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The water dripped off the brim of Edward Wentworth's hat. In the years that followed, this was the detail most imprinted in Anne Elliot's memory of that terrible day. The hat vibrated with the clutching, trembling fingers that held them and drops of gathered rain dripped off the brim and onto Lady Russell's fine Indian carpet. At the time, she hardly noticed. However, in the years that followed, she remembered and knew he must have walked straight through the rain to seek her out. She doubted he took note of the weather or Lady Russell's carpet.
When Mr. Wentworth arrived at the Lodge that morning, he requested a private audience. Anne's heart froze in her chest, each beat drummed out with a painful, throbbing rhythm. Edward Wentworth never intentionally sought her out. True, their paths frequently crossed and they often found themselves thrown together, but the only other time he had intentionally called on her was the day he informed her of Frederick's departure from Somersetshire.
Frederick had taken up the command of the Asp immediately after their failed engagement. He sailed away without a backwards glance. He managed to accrue a few thousand pounds, as he had always known he would. Two long, tear-soaked years had passed in the interim and all she knew of Frederick came from the papers, the navy lists, and whatever crumbs or bones she could glean from Mr. Wentworth.
He was unerringly kind and far too sympathetic for a man who might once have become her brother-in-law. Mr. Wentworth had quietly obliged her with whatever news he could inconspicuously share while they were in polite company or during the quiet conversations they shared when they came across each other on country lanes. These bits and pieces of knowledge— more precious than meat to a starving dog— were willingly and eagerly lapped up by Anne, despite the guilt that plagued her for her actions.
Mr. Wentworth's connection to Frederick was the reason she both sought and avoided the curate. He was the most immediate tie to the man she loved and thus a constant reminder of such a flurry of contrasting emotions. He had been an ever-present observer during their cataclysmic courtship. As a constant companion of his brother and the means through which they contrived to meet, he had been far more intimately acquainted with the heights and depths of their growing attachment than any other member of their circle of acquaintances. Indeed, Anne doubted her father even noted her attachment, at least, not until he was petitioned by the object for her hand in marriage.
No, it had been Mr. Wentworth who had known all… or, at least, known more than any other soul save the pair themselves. While he had not precisely encouraged the match—indeed, much to his brother's irritation, Edward had warned Frederick repeatedly about some of the potential pitfalls and dangers— however, Mr. Wentworth had remained their staunchest supporter throughout. His rational and cautious nature meant he could not agree wholeheartedly with Frederick's undaunted optimism. However, his affection for his brother and his estimation of Anne must cause him to appreciate their growing regard for each other… and cause him to wish for their union nearly as fervently as the pair themselves.
The inevitable rupture between Edward Wentworth and Anne after Frederick's departure was yet another grief, another loss, and she wished, well, she wished she could change so many aspects of her current circumstances that now felt woefully beyond her control.
Nearly two years had passed since Frederick's departure and Anne still hoped Mr. Wentworth would receive news of Frederick's imminent return. She fervently prayed he would write, that he could come back, that now he had amassed some little fortune, he would try again. She supposed Frederick's undaunted optimism was contagious and she still clung tight to hope, however fleeting, that they would be reunited again. Thus, each meeting with Mr. Wentworth caused her heart to skip in hope of the news she most wished to hear… and then sink again when he could not give it. He would only shake his head and look upon her with those too-knowing eyes and she would turn away again.
It was a cold, particularly stormy autumn. Her father and Elizabeth had gone to London for another whirlwind trip of expanding social connections, decreasing marital prospects, and mounting debts. Mary remained at school, though she faithfully wrote of how she longed to finish her studies and return home. Thus, Anne Elliot remained with Lady Russell at Kellynch Lodge.
Anne Elliot had been surprised to receive a caller that morning, despite the torrential downpour outside. She had been even more surprised to discover the identity of her caller.
Edward Wentworth, with sodden hat, muddy boots, and a distinctly uncharacteristic lack of composure, stood before her. Never, in all their years of acquaintance, had she seen him so entirely overcome with emotion. She watched him, her heart beating out of her chest as she waited for him to speak.
His hat twisted around and around in his anxious fingers. He opened and closed his mouth. A dark curl clung to his forehead.
"There was a storm," Mr. Wentworth managed to say. He could say no more. Suddenly overcome, his entire posture crumbled and his great, tall frame sank into the nearest chair. His hat, forgotten, toppled onto the floor, uniting with the small puddle it had caused on the carpet.
"Forgive me," he heaved into the hands that covered his face, "I thought... I ought to... I told myself I could hold my composure…"
Anne, her own tears far more silent but just as earnestly falling, could only take the seat beside him. She waited while he fought for mastery over his words, over his grief, and sought to find the strength to speak more.
He forced himself to speak, though his words were halting and interrupted with his overflow of emotions. "After traveling to the West Indies and back again without harm, it was off the coast of Devonshire he sailed into the storm. It lasted four days, but the Asp went down after only the first. There were no survivors. The express came only this morning," he managed to say. "I hoped to inform you first, before you stumbled upon the terrible news yourself. You are the only other soul within half a continent who will understand, who will also grieve, who will remember his name and face when he is only a 'gallant captain Wentworth lost in a sloop' in a newspaper article."
"It was very thoughtful of you, Mr. Wentworth," she answered earnestly. She appreciated that he sought to inform her himself, rather than stumbling upon such news over breakfast or in company with ladies over tea where her composure must be maintained.
He nodded. For a few weighted moments they sat in shared devastation before he retrieved his hat and left her to her solitary sorrows. He may have taken his leave, but she did not notice much of what occurred in the moments and hours that followed.
oooo
Edward paused once outside the gate. The rain soaked through the collar of his shirt and drenched his socks and dripped from his nose. It was too dark, too lacking in sunlight for how close to midday it still must be. He turned to glance back at the Lodge - the imposing stone house with its rows of stone flowerpots and cobblestone drive. The windows glowed with firelight, casting orange puddles of light onto the damp grass.
Through the large drawing room window, he could catch a glimpse of the small, pale figure, hardly moved from the moment he shared his terrible news. He wished her all the best, but he did not envy her the dark, sleepless nights nor the days of heavy sorrow that were sure to follow. He knew she would find very little comfort in the society around her. He knew his own prospects to be little better.
It fell to Edward's lot to watch Anne Elliot's heart break all over again now. The loss of his brother was a wound to his own heart… but to bear such tidings to Anne! It was nearly more than he could manage, but he would not relinquish the duty to any other.
His work in the church must acquaint him with the inevitability of partings and loss. Already, he had memorized the scriptures and prayers used in funerals and to offer comfort to the loved ones of the dead and dying. These felt fragile and lined with shattered glass when he tried to bring them to mind now. Perhaps, given enough time and reflection, he could extract the slivers of iron-forged hope those promises built, but not today. Today, his heart was too crushed and mired in the feral desperation of death's early teeth.
His brother was gone. Swallowed up by the sea he so loved, the sea he had dwelt on for most of his life. He wished burning the express might have erased those words and turned back the hands of time.
Edward still remembered the slight, fair-haired boy in his midshipman's uniform, waving furiously from the deck of the first ship that took him away from England. Frederick had been a lad of thirteen. Their parents had already departed from this life, leaving the three siblings on their own. They left enough behind for a gentle start in their professions and a modest dowry for Sophia. However, it marked the end of the days the Wentworths dwelt together and the last of sharing meals in their childhood home. They were, each of them, on their own and bound together solely by blood and the miles of ink and paper that followed.
Edward, five years older, constantly worried over the possible dangers facing his brother. His sister wrote to chide him.
"He will either sink to the bottom of the sea or become an admiral. He was born to excel in the navy. No worthwhile pursuit is ever entirely without risk. You will not aid him by insisting on his safety or clucking about like a mother hen. You would merely bother yourself and frustrate him," she wrote.
She and Frederick had always been so similar, so bold, so wild. He loved them for it, but it did not cease to terrify him. They were so very far away and there was little he could do save pray and write and hold onto mother's silver and father's writing desk and wait for them to come home.
Sophia and Frederick so rarely returned to England in the years that followed. When they did return, Edward did his best to provide them a home to nest in. Frederick's childish script gained clarity and flourish. He spoke of battles and diplomats and far off places where the sun always shone in heat and intensity. Each time Edward saw Frederick again, he grew taller and broader and deeper and bolder. No longer the slight lad of his memories, somehow in the years of sail and tide, he bloomed into a man who stood taller than Edward and overshadowed his older brother with his brilliance.
Edward had always been rather in awe of his brother's audacity. Edward, educated at Eton and then Oxford, had always been firmly aware of his place in the world. Alongside the sons of the gentry, with their inherited wealth and connections upon connections, he knew his opportunities for advancement were few. He must be grateful for whatever he could obtain, and his chosen profession would not have the same opportunities for earning wealth and glory, unlike his siblings. In the navy, a man could rise as far as luck and skill allowed. Frederick had a plentiful supply of both.
Frederick never minded about social rules or constraints but lived according to his own man-made luck. He was audacious enough to believe he would accomplish whatever he set his mind to and then he would set out to do it. It was a contagious, awe-inspiring confidence that caused those around him to hold to the same fervent optimism as Frederick himself.
A commander without a ship, he came home to Edward again in the Year Six. Idle and aimless he was turned upon shore for half a year together, bursting into Edward's small, orderly existence, and turning everything on its head. In Frederick's relentless quest for exertion, novelty, and relief from idleness, Edward had to exert himself in turn. He had attended far more dinners and exploring parties and assemblies in Frederick's first month than he had in the twelvemonth previous. His brother overflowed from the parsonage and shone into every social gathering. Edward loved his brother, but he could be exhausting with such an overflow of intensity, of passion, of emotion.
It fell to Edward to deal with the aftermath of the whirlwind. Edward had always been the steady one, the solid one, the one to deal with realities and not luck or ideals. Now, his brother was gone, and Edward was convinced part of his own heart had been amputated and sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic with him.
oooo
A fortnight passed before Edward saw Anne Elliot again. He found her walking the road that passed between the Lodge and Kellynch. On his way to call in on one of the tenants, he quickened his pace to catch up with her. She forced a smile. So did he. They spoke little, but there was a depth of shared grief and loss that passed between them that must simultaneously burden and uplift the other. Her countenance was entirely overshadowed by the weight of grief she carried. The contrast between this slight, suffering creature and the exquisite beauty of two years prior was stark.
When he first arrived in Somersetshire, he was regularly in company with the inhabitants of Kellynch. As the curate of their parish, it fell to him to tend to both the high born and low and he knew as much of the baronet's family as the miller and the baker and the milliner. While Sir Walter and Elizabeth's welcome of the new curate had been everything that was polite and insincere, he had expected very little else. It was Elizabeth that reigned as mistress in her mother's place. It was she who presided over the drawing room and ball room of Kellynch with fashionable grace and curated elegance. It was Elizabeth's beauty that was praised.
It was Anne Elliot who came to thank him for a Sunday sermon or inquire after books he recommended. It was Anne Elliot who asked him of his family and how he enjoyed the new parish. It was Anne who organized the baskets for the poor and ensured Kellynch continued supporting the various charities in the neighborhood.
Edward had always admired Anne Elliot— in the same way a man might admire a waterfall or king's crown or the ruins of an old castle—something ethereal, beautiful, and entirely intangible. Something that one must admire from afar, but never grasp in one's hand or use to set up house with. Edward could praise her virtue and accomplishments and manner but he had never once considered her as a wife. It was as unthinkable as maintaining a carriage on a curate's allowance. He knew his prospects for marriage must wait till he was fortunate enough to obtain a living and, even then, he would have a select pool of women who he could expect to accept him as a husband. Anne Elliot would have never been considered, no matter how admirable he found her.
His brother, he found, had no such qualms or hesitations. Edward's glowing commendations of Miss Anne were enough to spark Frederick's curiosity. He insisted on an introduction at the first assembly he attended and he found Edward's opinions did not do the lady justice. Uncharacteristically stumbling over his words during their introduction, his face turning red, and his eyes wide, Edward had never seen his brother so flustered.
"In all your praise of Miss Elliot you neglected to warn me of her beauty," Frederick said.
"I did not realize you required a warning," Edward retorted.
"I might have been more prepared and less of a bumbling fool if I had known."
Frederick managed to regain his composure and his eloquence again after that. Edward was amused to see his brother then ask the lady for a dance... and then another. It was obvious, by the end of the night, he was smitten. Edward thought nothing of it. What future could there be between the daughter of a baronet and the penniless sailor? He thought his brother had more sense than such a fruitless pursuit. He was wrong.
Edward was not certain whether to be in awe of his brother, throw up his hands in exasperation, or learn to envy what his brother was capable of achieving. In the end, Frederick paid no heed to such restrictions as wealth or title. He never once doubted his luck or his eventual fortune or his success. He dove headfirst into a whirlwind romance, and he gained the hand and heart of the baronet's daughter.
Edward offered what gentle, well-grounded cautions he could muster. None were heeded so he settled for simply offering support and prayers and hoping for the best.
In his brother's pursuit, Edward was necessarily thrown into Anne's company in a way parish business and social calls around the village could never permit. No, Edward accompanied the pair on walks through the apple orchard and organized tea at the parsonage. He attended calls to Kellynch and visits in the village. He was but a necessary accessory to his brother's happiness— a role he gladly welcomed, as all elder brothers ought.
It was no true sacrifice for Edward for he found he enjoyed the company of the lady as well. Even in the throes of her first love and the fires of youth, Anne Elliot never failed to acknowledge him or appreciate his presence. She took exertions to speak with him and not allow Frederick to monopolize the conversation. It was those moments of unnecessary and unexpected kindness that impressed him and he admired her all the more.
He could not walk so closely alongside his brother during his courtship of the lady without stripping back layers of formality from her in his mind. She ceased being the baronet's daughter, a scion of society, and she became only Anne. He knew she loved pink roses and despised mushrooms. He knew the glint in her eyes when she was falling in love, and he listened to the never-ending raptures of his brother over the sweetness of her lips and the gentleness of her manner. She was the great love of his brother's young life and the woman he hoped to someday see as his sister.
He hoped… well, there had been so many hopes, back then. He supposed Frederick's optimism had overwritten even Edward's own more cynical views and he truly believed it might work out in the end. He knew it would take time, that Frederick must transform his potential into pounds, but Edward held hope that he would make post and then win the prizes he sought. Edward was acquainted enough with the baronet to expect little support or assistance from Anne's family. He knew he would have seen to Anne's care as his sister–as would Sophie– and they would have found a way.
It ended nearly as dramatically as it had begun and Edward was left to attempt to wrangle his volatile, furious, and insensible brother into some semblance of order. Frederick left immediately to seek the safety of the open sea. Edward grieved his absence even while he sighed a great sigh of relief. Peace and loneliness were his again.
Then, it fell to him to offer what comfort he could to the distraught lady in the aftermath. Edward was forced to watch Anne Elliot's heart break with very little he could do to comfort that poor, long-suffering creature. His brother left deep, fiery footprints in his wake and Anne Elliot was never the same.
Edward had been nearly as bereft as his brother when the engagement ended, though far more quietly and with greater restraint than Frederick. He carried the heartbreak of both his brother and Anne on his shoulders and mourned for them both in the months that followed. He lost both of their companionship at the same time. He missed the ease and frequency of their previous acquaintance. He mourned the loss of his hopes for Anne as a sister, and he could not return to his former detached politeness.
He understood her. He knew what it was to love Frederick and how difficult such a path could be. He knew how difficult it was to ground him, to anchor him, to exist in the same port for any length of time together. Yet he also understood the pain of loss, how dark the world became without Frederick's brilliance shining in it. He missed his brother and wished for his presence apart from ink and paper again.
He watched her grieve and dwindle, watched that beautiful spirit bear such wait. Such affection, such loyalty, such heart. He must admire her all the more. That she would even have considered Frederick... that she would offer her heart so and cling so staunchly to him in his absence! It was like watching a caged songbird droop and cease singing. He wished to open the door of her cage and see her fluff out her feathers and greet the dawn with a shrill song again.
oooo
The days and weeks that followed were dark and full of trembling hands and the relentless breakers of sorrow which threatened to overcome her. Anne hardly knew one day from another.
Lady Russell noted Anne's despondency but could not pry the cause from her at first. Speaking of it would make the terrible truth of it real and she dared not speak of it again. Instead, Lady Russell heard of the sinking of the Asp through village gossip later that week. To Lady Russell the news was the fulfillment of her greatest fear, the embodiment of the reason she had persuaded Anne to relinquish the engagement.
Few others were privy to the attachment or knew of its loss. While there might have been many opinions on the advice she gave, she remained convinced she had the right of it. Imagine if they had been married— with so little fortune and he lost at sea? What would have become of Anne? It was far better for Anne to grieve a former suitor than a husband and Captain Wentworth had not accomplished quite enough in his profession to make him suitable for an Elliot of Kellynch.
Lady Russell attempted to speak words of comfort to her goddaughter. However, there was little that could be said that would ease Anne's sorrows or lighten her countenance again. Instead, Lady Russell insisted they remove to Bath.
"A change of scenery and distraction will do you good," Lady Russell said. "What you need are concerts and new acquaintances and a reprieve from old memories."
What she did not say, what she hoped but dared not mention, was her desire for Anne to wed. A new attachment could prove a better cure to her grief than any number of weeks of solitude and weeping. She hoped, now that her previous object was well and truly gone, that Anne might finally be open to another.
Anne's grief, however, made her nearly inviolate to all others and she was as melancholy and miserable during this trip to Bath as after the death of her mother. Anne returned to Somersetshire as unmarried as she had set out. Her spirits remained so downcast, her appearance so wan and dwindling that Lady Russell feared for her health.
Soon, Sir Walter and Elizabeth and Mary would return in all the chaos and bustle of self-importance and no one would think of Anne. Lady Russell determined to call upon her as frequently as she could and speak a word of direction or two to the rest of the Elliots, but she did not expect this to carry much weight.
Lady Russell was far more impacted by the news of the death of Captain Wentworth than Sir Walter and Elizabeth. They hardly remembered the Captain had existed, let alone he had almost become kin. When they returned to Kellynch that spring, Sir Walter complained that Anne looked very poorly and he procured more Gowland's for her withering complexion. He told her to stop reading so late into the night for it must be the cause of her red-rimmed eyes.
"If you keep neglecting yourself so, I shall be quite ashamed to be seen with you," her father said.
oooo
It was into the long, dwindling days of summer that Anne found a new source of occupation. Desperate for distraction and exertion to stir her from Kellynch and pry her out of the morose stagnation she felt at Kellynch, Anne threw herself into the affairs of the parish of Monkford.
Thus, it was an early morning in June when Anne sought out the curate. He was surprised, but not displeased, when he welcomed her into the church that day.
"Please, Mr. Wentworth, I have no wish to remain idle. I need to keep my hands and mind busy. What can I do? Tell me where I may be of use— real use— and let me find something else to fill my time."
With a knowing, compassionate nod, he agreed.
"Old Widow Goddard's eyesight has dimmed to the point where she needs someone to read her nephew's letters aloud and assist her in threading her needle," he said.
With a determined nod and a word of thanks, Anne departed. When weekly visits to Mrs. Goddard were not enough to keep her occupied, she called upon the curate again. He shook his head in quiet laughter and promised he would write her a list of any possible ways she could be of use.
There were the tenant farmers' wives who were expecting new children and could benefit from Anne's meticulous stitching and neat blankets. The poor needed baskets and cheer. Three orphans in the care of the parish could use lessons in anything Anne might teach.
Thus, he sent her any small task or errand he could think of. All these, she did with diligence and a slowly increasing brightness— as if each day she regathered a bit of her lost spirit and learned how to shine just a little bit brighter.
Anne was glad to find some manner of purpose; some reason to wake each morning and move past her nearly debilitating sense of grief. When she could put herself to use on behalf of others, she gained some small measure of joy.
Mr. Wentworth, as well, proved a constant source of comfort. He welcomed her with that same, steady smile each time they crossed paths and without fail, he informed her he was delighted to see her again. He praised her for any small accomplishment and, so rare was praise of any kind, that his warmth could not fail to lift her spirits.
Often, after Frederick's initial departure, Anne had caught herself searching the features of Edward Wentworth for any similarities between the brothers. It was a bittersweet comfort to find the little traits they shared— in the color and shape of their eyes, the timbre of their voices, the way they threw their heads back when they laughed. This fact was both a source of regret and tenderness to Anne and her interactions with the curate. These ties, these tethers, these similarities became infinitely dearer after Frederick's loss.
However, as was evident in her own family, siblings born into the same household could be as different as day and night. It was more than the increased curl and darkness of Mr. Wentworth's hair, the slightly broader nose, or the less imposing height. It was the entirely disparate temperaments of the pair. If Frederick had been a flash of lightning— a blinding, brilliant stroke of light that could not be hidden or ignored; Edward Wentworth was a candle— steady and unobtrusive and hardly noticed until the sun had set and need was greatest. While Frederick was the most strikingly handsome, there were enough shared characteristics to where Anne gradually noticed the subtle, more muted beauty in the form and features of the elder Wentworth.
In truth, she also sought out Edward Wentworth for his consolation and the pleasure of his company. At first, she thought it was only their shared grief and shared affection for Frederick which drew them together— as if they were both haunted by the same familiar ghost and they could sympathize together. However, she appreciated his quiet good humour and the steadfast solidity of his presence. He grounded her and helped keep her rooted. He was a man she must admire and not solely for the ways he reflected his lost brother.
oooo
Autumn crept upon Kellynch again and wrapped the countryside in its colored garments. A year passed since that fateful day Mr. Wentworth appeared at Kellynch Lodge. It was no accident they met on the road into the village that day. Edward Wentworth's hands did not tremble and his hat remained dry and firmly settled upon his dark, curly hair.
For a time, they walked in silence. Neither bothered with small talk nor feigning surprise at their meeting. Instead, she slipped her arm in his and they walked together.
"I read through his letters last night," he told her. "Every single one. I burned through three candles and ought to have stopped after one."
She nodded her head in understanding. "I wish I had so many. He only ever wrote three letters to me and I have long since memorized each of them."
"I suspected as much. There was hardly time for more."
She sighed. "If I had not broken off the engagement, we might have had more."
"Here. I brought these for you," he said and he withdrew a packet of letters from his pocket. They were old and yellowed and she almost did not recognize the writing.
"What are these?"
"Some of Frederick's letters."
"But this is not his hand!"
"It was… when he was still a lad," Edward said with a fond smile. Then, he led her to a nearby tree where she could sit on a stump and peruse the stack of letters at her leisure. Eagerly, nearly desperately, she read through the scrawled tales of a midshipman, her tears caused as much by laughter as sadness. There was so much of Frederick in those letters, and she was overjoyed to see those little bits and pieces of him as a boy.
"Thank you," she whispered, as she wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and handed him back his packet.
"You are welcome, Miss Elliot."
He helped her to her feet and they continued walking together. It was a fine day and the sun streamed in warm through the golden leaves of the trees overhead.
"Did he ever ask of me… In his letters, after…?" She asked.
He sighed. "No."
"Did you write of me to him?"
"No. I would have, if he had asked."
She nodded. "I wish I could know if he kept my letters. I sometimes used to write to him, though I dared not actually send them. I just wonder if he meant to write to me someday... if he planned to return."
Mr. Wentworth reached over to press her hand in his and the smile he cast was care-worn and full of long-simmering grief.
"He would have been a fool not to seek you out again, Miss Elliot," he said and he meant every word of it.
oooooo
When Edward Wentworth received the offer for the living in Shropshire, he was torn between sorrow and joy. How long he had sought for just such a position! It was a good living and one that would enable him to support a family. He ought to simply accept the position with gratitude and move on from Somersetshire.
However, the living in Shropshire meant he would be separated from Somersetshire. His time as the curate of Monkford had been filled with bittersweet memories. He had treasured many of the experiences and relationships built during these last three years. However, there was one particular relationship he did not wish to see end. Leaving Somersetshire meant leaving Anne Elliot behind and the prospect was one he could not accept.
Some months earlier, a letter arrived informing him that Frederick's fortune of three thousand pounds now belonged to him. How he despised those three thousand pounds! His brother had fought and died for that sum and Edward did not think it was nearly enough to replace his brother.
However, he also thought he knew what aim his brother had been amassing such funds for. His brother had never mentioned it, but the prospect must have lingered in his heart and mind, waiting for the opportune moment to come to fruition. He knew his brother. Frederick was not one to accept a defeat or surrender to adversity. He imagined it would only have been a matter of time before Frederick returned to Somersetshire to offer for Anne Elliot again.
How delighted Anne would have been! How radiant in her joy and affection! His heart nearly swelled at the thought. That sweet, gentle, loyal creature ought to have every reward for her long-suffering and devotion! More than any tens of thousands of pounds, he wished he could see Anne happy again, see her beloved again.
As he held that letter announcing his inheritance in his hands, his only thought was the wrong recipient. No, it was to Anne and not to himself that Frederick's fortune ought to have been left… not that any fortune could replace Frederick in her eyes or heart, but he still felt all Frederick owned belonged rightfully to Anne. He wished he could find a way… and there was a way… if he married her then…
Edward Wentworth sat upright and dropped the letter from his hands onto the desk.
How could he think of marrying Anne? Yet, the more he thought of it, the more he discovered this was precisely what he longed to do. How long had he loved her? He could not entirely say. However, with absolute and complete certainty he could not help but realize that love her he did. Completely and entirely.
He loved her because she loved his brother. He loved her because so few loved her. He loved her because she was so lovely, so beyond his reach, so very dear to him. He loved her because she was Anne and that was more than enough.
He could not dare ask for her hand! He was not Frederick, after all. He decided it was foolhardy, and he would think no more about it. Months passed and very little would have changed if not for the acquisition of the living.
While he had not dared to ask for her hand while he remained a curate at Monkford, surely the prospect of his removal must change things! Nearly a fortnight of sleepless nights passed while Edward paced the length and breadth of his hallway fretting over just what he ought to do.
It was Frederick who took outrageous risks and dared to seek the hand of the baronet's daughter. He was no Frederick. How could he dare it? He had to admit that his brother had impeccable taste in women and Edward never would have considered her if not for their ill-fated affair. However, Anne Elliot had agreed to wed one Wentworth brother... there was hope, however slim, that she might consider the other.
He had never been so glad that Anne Elliot had not become his sister. For the first time, he was overwhelmed with gratitude by the failed engagement.
The worst she can do is refuse, whispered a voice in his mind. In a burst of wild hope, in tribute to his brother's own incurable audacity, he called on her before he left Monkford.
With his hat clutched in his trembling hands, hardly able to meet her eyes, he paced before her in the drawing room of Kellynch. He was hardly sure of what polite inquiries he attempted when he suddenly burst out with it.
"Miss Elliot… Anne… I know I have no right to ask or hope or dare to presume... and I have so little to offer a woman like yourself, but I could not depart without telling you how loathe I am to leave you behind. I wish, more than anything, you would accompany me to Shropshire. You ought to know… you must know… that you are worth all the love and devotion a man could give and how I wish... I wish I could fill some part of the hole my brother left behind in your heart. That is all I wished for you to know. Good day."
Without taking a breath or looking up when he had done, he placed his hat back on his head and turned to leave the room again. Her quiet voice halted his progress at the door.
"Edward, wait," she called out. She rose to her feet and came to clasp his hands in hers, her eyes bright and her cheeks warm. "I agree," she said with a smile.
"You… agree?" He asked, as startled by her use of his Christian name as her proximity.
"I will go with you to Shropshire."
"You… but… I am a clergyman!"
"I am aware."
He closed his eyes and chuckled quietly. "Forgive me, Anne. I am muddling through this quite poorly. However, I did not expect you to agree."
"I did not hear you make an offer of marriage, but am I right in assuming that is the arrangement you are referring to when I accompany you to Shropshire?"
"Of course… and I did offer, did I not?"
"Not precisely," Anne answered, her eyes alight with mirth.
"Allow me to remedy that. Miss Elliot, would you do me the surpassingly great honour of agreeing to become my wife?"
"I would."
"You must forgive me, but I am afraid I cannot quite believe it yet," he said, his expression torn between wonder and shock.
"It is not only you who found the prospect of our upcoming separation intolerable. I do not think I could bear it," she said. "These months, I have come to care for you and rely on you more than I ever thought possible."
It can be imagined how many confessions of attachment and appreciation were shared by the pair, accompanied by the most fervent expressions of devotion. For a time, they lingered in each other's arms, uninterrupted in their long-sought moment of felicity.
"Your father will never approve," Edward finally said. "I still cannot fathom that you have approved."
"If I have learned anything from my past sorrows, it is not to wait for my father's approval to choose my own happiness. I am of age now and there is precious little that can be done to persuade me from my chosen course."
"Then I can only be glad for the course you have chosen," he answered.
oooo
Sir Walter and Lady Russell could not approve of such a low match, but there was little to be done about it. Anne would not be persuaded to relinquish the engagement. In the end, it was Lady Russell who accepted the inevitable match first. Though Lady Russell might have wished for more, at least the man was not so brash or arrogant as his brother. He was in possession of a dependable, modest living and he had a home to keep his wife in. It might not be as grand or as fine as the daughter of a baronet deserved, but at least the man knew the value of an Anne Elliot. Thus, Lady Russell resigned herself to the match and exerted her considerable powers of persuasion on Sir Walter.
While begrudging the match, after the years of Anne's withering bloom and many sorrows, Sir Walter was rather relieved to send her away. Her marriage, even to an insignificant clergyman, would relieve him from any future expenditures on her behalf. Settled in the security of the living in Shropshire, her dowry would in no small way contribute to her comfort or the prospects of her children and they would not become beholden on Sir Walter for their care.
Thus, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Wentworth were married from the parish in Monkford four weeks later before relocating to their new home in Shropshire. While Anne Wentworth knew very little of the keeping of poultry or how to manage a parsonage on a modest living, she possessed a temperament well-suited to overcoming all challenges. When certain of her place of belonging and the unwavering, constant affection of her husband, Mrs. Wentworth thrived.
One morning shortly after their marriage, the Wentworths were comfortably seated at their dining table, a vase of roses between them, and the remains of their breakfast still lingering on their plates. Anne's complexion glowed in the morning light, and the intervening months of happiness had restored and increased her exquisite features into full bloom again. It was a sight that nearly took his breath away.
Edward, basking in his own contentment, turned pensive. He thought of the unexpected events which had led to the former curate of Monford marrying the daughter of a baronet and he wondered at his good fortune all over again.
"I do not know if my brother would have had my head for this or applauded me for taking over where he left off," Edward said.
Anne glanced up in surprise. While Frederick continued to be a frequent topic of conversation, she was unsure what had prompted such a thought now.
"What would you have done?" Anne asked.
"I cannot say. We rarely responded to situations the same way, so I sometimes could not predict my brother's reactions. However, I will say that if it was not for Frederick, I would never have had the courage to pursue you for myself. I suppose you could say it was Frederick who first put the impossible notion into my head," he said and he reached out to fondly caress her cheek.
Anne smiled. "I cannot disagree. I do not believe I would have been receptive to your suit, if not for Frederick and his loss. You will forgive me, but I did not appreciate your merits until after…"
Edward shook his head. "There is nothing to forgive… for you more than make up for any previous slight with your appreciation now. So, you see, it is all Frederick's fault and if he is stomping his feet behind the Pearly Gates in displeasure that his older brother has stolen his wife, then he can only blame himself. I will admit I am entirely overcome with gratitude at his meddling and his audacity to court a baronet's daughter."
"As am I," Anne responded. "I am entirely content as Mrs. Wentworth."
The End