Fic: Faithfulness and Fortune

[beatrice_otter]

FFFX authors have revealed! I wrote a Persuasion AU wherein Anne's mother, Lady Elliot, did not die in childbirth when Anne was a teenager. This, then has changes when Anne meets Wentworth for the first time. The problem I had was twofold. One, the story kept trying to turn into Lady Elliot's story, rather than Anne and Wentworth's story. And two, I wanted to bring the Crofts in, both because my recip requested them and because it would be a nice counterpoint to Lady Elliot, but I couldn't think of anything for them to do besides one conversation towards the end.

Title: Faithfulness and Fortune
Author: Beatrice_Otter
Fandom: Persuasion
Characters: Anne Elliot/Fredrick Wentworth, Lady Elliot
Written for: fiona15351 in FFFX 2024
Betaed by: olive2read
Summary: In a world where Lady Elliot survived, Anne and Frederick's courtship goes a little differently.

AN: Thank you to the members of the Little Details and Age of Sail communities on Dreamwidth for help with Naval details. I also found a helpful paper on Academia.edu, "Golden Harvest: The British Naval Prize System, 1793-1815" by Daniel K. Benjamin.

The song Anne sings for the boys to dance to is Miss Cooper's Fancy. (This website has notations on how to dance it.)

On AO3. On Squidgeworld. On tumblr. On Pillowfort.


***

The marriage between Sir Walter and Lady Elliott had been, at the time of its consummation, a love match; to be sure, both were from ancient families of wealth and rank, and it was an entirely suitable connection in which both sides equally bestowed honor and fortune upon the other. But that suitability had merely encouraged the match, not created it. They had become acquainted at a series of balls, while visiting in the same neighborhood; both were young, she was a noted beauty and he was remarkably handsome. He was active, and she was accomplished. That, combined with the encouragement of all others concerned, was enough to bring them to the wedding breakfast in the full flush of infatuation of which young people are capable.

The depths of his vanity and the limitations of his intellect had not been revealed over the course of their courtship, for balls and card parties and picnics do not encourage deep conversation. But Sir Walter's nature as a conceited, silly man could not be concealed once they were settled together at Kellynch Hall, and he would not have understood the need for such concealment in any case.

At first the new Lady Elliot had denied his deficiencies, clinging to her regard for him; then she had tried improving him, nurturing what capacities he had; when he remained a vain and stupid man despite her best efforts, she consoled herself that he was respectable and not inclined to cruelty, and turned to other projects for occupation and pleasure.

Although she had never produced an heir for Sir Walter, they had three daughters whom she loved and took great care in the raising of. The eldest, Elizabeth, though named for her mother, was in every way her father's daughter: the full measure of the Elliot looks, along with the full measure of the Elliot vanity. Lady Elliot encouraged her to form acquaintances outside their neighborhood and visit them often, to lessen Sir Walter's influence on her. The youngest, Mary, combined the sickliness which had plagued Lady Elliot for much of her adult life, with Sir Walter's need for attention and flattery. Lady Elliot attended to her when she was feeling poorly and supplied the genuine care and interest which might encourage Mary's confidence and better feelings.

Anne, the middle daughter, was Lady Elliot's decided favorite. Anne it was in whom she saw the best parts of herself; Anne had intelligence, good principles, and an unerring taste that was remarkable in a girl only lately removed from the schoolroom and presented to society. Anne was the one with whom deep conversation was a pleasure in its own right, quite separate from Lady Elliot's maternal feelings. And Anne blossomed under her mother's attentions.

Thus it was that when Anne formed an attachment to a naval officer visiting the area, a Captain Wentworth (but lately promoted to that august position), she confided it to her mother. But that worthy lady, whose own youthful romance had been formed through dancing and mutual flattery, saw little to excite her concern in sedate walks through the parsonage garden discussing music, and was merely glad her daughter had found in their new neighbor a friend who might match her intellect, for the brief time he would be visiting.

Thus it was that Captain Wentworth was invited to tea.

A very little questioning revealed that his family was respectable, but no one of note; his most illustrious connection was his sister's husband, lately promoted to the Admiralty.

"And as fine an admiral as ever flew a flag or commanded ships, if you'll pardon my partiality," Wentworth said over tea in the sitting room. "Croft knows his business, and trusts the captains under him to know theirs. The Navy is better for his elevation."

"I am glad to hear it," Anne said. "And I am sure that the Navy is also the better for your recent elevation."

At Lady Elliot's questioning glance, Wentworth said. "My own appointment as captain is recent—and why I am on shore now. I have not yet been granted a ship."

"I thought you were without a ship because of the recent peace?" Lady Elliot said.

"Yes," Wentworth said. "We are all in a holding pattern. But nobody expects it to last very long—Napoleon remains undefeated, and although things may have cooled considerably, there will be no lasting peace until Napoleon is gone."

"Really?" Lady Elliot asked. "I have heard that the French are tired of war."

Wentworth shrugged. "The French may be, although I have seen no evidence of it. But Napoleon certainly is not; his ambition has no limits and cannot be sated. No, the war will heat up again soon enough, and I'll have a ship and be back at sea." He took a sip of his tea.

"I suppose you are anxious to go?" Lady Elliot asked.

"I would of course be sorry to be deprived of the good company to be found in Somersetshire." Wentworth cast an admiring glance at Anne, and for a moment Lady Elliot thought there might be a danger. She was relieved by his next words. "I have been quite pleased to spend this time with my brother—we have not seen much of each other since I went to sea at the age of twelve. We write regularly, of course, but that is not the same."

"Of course," Lady Elliot said. She was on the point of asking what it had been like, as a twelve year old, to be sent away from his family into a wholly alien world, when Wentworth went on.

"But I do hope for a ship and a cruise, and fairly soon," he said. "You see, as a captain, I receive a larger share of the prize money for any ships we capture, and during wartime that can lead to a substantial sum, with any luck at all. And my luck has always been good."

"Surely your skill is good, as well," Anne said.

"Yes, yes, of course, or all the luck in the world cannot help a man," Wentworth cried. "But I have also seen it many times, that all the skill in the world will not help a man if he hasn't got luck to go with it. One needs both, to succeed in the Navy."

There followed a series of very entertaining stories, examples of the combination of luck and skill in his own career, or the lack of them in certain of his fellow officers.

"Oh!" said Anne, as Wentworth got up to take his leave, "I have told the captain that he may come use our library. I know I should have asked, but—"

"You are a reader, Captain?" Lady Elliot enquired, for of all the subjects touched upon that morning, books had not come up. She herself took great pleasure in literature, more than any others of her acquaintance. Both Anne and Lady Russell read widely, but less deeply than Lady Elliot was wont to.

"When I can be," Wentworth said. "There is always much time at sea to fill, but lieutenants and commanders are not paid very much, and have but a small share of the prize money. Even if they have funds, sea-quarters are cramped, with have little room to store things. Then when I am on land, I am at the mercy of whatever may be found in the local lending libraries, which usually have a good selection of novels and not much else. I am told you have a copy of The Life of Samuel Johnson?"

"We do indeed," Lady Elliot said. "You are very welcome to borrow it. I have tried to maintain the collection well enough, but they do not get as much use as I would like." Her husband cared only for one book in the library; Elizabeth and Mary were happy enough to read novels, but little else. Even Anne, for all her good qualities, was less of a reader than Lady Elliot herself was.

"Books are made to be read, Lady Elliot, and I shall be happy to do my share." Wentworth bowed, and if he had not already risen to leave, Lady Elliot would have asked after his favorite books.

It was good that nobody else had come to call that morning, because Wentworth's visit far exceeded the allotted half-hour. But it was a pleasant way to pass the time, and Lady Elliot went away from the meeting rather pleased with Anne's taste and perception.

***

Frederick had met Sir Walter and Lady Elliot before that afternoon at tea, of course; he had very properly made his bow when they had come to, or rather through, Monkford on an errand, some two weeks into his visit. Frederick and Edward had been walking, and the Elliot carriage had stopped; introductions had been made and greetings exchanged, before the Elliots had continued on their way.

The Elliots were rather too grand to have much social contact with the vicar even of their own parish, much less a neighboring town, though as their lands butted up against Monkford, and it was larger, with more in the way of shops than the village of Kellynch itself, they passed through with relative frequency. The Elliots attended public assemblies but seldom, and were not within the sphere of people Frederick's brother Edward dined with.

When there was parish business to be considered with the family, Edward attended upon them, or Lady Elliot sent Miss Anne Elliot to handle things, often accompanied by a manservant to carry whatever bit of charity was needed.

One such visit had been the occasion of his first true introduction to Miss Anne. She was a great favorite with the boys Edward was tutoring. He had come in from a walk through Monkford to find her humming "Miss Cooper's Fancy" and dancing with the boys. Although she was not a tall lady, still she was twice the size of her partner, and he required a great deal of correction, which she did with good humor.

Frederick watched, amused, and when they were finished the boys clamored for another.

"No," Miss Anne said, "for you are wanted back at your lessons, and I have calls to make!" Within an astonishingly short time the boys had been chivvied back to their classroom to practice their sums and their spelling under the watchful eye of the housemaid.

"You have them in such good order, Miss Anne," Frederick said. "I have had the governance of middies—that is, boys sent aboard ship as midshipmen—before, and I am in awe of your talents."

"Thank you, Captain Wentworth," Miss Anne said, "but I am sure it is because they do not see me very often. If I had the daily care of them, I doubt it would last." She called for her manservant, and he came, carrying a basket filled with apples and a bottle of medicine from the Kellynch stillroom.

"Where are you off to?" Frederick asked.

"The Lampkin farm," Miss Anne said, and Frederick nodded. Edward had been fretting about that family, and it was only proper that the Elliots take an interest in the sad situation.

"May I accompany you? The day is so beautiful, and it would be a shame to spend it inside," Frederick said. And, of course, Miss Anne's own beauty added to the splendor of the day. He knew the difference between their stations, but it was not so large as to make friendship impossible. In truth, he was somewhat bored; used to the constant busyness of shipboard life, he was having some trouble adjusting to a quiet country village where he had no particular responsibilities, save making pleasant conversation and occasionally helping his brother with his pupils.

"You are welcome to come," Miss Anne said, and they set off. "Have you been enjoying your stay in Monkford, Captain? It must be very dull, compared to your usual employment."

Though Frederick had just been thinking that himself, he hastened to assure her that Monkford was very pleasant and his brother's hospitality in no way lacking. There passed a pleasant half-hour as they walked, discussing various places each had been. Miss Anne's life was of course more circumscribed than Frederick's own, but she had been to London and Bath and Plymouth, and seen the great cathedral at Norwich. More notably, she had a discerning eye, and could speak intelligently of what she had seen, which in Frederick's experience was less common than merely being well-travelled.

At the Lampkin farm—squalid and run-down even beyond the limitations of rural poverty; clearly, there was something amiss in the family—Miss Anne entered with her manservant while Frederick waited outside.

"Oh!" she said when she emerged some while later. "I did not expect you to wait for us—from here, the way back to Kellynch lies distant from the path to Monkford; if you continue on, you will go far out of your way."

Frederick bowed. "I have no engagements this afternoon, nothing to draw me back to my brother's house before dinner," he said. "I should be loath to abandon such pleasant company, though if you wish for solitude you have only to say the word and I will depart."

"Oh!" cried Miss Anne, "I do not wish it, you are welcome to escort me home."

"Then I rely on you to guide me." Frederick offered his arm, and Miss Anne took it.

This proved to be the first of many such walks. Miss Anne was very busy in the parish, and Frederick was always happy to escort her.

***

Anne had always been the most sensible of her sisters, and now at the age of eighteen was beginning to understand more of the world around her—and the people—than she had when first she left the schoolroom. She had noticed how many endearments her father used for her mother, and how absently they were returned. Whatever affection her mother had felt, at two-and-twenty, had cooled in the intervening years into mere companionship. He still felt partiality for her (though more in appreciation of her beauty than of her character), but she returned it with polite indifference.

In novels, love was equally returned, and lasted for a lifetime; but such was not guaranteed in real life.

Neither Sir Walter nor Lady Elliot were unhappy; their lives were all that was comfortable and respectable. But the things that made it so were largely the result of their wealth and position, and her mother's intelligence and good character.

Anne was sensible of her own virtues; her mother and Lady Russell often praised her intelligence, her compassion, her reliability. As for Captain Wentworth, although her mind dwelt often on the breadth of his shoulders and the shape of his calves and the handsomeness of his face, he was a sensible, practical person. More than that, he was thoughtful and kind. Not just to her; she had seen him with the boys his brother tutored, and when old Mrs. Finbow whose mind was gone mistook him for her son, he had listened politely to her until her nephew collected her.

On their walks they spoke of many things: the Captain's travels, of course, and the sorts of poetry and novels which young people everywhere are fond of, but also the concerns of the people Anne was sent to bring aid to, her experiences at school, and even (though Anne spoke with discretion, and curbed her tongue to speak with as much generosity as possible) the trials incumbent on being the middle of three sisters.

Through it all, Captain Wentworth listened attentively and offered commentary that was not merely supportive, but thoughtful. There were many who would agree to whatever a Miss Elliot might say merely out of an abundance of deference, but few indeed were the people who entered into her concerns with both sympathy and insight. Aside from one or two friends at school, which relationships had necessarily dimmed with their leaving that establishment, only her mother and Lady Russell had ever given her that compliment.

She was conscious of how he looked at her; how he took every opportunity to offer her support. She had tried not to return his glances, nor blush under them, for she did not wish to lead him on; he had not the money to support a wife, and even if he had, she knew her father would scorn his low connections.

(And yet, he was a good officer, skillful and lucky, who had risen quickly on his own merits—if his rank might so increase, might not his fortune? She had not realized how much money a naval officer might make in prizes. Anne was not her father's favorite; scorn he might, but he would not exert himself to deny her. And her mother liked him.)

In a marriage to Captain Wentworth, she would have no need of the stratagems her mother employed to restrain her husband's follies. Even should either of their affections prove fickle, there could still be respect and a worthy companionship.

(But oh, she did not believe her affections would waver or falter.)

Anne told her mother much of what they discussed; but she did not tell her of the glances, or the lingering touch of his hand as he steadied her over the stiles between fields. Those things, she kept close, and considered them most deeply in the privacy of her heart.

***

Lady Elliot swept in through the grand front doors of Kellynch, handing her hat and coat to the footman. Sir Walter did not like to be disturbed by estate business—that was what he hired a steward for, as he said whenever an issue was set before him—but the question of what to do about the bridge over the creek was something that he should see to in person, for it materially affected the farms of several of their tenants. If he could not be moved to that effort, he should, at the very least, put in an appearance before Lady Elliot and Mr Mayberry made the decision. She was strategizing how to arrange it—perhaps combining it with a picnic or other pleasure outing?—when the footman cleared his throat.

"Captain Wentworth has come to call," he said. "He is in the library, but he asked particularly after your ladyship. Miss Anne went in to serve as hostess until your return."

"Oh?" The captain had been in and out of the library several times; he had not specifically asked for her company before this.

Curiosity piqued, Lady Elliot headed into the book room. It was, as everything else in Kellynch Hall, grand and well made. The carved wainscotting was testament to the wealth and taste of the Elliot of generations past who had commissioned it, and Lady Elliot had succeeded in convincing her husband that there was no need to have it redone in a more modern style. The books had been well chosen over many generations, and Lady Elliot knew their contents intimately. There were fewer new books than she would have liked, but given the constant difficulty of keeping her husband within their income, Lady Elliot's budget was not large.

Captain Wentworth was seated in a chair by the window, absorbed in a book. Anne was curled up opposite him with her own book, and they were reading in a companionable silence.

"Good afternoon, Captain Wentworth. What are you reading?"

Wentworth looked up. "Kant. I've read his Critique of Pure Reason, but not his second Critique. I'm not sure I agree with all his points, but he does argue them well."

"I should be pleased to discuss them," Lady Elliot said. That would be a treat, indeed.

"I am reading the first Critique now," Anne said. "So that I may join in."

"Indeed?" Lady Elliot had suggested it to her several times. Reading philosophy on one's own was all well and good, but it should be discussed to be really understood. Anne's interests had hitherto been more musical than literary or philosophical, despite Lady Elliot's best efforts. "I am happy to hear that, my dear. I do appreciate Kant's focus on what we can know versus what we cannot, and the framework with which he makes ethical arguments."

"I am certain it will be interesting," Wentworth said. "But I did have a purpose to requesting your ladyship's company. My brother was informed a few hours ago that one of your tenants—a man named Fairall, I believe—has fallen from a great height and been injured. My brother has gone to provide spiritual support, and I volunteered to bring the news to the hall."

"Thank you, Captain," Lady Elliot said. "The Fairall family has had more than its share of bad luck this last year. I shall see what can be done for them." As mistress of the house, it was her responsibility to dispense charity to their tenants in case of illness or injury or other need, but this might be grave enough to require some discussion with the steward. The string of accidents that had befallen that family were certainly enough to warrant a reduction in their rent this year. God knew her husband would not bother himself to attend to the matter.

She swept off to find Mr. Mayberry, leaving behind the quiet murmur of the young people in the library.

***

Frederick's daily walk had taken him, as it usually did these days, toward Kellynch. But despite the beauty of the day, he had not chanced to meet Miss Anne. He had lingered in the fields next to the coppice wood until he had been forced to return or risk missing his dinner, but either Miss Anne had not walked today, or she had walked somewhere else.

Despite the beauty of the day and the warm, rich scent of the damp fields, his spirits were low.

Edward was marking papers when he came in. The Monkford curacy was just adequate to support a single man, but Edward had thoughts for the future; although their family was good, there had been no money for either of them beyond what was necessary to establish them in their professions. Edward wished to do better by any future children he might have, and reasoned that those things which might supplement his income and allow for savings—such as running a small crammer's school—would be easier now than they would be later. On that happy day, much to be dreamed of, when Edward had a living of his own and thus the funds to support a wife, he would have already a start on the means with which to provide for their offspring.

Frederick had used to laugh at him for his prudence, and spent such prize monies as he had received, trusting that his luck and skill would ensure even greater bounties in the future. If Frederick had followed his brother's example, much might now be different, he reflected, throwing himself into a chair to wait until his brother was finished.

But no, it was foolish to dwell; the past could not be changed, and the share of the prize money a lieutenant received was not so great as to have afforded him much savings; not nearly enough for the daughter of a baronet.

(Though it would, at least, have been enough to prove that once he had gained his fortune, he would know how to manage it well enough to keep it.)

"You are very quiet, brother," Edward remarked at last.

"Merely admiring your industry, and not wishing to disturb it," Frederick assured him.

Edward set his pen down and looked up at Frederick. "You are not as cheerful as is your habit these days. You did not trip over your own two feet in front of a pretty lass, did you?"

Frederick huffed. The problem with having gone to sea before growing to full manhood, and maintaining his bond with his siblings mostly through letters, was that Edward would never quite believe he was no longer the callow stripling he had been the last time they had lived together. "I have not tripped even on a rolling deck in the middle of a storm since I was fifteen," he informed his brother.

Besides, if he were to trip in front of Miss Anne, she might laugh, and he would count that no evil.

"Then what?" Edward asked.

"I was too much in my own thoughts," Frederick said. "I had no company with whom to share them."

"Where did you walk today?"

"Along the coppice on this side of Kellynch," Frederick said. "I sometimes chance to meet Miss Anne along that path, but not today." He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them; Edward was a worthy man, but they were not quite close enough for Frederick to feel comfortable confiding the hopes which had begun to blossom in his heart. (If Sophia were here, he would have had no hesitation; she had always been a balm of sisterly affection and wisdom. But she and Croft were not in England this year.)

"You never seem to walk anywhere else but the direction of Kellynch these days," Edward said. "And you speak of Miss Anne Elliot often."

"Yes," Frederick said. "We both enjoy walking; we often chance to meet one another."

"Chance?" Edward's voice was carefully neutral.

"We have certainly never made plans to meet," Frederick said. An assignation settled ahead of time, without any chaperones, would be too much like a seduction. But merely knowing each other's habits and choosing his walks so as to increase the chances of their meeting was within the bounds of propriety.

"I am glad to hear it," Edward said. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked at Frederick with furrowed brow. "I do hope you are being careful, Frederick, of both yourself and Miss Elliot. She is a very worthy young lady, and of course I hope only for the best for you. But …" he pressed his lips together.

"As a captain, I have rather more—and more lucrative—ways of earning a fortune than running a crammer's school out of my sitting room," Frederick pointed out. "I have not the means to provide for her yet, but that will change."

"Then you do mean to ask for her hand," Edward said, his frown deepening.

Frederick hesitated. "Most probably," he said. "I am still—I know how very great a thing I would be asking of her, for her father certainly would not approve of me unless I had the means to purchase an estate as great as Kellynch. I know that however great my ambitions and prospects, they can be as nothing compared to the other gentlemen she might marry. I would not wish to ask until I was entirely certain, of myself and her."

"That is wise," Edward said, though his troubled look did not lessen.

Frederick recalled that the Monkford living, like that of Kellynch, was under the control of the Elliots. The man who held the living did not live here; Frederick had never met him. But if Sir Walter wrote to him and asked him to dismiss Edward, there was every chance that he would obey—and then Edward would have nothing to live on unless he could find some other parish in need of a curate. Even if he kept his position, the master of Kellynch could make his life unpleasant, if he so chose. Frederick could leave (preferably with Anne) if Sir Walter became hostile; Edward could not, unless he found another priest willing to take him on as curate—or someone willing to give him a living of his own.

It did not precisely reconcile him to his brother's lack of support, but it did mean that Frederick could not blame him for his apprehension.

***

The society in that part of Somersetshire was not so blessed as to have many families that Sir Walter would consider worth the connection; for that, he went to Bath or London. But he was pleased to be first in the little society of Kellynch, and to give dinner parties at which all might marvel at his rank and his looks. And, true gentlemen being thin on the ground (at least according to Sir Walter's idea of what was meant by 'gentleman'), the ends of the table were sometimes filled by younger sons and professionals who came from respectable families and yet had no estates of their own.

Anne had not asked for Captain Wentworth and his brother to be invited, for she knew that their place would be far down from hers, and to sit at a table with him several places below, where they could not converse, would be no pleasure. Still, the invitation was sent in the normal course of things, and Anne could only hope that her distraction was not to evident to those around her.

Dinner parties at Kellynch were very predictable. Her father held forth on his opinions of the local society and recent events of note, often repeating the same observations he had made at the last dinner; her mother and Lady Russell indulged him but steered the conversation in more interesting directions. The other guests near the head of the table listened to Sir Walter with varying degrees of respect and attentiveness, and to Lady Elliot with real pleasure. Anne did not know what passed at the lower end of the table, but she observed the Wentworth brothers in conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd, her father's lawyer and man of business, and hoped the company was congenial.

***

Frederick had long been curious about Sir Walter; neither Anne nor her lady mother spoke much about him, and when they did, it was with the sort of care one takes with people one must give respect to, who do not perhaps deserve it. Frederick knew that sort of care, for he had served under a captain or two who had required it.

He was too far down the table to hear any of Sir Walter's conversation, but the conversation with the Shepherds was pleasant; Mrs. Shepherd enjoyed his stories of Naval life, and Mr. Shepherd had some good advice on how to better handle his funds.

After dinner, the ladies were led out and the port was brought in; that brought a marked change to the evening. All conversation ceased, for Sir Walter apparently liked to hold court. Frederick listened in growing bemusement as Sir Walter held forth on the weather, the expectations of one of the guests who might possibly inherit his aunt's fortunes in a few years, and a few recent events of note. In all such cases, Sir Walter's opinion—which was heartily assented to by those so blessed as to be seated near him, and listened to by all the rest with every show of attentiveness—was wholly formed by the rank and attractiveness of the people involved. Frederick's opinion of Mr. Shepherd's advice decreased by the way he nodded along with the rest.

Frederick busied himself with the port—it was an excellent vintage, truly worth the attention—and contemplated how such a prating coxcomb had ever been so fortunate as to win the hand of a lady of sense and intelligence such as Lady Elliot.

***

It was to be a musical evening; when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, Elizabeth and Anne took their turns exhibiting their accomplishments. (Mary, of course, being but fourteen, was not present; she had complained bitterly all day about being left out on account of her youth.) Elizabeth's playing was workable, but her voice was very good; thus it was that Anne was engaged in playing, either on her own or to accompany her sister, for most of the evening. She felt Frederick's gaze, but could not attend to him as she wished. She knew her responsibilities too well.

Towards the end of the evening she was given a reprieve; one of the other young ladies in attendance was to be given a chance to display herself. Anne went to get some tea, and Frederick came for a fresh cup himself; he managed to make it look merely coincidental, that they ended up sitting together a little out of the crowd, where the chances of their being overheard were low.

"You are an excellent musician," Frederick said, "though I wish we had heard you sing."

"Elizabeth's voice is better than mine," Anne said, "and truly, I would rather play than sing, particularly in a large gathering such as this." If she had had a better voice, or enjoyed singing more, her mother would have seen to it that she had every opportunity for display.

"Still. She is very … superior, your sister," Frederick said quietly. "It does her music no help."

Anne hummed, for she agreed but would not say so in public. "How did you like the dinner, Captain?"

"It was a pleasure and a privilege to eat it, Miss Anne," Frederick replied. "I have seldom had such exquisite food in all my life. The company was good; I understand Mr. Shepherd is your father's man of business?"

"Oh, yes," Anne said. "He has always been very reliable, and my father and mother are both very pleased with him."

"Your father's opinions are very … particular," Frederick said.

Anne blushed. "They are," she said.

"He and your mother seem … very different, in taste and perspective," Frederick said. "Was it an arrangement, between their families, that brought them to the altar?"

"No, though their families and friends were much in favor," Anne said, very quietly. "I do not believe it was seen to be so unequal a match then as it later became." That was perhaps more than she should have said in public, even in such a quiet corner as this, though the subject had been in her thoughts many times in the last several weeks.

"I am sure you are glad for your mother's conversation," Frederick said. "She is a very great lady, with much wit, and you take after her."

"Thank you," Anne said, more pleased with the compliment to her sense than she would have been with one for her beauty.

***

Lady Russell was Lady Elliot's dearest friend, and it was of great comfort to both women to be settled so closely together. But Lady Russell possessed a good deal more freedom than her friend, for her departed husband had left her with a respectable income, but without children or estate to manage. So it was that Lady Russell, who travelled regularly to visit friends and fashionable places, had been absent during the period in which the attachment between Anne and Captain Wentworth was formed. She returned thus when the two were in the full flush of their affection, and each beginning (separately) to think of the possibilities the future might bring, but before the subject had been broached aloud.

Had Lady Elliot not been present, and willing to invite Captain Wentworth to tea when Anne desired his presence, Lady Russell might not have noticed the attachment, for she was not as much in Anne's confidences as Lady Elliot. But under the circumstances, it took only one afternoon call to make her begin to be alarmed, as Captain Wentworth captivated the sitting room with tales of life at sea, and Anne listened with rapturous eyes; a second confirmed all her fears, as Anne recounted her latest walk through the countryside, and Captain Wentworth hung on her every word.

Lady Russel's thoughts proceeded cautiously and carefully; she herself had never been a mother, and Lady Elliot's intelligence and maternal feelings must be the surest guide. But a third visit with Captain Wentworth impressed upon her the very grave danger of Anne, whom she loved almost as a daughter, bestowing her hand on one unworthy of her, and she resolved to speak.

So it was that when Lady Elliot next came to call upon Lady Russel, that worthy lady raised all her concerns.

"I do not think it is as dire as all that," Lady Elliot said, much taken aback. She had been watching the young couple; but Lady Russell was a woman whose sense and judgment she much relied upon, and whose concerns could not be lightly dismissed. "Certainly, Anne has made no secret that he is a favorite of hers. But they are both such thoughtful people, and both know that he has neither the rank nor the fortune to court her at the present time."

"She is but nineteen," Lady Russell said, with some delicacy. "However much good sense she possesses, her knowledge of the world is deeply limited, and the natural excitement that must follow the attentions of a handsome man may overwhelm the judgment of even the most level-headed young lady, as you yourself know quite well."

This was as close to referencing the subject of Lady Elliot's own courtship as Lady Russell felt she could come. Whatever Lady Elliot's thoughts and feelings regarding her husband and the state of her marriage were, she had too much respect for her responsibilities and the marriage vow to complain of them even to her dearest friend. Lady Russell had seen for herself the cooling of Lady Elliot's affections and regard for her husband, but knew little more than could be guessed from the way Lady Elliot avoided the subject of her husband, when they were in intimate conversation.

Lady Elliot had married (she thought) for love, and regretted it. Lady Russell had married for rank and position, and had a perfectly cordial marriage. Being conscious of these things, Lady Russell thought affection more a danger to a young lady, than a joy and a guide. Especially if it might (as in this case) lead the young lady to bestow her hand on a man who could not be worth a tenth part of what she deserved.

"I should speak to her." Lady Elliot looked into her teacup.

"Speak to her, yes, but I beg you, make your thoughts known to him as well," Lady Russell said, leaning towards her friend. "He may be sensible of the difference between their stations and expectations, but it is not he who stands to lose or suffer from such an association."

"Captain Wentworth is a man of honor," Lady Elliot said. "He would by no means wish Anne to suffer any pains, and I am sure he has only the best of intentions."

"That may be so," said Lady Russell, who knew less of Wentworth's character than she did of his connections and fortune. "But he could only benefit from an alliance with the Elliots of Kellynch Hall, and from the possession of Anne's fortune; he has a very fine idea of his own worth and prospects, and I do not believe he judges such things as you or I would do. Better for both of them if they go on their way thinking fondly of the other as a warm friend, than for a proposal to be made and turned down … or, worse yet, accepted."

***

Lady Elliot did not wish to believe her friend's judgment correct, but upon contemplation she was forced to admit that Anne's affections were more deeply engaged than she had hitherto wished to believe. Anne had never deceived her; Lady Elliot, liking Wentworth and solicitous of Anne's happiness, had deceived herself.

It took a bit of coordination to arrange for Sir Walter, Elizabeth, and Mary to all be out of the house on the same day and unlikely to return early, but the situation was delicate enough that Lady Elliot thought it essential. The interview itself might only last a few minutes, but afterwards—after he had gone, Anne deserved to have privacy to grieve in.

Lady Elliot only hoped that Anne might allow her to comfort her.

She was waiting in her husband's study when the footman announced that Captain Wentworth had arrived.

"Please show him in here," she said, "and then ask Miss Anne to join us."

The footman bowed and retreated. Footsteps echoed in the hall, and the footman reappeared. "Captain Wentworth, my lady."

"Lady Elliot, this is—" Wentworth paused. He was a perceptive man. He took in the location, and her demeanor. From the furniture to the wallpaper to the paintings on the walls, the room dripped with all the wealth and status that Sir Walter could cram into it. It was clearly where the business of the estate and the baronetcy was conducted. The captain had never before been invited into it. And Lady Elliot's stiff posture said that this summons was for no kindly reason.

Wentworth's eyes narrowed. "You mean to separate us." His tone was flat, hard, and she thought it might be a glimpse of what he was like in one of those battles he had regaled them with.

"I am very sorry, and I blame myself for not seeing things more clearly before your affections—and hers—were fully engaged." It was the truth. But her sorrow at giving Anne such pain—at turning away a fine man who was worthy of her in every way except the practical—would not sway her from her duty.

"Mama?" Anne said, poking her head in. "Matthew said—" she fell silent at the tension.

"Come in, Anne," Lady Elliot said. She gestured at the chairs opposite her. "Please sit, Captain."

"I will not sit, when I am to be sent away like an errant schoolboy," Wentworth said. His voice was quiet enough that there was no fear of anyone overhearing, but the rigidity of his stance was marked.

"If you were an errant schoolboy, this would all be much easier," Lady Elliot said. "For then I do not think Anne would find you as compelling as she does. Nor would there be any prospect of your deserving her."

Anne blushed. "Mama—Mother, I am sure that Captain Wentworth is a very worthy man. You like him yourself, you have said as much."

"I do like him," Lady Elliot said. "In character and education he is very much the sort of man I might wish for you. But those are not the only qualities which must be considered." She held Anne's gaze until her daughter's eyes dropped. "I am so very sorry to have to pain you this way."

"But why must you pain her?" Wentworth cried. "The peace will not hold; it is breaking even now. I will be given a ship, and with any luck at all, as Captain the prize money I can expect to win will be substantial—enough for the daughter of a Viscount or even an Earl!"

"But luck is not guaranteed, Captain, you have said as much yourself," Lady Elliot said. "You have told us many stories of luck turning, for good and ill. If the war resumes, and if you are given a ship, and if your luck holds and if you make a fortune sufficient to keep my daughter—and any children she may have—in comfort, then things will be different. But it is a mother's duty to look after her child's interest. I cannot take that risk. And it is not good of you to ask Anne to take that risk."

"I am confident in Captain Wentworth's skill and good fortune," Anne said, coming forward to stand beside him. Wentworth's demeanor softened briefly as he turned to look at her. "We would not marry before he is secure in his ability to provide for a family."

"And what if that day never comes?" Lady Elliot said, disheartened to hear that marriage had indeed been considered, if only in Anne's head. "What if his gallantry in action leads to a wound—not enough to kill him, but serious enough to keep him from the sea? You would feel honor-bound to cleave unto him—to count your engagement as a promise to keep to him in sickness just as firmly as a marriage vow. But what kind of life would that be for you, or for him? What if there were children, how would you provide for them? Do you think your father would be generous? Or our cousin Mister Elliot, when he inherits?"

"There is small chance of that, Lady Elliot," Captain Wentworth said. "It is more likely that I should die from any such wound—even small injuries are hard to treat at sea. And then A—Miss Anne would be free." But his shoulders sagged. He knew the justice of her words.

Anne made a choked noise, and turned to the window, hiding her face.

"But it is not likely at all!" cried Captain Wentworth. "The chances of my death or injury are so small, Miss Anne, I wonder at your mother's paining you with their specter."

"I had much rather take the small pain of considering all possibilities now, before anything permanent has been said or done, than risk the great pain of seeing them come to pass," Lady Elliot said. "While we are considering possibilities, here is another: the war resumes, but does not last. Perhaps Napoleon will die in battle, or take a fever. Perhaps the Prussians will crush him; they are known for their prowess in battle, are they not? Whatever the reason, it ends for good before your skill and good fortune have the opportunity to reward you as you so richly deserve. What then? In peace time, would you get another ship—and if you did, without prizes would your income be enough to support a family?"

Lady Elliot already knew the answer, and although Anne had turned to the good Captain with hope in her eyes, it was to his credit that he was honest enough to give his head a sharp shake.

"I pray that everything will go as you wish; I pray you will have the good fortune you deserve." Lady Elliot shook her head. "But I cannot risk Anne's future on a gamble."

"But what if I do so wish," Anne cried. "What if I choose to take the chance? I do not believe things are as dire so you paint them; I do not believe we would be doomed to penury together. Given our mutual regard and the compatibility of our characters, we would be very happy together! Why must you insist on imagining only bad futures for the Captain and I?" Anne was by nature a quiet person, but the very great strength of her passion had overmastered her reserve.

"I do not imagine only bad futures," Lady Elliot said, as warmly as she could. She was not indifferent to her daughter's feelings, and was grieved by the necessity of injuring them in this way. "Indeed, you are right that, provided you had a sufficient income to live upon, you would probably be very happy together. I only insist that such an income is entirely theoretical at this time, and that until such time as it is a reality and not a hope, he cannot court you."

"Very well," said the Captain. "I disagree with you, but you have the right to make what decisions you will."

"And the duty," Lady Elliot said. "I take no pleasure in this; I know that I am causing pain to a person I dearly love, and to another I respect. But it is necessary."

"You believe it to be so," Wentworth said. He gave a brisk nod, and turned to Anne. But instead of bidding her good-bye, he stretched out his hand and settled her into one of the chairs, before flinging himself into another. "Then the question becomes: if courtship is not permitted, what is? And what will it take to prove you wrong?"

"I am afraid that for the time being, you must be separated," Lady Elliot said.

"Mama!" Anne cried. "You cannot be so unfeeling!"

"Indeed, Anne, I am giving your feelings deep weight," Lady Elliot said. "You will miss him dearly when he goes; will you miss him less if you continue to see him for weeks or months, if he is always in the neighborhood on the fringes of gatherings, reminding you of all the qualities in him you most prize?" She held Anne's gaze until Anne looked down. "If, one day, Captain Wentworth comes back with a fortune worthy of you, I will happily congratulate you both. But allowing your affection for him to increase would be cruel if such a day never comes."

"Will we be permitted to write?" Wentworth asked.

"Certainly not," Lady Elliot said. "It would be terribly improper. You may write to me, and I will pass on what messages and news are appropriate for Anne's ears."

From the look he gave her, she did not anticipate many such missives. "How exactly do you intend to separate us?" he said, after a pause.

Lady Elliot was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"I am visiting my brother," Captain Wentworth said. "You may deny me invitations to Kellynch Hall, but you cannot prevent me from attending Sunday services at whatever church I please; you cannot prevent the other families of the neighborhood from inviting me to dinners at which Anne might also be present. And if I left, and Anne were to choose to follow, you could not prevent that either."

Anne did not, quite, gasp, but she went very still.

Lady Elliot viewed them both with narrowed eyes. After a moment's thought, she declined to rise to his bait. "I think that you are both possessed of characters too generous and too honorable to do things in the havey-cavey way you are implying. Skulking is beneath you, Captain Wentworth; if extremity might press you to it, this is not that. Anne is in no danger, and you have every reason to hope that things will change for you both.

"No, you will leave, and we shall all pray that you receive a ship soon thereafter, and have all the opportunity and good fortune you deserve." Lady Elliot nodded. "And if all happens as it should, and your affections remain unchanged amid the busyness of your life at sea, then we shall see you again."

"And if Miss Elliot's feelings change, in that time?" Wentworth said. "If you succeed in convincing her of my unworthiness?

Lady Elliot raised an eyebrow. "Then better the both of you learn the shallowness of your attachment now, before any promises are made." It was not quite just, for the circumstances of an engaged woman, secure in the promise of her lover's faith and able to write to him of every hope and receive such in return, were quite different from those of a woman with neither. Yet it was true. And while it was certainly possible that her partiality was deceiving her, yet she thought that of the two, Anne would be the less likely to forget him than the reverse.

Young Anne might be, but there was a steadiness in her that Lady Elliot had learned to respect. Elizabeth and Mary both could rage or whine or plead, and like as not the next day would have forgotten whatever caused the upset. Anne was quieter, but her wishes were not so transient.

***

Anne could not quite understand what had happened. Her mother had always been her dearest friend, her staunchest supporter; that her mother should be now the cause of her pain was almost beyond her comprehension. It had happened so suddenly; she had not thought, before this hour, that her mother might so strongly disapprove of a match with Captain Wentworth. Her father's disdain, she had always known would come; but that her mother should feel the same was beyond her comprehending.

Captain Wentworth exchanged a few last words with Lady Elliot, and turned to Anne. A clasp of hands, a searing glance, and he was gone. Anne turned to watch him go; surely this must be a dream, it could not all have gone wrong so suddenly.

"Anne?" Her mother was before her, but Anne could not stand to look at her. She fixed her gaze on the ground, not in feminine submission but because she did not want to see the look on her mother's face. Would it be triumph? Pity? Anne could not bear it. She turned and walked away.

She scarcely knew where she went, but she found herself in the safety of her own bedchamber. Anne curled up on top of the coverlet, arms wrapped around her midsection, staring sightlessly across the room, until at last the tears came. She buried her face in the pillow to muffle the sounds.

Anne knew not how long she cried, but when she was done, she did not feel better, merely numb. She wondered what he was doing, miles away in the Monkford parsonage. Was he packing, even now, to leave? Surely he would not remain; surely the unpleasantness of the day's interview would drive him away. Or would he return and entreat her to leave with him? For one wild moment she considered it. One of her friends from school, Miss Hamilton, was lately married, and now lived in London; her husband had left for Germany on business. She would take Anne in, if she requested it; the banns could be read from there, and she and Frederick could be married a month from the day she arrived!

Good sense asserted itself before the thought was even fully formed. To leave her parents, sisters, friends; for to marry in such a way, barely better than going to Scotland, would stretch those ties to the breaking. To ignore her duty to her family was unthinkable. And even if she were willing to give up her family, what would she live on? Frederick had admitted that he did not presently have the funds to support a wife. Her father would not release her dowry, not if she married without his consent. Anne was not afraid of hard work, but she knew very well she did not have any understanding of what it would be like, or the work that would be required of the mistress of any such meagre establishment as Frederick could now form.

But oh, surely she could not give him up? To never see his dear face again, never walk companionably by his side! What if he did not come back? No days had ever passed so quickly as those she spent in his company; the colors of the summer had never seemed so bright. To go back to the dullness of life before he came was unthinkable, and yet it must be.

Her tears were not of such force as to be audible beyond the room, but they were steady as her mind and heart were not, as she imagined a thousand possible futures, but could not imagine any goodness in them.

***

Frederick stormed out of the house and down the lane, fists clenching. He kept reaching for his sword, only to realize he was not wearing it; he had never been so furious outside of a battle before.

A few of the groundskeepers stared at him, and he held his head high. He had no need for shame; he had behaved with every bit of honor and courtesy due to himself and Anne, and even Lady Elliot; he had nothing in his conduct or words to blush at. He might have less wealth, but he had the prospect of getting it, and he at least had never run close to exceeding his income as Anne worried her father might.

As for rank and breeding, the Elliot family were hardly an inducement to value those qualities, Anne excepted; he had fully ten times the wit and nerve and common decency of any of them. He would have said until this morning that Lady Elliot was a fine lady, but now! He could scarce abide the thought of her. Cruel, heartless—to have said all those things in front of Anne. If she had objected so, why wait this long?

Why, in the name of all that was holy, had she not warned Anne, at least? Anne had been every bit as shocked as he; perhaps moreso, to judge from the paleness of her face. He at least had been anticipating a caution, a check; he knew that he was not what she or anyone would have expected for a Miss Elliot of Kellynch. (But he had thought it would come from Sir Walter.) Anne loved her mother, and expected her to take her part in everything.

Frederick stopped and braced a hand on the boundary wall, head bowed. Anne's face swam before him, eyes wide with shock and glistening with tears unshed. And he had left her with the woman who had reduced her to that!

He kicked at the wall, and walked on.

He could have done nothing else, Frederick consoled himself. They were not in a novel, and Anne was in no danger. He would not bring scandal to her by an elopement; she was too respectful to consent to one in any case. No. He would make his fortune, and he would come back for her.

If the Elliots attempted to separate them then, he would know how to act.

***

When Frederick stormed into the house, Edward was in the sitting room with his pupils, reviewing their Latin, for which Frederick was grateful. The walk had not been sufficient time to compose himself, and he could not answer for his countenance. He charged up the staircase two steps at a time, and took care not to slam the door of his bedroom.

There was pen and paper on the table by the window; his eye fell upon it, and he was torn. He had no wish to ever see or speak or write to Lady Elliot, but even less did he wish to leave without telling Anne.

He sat in the wooden chair and contemplated the paper. His first intention had been to fling his things into his sea-trunk and leave by the next post chaise. But now, he was beginning to think better of it. He had friends enough in London that he could share lodgings with, and they were all Navy men, used to unexpected comings and goings. There was no need to write and beg an invitation. But it would be polite, and a hasty exit would only fan the flames of whatever gossip might spring from the day's interview.

Frederick might not care, and the sort of gossip the Kellynch servants might indulge in would not touch a Miss Elliot; but Edward would. He was only a curate. Any hint of scandal in his house would at the very least be uncomfortable and inconvenient for his work. Neither Frederick nor Anne had done anything wrong, but stories always grew in the telling, and the Elliots were always of interest to those who lived on or near their estate.

And besides, Frederick was no stripling, to be frighted off with a word. Lady Elliot might rule Kellynch, but she did not rule him; he would not end his visit to his brother early unless Edward or Anne asked it of him, or the Navy summoned him.

He would not seek her out; her mother had the right to deny a lover she found unsuitable, and even if she did not, he would not cause Anne pain in the scenes that must inevitably follow. But while Kellynch and Monkford were neighboring villages, they were not so close that they would meet, if he took his walks on the other side of Monkford, and she contained her charitable visits to Kellynch.

***

Anne's eyes were red and the handkerchief in her hand was sodden when a knock came at her door. There was nobody she wanted to talk to except the one person it could not be. "I have a headache," she called.

There was a pause, and she hoped whoever it was had gone away.

"Anne, my darling, I am sorry. May I come in?"

It was her mother. If she was not the least welcome member of the family, that was only because Anne's sisters and father would only notice her distress to find fault with it.

If Anne said no, her mother would go away, and leave Anne alone. But the conversation could not be put off indefinitely. She had never before been in conflict with her mother, not over something serious; she did not like the feeling, but could not see how it was to be gotten past.

"You may," Anne said, forcing her hands to stop twisting the handkerchief.

Lady Elliot slipped in, closed the door softly behind her, and made a sympathetic noise. She opened her arms and strode forward to embrace her daughter, as she had every time Anne had been in distress till now, but Anne drew back and Lady Elliot turned aside to sit in the chair by the window, instead.

"I truly am sorry, Anne," her mother said softly.

"Then why?" Anne said.

"Because it had to be done," Lady Elliot said. "Whatever he may be in time, he is not now a man who can take care of you and your children, nor is his profession reliable enough to ensure he will ever be."

"I know all the reasons you would separate us," Anne said. "I have never forgotten his lack of rank or fortune; I have always known that however you might like him as a man, you would prefer a better match for me. But why did you do it like this? Why allow us to grow fond and then break all hopes at once? I thought surely you must be willing to allow it, since you had not said aught before now. You didn't even let me say good-bye!" She wrapped her arms around her middle and turned her face away.

Lady Elliot sighed, and grieved for Anne's pain, and considered her words carefully. No argument she might make would heal Anne's heart, but the wrong words might deepen the rupture between them. "I deceived myself," Lady Elliot said. "This was so unlike my own courtship. I like him, and enjoy his company, and you do as well; I expected passion to form in ballrooms and card parties, not libraries and vicarages. I assured myself that you were both sensible, and there could be nothing serious between you, or that if there was I would see it immediately as distinct from friendship. There was nothing of friendship between your father and I, even when we were courting, you know."

That, at least, was not a surprise to Anne, and she nodded.

"So it was very much a shock to me to realize, one day, that there was a more serious depth of feeling between you," Lady Elliot went on. "That I was too late to separate you before it would cause pain. And yet, I could not allow things to go on. I am sorry; I should have been more vigilant."

"But even so, why did you not speak to me first?" Anne said.

"I did not wish to shirk my duty to you," Lady Elliot said. "The fault was mine; you are not wrong in preferring a man of his character, and we cannot any of us control our affections, only our response to them. This was hard, for you both, but now it is done. Would you have had me ask you to be the one to send him away?" Captain Wentworth had enough force of address that if they had been allowed a private conversation, in the full flush of the first shock, he might have been able to convince Anne to do something unwise.

Anne blanched. "No, I would not have wanted to be the one to break his heart." She bit her lip. "But Mama, I will never see him again!"

"That is not certain," Lady Elliot said. "I did not forbid all contact forever; if he wins the fortune he deserves, he will be quite welcome to come back. And may I say that he is more likely to do so now, when he can fully cast all the blame upon me, than if you were required to take part in sending him away."

"But what if he doesn't?" Anne said. "I shall never love again; there cannot be another such man in all the world."

Lady Elliot was much grieved at the depth of Anne's pain; she was normally a good, steady girl, and such outbursts spoke to how great her suffering was. "Anne, you are but nineteen," Lady Elliot said as gently as she could, "and have seen little of the world beyond this estate and your school. You hardly know enough gentlemen to make such a statement. At nineteen, I thought myself desperately in love with love with a man named Mister Gaulden, but he married someone else. I cried my eyes out and fell into a deep despair—and six months later, I had forgotten him. I do not say that this will be the case with you," she said, when Anne opened her mouth to object. "You and I are much alike, but we are not the same, nor are the circumstances. I only say that it may be so. You may find that your love is true and will last even in Captain Wentworth's absence … but you may find quite the opposite."

Anne did not look up, but her lips hardened. Whatever her mother's experiences might have been, surely this Mister Gaulden could not have been Wentworth's equal; and she could not now be consoled with the promise that her feelings might change at some uncertain time in the future.

Lady Elliot sighed. "You may grieve as long as you feel you need to, and I shall not try to force my affections on you if you do not wish them. What do you wish for me to tell your father and sisters?"

"Nothing!" Anne said. Sir Walter and Elizabeth would be dismissive; Mary would be envious of the romance of it all, but not solicitous of Anne's pain.

"Very well, nothing it shall be," Lady Elliot said. "And I shall have your dinner sent up to your room, if you wish."

Anne nodded.

"I am so very sorry for your pain, Anne," Lady Elliot said, and took her leave.

***

The last month of Frederick's time in Monkford was less pleasant by far than the preceding ones; he busied himself with tutoring his brother's pupils, but that still left far too much time to brood over the loss of Anne. He had known she would not defy her mother, but his heart had still whispered that perhaps she might come to him after all.

He longed for Sophia's wisdom, but could not organize his thoughts well enough to put them to paper. She was always the cleverest of their family. Besides, by the time she received a letter and replied, he would be gone. Better to wait until he could see her in person.

As the August heat began to wane, he wrote to Lady Elliot, informing her that he would soon be gone and asking permission to formally take his leave of Anne.

The application was granted; it was a painful meeting. Lady Elliot sat doing needlework in the corner, while the young couple stood by the window opposite, voices low in the hopes of what privacy might be had. Anne was perfectly composed, but Frederick thought he had never seen her so pale, her cheeks almost bloodless. Frederick was still angry, and Anne shrank from the hard looks he gave her mother. She could not blame him for it; she understood; she had not, herself, forgiven the manner in which it had been done. But still she loved her mother, and acknowledged her mother's reasons for doing so, and did not wish to have this last meeting—perhaps for years, perhaps forever—so tainted.

Conscious of Lady Elliot's presence, they made no promises, nor spoke words of love. They did not touch even to shake hands. Yet still each took the other's words and treasured them when they parted.

***

Frederick had heard stories, from Admiral Croft and others, of captains who haunted the halls of the Admiralty for months or years, waiting for their first command. In wartime, things were different, especially for those who were known (as Frederick was) to be superior and aggressive ship-handlers. Scarce a week had passed before he was called in and given the news: the Asp was his, and she was in Plymouth dockyard, in need of minor repairs before she could put to sea, and then he was to take her to the West Indies.

Frederick would have preferred major repairs, for the Asp could use them; she was an old ship, and though she had been a fine sloop in her day, that day was long past, and it would have taken a great deal of work to restore her to the state he would have liked.

His fellow officers took him out to a public house for a drink to celebrate. None of his close friends were in London right now, nobody he could discuss his disappointment with, but that was all to the good. Frederick would rather dive into his naval business, anyway.

"You always did have the devil's own luck, Wentworth," Mason said. "Kennard and Platt have both been waiting almost a year. Only twenty-three, and a sloop of your own!"

Frederick, who had not felt lucky since Lady Elliot's dismissal, but knew full well the good fortune of his receiving a ship so soon, smiled and said nothing.

"I wouldn't want to be the one to have the sailing of that old thing all the way across the Atlantic," Spalding said.

"He'll be over before the winter squalls begin," Stroudly said.

"Just in time for the worst of hurricane season," Spalding said.

"You would give your eyeteeth for any ship, even the Asp," Mason said. "Hurricane season in the West Indies or no."

"And there'll be a chance at prizes," Mason said. "The French have few colonies in the New World, but the Spanish rule half of it—the richer half. Once the war starts up again in earnest, well. Our man Wentworth will be in a very pretty position."

From there the speculation turned to prize money, and how much a cranky old sloop like the Asp would be able to do in such good hunting waters as the West Indies. This Frederick was happy to join in on, but unlike his friends, he was calculating time, not money. How much of a fortune would he need before Lady Elliot would find him an acceptable suitor, and how quickly might he make such a fortune? The sorts of ships an old sloop like the Asp might capture would surely not be worth much—although a sloop could sometimes cut a merchantman or two out of a convoy, and that would be worth more. As captain, he would receive a quarter of the value of each ship he captured, but when one could only expect small ships worth less than £1,000 even with their cargo, even a captain's share would not add up very quickly—not to the kind of fortune he would need. But he might be lucky, and there was always the possibility of working together with other ships for better prey.

And with luck, he would not have the Asp forever; once a captain had a ship and could prove his mettle as a commander, it was easier to get a better one.

"I shall certainly have to hope my luck holds good," Frederick said. "What do you think, could I capture ten ships in a year?"

Stroudly whooped with laughter. "Why so modest, Wentworth? Why not try for twenty, or a hundred?"

"Or perhaps a Spanish treasure ship like the one Cochrane just took," Spalding said. "I'm sure a sloop would be up to it, with the right captain." He slapped Frederick on the back.

Frederick laughed. "Of course!" Surely Cochrane could not have taken all the luck—nor all the prizes. In a few years' time, surely he could present himself at Kellynch again, to claim the greatest prize—Anne's hand.

***

Frederick had not much time for contemplation, in the weeks that followed; once in Plymouth there was an enormous amount to do: overseeing the work being done on the ship, getting to know his new officers and establishing himself as a respected superior (difficult to do, when his first lieutenant was ten years his senior), and see to the training of his crew.

Then there was the voyage across the Atlantic, which was a source of some concern given that the Asp had been rated only good for service in home waters, and that only for a year or two.

Once at their new station, there was work to be done aplenty: messages to convey, scouting to be done, that sort of thing. He caught three French privateers one after the other, very poor ships, none carrying a full complement of guns; together with Cribb in the Kingfisher he took a pretty privateer that might well be bought by the Navy and taken into service. He took a Spanish polacca carrying cocoa, and then another elderly privateer.

Through it all, there was the constant struggle with the ship herself; when the wind blew fresh, water would enter at a rate of 20 inches per hour. Still, they kept her afloat, and brought her back to Plymouth the next fall with a French frigate in tow, not two days before a storm that would surely have done for them.

Frederick consulted his prize agent, and considered; it was more than he could have expected, but still far short of what he needed. He would be damned if he would let the Elliots turn him away a second time.

During the day, he permitted himself no doubts. His luck would hold; he would make his fortune; Anne would be waiting.

At night, though, he could not prevent doubts from creeping in. Anne had loved him, he was sure, only … it had been a year. She was young, with good features and a handsome figure; she was rich, and the daughter of a baronet. Beyond all that, she had an intelligent mind, a skill with conversation, a sweet temper, and an air of true gentility that few could match. He could scarce believe she had come to love him, and knew that to be at least as much luck as he had had with prize money.

Anne would be well-courted, he knew, for she would be in all ways an ideal wife, and her mother would surely see to it that she was introduced to many suitable men. She had loved Frederick, yes, but … did she love him still? If he went to Somersetshire, would he find her faithful, or married to another? She owed him nothing, had made no promises.

Sophie was in the Mediterranean; they had not spoken in person in five years, and he still could not imagine pouring his heart out in a letter.

***

Once Anne had recovered from the first flush of grief, Lady Elliot had begun a gentle campaign to raise her spirits. Anne went to visit friends, her own from school and the daughters of Lady Elliot's circle of acquaintance, and in the next year was hardly at Kellynch for more than eight weeks altogether. The change of scenery did her good; it was harder to be haunted by memories of Frederick in places he had never been. It was also easier to consider what her opinions were, separate from those her mother would like her to have, when she was travelling in circles other than her family.

She would have liked some employment, some distraction, greater than that of merely being a guest in someone else's home, and in seeking out such opportunities came to be valued as a very useful sort of girl, in addition to her other charms. This was a boon to her spirits; her mother and Lady Russell had always considered her to be so, but her father and elder sister's disregard had somehow always weighed more heavily.

If her mother had hoped that, in spending time with some of the best families in England, Anne might meet with a man of more suitable rank and fortune, and forget the charms of naval captains, she did not even hint it to her daughter; and if such was her hope, she was doomed to disappointment. Anne met a greater variety of gentlemen than she had ever known in the whole of her life, and though some were worthy of respect and admiration, not one could be found to measure up to Frederick Wentworth in her eyes.

She read the London Gazette, when she could get it, and her heart sang each time the Asp took a prize. He was alive; he was well; he was successful.

It was only at night, when she was alone, that she wondered if he might have met some pretty young lady in the West Indies, whose family might see a young naval captain in a better light than her own had. He had loved her, she knew he had, but … did he love her still? He owed her nothing, had made no promises.

There was no one she could speak to about him. Her mother's advice, she already knew, and Anne had seen the satisfaction under Lady Russell's solicitude, the first time they had met after Frederick had been sent away. As for Anne's friends, none of them knew Frederick, his kindness or his courage; they would find it romantic, and tragic, but would not understand the depth of her loss.

***

The next year was even busier for Frederick. His successes in the Asp earned him another ship almost immediately once the Plymouth dockyards condemned her as unsalvageable. The Laconia was in better shape, and larger; a frigate, with which he might really show his mettle. And he was made Post Captain, no longer merely master-and-commander of a vessel and Captain by courtesy. He was able to take Benwick, a good man and excellent sailor, as his first lieutenant, and in the spring they were sent to the Western Isles, along with his old friend Harville in the Tiger.

There they harried French and Spanish shipping, taking several good prizes in the process. They would not know the full total until the ships and their contents were sold, of course, which would take time; but still it cheered Frederick, and even more, it was good to see Harville's spirits rise. He had a wife already, and though Mrs. Harville was not so gently born as Anne, still Harville naturally wanted her and the children well-provided-for.

The time passed quickly; his fear that Anne might have forgotten him grew no less, but he had learned how to bear it, and he was well-suited to a life at sea.

That winter, when the storms closed in and they returned to port, he was happy to find the Crofts home in England at last.

They met for dinner at the house the Crofts had taken in Portsmouth, several steps up from the lodgings they had taken when he had merely been Captain Croft—but then, an admiral received an eighth of all the prizes taken by captains under their command. The elevation had not changed Croft a bit; still the same bluff, honest sailor he had always been, and the conversation was lively: every ship and crew they had commanded, every action fought, since last they saw each other, must be discussed in the minutest detail.

Sophie took her part in it, as usual; with almost as much experience aboard ship as her husband and brother, though in a different capacity, her observations were acute.

Including her observations of her brother. Frederick knew from experience that Croft could speak of naval matters for days altogether and never wish for another subject, and normally Frederick was quite willing to indulge him. But not tonight; and Sophia knew it.

After dinner, when her husband's initial appetite for Navy matters had been whetted, Sophie turned to her brother and asked what was bothering him.

Frederick laid the whole tangle at her feet. His affections, his hopes, his fears. Sophie listened attentively, but was not the first to speak when Frederick was finished.

"I don't see what you're waiting for," Croft said. "Your brother will know if she's married; if she hasn't, then go and take your shot. Sophie took me with five hundred and the promise of more. If five thousand isn't enough for Miss Elliot, she's not worthy of you."

"My dear, the situations are hardly comparable," Sophie protested. "I was the daughter of a country solicitor, orphaned, with no family but two younger brothers and an aunt who would be happy to see me settled in any respectable situation. None of us had any money, and eligible gentlemen were not beating a path to my door. I could marry to please myself, and I did." She made a face. "Not to mention, given the dreadful inflation, five hundred pounds was worth a great deal more, a decade ago."

"Your prospects weren't so bleak as all that," Croft said.

Sophie raised her eyebrows at him. "In any case, Miss Elliot has a family, a wealthy and important one, and they have a right to her consideration, and she is young enough that it is right and proper for her to take counsel of her elders. Even if she would take Frederick with nothing, better for all concerned that they wait until he has a creditable sum to his name, enough for the family to accept him. If she is as sensitive and responsible a girl as he has said, she will be much happier not to have to grieve her family."

Croft grumbled but did not gainsay this.

Sophia turned to Frederick. "That said, my dear brother, I do not think you should wait any longer. Particularly if you have not had any contact with her or her family in the meanwhile?"

Frederick nodded.

Sophia pursed her lips. "Then Miss Elliot must be in quite as much doubt over your affections, as you have been about hers."

"Do you think so?" Frederick asked, much struck. He had always known he was a loyal man, not given to changing his affections, once given. His fellow officers were always talking about women who had forgotten them when they were away at sea.

"You have been half-way across the world, in many different places, doing exciting things, and meeting many new people," Sophie pointed out. "Women live much quieter lives. There can't be many eligible men in a neighborhood like Kellynch. Even if she has left—to stay with friends, perhaps, or to live in London or Bath for a time—she will meet very few men who have not been approved by her family or chaperones, and the odds are good they will all be much alike … and very little like you. She will not have had much to distract her, but she will have had a great deal of time to contemplate the possibility of all the women you might have met."

"I have been at sea most of these two years," Frederick protested.

"But you come into port every few weeks—and every new port is a chance to meet a new girl who might steal your heart."

Frederick had never been prone to such assignations, but he knew many men who were, and while most such liaisons were short-lived, others persisted. He acknowledged the point with a bow.

"Five thousand pounds may not be what her family would wish for her," Sophie said, "but combined with your salary and the promise of future prizes it is a respectable sum, and enough to begin with."

"I doubt Lady Elliot would agree," Frederick said.

Sophie shrugged. "Then you may determine what sum would be acceptable to her … and Anne's opinion may be different from her mother's. Twenty-one is old enough to know her own mind. Perhaps she will marry you now. Perhaps her family will insist on a long engagement. Perhaps she has changed her mind. But either way things will be settled. I do not think either of you will be the better for more years of uncertainty."

***

Anne was at Kellynch when Lady Elliot received the letter, but though it came while they were all gathered at the breakfast table Anne did not see anything of note. Her mother maintained a wide correspondence, and her countenance did not change upon reading it. Moreover, Anne was distracted by Elizabeth's complaints that Anne had neglected her responsibilities and left all the work of assisting their mother to Elizabeth while Anne went about the country visiting friends.

"Elizabeth, that is not the case," Lady Elliot said. "When you were Anne's age, and Anne had just left school, she was of very great assistance to me while you travelled with friends. You can hardly begrudge her the same freedom now that you had then. And besides, practice at the responsibilities of a mistress of an estate can only help prepare you for your own future."

Elizabeth did not appeal to her father, for though he might commiserate with her upon the necessity of such employment, he had always left the management of his daughters to their mother, believing it properly a woman's role. She did not pout, for that was not attractive, but she did contemplate the very great virtue of an establishment of her own, where she could merely set the housekeeper to any task she did not wish, instead of abiding by her mother's insistence that she take an interest.

Anne, grateful that her mother had been there to defend her, did not notice that her mother left breakfast sooner than was her wont.

Anne was at the piano, beginning her practice with scales, when her mother found her. She finished the scale and turned to face her. "What is it, mama?"

"I have had a letter from Captain Wentworth."

Anne inhaled, deeply, and her eyes went wide. "What did he say?"

"He asked for permission to visit," Lady Elliot said. "He has made post-captain, and he is master of a ship called the Laconia—"

All of which Anne knew. "And?"

"He has almost five thousand pounds, and in a month or two will be sent out to the Mediterranean," her mother continued. "Before he goes, he would like to ask for your hand."

"What will you tell him?" Anne asked.

"What do you wish me to tell him?" Lady Elliot said. "I do not think five thousand pounds enough to marry on, even with his salary and the prospect of more prize money to come. But it is enough for an engagement, at least; and enough that I would not prevent you, if you were absolutely determined to have him now."

"I am, oh, I am!" Anne cried.

Lady Elliot nodded. "Then I will write him to tell him he may come."

Anne was in such a bewilderment of hope and joy and anxiety that she scarcely knew how she passed the rest of the day. Would he find her much altered? She was terribly conscious that she was thinner now than she had been at nineteen, and that Sir Walter thought she was beginning to lose her bloom; but, she reassured herself, Frederick was not even a tenth so preoccupied with appearance as her father.

She counted the days and hours until he was to arrive, and was so distracted by it that her father almost noticed something was the matter.

All her calculations were in vain, for he arrived on their doorstep just after breakfast on the day before he had said they might look for him. Anne was conscious only of her joy, but Lady Elliot saw in it a compliment to her daughter, and an ardor that had not dimmed, in the two years since they had parted. It reconciled her a bit more to the differences in their rank and fortune.

In a very little time, it was settled; each confessed the doubts and pains they had lived with since their parting, and reassured the other of the depths of their affections.

Frederick applied to Sir Walter for his consent, which was given; Sir Walter could hardly be pleased with the match, but Anne was not his favorite, and Captain Wentworth was surprisingly good-looking for a man who spent his life out in the elements. Lady Elliot's support was of material help, for Sir Walter was long used to leaving consequential matters in her hands to manage.

In the four weeks required for the calling of the banns, Frederick visited Kellynch almost every day, spending much time in the library or music room with Anne and Lady Elliot. He dined with them but three times, which suited everyone, for neither he nor Sir Walter found each other congenial company.

At last the appointed day came. The vicar at St. Thomas's in Kellynch was happy to allow his colleague from Monkford to perform the ceremony. The wedding breakfast befit that of an Elliot of Kellynch, and afterward Anne embraced her mother and sisters, curtseyed to her father, and floated into the carriage with such happiness that she scarcely touched the ground.

Like her dear sister in law, she learned easily to be quite as content aboard ship as on land, and settled quickly into the society of naval officers and their wives. Although it was neither so grand nor so well-bred as what she had been used to, it possessed all the comfort of affection and respect which is more necessary to happiness.

When settled together and beyond reach of anything to separate them, Anne and Frederick's affection grew in the depth that can only come from greater understanding of each other. Her pride in his capabilities grew when she could see them for herself; his respect for her intelligence and gentleness increased in full measure, as he watched her apply those qualities to the uncertain and eventful life of a naval captain's wife in time of war.

Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in Frederick's affection. His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of the war all that could dim her sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance.