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All hopes so high so long in vain, Anne would have never believed that two hearts once so mutually open, so painfully hurt were unable to stop beating in unison, albeit becoming strangers – as if they ever could.
There she was, her hand on his chest, feeling him breathe and yearn and wait; rekindling the sparkles eager to catch fire. He could not be unfeeling, she understood.
“You feel unarmed,” he declared.
“I am no warrior.”
“Though very few sailors of your persistence are to be found.”
Anne blushed and wondered at flattery spoken so sincerely and–
“Address me as Frederick. Do you consider me of enough power to court you to a dance or two?”
“Hardly.”
“No melody is to be played. Music of the world is all ours, confined to this bedchamber in the most barbaric ways one has ever heard of. Now, my darling, my enchanting witch–”
“On what account dare you speak in such a manner?”
“You captivated my soul, my mind, you marked me – once yours, there was no way to escape going overseas – you never altered upon my wanting you to. Now, dear–”
Captain Frederick pulled Anne upright, placing his arms in a position nothing short of improper nevertheless perfectly gentleman-like. His character had merits too natural to be admired if not to look closely, as deeply as Anne wished everyone could.
She truly did; yet knowing that her look onto him would never align with anyone else's made a precious solitude formerly unseen.
"Eventually, there is no one to prevent our happiness, to call us reckless and ruthlessly narrow-minded. Where shall we go? Do not say you had better return home."
They both knew Anne had none.
They could go anywhere. Could she feign having a choice?
Captain spoke–
"Very well. We are to set off immediately. We will hear others wish us safe travels later, no time for propriety." He turned Anne in his warm, settling embrace. "Ah! The wind is a bit too harsh for their liking, is it not?" He swirled and moved her in an elegant swing.
"Sprawling are the crowds, highly in fashion, bustling are the streets, the markets, someone's calling upon us; ah, this good old lad again! We are fortunate enough to leave him quite rapidly."
Spinning in a whirlwind singsong, they stood a chance of resembling something alike spring and winter conversing in late March. Affably chaotic.
"And what do you see?"
Illiterally, he meant.
"I see your ambition to make me at ease by any means, of which I am grateful – but it is apparent that your acting skills leave much to be desired. Please do not play careless. I see. Regardless of an upbringing, you could never live simply – as an idle reveller, as one's protegee, leave alone servant. You are no man of theatrics."
"What shall I belong to, then?"
"Action."
War.
It took him a while to recover.
His dawning contemplation was not a hindrance at all; Anne was perfectly accustomed to waiting. She knew: a few blissful moments shall be repaid tenfold. Where happiness had been, misery was to come. Intelligence lied in assessment and acceptance.
Until the wind changed.
"They say it is inappropriate to discuss military matters in a woman's presence – in spite of her genuine interest." He glanced pointedly at the bookshelves with piles of manuals she had supposedly properly disguised. "Not only is the subject unspeakable, but also a probable insult. To maintain gallantry in combat is an ordeal, truly."
"I doubt it appearing the same in your regard."
"Indeed. I preserved the choice to be magnanimous in victory, to stand prideful in defeat; though my heart was ripped by anger, nay, fury, which I directed at my foes. I could not be unfeeling."
Anne thought of Captain Frederick in a fight – ordering sternly, fists clenched, mind calculating; rushing to the eye of the storm to make sinners cry prayers. Endeavouring, adventurous, determined. Formidable yet soft-hearted. Incredible.
She would have preferred to avoid knowing who was the evil in the poem but barely could. Yes, it was her – the malicious witch, a damsel in distress. The name to curse, to forget the spelling.
Frederick said– "The war has come to an end. There is no one to capture, no one's distress to wait for."
Perhaps it was his fury what somehow strengthened her sorrow. Anne Elliot became a widow yet to marry, drowning in poignant regret. Anne Wentworth, however, decidedly refused self-pity.
"Where shall we really go?" asked Anne incredulously.
"Wherever you want, as I have continuously assured."
Frederick reached out to her cheek.
Anne replied–
"I see."
She could observe it all, the bedchamber widening, vanishing into beyondlessness. Natural wonders discovered, unveiled: lush valleys, vibrant-coloured, panoramic; snow-capped mountains towering lordly; blooming fields and lengthy coasts, free-flying birds and untamed animals; the sea.
The sea – witnessing birth and death, betrayal and redemption, prayers and forgiveness.
Many poems sprang to mind all at once, so many stories, equivoques, anecdotes; a promise of something greater than one may be capable of keeping.
There appeared to be a sudden shift in the air. A motion in spirit: battleships sinking, violent flames extinguished to ashes, the middle of a gentle spring coming to a bloom.
What was formerly bittersweet now turned delightful.
Anne did not need words anymore; not in her husband's presence, a safe haven to trust herself to.
It was time to start a new fire.