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Anne was in need of a few minutes alone to calm her overtaxed nerves. She quietly made her way to a small room at the end of the east corridor, where, when Kellynch Hall had still been her home, the servants had stored the family’s boots and wet weather coats. Her father and Elizabeth, of course, had never gone to the room as they would always require a servant to fetch whatever they needed. Indeed, it would not have surprised Anne if they had actually been unaware of its existence. For this reason, it had become a hiding place of sorts for Anne, a secret refuge when the demands of her family had been too much to bear. If she had ever been disturbed while in the room, her intention had always been to pretend she was examining her winter boots, as if to decide whether or not they needed replacing. However, in all the years she had retreated to this little haven, she had never been discovered.
Anne arrived at the boot room without having been seen, and she slipped in, silently closing the door behind her. To be alone with her thoughts, to be quiet and unobserved, was such a great relief. She looked about at her familiar hiding place. It was a square room of no more than eight feet across, and being so small, it might have been thought of as merely a store cupboard rather than a room, but for the window opposite the door, which took up much of that wall. From where she stood, Anne could see the tops of some shrubs through the window, as a mature planted border surrounded this part of the house. The two side walls of the little room were lined with shelves and pegs and housed various boots, greatcoats and the like. These items took up a large amount of the available space, but Anne had always found that this gave a sense of being safely cocooned rather than being restricted. She liked the smell of boot polish, and she liked the quiet, remote feeling of the place. She could already feel her cares diminishing in response to being in this hushed, familiar space.
The party—the Musgroves of Uppercross House, the Musgroves of Uppercross Cottage including Anne, the Crofts, and Captain Wentworth—had gathered at Kellynch Hall a little after noon. The men intended to get some sport in the woods around the hall, while the women had plans to gather in the drawing room to talk and drink tea, and perhaps to play a little music. After a half hour of preparations, the men had, indeed, gone out to shoot, which at least had given Anne the relief of no longer being in Captain Wentworth’s company.
Mrs Croft was a warm and welcoming hostess, and for a while Anne had enjoyed a conversation with her about the gardens at Kellynch. But Mary and the Musgrove sisters would keep bringing the conversation back to Captain Wentworth: how handsome he was and how brave; how proud Mrs Croft must be to have such a brother. Neither Louisa nor Henrietta had directly referred to their own brother’s comparative lackings—they would never wish to upset their mother so. Even so, it had been clear to anyone paying attention to their hints and giggles, that the girls thought their unfortunate, deceased brother, Richard, had been a poor specimen of naval manhood in comparison to Captain Wentworth.
The latter had only been at Kellynch for a fortnight but he had already made an impression on all the young ladies of the neighbourhood. Certainly, both Louisa and Henrietta appeared to be quite taken with him. Anne had witnessed their unbridled admiration of him at a dinner party last week, and now, here, at her beloved Kellynch, she had been forced to listen to them consider each of his virtues in minute detail, until she could bear it no longer.
For his part, Anne thought Captain Wentworth was not quite flirting with the sisters, but he was being particularly sociable and amusing in their company, and she was fully aware how attractive he was when behaving thus. His behaviour towards Anne, however, was anything but sociable and amusing. Earlier, as the men had prepared for their shoot, he had done nothing more than nod rather stiffly to her and mumble Good morning, Miss Elliot. He had then immediately turned to Admiral Croft and begun a conversation about guns or dogs or some similar matter—Anne could not now recall. She would have been left with the impression that he had barely registered her existence, except that as the shooting party strode off along the path towards the nearby woodland, he had stopped and glanced back at her. It had been difficult to read his expression at that distance, but as their eyes met, she had had the impression he appeared troubled; made unhappy, perhaps, by her presence. A moment later he had turned away, quickening his pace to catch up with his companions.
Anne took the few steps to the window in her little refuge and looked out at the dreary day. It had begun to rain and the wind was picking up. The men would not be having a particularly pleasant time, she thought, though she imagined there were compensations to be had in striding through the woods and breathing in the fresh, chilly air. She was lost in her observations of the land and weather before her when suddenly there was a commotion outside her hiding place.
“Some piping hot tea would be just the thing, Admiral!” came Captain Wentworth’s voice from immediately outside the door. “I’ll just drop the wet things in the boot room.”
Before Anne could comprehend what was happening, the door swung open and he strode in, his arms full of dripping coats. His head was still somewhat turned towards the corridor and thus he walked straight into her, showering her with cold raindrops. The shock drew a high-pitched gasp from Anne and Captain Wentworth stared at her in startled amazement.
“Good God, Anne!” In his surprise he seemed to forget his current habit of stiff formality towards her. “What on earth are you doing in here?”
She was unable to answer him, so overwhelmed was she by his presence so close to her in this tiny space. In any case, even if she had the power of speech, what would she say—I am hiding here to avoid the constant talk of your many perfections?
He dropped the coats to one side and gazed at her, searching her face.
“Anne, are you unwell?” His voice was softer now, and he wore an expression of concern.
She shook her head and forced a few words out. “I am well, I thank you.”
“But then, why—” He looked about the tiny room, stuffed full as it now was with an assortment of coats, both wet and dry. All of a sudden he seemed to make sense of her presence here.
“Ah, you are hiding, Anne. You needed a moment of peace and quiet.” He gazed at her, almost tenderly. “I remember that you need time with your own thoughts—and how difficult that can be to obtain when surrounded by such talkative, sociable people.”
Anne’s heart contracted, painfully. He remembered. He understood. For all he was a naval captain—a man of action, and a sociable one at that, he had always been sensitive to her temperament. He had understood and respected her need for quiet. Indeed, they had spent many blissful hours sitting silently together, hand in hand, under an oak tree in the Kellynch parkland. Both had been utterly content in each other’s company without the need for words.
Perhaps he too had been thinking back on those times, for his face now bore a wistful expression, mingled with regret. “And now I have burst in, disturbing your peace,” he said. “And to add insult to injury, I have fetched the cold rain in with me and soaked you.”
She began to protest that it was nothing, but the dark spots on her dress gave the lie to her protestations, and it was evident he was unconvinced. He reached into his pocket and produced a snowy, white handkerchief. Anne assumed he intended to hand it to her for the purpose of drying her dress and she reached out to receive it. He must not have noticed, however, because he stepped closer and began to pat a damp patch on her shoulder.
She stood, motionless, willing herself not to tremble, as he slowly moved around her, rubbing each spot on her shoulders and arms where her blue linen dress had been turned dark and inky by the rain he had brought in with him. He said nothing, and in the silence she could hear him breathing; she could hear his shirtsleeve brushing against the fabric of her own clothing.
He noticed some drops of water in her hair and moved his attention there, stroking her hair with the scrap of fabric in his hand. She was, at last, unable to maintain her composure and began to tremble.
“Anne, you are shivering! I am very sorry—it is all my fault and I know how much you feel the cold.” There then came a moment’s hesitation, a pause in which he seemed to be struggling with something within himself. Finally, with a decisive exhalation, he lent towards her and said, quietly, “Here, let me warm you.”
With the words said, he seemed to move past his hesitation. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to his chest. Her trembling increased and she was afraid she would begin to sob, so strong were the emotions arising in her. To experience such intimacy with the man she had loved and mourned for eight years! She pushed her face against his waistcoat to stifle her tears and he, feeling her press closer to him, murmured his approval.
“That’s right, Anne. As close as you can.”
She could feel the beating of his heart, quick and strong. Surely he could feel her own heart—a racing, panicky thing; a small, wild creature, startled and fearful of danger. Of course, she understood that the danger to her lay in feeling so safe, so at home in his arms. As if she still belonged there. As if this embrace was not merely the practical action of a considerate acquaintance. Despair rose within her at the thought that this blissful embrace meant nothing to him beyond a passing moment of assistance. She must remember that he was Captain Wentworth, not her Frederick. He was the man she would always love—but he loved her not. He might be holding her in his arms, and he might be stroking her back with his warm hands, but her rational mind understood that these acts of his were not acts of love, but merely of charity. She must now convince her heart to accept what her mind knew to be true.
A call came from the corridor. “Frederick? Are you still there?” It was Admiral Croft. “I left my pen-knife in my greatcoat pocket. I don’t like to be without it, you know.” His voice got louder as he approached. “Frederick?”
Captain Wentworth released her from his arms and looked about the room for a hiding place, but there was none. He leant close to her and whispered, “For your honour, Anne, I must go.” And then, to her thrilled astonishment, she felt a kiss—a momentary, soft press of his lips on the skin just below her ear. Without saying another word he went to the window, wrenched it open, and leapt out.
As Admiral Croft entered, Anne was standing alone at the centre of the little room, with her cheeks flushed rosy red and a shocked expression on her face. The window was wide open, letting in the rain.
“Miss Elliot!” he exclaimed, taking in the scene before him. He looked greatly confused, as well he might. “Are you unwell, my dear? You look rather pink, if you do not mind me saying so. Do you have a fever, perhaps?”
Anne gazed at him, struggling to piece together a response that would make sense. Indeed, she hardly knew how to make sense, herself, of the previous few minutes. She could still feel Captain Wentworth’s lips against her neck. Surely she had not imagined his kiss—she prayed to God she had not. But if he had kissed her, what could he mean by such an action?
Perhaps mistaking her silence for a sign of illness, the good admiral took charge of the situation without pressing her further for an explanation. “Let’s get this window closed, shall we? I can see the rain coming in has been soaking your pretty dress, and I know how you young ladies worry about your attire!”
He pushed the sash down to close it, and to Anne’s great relief he turned back to her rather than looking out through the window. She had no way of knowing whether Captain Wentworth remained just outside or whether he had moved away, but she was thankful when the admiral returned to her immediately, offered her his arm, and led her out into the corridor.
By the time they reached the drawing room, Anne felt more able to deal with the inevitable questions from her friends and family. She told them a story—with some truth to it—about the boot room having been a favourite hiding place as a girl; that she had had a nostalgic urge to step in there once again. She explained that she had opened the window to better observe the view but then had not been able to close it. Her explanation was rather hesitant but made enough sense to satisfy everyone, even if they thought her behaviour quite strange. The truth was that Anne felt quite strange—utterly confused and overwhelmed by contradictory emotions.
On seeing the state of Anne’s dress, and how unsettled she was, Mrs Croft brought her over to a seat by the fire and handed her some tea. Anne looked about the room for Captain Wentworth but he was not there and she hardly knew whether to feel relieved or disconsolate. Everyone in the room returned to the conversations they had been engaged in before Admiral Croft and Anne had arrived, with the exception of Mrs Croft. She remained by Anne’s side, fussing over her in such a kind, soothing way that Anne gradually began to feel more her usual, steady self.
Admiral Croft came over and stood before them. “I cannot think where Frederick has got to,” he said to his wife. “He had clearly been there—our wet coats were in a great heap on the floor. Messy of him to leave them like that, I must say! That’s not how a sailor stows things away—no, indeed!”
He then turned to Anne. “I’m surprised you did not see Frederick, Miss Elliot.”
“Oh—" Anne had no idea what to say to the admiral, as she loathed the thought of lying to him. She was saved from her predicament, however, because at that moment, Captain Wentworth strode into the room, in different clothes to the ones he had been wearing earlier. He took himself over to the sideboard where the tea things were arranged, and Anne watched as he surveyed the room from this vantage point, an expression of concern on his face. When his eyes alighted on her, he raised an eyebrow in enquiry, a gesture that seemed to ask Is all well? She replied with a small, affirmative nod and he smiled in response—not a broad, animated smile, but a brief, gentle one that perhaps indicated relief. He certainly appeared a little more relaxed from that moment and began helping himself to some refreshments.
“Frederick!” exclaimed Mrs Croft. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, I had to get changed, Sophia,” he said, nonchalantly. “My greatcoat must have a tear—the rain got through and thoroughly soaked me.”
Anne watched him with admiration—how casually he dealt with his sister’s enquiry; how easily he told his tale. The admiral and Mrs Croft went over to talk with him and so Anne took her attention to her tea and to her thoughts. She tried to make sense of Captain Wentworth’s actions, and to guess at his feelings. Had he been concerned because he had left her to deal with a rather odd and challenging situation? Had his concern been for her health—he had, after all, showered her with cold rain and then flung the window open? Or, did his silent enquiry have another, more intimate meaning? Had he been concerned to know her answer to such a question as I held you in my arms, I caressed you, I kissed you—is all well with us?
An hour and a half later, it was decided by Charles and Mary that they, and Anne, should take their leave. The rain had stopped and so the entire party came outside to say their farewells. As they were waiting for Charles’ curricle to be brought, a cheerful conversation went on around Anne regarding the possibility of a walk on the next fine day. Suddenly, she was aware of a presence at her side.
“Is all well, Anne?” It was Captain Wentworth.
She did not turn to look at him—she could not, but quietly she replied, “All is quite well.” She struggled to speak; indeed, she struggled to breathe. Her heart was beating so violently, she feared it would cause her ribs to crack and break open.
“Did I offend you, Anne?”
“No,” she whispered. “You did not. I am not offended.” This response was so inadequate a representation of her feelings, but no more words would come. She wished she could say more—she wished for him to understand more. She was afraid he would take her short, apparently unfeeling, answer as an indication that no more should be said. She was filled with gratitude towards him, therefore, when he, brave man, persevered.
“I embraced you, Anne.”
“Yes.”
“I kissed you!”
“Yes!”
“And you are not offended?”
“No, Frederick.” She took her courage in both hands—she must do her part. “I think I am as far from offended as it is possible to be.”
Immediately she uttered these words, the curricle arrived, its wheels making a great clatter on the gravel. She had given him a glimpse of her heart and she thought she might have heard him gasp and say something in response, but she could not be sure. Perhaps she had heard him whisper thank God, put perhaps this was mere wishful thinking; the desperate longings of her poor, neglected heart.
Mary, oblivious, and loudly voicing her concerns about the damp air, took hold of Anne’s arm and pulled her towards the curricle. But as Anne was being taken away, she felt Captain Wentworth’s hand momentarily squeeze her own, and this, at last, was certainty. His firm grasp was there and gone in the passing of a moment—but it was unmistakable. He cared for her still.
Anne was handed up into the curricle by Charles and there was a deal of fuss from Mary about who should sit where. Finally, when they were seated and she had helped Mary arrange a blanket to protect them from the cold, Anne was free to look to Captain Wentworth, who, miraculously, might once again be her Frederick. She found him staring at her, his eyes blazing with adoration, and in response she was powerless to do anything other than smile, joyfully, at him, the entirety of her happiness written in her features.
Frederick raised a hand in farewell, and then the curricle lurched forward and he was gone. Mary and Charles chattered about the events of the day—the poor shooting, the excellent cake, and many other minor points of interest to them. Anne remained silent, closing her eyes to better conjure up an image of Frederick smiling at her, his face a picture of fervent love. She wrapped her arms about herself, holding the secret of her refound joy tight against her heart.