The Full
Worth of It
a Jane Austen fan fiction vignette
by Lucy
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"Anne was tenderness itself,
and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's affection."
Jane Austen
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The morning
after Sir Walter gives his consent to their marriage,
Captain
Frederick Wentworth and Miss Anne Elliot begin to enjoy their long postponed
love.
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The footman took his hat and Captain Wentworth paused as
the sound of the pianoforte flirted down the stairwell. He motioned to the servant
that he would see himself up, for he knew immediately it was Anne, and not her
sister, at the instrument. He was no great musician, an admirer, if no
connoisseur, but he need not be to recognize that it was she. In her playing he
distinguished the same delicacy that imbued her every gesture and utterance and
he was moved by that same bewitching amalgam of modesty and surety which so
uniquely characterized her. He made his way upstairs quietly, but his long legs
took him forward with speed, eager as he was to be in her company. Only the
prior evening he had gone to her father and claimed her as his own once again,
not now as the ambitious daring lad with only his brilliance to recommend him,
but as the generally respected, prosperous Captain of the Navy, and
consequently, how differently had his petition been received. Indeed, Sir
Walter's having evidently quite forgotten that first rebuffed petition
clarified for the Captain the utter disregard in which Anne was held by her
family. He had sensed it, seen it when meeting her again at Uppercross, but it
was only in the moment of Sir Walter's blithe welcome and immodest bewilderment
that 'such a fine figured man should want my unremarkable daughter' that the Captain fully
comprehended how alone she had been-how without sympathy of mind or sentiments
from any save, ironically, Lady Russell. It served only to increase his desire
to cleave her to his life with alacrity, to dote upon her gentle goodness.
He reached the threshold of the parlor and stopped, delighting
in his new happiness and privilege: My Anne; still and forever, my own, he thought, as his gaze fell upon
her.
She sat at the pianoforte, her back to the door, her head
slightly tilted as she played a dreamy, swelling melody with simple elegance.
As he allowed himself the pleasure of gazing upon her person he recalled all at
once the conversation of his acquaintances at Molland's when he had first come
upon Anne in Bath: pretty, they had said, very pretty when one comes to look at
her; pretty and delicate. Just so, he mentally concurred as his eyes lifted from her sweet form
for a moment and with a single, quick sweeping glance took in the coldness of
the room-the pretentious finery all set for effect and not at all for comfort.
It was clear to him that she did not belong in these rooms. She was a stranger
in her own father's parlor.
With an intensity that surprised him, even in his newly
heightened state, he was filled with an almost painful tenderness towards this
gentle, and yes, delicate, petite figured woman who would at long last be his
wife. Certainly it was true that in the passing years since they first met and
loved and wretchedly separated, she had lost the fresh bloom of youth, an
innocent ease which had captivated his young untarnished heart; nevertheless,
he recognized as well that at twenty-seven she was superior to the faultless
nineteen year-old girl he first loved. He was a leader of men-he recognized
quality instinctively, and she, she was quality; she was without equal. She was
perfection in her imperfection and he loved her to his very marrow.
He crossed the room without speaking a word. Coming to her
side he placed his hand upon her small, soft shoulder, pressing it warmly.
"Anne," said he.
Without surprise or embarrassment she halted her playing,
turned to him, lifted her face to his and smiled.
Not a word passed between them, and as the Captain looked
down upon her upturned face he fell in love with her all over again. Had he
ever seen such an honest, open expression? No, not ever. And then, she was
happy, visibly happy and in her happiness her mouth had lost that straight
pinched expression that had made her seem so utterly unfamiliar to him when he
first saw her again at Uppercross, and her eyes had in them now an expression of
such softness-a clean, transparent tenderness.
He smiled in return, lifting his hand to her face and
caressing her warm check. "Anne," he said again.
She enfolded his hand within her own. Bringing it to her
mouth she kissed his palm with unreserved adoration before cradling it against
her heart. Turning her face to his again she spoke with that same modest surety
he had been thinking of earlier. "Frederick, I am so happy," she
declared.
He urged her to her feet and gently brought her into his
embrace. "This time none will take it away from us."
Anne breathed deeply, felt the weight of loneliness, the
dulling certainty of a future without hope or sympathy or affection fall away
as easily as a featherweight summer robe. She was surprised how easily it all
fell away, how quickly her heart was filled with expectation and her spirit
with the particular vigor that comes only from joy. She wrapped her arms around
his strong, solid frame and in the shadow of his height and strength felt the
years of silent, private longing break free from dark restraint. She leaned
forward and fell innocently, beguiling against him. She spoke not a word, only
gazed upon his handsome, sea-patinaed face, her eyes a soft, melting revelation
of truth.
"You are so lovely, Anne," whispered he, before
lightly, almost hesitantly kissing her newly softened mouth, her finely formed,
pale pink lips. "So lovely and delicate."
Anne was floating on a wave of enchantment for such
tenderness, but deep within was stirred the long dormant ardor of her young
love. Eight years of yearning could not be so gently mitigated. Serious and
unembarrassed, for she was no longer a girl, she spoke, her eyes fixed upon his
own. There was such tenderness there in his deep blue eyes; such answering
longing she saw. "I am not so delicate Frederick. I will not break, my
love."
"My love," he repeated and eight years of longing
would be answered. He kissed her again, embraced her with energy, clasped her
small, adored frame to his breast. She laid at last her head against his chest,
listened to the forceful beating of his heart and clung to him with joyful
abandon.
"We must marry quickly Anne," he whispered.
"So many wasted years can not be reclaimed, but you must not remain a day
more than is necessary in this cold house where you are not rightly valued. You
must have your own. I don't care where, so long as it is yours and mine and you
can be rightly treasured."
She lifted her head and he saw some return of melancholy
within her expression. He caressed her beloved face, spoke penitently.
"Have I spoken too harshly? I have been coarse to speak so. I must learn
to be more tolerant of those who have done us harm, however difficult."
"You have only spoken the truth; it is but the truth.
I am of no consequence to my father and sister. I long ago resigned myself to
their indifference. It only saddens me that I can not give you relations as
kind and good as your own."
"They are blind, ignorant fools!" he snapped
angrily. "If not, how is it they can not see your worth? All goodness as
you are-generous and intelligent and strong. One must be heartless to not be
captivated by your sweetness of manner, your loving, faithful heart."
For the first time since his arrival, Anne blushed, but not
from shame, from pleasure. "And is this what you see in me? All these
noble and good things?"
"Yes," he replied and than, impulsively, laughed
quietly. "I speak of fools, and yet, what a fool I have been to have ever believed
you forgotten. Without conscious thought I have compared all others to you and
all, all have fallen short of your perfections. You have no equal Anne."
"It is my blessing that at least for you it would seem
I have not, and that is all I wish for. If you love me and value me, I care not
for the rest of the world's opinion."
"I do love you, Anne; of that you need never doubt, my
darling."
"Frederick," she murmured, her voice and
expression all at once imparting a fresh playful, flirtatiousness that charmed
him to his innermost heart. He responded to such exquisite provocation in the
only manner open to a man who so loved and was in turn so thoroughly loved.
So agreeably unmindful did they remain of all about them,
they did not immediately apprehend the Footman's appearance, but the
announcement of Lady Russell's arrival could not go long undetected.
As they disengaged from their tender embrace and turned to
her, Lady Russell was struck by the look of exaltation upon Anne's face-she
observed a powerful transformation in her dear friend, a wonderful return to
something like her pretty youthful appearance. Her heart longed to soften to
this alliance in consequence, if not for the proud daring with which the
Captain was looking upon her.
Anne came forward and warmly greeted her friend, but as the
ladies sat, the Captain did not do the same. Rather he stood behind Anne's chair
and in a gesture Lady Russell could only qualify as provocative, laid his hand
upon Anne's shoulder. For her part, Anne turned her head to look up at her
affianced. She smiled as she lifted her hand and grasped his where it lay upon
her shoulder, before turning to Lady Russell.
"I am so pleased you have come to me. I was just about
to ask Captain Wentworth if he would accompany me to call upon you."
Lady Russell let pass the absurdity of such a declaration,
considering in what manner she had found them. "I had anticipated finding
you alone, but certainly I am pleased to find the Captain here as well."
For a brief moment, the Captain felt as if all the old bile
of resentment he had suffered and indeed nurtured toward this woman would rise
again and mar his happiness. Defiance welled: Anne was no longer a girl of
nineteen and he was no longer an untested boy of one and twenty; In the ensuing
eight years while Anne's father had sullied his station and reputation with
flagrant extravagance and squandered the wealth and status he had done nothing
to earn, he, Frederick Wentworth, had risen in the world on his merits, so that
there were now no drawing rooms in which he would not be welcomed with respect
and admiration. It was not vanity on his part to think it so, he was sure; it
was cold hard fact. But as his hand instinctively, involuntarily flinched, he
felt Anne's small, cool hand press his own. Her subtle gesture immediately
calmed his ire, filling him with confidence, with the firmness of their
commitment, and it allowed him generosity.
"I am sure you would like some time to speak privately
with Lady Russell, Anne. I shall leave you and return later. I would like to
take you to call upon Sophy and the Admiral. My sister is very eager to welcome
you to the family. Would an hour suffice?"
Anne agreed to his plan, grateful for his consideration.
The Captain kissed her hand, bowed to Lady Russell and walked across the room
to depart. At the door he paused, turned back into the room and gave Anne a
wink and a smile. "One hour," he said, and was gone.
Her face aglow with happiness, Anne sighed softly, her eyes
lingering a moment on the now empty doorway before seating herself at Lady
Russell's side.
"Well, Anne, you have certainly surprised me,"
Lady Russell remarked quietly. "You intend to marry Frederick Wentworth
after all."
"How did you learn of it so quickly? He only went to
my father last night. I had wished to tell you myself, later this
morning."
"This is Bath. There are few secrets here. Gossip had
begun to circulate that the Captain was a rival for your affections,
particularly after the concert evening. I came this morning to discuss it with
you-it was only when I arrived and found you as I did that I knew he had
succeeded. It could only mean one thing, of course, and that you intended to be
his wife."
"Lady Russell, you have been such a kind friend to me
since my mother died. I have long depended upon your sympathy and counsel. Tell
me you will not stand in opposition, for it is all settled, we have only to fix
a date."
"I suspect, this time, it would be of no consequence
if I did oppose," she answered with more harshness than she had intended.
Anne recoiled from her slightly, but did not rise from the
settee where they sat together. "Not as regards my decision, no. Our
situations are not what they were eight years ago. I will not be persuaded
against him again; I will on no account hazard this second chance at happiness.
Every circumstance is now in our favor. But it would pain me to find my dearest
friend opposed to my decision."
"You must comprehend, Anne, that I have only ever
wanted what I thought was in your best interest. What I had most recently
wished for you, well, it will not be. It is folly to discuss it further."
"I mean no impertinence, but in truth, Mr. Elliot is
not what you thought him to be, Lady Russell, and Captain Wentworth has proven
himself all that I believed him to be."
Lady Russell sighed. She had very much wanted her friend to
take her mother's place as mistress of Kellynch Hall. It had seemed to her not
only proper, but that it would as well be a personal victory for Anne, who, for
all Sir Walter and Miss Elliot dismissed her, was the only of the three sisters
worthy to take her mother's place. Yet, she wanted Anne's happiness as well. Sir
Walter's extravagance had left Anne with only a paltry remainder of her dowry,
and in truth, while he still had family of no consequence, it was the Captain
who was now the wealthier of the two and one could not deny that he had won
through his own merit entry into any respectable drawing room. Moreover, with a
wife who was the daughter of a baronet, it would be more so still. Given all
this, it was not a little ironic that she suspected the Captain cared for such
things as little as Anne did. She never had been able to instill in her young
friend an appropriate reverence for rank; perhaps with the daily example of Sir
Walter and Miss Elliot's sycophantic ways it was inevitable that a girl of
Anne's character would in consequence reject such notions. She would always do
her duty, but as to rank, Anne was indifferent and the Captain could now
provide her with every comfort. It would seem every circumstance was now in
their favor.
She smiled at her young friend, moved by the youthful glow
that this new situation had returned to her face and manner. "Captain
Wentworth has indeed proven to be as brilliant as you long ago professed. And
if his affection has remained constant, as has yours, how can I think other
than well of him and of your union?"
"Oh, thank you!" Anne cried, spontaneously
embracing her friend. "I am sure that as you come to know him you shall
grow as fond of him as even I could desire."
"We shall see, Anne," she replied warmly.
To further her friend's acquiescence, Anne told Lady
Russell all she had learnt of her cousin, Mr. Elliot. Lady Russell was
astonished, chagrined and not a little relieved. If Anne was to marry her
Captain, Lady Russell felt she could accept it with something more than
forbearance knowing that Mr. Elliot was entirely undeserving of Anne. So it was
that when Captain Wentworth returned, punctual to his time, Lady Russell was
able to rise and offer her hand with sincerity.
"Captain Wentworth, I did not properly offer my
congratulates earlier. Please accept them now. I am confident you know what a
treasure Anne is. I hope, for her sake, we can learn to be true friends."
The Captain paused for a moment before responding. He was
seriously inclined to reply with something less than graciousness, to remind
the fine Lady she had been wrong about him eight years past, and so it ought
not to surprise him that she should think so little of his discernment as to
now feel the need to remind him of Anne's worth, as though the same had not
been his private torment all these long years, as though her image had not so
often come unwelcome and unbidden on long quiet nights on the high seas. But he
resisted, and for Anne's sake merely took Lady Russell's offered hand and
expressed an equal portion of goodwill.
Satisfied that her effort to bridge their differences would
be fully matched, and having received their promise that they would allow her
to host a dinner in their honor, Lady Russell quickly departed. After what she
had witnessed upon her arrival, and knowing Sir Walter's complete indifference
to such matters as regards Anne, to say nothing of the lovers' respective ages,
she thought it nothing short of preposterous to prolong her stay as if to act
as chaperone. That they would be married before the month was out she did not
doubt.
Anne saw her to the door and returned to the parlor to find
Captain Wentworth impatiently pacing in front of the mantel.
"I have been shopping, Anne!" he cried as soon as
she entered the room.
There was something so wonderfully boyish in his sudden
enthusiastic declaration that she could only laugh as she reached for his hand.
"Have you now?"
"I have. For you," replied the Captain as he
produced a small box tied with a fine silk bow. "Take it!" He
insisted. "Open it!"
She happily obliged and found within the box a delicate
pair of drop pendant earrings of deep blue aquamarine. "They are beautiful
Frederick," she cried sincerely. "Thank you!"
Grasping her hand he led her to the window that overlooked
the garden in the back of the house. Placing the box on a small side table, he
lifted one of the pair, dangling it in the sunlight.
"See how they catch the light." She did, but was
far more enchanted by the expression upon his face, moved by his eagerness to
please her. She saw that she would quickly need to learn to be loved and dotted
upon.
"Just like when a calm sea catches the sun's
rays," he continued, holding the earring against her ear to see how it would
suit before returning it to its box. "I've never seen anything as
beautiful as the sea when it is calm. It's not the calmness itself that is so
compelling, but that the calmness is so illusory-it almost makes you forget,
not recognize the power, the strength contained within the sea. You are like
that."
"I?"
"Yes. You're like a calm sea," he affirmed as he clasped
her hand and drew her near. "Why do you blush?"
"I feel as though you say that to flatter me."
"I do."
"I am not accustomed to flattery," she replied
quietly.
"You shall have to grow accustomed than, my darling.
Besides, we are too old for diffidence, and far too young for moderation. Don't
you agree?"
"Yes, I do."
"Good," he whispered, drawing her fully into his
embrace and discovering once more the sweetness of her mouth. He did not wonder
at her open affection, he had always known she would be thus. And he could not
but believe that she felt as did he: freed from the weight of some long
invisible chains, released from some dark solitary place. Yes, he imagined she
felt as did he: fully alive again, heart reborn.
"Frederick," Anne sighed as she caressed his
face. "Not a day passed that I did not think of you."
There was too much sadness in her declaration for his
liking and he thought they must put an end to it before it became too much a
part of their future.
"Let us recall only the sweetness of when we first
loved, Anne, and think no more of the past with pain. Let us look to our future
and live our present, fully and without reservations. Set a date, Anne. When
can we marry?"
"What do you suppose is the shortest time within the
limits of propriety?"
"I don't care a fig for propriety, Anne. When can we
marry?"
"Would it be madness to say in two weeks?"
"It would be madness to say more."
Anne laughed quietly and inquired in a playful, hopeful
voice: "And where shall we reside? Can we find a home so quickly?"
"Must we find a home straight out?"
"That is customary," she offered, all the while
touching his chest, holding his hands, generally admiring his figure and
bearing, feeling keenly the pleasure of his loving gaze upon her. In truth, she
thought she could live anywhere he desired, in any manner he pleased. A little
cottage would suffice for her. Just to know that she would be his wife, his
companion and friend, that was enough for her. She had no larger ambition than
that, and yet, it seemed to her the very height of ambition, that life could
offer no greater sweetness.
"You said you have traveled little. Why can we not
simply travel for a time? Summer is near. We could go to the seaside, to
Scotland. Why, we could even go to the Nordic countries. Why ever not? It is
not right that a woman like you has seen so little of the world."
"I do wish to travel."
"It is settled than," he smiled, lifting her
hands and placing a lingering kiss upon each. "We shall travel until we
grow tired of the same. Then you shall pick the English county that most
delights you, and there we shall establish ourselves."
"Oh Frederick," she sighed, but she could not
continue. She was overwhelmed by all the happiness before her, so starkly
different from what her life had long been. She turned away, she did not know
why and immediately felt his arms about her, strong and loving. She turned into
his embrace and made no effort to disguise the tears brimming in her mild, dark
eyes.
"Anne, what is it? Confide in me. You are no longer
alone. We are to share our burdens as well as our joys. Come, tell me what is
troubling you."
"Troubling me? It is all the contrary. I do not like
to complain; I do not want your pity. Indeed it strikes me with something like
horror to think you might ever pity me. But I have felt myself, even in the midst of
family and friends, utterly alone; an outsider in my own family home and yet
with no other refuge to speak of. I have been lonely and discontented and I do not know what
to do with so much happiness, with so much joyful expectation for the
future."
He gently brushed away a single tear, looked at her for a
moment in silence. He was certain she had no conception of her own loveliness,
her significant excellence of character, her bewitching sweetness of manner.
How could she, he wondered, when so many people who ought to have cherished
her-her father most of all-never had. Even he, in his anger and resentment, had
been cold and seemingly indifferent when fortune had first brought them
together again.
"There is nothing to be done, my darling, but for you
to accept it," he said at last. "There is none who deserves happiness
more than you. From this day on, I intend to do all that is in my power to
ensure you have your full worth of it."
She smiled, once more laid her head against his breast and
listened to his strong, even heartbeat and understood that at twenty-seven, at
last, happiness was hers.
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