Chapter Text
“No!” he replied impressively, “there’s nothing worth my staying for.”
Captain Wentworth’ eyes snapped open. The movement of the ship, the sound of the waves recalled to him his location, allowing his heartbeat to slow. It was the same dream which haunted him each night, with minor variations, to keep the torment entertaining, he supposed. He sat up and passed a hand over his features, which were heated, despite the chill in the air.
The concert night would not leave him, no matter how many times he closed his eyes. Occasionally he would pour out his heart in the Octagon Room, or wait until the concert room to approach her, she may smile and be agreeable, or be cold and unfeeling, grasping for Mr Elliot’s arm as she bid him a good night. Sometimes, very rarely, she would rush after him once he’d taken his leave, and confess her wish for him to stay. However the night played out in his dream, it was no matter, for the outcome was always the same: Wentworth would wake in his cold, lonely cabin aboard the Laconia, his chest aching with longing and regret.
He had given Anne up, once again, and yet his heart refused to surrender her.
Five weeks had gone through the land since that fateful night. Five weeks of as much activity as a time of peace may allow a navy captain, but his mind was full of that damned night every waking moment – and most of his sleeping ones. Captain Wentworth curled back underneath his blanket, willing himself back to sleep, but the pictures remained.
Anne Elliot as she had whispered and laughed with her cousin, a concert bill held between them. The entirety of Bath had been sure she was to marry him and what the Captain had seen had not given rise to any hope that the rumours were mistaken. Worse yet, Lady Russell had regarded the pair with great satisfaction. Of course, Captain Wentworth could not be expected to compete with the heir to Kellynch Hall in the eyes of the one woman who would make sure he could never succeed. Here at last had been a man worthy of Anne Elliot and her god-mother should ensure that the union took place. His own cause had been lost, of that there had been no doubt whatever. And yet…
Wentworth turned, cold sheets greeting his body, causing him to shiver. He was tortured by the question if he had made the greatest of mistakes, if to abandon the battlefield and accept defeat had been a dire error on his part. Despite leaving the concert room in a state of despair, he did not think he should have fled Bath the next morning if the following night should not have proceeded as it did.
He had been caught on the way out by a fellow sailor and together they had made the effort to drown his sorrows. Unfortunately it had turned out sorrows were much more buoyant than could be desired. And so it had been the early hours of the morning when they had ran into another group of sailors, among them Admiral Miller, an old acquaintance of Wentworth’, who had rather unsuccessfully attempted to convince the Captain of his daughter’s charms at the concert. Perhaps, Wentworth should have expected that he had caused some offence in abandoning the girls to speak to Anne, though at the time such considerations had never entered his mind.
“Ah, Wentworth,” Miller had said, sounding already three sheets to the wind himself. “Here you are hiding! Did not have much luck making love to Miss Anne Elliot, eh? I could have told you as much. Do not you know her cousin has already called dibs on the lady? I have it from a very good source.”
“Mrs Miller heard it from Lady Russell I suppose?” Wentworth asked in forced calmness, who knew that Miller’s wife knew just about anyone at Bath.
“Oh, no, no, I’ve heard it from the horse’s mouth directly. You see, my wife has made friends with Mrs Wallis and we all played cards together just the other night. After a few glasses of wine Mr Elliot was so kind as to satisfy the ladies’ curiosity. He was most forthcoming on his intentions with his cousin, and the lady is in agreement. They have forged an understanding, and her father supports the match as does everyone who might have any interest in the matter. Of course, the wedding talks are yet ongoing, but your Miss Anne shall be wed before long and no mistake.”
Here he’d slapped Wentworth’s back, spilling a drink in the process. The Captain’s face must have given away his feelings on the matter, for the Admiral continued:
“Oh! Comfort yourself, old chap. There is many a fish in the sea.”
Miller’d abandoned the conversation to return to his companions and Wentworth had sat, gin dripping from his fingers, feeling as sober as never before in his life. An hour later his few things had been packed and he’d scrawled with trembling hands a brief note to Sophia. He’d offered no explanations, nor apologies. He urgently needed to return to sea, his reasons he would explain once they should meet again. The break of dawn had seen his departure from Bath and any hopes of ever winning Anne Elliot’s heart again.
He’d ridden like a chased man and the journey to Plymouth had been accomplished in only two day’s time. The admiralty, however, had not been as easily swayed as hoped. There were few commissions to be had in the peace and many a sailor on dry land wished to be doing something. But in the end Wentworth had received his papers from a cheery old yellow admiral, and when he'd read them, his heart had done a leap. Of what last he’d known the Laconia had been on its way to Portugal under someone else’s command, another parting of ways that had all but broken his spirit. And yet, the commission he’d held was for the very ship he had so dearly missed. At last his luck had appeared to turn.
The elderly officer had twinkled at him with a knowing look, spiderwebs of wrinkles surrounding his eyes as he did so. Though Wentworth had pleaded his case telling nothing of his true reasons, it was clear his excuses had been easily looked through, as soon as the Admiral spoke:
“The sea may succeed in healing many an ailment, son, but do not be reckless. I will take it as a personal affront if you go down with the old girl.”
Wentworth had nodded dumbly.
“Now off with you to Cork. Sawyer’s had two packet boats bothered by privateers within his waters and he’s running low on patience.”
So, Wentworth had done as told. The crew had been quickly assembled, everyone in Plymouth more than willing to return to sea, and a mere two days had seen them off on their mission. Stepping back onto the familiar planks had felt like coming home and by the time they’d hit open waters, he could have deluded himself that Anne Elliot had all but been forgotten amongst the rush of activity.
The commission itself was a mere trifle. They were to patrol St. George’s channel for smugglers and privateers endangering travellers and the King’s coffers alike. And so the last weeks had slipped by quietly, with few great dangers and only the occasional need to pull his sword. But the strange ache in Wentworth’s chest, as if an iron fist was compressing his heart, would simply not leave him nor would the dangerous question if he had foolishly gambled away all chance of future happiness.
Wentworth rolled onto his back, surrendering to the fact that he would not return to sleep. Eight years and a half had done nothing for him, so perhaps it was not to be considered a surprise that five more weeks had not done it either. But where he had been able to comfort himself before with the illusion of having overcome his attachment, of being ready to marry another if only there should be enough time on dry land to make out a woman willing to be his wife, he now had to necessarily abandon any such notions. There was no other, there never would be; their short and painful reunion had established those facts for good. Anne Elliot had inscribed her name into his heart and so Captain Wentworth was lost to any woman not her.
Which meant in result that there would be no marital felicity, no home nor children of his own, and if that was not enough to drive a man to despair, he was keenly aware that it was his own obstinacy which had done it. Had only he tried to win her back when thrown in his way in Somerset. But his pride and anger had been the retarding factors and now it was too late entirely. Anne would be Mrs Elliot by now. His fingers curled into the sheets in anger. However much he wished her well, how much he may think her deserving of being the mistress of Kellynch, he could not imagine her at the side of this simpering, scheming blackguard without wishing to empty the contents of his stomach. A knock drew him from his devastating thoughts.
“Come,” he called, sighing as he sat up once more. A young midshipman flew through the door having barely had time to wait for his reply.
“Captain! Lieutenant Hoister asked me to fetch you. There’s a storm brewin’. It’s a nasty one, sir!”
Wentworth was out of bed before the boy had finished his last sentence.