conviction. He might not have dug his heels in as hard as he did if not for the overbearing actions of his brother.  Edward had no right to arrange affairs according to his own designs, and without any notion of Frederick's wishes.

He was unsettled by the questions his brother asked and the notion that Anne might not be as indifferent as she appeared.  However, he had no intention to permit Anne Elliot to trouble him again.  He meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. He was indifferent to her.  Thus, he insisted on continuing in his current course of action.

After Lyme, he could not remain ignorant to the expectations he had raised.  Indeed, even if he tried, the unsubtle questions of the Admiral and far more discreet comments of Benwick must have enlightened him. 

Frederick Wentworth knew his own mind, he reminded himself again. He was determined to love Louisa Musgrove. She adored him. She respected him. She flattered him. She was everything he could wish in a wife. And she was already his. There was no possibility of rejection or dissuasion. It was so simple, so easy, so right. All he need do was ask.

Her family welcomed and encouraged the match. He knew the family waited in anxious anticipation for the formal announcement… and the sisters hoped to plan their weddings together. It was as if the entire neighborhood held their breath and watched his every move—all with the same object in mind.

Any day now, he would ask. Indeed, he had practiced his proposal daily. He would comply and he would be happy, or so he tried to convince himself.

Louisa was not subtle in her anticipation of his proposal. She orchestrated clandestine moments alone with him... and had grown increasingly open and bold in her attentions. Yet, each time he was presented with the perfect opportunity to declare himself, his words failed him. 

It was his lingering hurt from his past failed engagement, he decided. He was acting out of fear and self-protection—like a sailor once near drowning who fears returning to the water. It was due to how hurt he had been the last time he proposed that he was reluctant to act now.

It is for other pens to surmise what might have occurred— if events had transpired differently.  If Edward Wentworth had not come… if Frederick Wentworth had remained in his indecision longer… if the stubbornness of a younger brother had not been challenged by exhortation of his elder… or if other intermediary events might have occurred to change his course of action… perhaps, the fate of our dear characters might have progressed differently.  However, as it was, Frederick Wentworth continued in his attempts of angry pride, made all the more determined by his desire to prove himself right in his chosen course.

Oooooo

It was to be the last dinner party before Anne Elliot’s removal to Kellynch and her return to Lady Russell's company. The rain had kept the sportsmen indoors all morning and all hopes for amusement were fixed on the gathering planned for the evening.

Henry, too, eagerly anticipated another evening party… until the note arrived from Kellynch.

Edward Wentworth and his wife had unexpectedly arrived at Kellynch the night before. The Crofts begged for, and received, the extra invitations for their visitors to join the Uppercross party that night.

Edward Wentworth and his wife? Here? Henry Tilney’s heart fell as he considered the implications of such an event.  Poor Anne! How might she manage such a disturbance to her already low spirits? How would she bear to see them both together, so newly married and in the first flush of wedded bliss?

At the very least, she should be warned before such a reunion was thrust upon her unawares.  Unfortunately, it was too late. 

In truth, Henry was deeply curious about the mysterious third Wentworth sibling— the one who never went away to sea and who very little was spoken of by either of his nautical counterparts.  While Mrs. Croft and Captain Wentworth spoke affectionally of Mr. Wentworth, they rarely said anything of substance about him other than his occupation and various visits they had paid to his home.

When Henry was finally introduced to the man in the drawing room of Uppercross, Edward Wentworth proved himself everything that was unexceptional and unremarkable. He was a slightly stout man of middling height and very plain features. He was polite, soft-spoken, and preferred to observe the rest of the company rather than thrust himself into the middle of it.  His young wife was a suitable match to him in every way.  She was simply dressed with no outstanding beauty in features or form, yet she radiated kindness and gentility in her manners and actions.

The Musgroves welcomed the Wentworths with all the eager warmth and generosity of heart they habitually displayed to those fortunate enough to stumble into their sphere.  Easy conversation sprung up around the room while they awaited the arrival of the party from the Cottage. 

For the second time that day, events transpired in a way that took Mr. Tilney entirely by surprise. When the party arrived from the Cottage, introductions and pleasant greetings were made by all with perfect politeness and ease.  Anne Elliot neither paled nor trembled at the appearance of her former beaux. She did not swoon, grow silent, nor claim a headache and escape to the safety of the Cottage. Instead, the sight of Edward Wentworth caused Anne to immediately unthaw and blossom with open affection.

Mr. Wentworth's plain face broke into a smile so cordial that it almost made him handsome and he crossed the room in two strides to take Anne's hands in his own.

"Miss Anne! It has been a time! What a pleasure to see you again!" He declared.

"Mr. Wentworth! You are here? How has this come about?" Anne said in surprise.

"Ah! I am afraid I grew tired of waiting for my little brother to come to me and decided it was far better I come to him,” he said. "Thus, here I am, bringing the three of us together again for the first time since Frederick first went away to sea."

"How wonderful for all of you!  I am so glad to see you again, sir!" She said, her cheeks growing rosy, and every aspect of her being overflowing with delight.

"Come, meet my Amelia," he said and he led her by the hand to where his wife quietly waited.

"Miss Anne," Mrs. Wentworth said, gentle pleasure in her voice. "At last, we meet! Edward has always spoken so fondly of his days at Monkford and in all, you were mentioned with the greatest of praise."

"It has never been the same – since he has gone away. Allow me to congratulate you on your marriage! I could not have been happier when I received the news," Miss Elliot said.

Such a reunion could not go unnoticed and Sophia Croft expressed her surprise to her husband.

"I had not realized such a longstanding acquaintance existed between Miss Elliot and my brother," she observed.

"Edward's reticence in writing about those matters that interest you most is a frequent complaint of yours," her husband remarked, "and Edward's tenure at Monkford was for some duration, was it not?"

"It was." 

Mrs. Croft shrugged and then moved on to a discussion on the poor weather that day with Mrs. Musgrove. No one else commented on the reunion… or, truly, paid much heed to the clergyman and his wife. 

Over dinner that evening, Mr. Wentworth, Mrs. Wentworth, and Miss Elliot easily fell into conversation together in one corner of the table.  There was news to tell of Mr. Wentworth’s new parish and stories to tell of the happenings in his old.  They could not be roused from their discussion even for the increasingly inspired complaints over the cost of lace or how the Admiral’s gig had broken a wheel in the mud that morning. Mary Musgrove insisted on informing them all about the effects of the rain on her poor health and Charles bemoaned the loss of sport to the weather. 

There were two guests at the table who were far less sanguine than the others. Captain Wentworth's manners were noticeably subdued that evening.  While still seated alongside Louisa and speaking frequently to her, his flirtations were more restrained, and he cast far more glances in the direction of his brother than towards his sister. Mr. Tilney noticed all this… or, at least, he would take note of it later, when his mind stopped spinning in so many circles.  Mr. Tilney struggled to listen to Captain Benwick’s reminiscences on a particular tutor from his school boy days.  He did his best to listen to the man… but he could only spare half an ear.  Most of his attention remained fixed on Anne Elliot. 

Was this truly the reunion of former lovers? Perhaps. A pair of calm, controlled, logical temperaments who mutually agreed to part ways may approach a reunion in such a way… but, in truth, this was the most effusive he had ever seen Anne Elliot in company. She did not exhibit any symptoms of disappointed love that he expected to see.  His curiosity was raised again and he would need to reconsider his former conclusions. 

Ooooo

Would there be no end to the tumult of this week? Truly, Anne Elliot could not escape to Kellynch Lodge quickly enough. 

Meeting with Edward Wentworth again brought back a flood of emotions that Anne had not been prepared for.  She must be happy to see her old friend again… but she could not be fully easy about his presence here.  What could it mean? 

After the affair with Frederick, Edward Wentworth’s company had always disconcerted her. She was regretful that the affair with Frederick had caused any division in their relationship. And while Mr. Wentworth had, immediately following the incident, spoken kindly to her and in a way meant to assure her he did not hold any grievance against her, she still felt overwhelmed with guilt whenever she crossed paths with him. It had been a delicate dance between them. He was concerned over her well-being, but there was very little he could do about it.  She knew he was even more concerned with his brother, but there was even less he could do to support his brother from so far away.  He must be a constant reminder of Frederick… a continual connection to the man whose heart she had broken.  It had only been a few years before he had received the living in Shropshire and she had been both relieved and regretful to see him depart. 

Now, he was returned to Somersetshire… And suddenly there was one other soul here who knew everything that had occurred between her and Frederick.  Oh, what must he think of her!  What would he think of Frederick?  She was mortified by the thought.

She noted when the clergyman sought out Louisa Musgrove and spent some quarter of an hour in earnest conversation with her.  Her heart fell even further.  Of course… Frederick’s proposal must be imminent and that was why Edward had come.  Dread flooded her and left her nearly breathless.  This thought only compelled her into counting down the hours till she could leave Uppercross behind.

When the inevitable call for country dances came, Anne Elliot eagerly took her position at the pianoforte.  She played a handful of songs and prepared to play more when she was interrupted by the approach of Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth.

"Miss Anne, I must beg your indulgence. My wife has tired of dancing and would much rather display her musical talents. However, that would leave me without a partner. May I beg for you to exchange places with her for a time?" He said.

Anne could not refuse.   She stood and took his outstretched hand. While not as skilled as Anne, Mrs. Wentworth was proficient and the next song began easily with hardly anyone in the room cognizant of the change in performer.

The small party of dancers did not hide their surprise and amusement when Anne joined them in the dance. 

"I presume you still avoid dancing in company," Mr. Wentworth remarked, after catching the surprised whispers around them.

"It has been many years, sir.  I am far more useful at the pianoforte."

His gaze was both penetrating and too knowing.  She dropped her eyes.

"Please, seek to be more than useful, Miss Elliott," he whispered to her, his customary kindness and gravity in his voice. "You must allow yourself to be happy. Promise me you will release the past and pursue your own future."

She nodded, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.  They completed the dance in a somber, rather eloquent silence that proved a stark contrast to the merry dancers around them. 

Determined not to miss his opportunity, Henry waited to take Mr. Wentworth's place once the dance was over. Mr. Wentworth bowed politely and offered over the hand of his partner with a word of thanks to Miss Elliot.  Then, he moved to ask Louisa for the next dance.

"You have provoked me to great jealousy today, Miss Elliot," Henry said as he led her to the dance floor. "In all my attempts to beg a dance from you, I am denied and it is only for Mr. Wentworth that you will be persuaded to dance."

 “As his efforts have led to the fulfillment of your desired aim, I do not believe your jealousy is warranted, sir,” she said with a slightly forced smile.

“I beg to differ, Miss Elliot, for it is Mr. Wentworth who may claim to have made you rescind your vow against dancing and not I.  I do not believe my pride as a man may hold up under such provocation.”

“Then I will appeal to your experience as a clergyman and remind you that ^‘pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.’  I believe both are not ideal when it comes to dancing,” she answered.

He laughed, then, and bowed to her.  “Indeed, Miss Elliot. Consider me both humbled and chastised and prepared to avoid both destruction and all manner of falls while we dance.  As Lord Byron say, ‘On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the Glowing Hours with Flying feet.’”

Chapter Text

“Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love,”

Persuasion Chapter 4

 All of Henry Tilney's attempts at a methodical, orderly courtship of Catherine had been thrown off by his father's intervention. In truth, his proposal to Catherine came weeks earlier than it might otherwise have been if left to his own devices.  While their friendship had been sincere and his affection secured, he was slow to commit himself, slow to accept change. He was a man who protected himself behind a bastion of indifference and guarded himself with irreverence and humor. It was only with Eleanor that he allowed unguarded affection and genuine conversation.

Catherine's innocence and lack of guile had woken all his protective instincts and the very safety of her presence was what caused his danger. Still, it was not until he heard of her inglorious expulsion from Northanger that he was compelled into any firmness of action or unchangeable course. His sense of justice, his every sense of honor and affection must revolt against her harm or danger. He could not rest until he knew she was well and he would not settle unless he knew her well-being was entrusted to him forever after. He could not bear anyone harming his Catherine and he must marry her and bring her home to Woodston and keep her with him.

It was this turning point which caused him to defy his father, defend his beloved, and cast off all expectations in order to pursue what he knew to be right and to correct what was wrong. It was in this moment that Henry Tilney became a hero.

He very well may have continued in the same cerebral, cautious, noncommittal path with Anne Elliot—if not for the events that week. Henry Tilney once more was propelled to be a hero and it was the revelation of the mystery surrounding Anne Elliot that determined his future actions.

ooooo

It would not do.  Nearly a full hour spent wandering the pathways in sight of the Cottage had not provided a fortuitous meeting. He had made a circuit around the Cottage itself, well-shielded from the house, but close enough that he could see all who entered and exited its walls. 

He knew the inhabitants of the Cottage breakfasted far later than those at the Great House, but he hoped he might find Anne awake. No, he must not rely on luck, he thought to himself.  On his final circle around the Cottage, he glanced up to the windows of the second floor just as a set of curtains was drawn back and he caught a glimpse of the one he sought… or, at least, he hoped it was her.  He recognized the shade of that dress.  She had worn it to breakfast in Lyme and on so many other occasions during their morning walks. 

He gathered a handful of pebbles in his hand and hid himself behind a tree.  Then, he carefully aimed at the window.  The first two bounced harmlessly off the wall of the cottage.  The next three bounced off the window with a cheerful sounding plink, plink, plink. 

Oh, what was he about?  He was behaving as an inexperienced youth and not a man long familiar with life and the ways of a man with a woman.  He ought to simply wait until proper calling hours… and then…no, Miss Elliot was departing for Kellynch today.  It would not do.  This was not a conversation that could be held in the drawing room.  He could not wait.  Not after such a sleepless night. 

He released another pair of pebbles at the window and was pleased to see a pale face appear in the glass.  He took one step away from the tree and aimed another pebble at the glass.  Then, with a swipe of his walking stick, he emerged from behind the tree, looked up directly at the window and pointed with his stick to the path beyond.  He hid himself again and waited. 

After a few moments, he wondered if she might not be delayed by any one along the way or if she understood what he had meant.  He had not much longer to wait before he heard the closing of a door and gentle footsteps approaching. 

“Mr. Tilney?” She inquired in a low voice.

“Good morning, Miss Elliot.  Forgive me for disturbing your rest this morning and causing you to venture into the cold.”

She looked at him curiously beneath her bonnet and layers of shawls.  Little clouds surrounded her at each breath and already her cheeks were rosy and bright. 

"Tell me, sir, what is the matter? What has happened?" She asked.

“Do not be alarmed, madam,” he said quickly.  “I wished to speak with you… and you leave for Kellynch today.”

“Kellynch is only a distance of three miles, sir,” she said curiously. "We will speak again, even after I depart."

“So, I tried to convince myself… through most of the night and into the early hours this morning… I have slept very little, you see, and I, well, I knew I would not find my rest tonight if I postponed further.”

He offered her his arm, which she took, and he turned them back onto the path that led away from Uppercross.  He could see the fog of his breath and he felt the sting of the cold against his cheeks. The woods around Uppercross were wreathed in grey mist and frost.  The sun was muted by the grey of the clouds overhead and he wondered if it might snow rather than rain that day. 

“What is distressing you, Mr. Tilney?  Please, whatever it is…,” she exclaimed, now growing concerned again.

He sighed.  “It is nothing… that is a falsehood… it is… it is rather a delicate subject and I… Miss Elliot, I must beg your indulgence with my impertinence.  I wish to know… In the Year Six… It was Wentworth, was it not?”

She looked away quickly, but she also nodded after a long pause.  “I thought you knew… you spoke as if you had already discerned the truth of the matter.”

“I thought I did, as well. I nearly had it. Most of the particulars I believe I was able to muddle out… but simply attributed to the wrong Wentworth.”

“Wrong Wentworth?” She asked in surprise.

“When Captain Wentworth first came to Uppercross, I noted he was not equal in his gallantry.  I could not like the pointed difference he displayed towards women he deemed worthy of his notice and those he did not."

"Do not hold it against him. He has cause for his actions and he is not a man who is adept at hiding his emotions. He is sincere and honest and impulsive."

"And there are some in our midst far too adept at hiding their emotions, dismissing slights, and feigning indifference...,” he said.  “It is a fault I own I am guilty of and I find it easier to hide behind wit and feigned cleverness than honesty. However, I cannot approve of such behavior nor grant much clemency to a man who aspires to be a man of honor and yet does not notice the impact his actions have on those around him.

“I suspected… at first… that a soured romance might be the cause of his pointed indifference, but, well, I came to a begrudging respect of the man with time and I decided I must be wrong.  I could not fathom a man who once claimed to love you treating you the way Captain Wentworth has.  I thought better of him… I thought there was no way his own sense of honor would permit it…

“Thus, I thought… I thought… Captain Wentworth’s animosity towards you must be due to the loyalty of a brother to the one who once broke his brother’s heart.  Then, I could understand any amount of coolness or slights.  It was the only conclusion which fit the facts and allowed Captain Wentworth to remain in my good opinion.”

Anne laughed quietly and shook her head.  “Perhaps he might have been the wiser choice, but no.  Mr. Wentworth was never… I never…,” she said and broke off into a shuddering sigh.

“I realized that, when I saw the pair of you in company last night.  Well, until then, I thought I had been very clever and figured it all out.  I cannot begin to tell you how disturbed I became when Mrs. Musgrove received the request for two additional guests for our dinner last night.  I nearly sought you out then, so you would not be taken unawares and could prepare yourself— perhaps plead a headache— but it was too late, of course.  Then, well, Mr. Wentworth came… and it was not him.  The moment I saw you both together, I knew I had been wrong.  I have been forced to reconsider all of my assumptions.”

“It was the Year Six,” she said quietly.  “Captain Wentworth was only a Commander then and he came to stay with his brother for half a year together.  He had very little to do and, well, I was but nineteen.”

“In those days, you still danced,” he interjected with a glance sideways in her direction. 

She smiled, but it was bittersweet.  “Indeed.  I loved to dance, in those days.  Then Frederick came… I had never been so happy… Until we informed my family of our engagement.  My father gave his consent, but not his blessing and Lady Russell persuaded me to relinquish the match entirely.  If it was not my belief that I was a hindrance, an anchor to keep him from achieving his fortune, I could have pressed on.  However, I was persuaded that I would be a burden at a time that he needed to be free.  Thus, I broke my own heart… and his… and he has never quite forgiven me for it.”

They walked silently for some time while Henry mulled over her words. 

“Eight years,” he finally said.  “You have loved him and waited for him for eight years.”

She nodded, though tears pooled on her cheeks and trickled down her pretty nose. 

“He is a fool… and so am I.”

“You, sir?” She managed to say and she glanced up at him in surprise.

“Forgive me for each oblivious and unthoughtful remark.  Here, I spoke freely of the growing relationship between Wentworth and Louisa— and I remained oblivious to the pain this must have caused you.”

Henry shook his head and tapped his walking stick against a nearby stump.  “All this time— What you must have endured!  You, with your tender, dear heart!  Already bearing so much only to endure so much more!  And on such a constant, intimate basis!  How have you borne it?”

“He did not choose for us to be in company.  His sister happened to let Kellynch and he wished to see his sister.  He has made clear what his intentions are now and that the longstanding breach in our relationship cannot be overcome.  He has been polite and has only pursued his own happiness, as is his right.”

“Or he behaved like a foolish idiot and wished to make you jealous in order to appease his wounded pride.  It is not good.  I ought to call him out.”

She glanced up in surprise, until she caught the turn of his expression and she shook her head in mock reproach.  “I do not wish to cast a doubt on your capacity in a duel, but…”

He laughed and feigned a wounded expression.  “But you do not believe this humble clergyman would win a duel against the heroic naval captain?  You are, more than likely, correct.  Captain Wentworth must prove a better shot and far more adept with a sword.  The only way I can fight for your honour is if I challenge him to a race on horseback.”

It was Miss Elliot’s turn to laugh and shake her head. “There is no need.  I have forgiven him.  I made my decisions and he has made his.  It is as it is.”

“You, excellent creature, are too good and you ought to have clawed his eyes out the first day he flirted with my cousins in front of you as he did.  No wonder your spirits fell and you withdrew so!”

“I broke his heart.”

“I do not care if you broke his heart and each bone of his body, he ought not have treated you so. I do not see how you have managed to remain here as a witness to all.”

"Where was I to go?" She answered, tears once again filling her eyes. "I have been longing for Lady Russell's return so I would not be forced into his company each day.  I could not remove to Bath and to whom else could I turn?”

Noting her distress, he bid her to sit on a nearby bench.  He proceeded to pace back and forth before her, tension leaking out of every limb. She covered her face with her gloved hands and her quiet sobs shook her shoulders.  Now, stripped of her stalwart composure, she collapsed inward on herself.  She appeared so small, so fragile.  He was entirely overcome by the sight.

All his plans for a logical, methodical, careful courtship were laid waste in that moment. He must love her. Dear, sweet, longsuffering woman! The weight and force of it all struck him like a blacksmith’s hammer and rang through each vein and sinew.  He could not learn to love her.  He already loved her… and her heart belonged to another. 

In truth, Henry Tilney had spent the better part of the night mulling over his own hypocrisy.  His words to Charles Hayter some weeks earlier came back to him, exhorting him to take his own advice.

"You would only be the second choice if you are second in line making an offer.  Be the first,” Henry had said.

"Your advice, sir, is I ought to make her an offer while she has her sights fixed on another man?” Charles Hayter had asked in return.

“You might well be safer to quit the field entirely, but then, you will also not have gained a wife. To gain a wife, one must suffer some exertions and possible risks,” Henry had told him.  "Now, my question for you is if Henrietta is the very best wife you can imagine— worth whatever humiliation and effort is needed to secure her?  Or, would you rather find another woman whose heart has never been tested and tried and start over again?”

Charles Hayter and Henrietta Musgrove were now engaged… and Henry Tilney would do all in his power to follow their example.  Henry’s advice to Charles Hayter needed to be followed for himself. It was rash.  It was too soon.  He ought not speak until more time had passed, until she had fully relinquished her former hopes, and he could be more certain of her acceptance.  He knew all this and yet he could not hold his tongue.

He reached up to cup her cheek in his hand and brushed his thumb across her chin.  “I will be forever indebted to both Captain Wentworth and each of your past decisions if it grants me the opportunity to win you for myself.”

At her expression of utter bewilderment, he smiled.  “You are an exceptional woman, Miss Elliot: your mind, your understanding, your sympathies, your sense.  I would be a fool to pass you by and leave you for any other.  As I have said, there are men enough about wishing to claim you, thus I wished to present my claim before you for your consideration first.”

“Oh, you cannot!” She burst out, tears streaming down her cheeks.  “You… you cannot!  I could not bear to cause you more injury and pain.”

He smiled.  “Such an answer, Miss Elliot!  It is my pain you are concerned about, rather than your own?”

“You have borne so much, Mr. Tilney!”

“Thus, you wish to acquiesce and allow me to marry you and so spare me the danger of a broken heart?”

She smiled at that and looked away.  “I appreciate your honesty and I appreciate the bravery it took to make such offers and confessions.  I fully feel the honor bestowed upon me … but…”

“But your heart belongs to another and you wish to spare me from pain,” he finished for her. He was brought back to face her by the gentle touch on his arm. 

"But how can you think of me? You know all now! You know I loved Frederick and allowed myself to be persuaded away from the engagement. You— you were so firm and resolute with your loyalty to your wife. You did not let yourself be persuaded!"

"You made your decision. Wentworth made his. It is not to me to say who was proved right or wrong based on the circumstances.  Do you believe you made the right decision?"

"At the moment, yes. Though I questioned it every day that followed,” she answered.

"And now—what is your conscience and your heart speaking? You cannot change the past, but I would wish you to reflect on what future you will pursue."

She sighed.  "I admit I have been considering possible futures more and more of late.  I have spent so many years caught up in both my past and my present that I have sometimes neglected a careful assessment of my future."

“What I can say is that your decisions have led to this moment where you are unmarried still and that grants me an opportunity I would not have had otherwise. Therefore, I must take your side of things and praise you as the wisest of all women," Henry Tilney said.  "You have made excellent decisions throughout and when you agree to marry me, I will declare your brilliance unmatched throughout all the women who have ever lived."

"You are teasing me."

"I am. But not entirely. I am also in earnest.  I will not say one path is right, though, of course I am biased in favor of my own suit. But please, if you find the notion of my pursuit abhorrent to you, if you wish for this topic to never be broached between us again, I will not fault you for it. Truly, we can brush it away as yesterday's cobwebs and forget all about it."

"How could either of us forget?"  She looked up at him, her dark eyes rimmed with red and all the more vibrant for the emotion within them.

He sighed.  She was correct and he knew it.  "Perhaps it is an inept choice of word. What I mean is I will not be angry nor withdraw myself from our friendship if you wish for all to remain as it is. Unless, even that is too much to ask of you. You are away to Kellynch and then to Bath. If you wish it, I will call upon you daily. If you do not, I will not seek you out but grant you a reprieve."

"You are saying, sir, that you wish to give me the choice."

"Yes."

She nodded and became pensive again.  Henry resumed his pacing.  He began to speak as he paced.  Well, it was not speaking, truly, but babbling. He spoke as he thought and the words tumbled out like sugar cubes from a burlap sack. 

“You have to know... For your consideration, there are some particulars of my circumstances that you must know. Please do not speak of this to any other yet.  There are reasons why I set out to Bath to find a wife,” he said.  At Miss Elliot’s expression, he inhaled deeply and continued.  “I must give up my living. The viscount is already preparing to bestow it on another. In preparation for the inevitable. My elder brother is dying, you see. He may last a year, perhaps two, but he is no longer master of his own mind.  He will never inherit Northanger.”

“Oh!” Miss Elliot exclaimed, concern covering her features. "How tragic!"

“I have no wish to dwell at Northanger with my father,” Henry continued.  “But I may not be able to avoid it entirely. It is a high cost— the wealth of Northanger in exchange for my father’s tyranny. 

“I am afraid my father and elder brother are... how do I put this gallantly? If you take Sir Walter and add a malicious cruelty and military precision…. or you take your sister and make her a man... then you have an adequate picture.

“My father chose my brother’s wife and he has never forgiven him for it.  There have been no living children from their union.  My father will be insistent on my need for a male heir as soon as possible.  While he is away in Ireland, I intend to obtain a wife of my own choosing— not of his— while the choice is still mine to make. 

“My situation is not one I ever aspired to and I would much rather remain as I am.  However, it is not to be.  Northanger will be mine.”

“I am so very sorry, Mr. Tilney.”

He forced a smile.  “You see what a poor suitor I make, Miss Elliot?  Rather than overwhelm you with pretty words of all your majesties and virtues, I bury you in my woes and family troubles.”

“We, both of us, come from families plagued with troubles.”

“Indeed.  It is one of the many similarities we share.  In truth, I believe you are the sole woman in England who might please the impossible wishes of both my father and myself.  I would be a fool to pass you by or leave you to be swept up by a naval captain or dandified gentleman.”

A blush crept over her features and she averted her eyes again.  Then, Miss Elliot rose and came to take his arm, urging him to continue further on the path before them. 

"I know we have compatible minds and temperaments. But... is it... do you... is this to be a marriage of convenience? You are in need of a wife and heir and you find me suitable?"

He considered her then, arching an eyebrow over merrily dancing eyes.

"I would find it most convenient for you to marry me, Miss Elliot, for I do not believe I will find another woman more suitable to me,” he said.  Then, noting her far more somber expression, he forced himself to be serious again.  What could he tell her?  What ought he say? The truth was harder.

“At first, I told myself I would pursue you because I knew I could easily learn to love you," he confessed. "Your heart belongs to another and so has mine and yet both of us are unwillingly separated from our first attachments.  Perhaps, we can both learn to love again—prudently, with time and caution.  See, what a rational, well-controlled sentiment? I could protect my heart from any true danger while still seeking an excellent aim.

"Unfortunately, Edward Wentworth came and ruined it all. The very thought of you facing the one I thought you once loved was daunting.  How would you keep your composure under such provocation?   I admit I found I was rather overcome. I wished to do anything in my power to shield you from further pain, to ameliorate your distress, to whisk you away from here on my horse so you might be spared it all.

"And it was then I knew I had done a very poor job of it all and already loved you far more than I had been willing to admit to myself. Truly, I might have proposed we run off to Gretna Greene last night rather than facing Edward Wentworth, if there had been time to speak with you before that blasted dinner."

"But it was not Edward Wentworth."

"It was not. And that made it all the worse. Truly, I did not sleep a wink last night, so overcome was I by my own blindness and how much you must have been suffering.  I do not know how you have borne it all without losing your composure or leaving the county. Here you are— waiting each day for the announcement of the engagement of the man you still love and your sister by marriage. 

“Rather than offer you strength and support throughout, I am here making impetuous declarations and wishing to steal you away from here for myself.  And I will break all rules of propriety to pry into it all and find the true status of your heart."

“It has been so much,” she said.  “I am honoured you would think of me… and I am not indifferent… but I do not know.  I wish for time to discern my heart.  I used to think… I used to know… but, that was when I still held to a hope that is lost.  I wish to consider carefully before you are injured further. If it were a month, even a week ago, I would have dissuaded you from your attempt, but now, I do not know.”

“You do not have to answer immediately.  Indeed, I cannot formally offer for you yet as it stands,” he said and at her look of confusion, he grinned.  “My sister would never forgive me if I chose a wife without consulting her. Do not think her meddling—only– devoted and concerned with my welfare.”

“And if she does not approve?”

“Oh, she will.  I can promise my sister will adore you and prove the best relation you could wish for. I am not so blind to think her rank is what you will value but the woman herself. Her husband, too, is one I am proud to call brother. And I have three small Tilneys in my care who also must be taken into consideration.  I know my rivals have no such burdens to place upon you.  And, of all my rivals, I am perhaps the least illustrious.” 

“But you would prove the best at racing horses,” Miss Elliot added, causing Henry to laugh.

“So, we may assume.  I would wager I can best any Naval captain by breakfast.  Until we discern how adept of a horseman Mr. Elliot is, I think I may be safe, so long as no one calls for pistols instead.”

She laughed quietly and he took this as a positive sign.  Still, he knew the ground beneath him was not certain and he did not entirely know how to proceed.  “Well, what say you, Miss Elliot.  I hate to sound wheedling, but I am afraid this is all rather disconcerting.  May I call upon you… at Kellynch Lodge and again when we away to Bath?”

Anne opened and closed her mouth before slowly nodding her head.  

oooo

Chapter Text

“For, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought.”

Northanger Abbey, Chapter 30

Anne Elliot’s heart overflowed in the days that followed her early morning walk with Mr. Tilney. What was she to make of such declarations as Mr. Tilney had made? How ought she to respond! Oh, it had not been proper for him to address her as he had, and yet, she could not wish such declarations unsaid or such overtures withdrawn.

She could not be unmoved. After so long a drought of affection, after such daily heartache, with so few prospects ahead of her to give comfort or even novelty, Anne Elliot could not be unmoved.

Such honest, forthright, and open declarations of admiration and intent must make her consider the man and his situation anew.

How his affection, his admiration warmed her through and through. She feared to admit how she longed for it, how starved her heart was for such sentiments, and how tempting she found the prospect. She had so few choices, so few aspects of her life she had any power over. It was a delicious notion, nearly illicit for how it woke parts of her so long subdued and forced into resignation.

The wife of a widowed country cleric was a role she would never have chosen for herself nor could she see her family looking kindly upon it, yet... and yet... Henry Tilney was a man equal to her in mind and temperament. Henry had a subtle, muted passion— one only visible to those who knew him best-—not put in parade for all to see. He was a man who had loved his wife and loved his sister and loved his daughters completely. She supposed she might consider him handsome— if she stopped comparing all men to Frederick. The differences in their manner and temperaments were vast… but not unpleasant. For so long, she had refused to find any other man attractive… What if she tried?

She had never considered it. Indeed, she could never have thought of a man like Henry Tilney in the past for her father would never have approved in the days when his fortune was more certain and his daughter still young. Now, though, well, she rather suspected her father would marry her off to anyone with a home to keep her in simply to be spared the expense himself.

It was duty that held her back from marrying Frederick before and duty that compelled her onward now. Her greatest sense of obligation to her family, now, was to not be a burden. Yet, in this case, she found the inclination of her heart not opposed to that of conscience.

When she thought of returning to the frigid, sterile home of her father—to his indifference and her sister’s coldness—but now in the city she despised, well, Mr. Tilney’s companionship was all the more attractive.

How much better could she face a future where Frederick married Louisa if Anne was not bound to Somersetshire!

That the man she once loved would not be hers was a truth she had been wrestling for eight years. Must she retire into that truth and never move beyond it? For two months, she had watched him court another woman. What reason could she give to refuse herself the same liberty? If he could move on, so must she.

But could she truly relinquish such a cherished hope or the guilt she felt at the prospect? It was a part of her that had defined nearly every aspect of her being for eight years.

Anne was relieved to depart from Uppercross and immerse herself in the quiet and solitude of Kellynch Lodge. She needed to think, to know her own heart, and to sift through all that had occurred to her the last two months.

Despite the distance of only three miles, the change in company and conversation was as vast as if it had been three hundred. While closer to Captain Wentworth, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross, she hoped to be far less in his company.

Anne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell’s house in September. It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its being possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and escape from. Her first return was to resume her place in the modern and elegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its mistress.

There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell’s joy in meeting her. She knew who had been frequenting Uppercross. But happily, either Anne was improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so; and Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the amusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her new acquaintances, and of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty.

When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental change. The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving Kellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest. She had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath. Their concerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady Russell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in the house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and her regret that Mrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have been ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of Uppercross and Tilneys and Musgroves, and all her acquaintance there; how much more interesting to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and Captain Benwick, than her own father’s house in Camden Place, or her own sister’s intimacy with Mrs Clay. She was actually forced to exert herself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her.

There was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another subject…Captain Wentworth’s name must be mentioned by both. Anne was conscious of not doing it so well as Lady Russell. She could not speak the name, and look straight forward to Lady Russell’s eye, till she had adopted the expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment between him and Louisa. When this was told, his name distressed her no longer.

Lady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed by a Louisa Musgrove.

 Anne was relieved each time Lady Russell did not cross paths with either Captain Wentworth or Louisa.  She dreaded the inevitable time they must all be in company together.  She did not see Captain Wentworth or Louisa or any other Musgrove for the better part of a week. It was a relief. It was a bittersweet torment. It was precisely what her heart and mind required.

She did cross paths with Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth twice— once in the village and again on the road between the Hall and the Lodge. They had spoken cordially and — much to Anne’s relief— avoided all subjects involving Captain Wentworth.

Anne might have felt the loss of Mr. Tilney’s company— if there had been a loss. He came to call on her nearly every day, much to Lady Russell’s surprise. Anne was amused to see Charles Hayter accompany him on each visit. The young man, while hardly paying notice of Anne for years, would eagerly visit her daily in order to aid the suit of his friend.

"He owes me a favour," Mr. Tilney informed her, quietly. "And he can be discrete. Hayter will exert himself to keep Lady Russell occupied and grant us a few moments to speak.”

This pattern continued for some days. At the end of that period, Lady Russell’s politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became in a decided tone, “I must call on Mrs Croft; I really must call upon her soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house? It will be some trial to us both.”

Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in observing—

“I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your feelings are less reconciled to the change than mine. By remaining in the neighbourhood, I am become inured to it.”

She could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an opinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in his tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel that they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall had passed into better hands than its owners’. These convictions must unquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they precluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning through the well-known apartments.

Anne was relieved to find Captain Wentworth away from home, as she had expected.

“Edward, Frederick, Amelia, and Benwick all called upon the ladies of Uppercross this morning, and we do not expect they shall be in a hurry to return to us,” Mrs. Croft said with a knowing smile.

While Lady Russell might not have been as well-pleased with the Admiral’s manners and frankness, Lady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other.  Each woman eagerly welcomed the prospect of a greater acquaintance with the other.

Anne might have felt the loss of Mr. Tilney’s company— if there had been a loss. He came to call on her nearly every day, much to Lady Russell’s surprise.  Anne was amused to see Charles Hayter accompany him on each visit. The young man, while hardly paying notice of Anne for years, would eagerly visit her daily in order to aid the suit of his friend.

"He owes me a favour," Mr. Tilney informed her, quietly. "And he can be discrete."

A morning came when it was Captain Benwick, rather than Mr. Tilney, who awaited her in the drawing room with a book in his hand.

"You will forgive me calling on you so early! I have been charged with a mission from Tilney. We were together at Uppercross last night and he assured me I must call upon you as early as possible this morning. He sent his apologies that he could not call himself but his children arrived late last evening and he must attend them at Uppercross.  However, he assured me you were waiting most anxiously for this book and could not wait another day before resuming.  He also begged you to permit him the use of the book you promised him. I am to bring it back with me once I take my leave of the Musgroves who are, no doubt, on their way to call upon you soon."

"Of course! You have my thanks and gratitude for fulfilling this errand,” Anne said.  “Allow me to fetch the book he requested.” 

Henry Tilney had promised her no book. Nor had she promised one in return. She knew this.  The book she held in her hands was one Mr. Tilney knew she had read. She must assume there was some purpose, some other reason, behind this errand.  She retreated to her room as quickly as she could.  Once behind a closed door, she opened the book Captain Benwick had brought her. There, hidden in the folds of the cover, was a letter.

Dear Miss Elliot,

Forgive my ploy and presumption. I regret even more the pain this letter will cause you. The first missive from myself ought to be poorly written poetry praising all your many charms and virtues and declaring myself a slave to all of them. Know I am in your debt and will owe you just such a properly romantic and love-soaked letter in future. However, as it is, it cannot be helped and I must cause you pain rather than pleasure this morning.

Charles and Mary will, no doubt, call upon you first thing. Mary wishes to be the first to share the happy news of a second engagement announced at Uppercross, but I am afraid I have robbed her of that honour. She wishes to share all the particulars and inform you of your invitation to a dinner at Uppercoss to celebrate the engagements tomorrow night.

I wished for you to receive such tidings in solitude and have the forewarning to plead a headache, if necessary.

I wish to call upon you tomorrow morning. If you would rather retreat in solitude longer, simply inform Benwick you have misplaced the book I asked about and you will send it to Uppercross tomorrow. If you find you can tolerate my company after what I expect will be a sleepless and miserable night, then send him with a book of your choice. Then, I will call upon you tomorrow morning.

Yours,

HT

Anne dropped the letter onto her nightstand and closed her eyes against the grey, rain-soaked light beyond her window.  She could hardly breathe as she felt the barrage of tears wishing to break free of her heart. 

It was done. Of course it was done.  She had known it must be so.

She had silently wept and suffered for so many weeks—nay— years.  Still, she was not entirely prepared for this…

But Mr. Tilney was correct. She had no wish to face her sister's exuberance or Lady Russell’s initial response to such news. She would be in no state of mind to hear such particulars as her sister wished to impart.  Quickly, she chose a book at random.  Then, she sent a servant to take it to Benwick —with her thanks and her apologies that she was unwell and would remain abed.

She could hear when Charles and Mary arrived.

And she was grateful. Even though many years of tears had been spent, she found she still had a few to spare.

Oooooo

“Anne, dearest, are you well?” Lady Russell inquired, after their guests returned to Uppercross.  Lady Russell sat upon the bed near Anne and gently stroked the hair out of her eyes. 

“I will be well,” Anne replied.  “It is simply a sudden headache.”

“Do you wish to know what Mary came to call about?”

“No.”

Lady Russell gave her a penetrating, knowing look and then nodded.  She squeezed Anne’s shoulder and rose to leave. 

“Very well.  I will send Sarah up with some tea.”

“Thank you,” Anne whispered, though she knew she would not drink a drop of it. 

How Lady Russell delighted in the engagement between Frederick and Louisa!  This smug, disdaining approval must pain Anne. 

She could do her best to celebrate the engagement with the Musgroves and Crofts... but with Lady Russell and Edward Wentworth... and worse, far worse, the future prospect of facing her father and Elizabeth in light of such an alliance. They knew. They would see Frederick and know Anne had been displaced in his affections by Louisa Musgrove. It was another form of torment, a deeper humiliation.  An environment so ripe in shared, unspoken secrets.  It could not be like before, back when it was only Anne and Frederick. 

Tomorrow, she must regain her composure and face all society again, but not today.  Today she would hide beneath her counterpane and behind drawn curtains and soak in the silence of her isolated room. 

She was more grateful, now, then she had ever been for her removal from Uppercross to Kellynch Lodge.

Oooo

She slept little, so heavy were the cares she bore that night.  When she woke, she hoped for the reprieve of an early morning walk in the garden.  The incessant rain that morning prevented her exertion and she resigned herself to the companionship to be found within the walls of the Lodge. 

“Are you quite recovered?” Lady Russell inquired of her young friend over breakfast.

“Yes,” Anne answered, forcing an appearance of undaunted composure and unruffled ease.  She assured her friend she could attend dinner at Uppercross that evening.  It was an assurance she did not fully believe.

Their morning was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Tilney and Captain Benwick.  Once the initial greetings had been gone through in due form and Lady Russell was caught up in conversation with Captain Benwick, Mr. Tilney withdrew the book Anne had sent him the previous day and began to flip through its pages.    

“I must thank you for lending me your book, Miss Elliot,” Mr. Tilney said, “I have always wished to know more about the attractions of our coastal resorts and the many benefits of sea bathing.  I will admit I now have a great longing to visit Lyme again during the summer months.”

Anne flushed slightly and shook her head.  “I did not attend which book I sent you.”

“Oh, I did not expect you to.  In truth, I was grateful to receive a book at all.”

“It was very kind of you… to send the book as you did,” she said.

“Is there, perhaps, another book you might recommend?” He asked and he glanced over to the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room rather meaningfully. 

She rose and led him to the tall, well-stocked shelves that were as much a display of Lady Russell’s extensive literary tastes as they were a decoration for the drawing room.  She began to trail her fingers along the spines of the books, taking out books at random and handing them to her companion. 

He took each book, and pretended to flip through the pages, though he did not pay any more attention to the books than Anne, herself did.  Quietly, he addressed the true topic on each of their minds. 

 “If the weather had proved amenable… and if I knew which window was yours, I might have summoned you to walk with me again,” he whispered.

“Oh, it would not be possible!  Not here, at least!”

“Ah, so I suspected, which is why I have come seeking your literary delights again.  Benwick, poor fellow, is rather worn down by all the cheer and romantic felicity he has been thrust into and was only too easy to convince to accompany me.”

“I had wondered if he might not return to Lyme soon.”

“He has wondered himself, more than once, but has been persuaded to stay to support his friend, good fellow that he is.  However, now that two pairs of engaged couples are firmly entrenched at Uppercross each day, he was more than ready to call upon Kellynch Lodge instead.”

“I am grateful— for your exertions on my behalf both yesterday and today.”

“I only wish I could do more… Miss Elliot, I will not ask what manner of night you spent nor how you fare this day.  Instead, I have come to bring you something I hope will bolster your spirits.  I must assume that despite the warnings of all common sense and reasonable delicacy, you will insist upon attending the dinner at Uppercross tonight?”

She nodded in assent.

“I expected no less of you, Miss Elliot.  Well, if you wish to test your fortitude in such an endeavor, all I can do is to offer what assistance is within my power.  In preparation for any battle, you must have both weapon and shield. I intend to grant you both— and act as second in this duel of honor you are to face."

"Sir?"

"Tonight, you are to hold up your head like a queen and feign all the composure you do not feel." And he handed her a small bundle. While hidden partially by the bookshelf and a large, painted screen, she unwrapped a blue ribbon from around what she discovered to be a fan.  Herons and blue roses were painted across its rose-coloured face. 

“As Joseph Addison once wrote in his discourse on the efficacy of the weaponry utilized by the fairer sex, ‘Women are armed with Fans as Men with Swords, and sometimes do more Execution with them.’ Now, that you are armed properly, let us discuss the use of your weapon.”

He took the fan from her and, with a careful glance to ensure Lady Russell remained engaged across the room, he extended it in front on his face and gave it a careful flutter.  He batted his eye lashes in time with the fan, causing Anne to stifle her laughter into her hand. 

“As Addison instructed his regiment of females armed with fans, ‘There is an infinite variety of Motions to be made use of in the Flutter of a Fan. There is an Angry Flutter, the modest Flutter, the timorous Flutter, the confused Flutter, the merry Flutter, and the amorous Flutter. Not to be tedious, there is scarce any Emotion in the Mind which does not produce a suitable Agitation in the Fan,’” he said and he demonstrated each. 

“You are surprisingly well-versed in the language of fans, sir,” Anne remarked.

"Ah! I am a man who is forced to know all things about muslin and fans and the best way to achieve curls.  Now, both my sister and my wife found they could remain much easier in company if they could call on reinforcements or reprieve without calling attention to their need for aid. To this end, they adapted the sly use of their fans. While some ladies of the ton may use their fan to draw and repel suitors, my dear relations preferred to use it to command their husbands and brothers about to do their whims.

“Here, you see, if my sister carries her fan open in her left hand, she means for me to ‘come.’   When she snaps it shut, like so, it means ‘rescue me from this boorish clod.’ And if she flutters her fan very slowly, she means to inform me, ‘I am very well, but I wish for cake.’  Most importantly, when she draws her closed fan along her mouth, she wishes to say, ‘Shut your mouth, Henry, before you embarrass us both.’  It is vital you learn how to wield your weapon. On the slip of paper, I have written the most important commands you wield with this fan, in order to prepare you for tonight.” 

Then, Henry returned the fan into Anne’s hand and he withdrew a handkerchief.  "In return, I will use my own secret methods to answer. While I have often considered the injustice of not being permitted the use of a fan myself, I have had to make due with such methods of communication that are available to a gentleman. See, if I use my handkerchief to mop my brow, then I am inquiring if you are well. If I check the time on my pocket watch, I am wishing to escape my current conversation and begging you to rescue me.  When I withdraw my watch, by merely fuddle with the chain, then I am granting you permission to kiss me."

Anne cast him an incredulous look, which caused him to break into a wide grin.  “I have written some of the other secret messages my handkerchief and watch can share with you… but I expect you to practice all of them.  I will test you on them, tonight, you see and I will know if you have been dutifully studious or not.”

"And you would share all of such secrets with me!" She exclaimed.

"I would grant you the keeping of all my secrets, if you would wish it.”

She flushed but looked pleased. Then, after a moment's thought, she withdrew her own handkerchief from her pocket.

"I thank you for your gift, sir.  In return, you ought to take this as a token of my regard."

His smile widened exponentially. "Sly creature! You honor me!"

With a deliberate kiss on the embroidered initials, he placed the handkerchief in his pocket.

Oooooo

Uppercross overflowed with joy and delight.  The Hayters, Crofts, Musgroves, Wentworths, and all their various friends and relations filled the Great House that evening in celebration of the dual engagements of the two eldest Musgrove daughters.  It had been decided that the sisters would marry their grooms together from Uppercross in the middle of March.  All were lively, none more so than Louisa, who practically glowed with her delight and unrestrained energy.  Everything was fine and wonderful, but none so wonderful as her “Dear Captain.”  She nearly pranced through the room, her eyes constantly seeking out her betrothed and in all she did, she sang his praise. 

Wentworth was congratulated by all the men that evening over brandy and cigars. The men jostled him and teased him good-naturedly. And all wished him well.  By all appearances, he was a man well-pleased and satisfied to relinquish his bachelor status at last. 

Henry Tilney smiled smugly when he caught sight of blue silk in Anne Elliot’s hair that night. His ribbon was wound into her hair. It might be petty.  Of course it was. But she wore his ribbon and carried his fan, and he carried her handkerchief in his breast pocket.

It was not a warm night and yet Mr. Tilney had mopped his brow with a handkerchief more than once. And Miss Elliot continued to flutter her fan far more than was her custom.  However, no one present noticed anything amiss. 

He might have intentionally let the initials show more than once when he mopped his brow and he rather delighted in the game. In the underhanded secret communication. And, he made sure, in every passing moment that he whispered a line of poetry that Anne was sure to know how to finish. The pretty flush on her cheeks was his reward for his effort.

Henry was pleased when he saw her eyes fixed on him more than Wentworth, carefully assessing each of his silent communications, and answering in turn. And he saw that she could smile and not remain a silent shadow, oppressed and melancholy. Under the provocations of such a night, it was all he could hope to achieve.