A Persuasion Short Story

Happy July, friends! I’m offering a story I had hoped to share in June, when the theme was “Blossoming Love.” Needless to say, I proved once again my immunity to deadlines! So here I am, in July, with a short story I had not really meant to write.

Some of you may know that I am in the midst of writing a Pride and Prejudice variation called Disappearing Act. But my mind likes to play tricks on me and give me plot bunnies for other stories based on completely different novels. (I hear this is a common problem among writers!)

I had never really intended to write a Regency-era Persuasion story, short or long, so I cannot easily explain why this idea came to me. In part it is because my husband and I are approaching our twentieth year as spouses (and our twenty-fifth as a couple); and while we have never experienced a Persuasion-style separation (thank goodness!), I have often thought of myself as being a bit like Anne–and my husband as a good deal like Wentworth.

As much as it pains me to admit, I am easily persuadable, while my husband–well he, like Wentworth, can be quite determined! He is also a man who has worked his entire life to define himself, rather than let others define him. You see, he is Black and Korean, and there are people he has encountered who have, I think, tried to put him in certain categories. As a white woman in the U.S., I’ve not experienced this same kind of feeling, at least not because of my race. And while our different racial backgrounds have not been the most significant aspect our relationship, they have certainly shaped how we see each other and the world around us.

And this made me wonder about Wentworth, especially in the context of Persuasion, a novel in which Sir Walter Elliot makes a very big deal about how people look. So, here you go: a short story that, I hope, may turn into a novel when I have finally finished my current work-in-progress, Disappearing Act.

Hope you enjoy!

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A Damnable Idea: A Persuasion Short Story

Summer, 1806

He swore to say nothing to his brother for fear of causing offense—but what a damnable idea this was!

“You think this is a damnable idea,” said Edward, grinning as they stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the growing throng outside the church.

Frederick laughed, as relieved as he was amused. He had spent a great deal of the former day’s journey from Portsmouth wondering how much his brother had changed since taking orders. Not much, apparently.

“I was unaware curates were allowed to use such language.” Frederick glanced up at the sky. “How long until the thunderbolt strikes you dead?”

“I believe you are confusing God with Zeus, and in any case, cursing only becomes truly damnable when one is a vicar or a rector. My paltry income puts me below God’s notice.”

“I always knew there was some benefit to being poor.”

Edward laughed. “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

“If I did not fear a thunderbolt myself, I might call that verse rubbish.”

“Then let us be grateful that we worship a more merciful God than Zeus!”

Edward chuckled at his own joke, and Frederick found he was almost glad to be in this remote country village. He had come to Monkford only because he had nowhere else to go. Sophia and Croft were abroad, and he, hardly knowing when to expect his next assignment, refused to waste his paltry savings on louse-ridden temporary quarters.

If he had been given a choice, he would have taken a commission, any commission. Even the Asp, that worn-out piece of timber, would have done. But he had not the choice—not yet, and so here he was, attending this silly exposition entitled, “The Local Blooms.” At various points along the church’s gravel walkway, young ladies were handing out flowers to the parishioners—rather, to those parishioners who dropped a shilling in the collection baskets close at hand. This was all in service, Edward explained to Frederick, of increasing the parish school fund, which had dwindled almost to nothing in the past several years.

“Would it not make more sense,” said Frederick, as he watched a scruffy lad of nine or ten put a coin in a basket, “for those with the most to give to those with the least?”

The boy waited, eyes upturned and beseeching, for the nearest young lady to acknowledge his presence. Only when the child bowed low and said, “Begging your pardon, Miss Elliot,” did the chit throw a flower in his direction.

“I always knew you were a revolutionary at heart,” said Edward, bumping Frederick’s shoulder. “What do your superior officers think of your views on a more equitable distribution of wealth?”

Frederick hardly heard Edward; he could not help staring at the boy: broad smile, eyes shining, face aglow as if he had been given a gift. If Frederick had just had a flower—one he had purchased, no less—thrown at him, his face would have burned with anger. Indeed, it did burn, merely from watching the exchange.

Edward cleared his throat. “Frederick?”

“What? Oh, my superior officers,” he said, attempting a light tone, “care nothing at all for my views on any topic save accurate navigation and a well-ordered ship. Come now, Edward, must we really attend this farce?” There must have been half a dozen young ladies dispensing flowers, and not the small, hardy wildflowers dotting the landscape. These were large, showy blooms: scarlet tea roses, blushing peonies, lush hydrangeas. “Do not tell me you devised this scheme.”

“Oh, I am not capable of such….shall we call it genius?”

“No, we most certainly shall not.”

“Suffice it to say, I am not the author of this rather unusual event, but it is my duty to attend, and it is your duty, as my brother, to help see me through this painful hour.”

“Ah, but I am a revolutionary at heart, and so…” Frederick shrugged and started to turn away.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Edward grabbed him by the arm and nudged him forward—no mean feat, for Edward was a stone lighter and a head shorter than his younger brother. “For a revolutionary, you have an unfailing dedication to duty. Forward march, sir!”

“I am no soldier,” Frederick muttered, though he did not argue as Edward pulled him along, introducing him to this person, then that one. All the while, he glanced about, planning his escape. The moment civility allowed, he would find his way back to the shabby cottage his brother now called home.

Frederick Wentworth knew himself to be a sociable creature, but this crowd—bah! The “quality” were very high in the instep, certainly too high for the likes of him, and the honest folk—the farmers and their wives, the tradesmen and the laborers—well, he might have been able to converse with them, if they had not been so busy gawking at the collection of young ladies scattered about the yard, simpering and preening.

Give him a ship on the high seas any day! The men on board became brothers, no matter the circumstances of their birth or fortune. The Royal Navy contained its fair share of order and hierarchy, for sure; but when breathing in the fiery smoke of battle or riding out a merciless storm, one’s nerve was all that really mattered.

“And who is that young fellow standing with the curate?” inquired a drawling baritone a few yards away. “He looks as brown as a berry!”

Frederick glanced over and saw two people sneering at him: a well-dressed gentleman of indeterminate age and the young lady (if she could be called such) who had thrown the flower at the boy. Frederick ignored the woman and glared at the man.

“Oh, Lord,” muttered Edward, when he turned and saw who had caught Frederick’s attention. “Keep your temper with this one, Freddy. He is the author of this damnable exposition—and its main benefactor as well.” Then, with a courteous bow to the gentleman, Edward called out, “Good day to you, Sir Walter!”

With barely a nod of acknowledgement, Sir Walter turned to the woman at his side. “Do you remember his name?”

Frederick supposed the woman to be Sir Walter’s wife—two perfectly matched souls, each as empty as the other. Only as he drew closer did he see the physical resemblance between them—fair hair, blue eyes, handsome features. No, they were father and daughter, Frederick decided as he reluctantly bowed to them both. The young lady did not look older than his own twenty-three years, and the gentleman—well, the nearer one got to this Sir Walter, the more obvious it became that he was a man approaching middle age, though doing everything in his power to pretend otherwise.

“The curate’s name? I hardly know,” sniffed the young lady. “Oh, this heat is abominable!”

“Yes, quite,” said Sir Walter. “But your complexion is holding up quite well, my dear, quite well.” He turned to Edward. “My daughter does not sweat and flush as other women do, does she, er—ah! Now I recall! Wentworth, is it not?”

“Indeed it is, sir.” Edward turned to the young lady. “Miss Elliot, may I fetch you a cup of water, or perhaps escort you to a bench?”

She waved him away without a glance.

“Wentworth, Wentworth,” murmured Sir Walter. “I believe you once told me that you are not related to Sir Augustus Wentworth of Strafford Hall?”

“No, sir, not to my knowledge.”

“It would be astonishing,” said Miss Elliot to her father, “if they were connected.”

“Astonishing indeed!” Sir Walter made a sound that Frederick might have called a laugh, except the man’s mouth did not move. Then he turned to Frederick, his pale blue eyes looking him up, then down. “You are not known to me.”

Frederick said nothing, for he was not a man disposed to answer unasked questions.

“If I did not know better,” Sir Walter continued, “I would guess you were a relation of Lady Russell’s; she has told me that a distant cousin is due to visit.”

Sir Walter’s gaze came to rest on Frederick’s face. No, not exactly his face. Frederick doubted this man could see that deep. Sir Walter was staring, of course, at his skin.

“I would say a very distant cousin?” Sir Walter added, one corner of his lip curling.

Miss Elliot threw back her head and—well, she appeared to be laughing, but made so little sound that Frederick might have thought her mute, if he had not already heard her speak so snidely. The father, it seemed, could not be bothered to move his mouth while laughing, whereas the daughter refused to expel enough breath to yield even a giggle. If only the two of them worked in concert—he producing the sound, she putting on the expression—there might be real humor here. (Then again, probably not.)

“Allow me to introduce my brother,” said Edward, as if the Elliots had not just insulted them both.

“Your brother?” asked Sir Walter, eyes widening in that way eyes always widened upon learning that these men were brothers: Edward, pale as the morning; Frederick—how had Sir Walter so eloquently put it? Ah yes, brown as a berry.

“Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, may I present Captain Frederick Wentworth? He is on leave from the navy and has just arrived from Portsmouth.”

Had Frederick not spent the last decade of his life bowing to authority, he would not have been able to bend to these Elliots yet again. Twice now he had offered them a courtesy, and they had not returned it.

“Ah.” Sir Walter nodded. “I should have known. Navy men are all rough, rugged, and brown after months at sea.”

Frederick knew, from Edward’s panicked glance, that it would be best if he did not contradict this conclusion.

“You appear rather young to have attained the rank of captain. You are…one and twenty, I would guess.”

Another unasked question, followed by another refusal to speak.

Edward turned to Frederick, his pleading expression all but echoing his earlier warning: keep your temper! This was precisely what Frederick was trying to do. If he spoke, there was no telling what he might say.

After an awkward half minute of silence, Edward cleared his throat. “You are a good judge of age, Sir Walter. My brother is three and twenty.”

Frederick nearly rolled his eyes at his brother’s capitulation—and then felt a wave of guilt. If he, Frederick, had exerted himself, Edward would not have had to play the humble curate. After all, Sir Walter had pledged to help the parish school, and education for the poor was something that meant a great deal to Edward. To Frederick, as well.

“I have heard, sir”—he tried for a deferential tone and failed miserably—“that you devised this exposition to aid the children of the parish.”

Sir Walter inclined his head. “I have always believed it is the duty of a baronet to be generous. All of these flowers come from the gardens of Kellynch Hall.”

His daughter sighed. “I do not know when I shall be able to walk about the pleasure gardens with any sense of peace. It will be many months before there are blooms enough to enjoy.”

“That is indeed a sacrifice,” Frederick muttered.

“But to such good effect!” interjected Edward. “Indeed, when my brother first came upon the scene, he was…well, I would describe him as thunderstruck.”

Frederick suppressed a smile. Edward might play the humble curate, but he remained a rascal at heart.

“Yes, yes, it is going quite well, I would say,” replied Sir Walter, glancing about at the crowd. “The idea came to me when my valet said, Sir, you have a rose-like complexion. Rose-like! said I. A man’s complexion should not be rose-like, for if it is, the red comes from far too much drink!”

Here Sir Walter paused, perhaps anticipating laughter, but his daughter had no one to do the work of laughing for her, and neither Frederick nor Edward were inclined to find such a comment humorous.

“I have observed that each of the young ladies has a different flower,” said Edward. “Was that, too, your idea, Sir Walter?”

“Oh, that was my idea,” said Miss Elliot, plucking a rose from her basket and bringing it to her nose. “I believe every young lady—at least, those with some beauty—are flowers of a sort.”

“Indeed, indeed!” said Sir Walter, nodding. “All three of my daughters, though Anne less than the others, are flowers in bloom. I thought it would do the people of this parish no little good to see some beauty this summer.”

Miss Elliot offered him a wan smile. “I fear that not all the young ladies of the neighborhood are as eager in their offices as they ought to be. Why, Mary told me only this morning that she did not think it proper for the daughters of a baronet to hawk flowers like street sellers, but I believe her jealous, for she wanted the tea roses instead of the peonies.”

Sir Walter sighed. “Ah, but your sister is of a delicate constitution. I would have had her remain home altogether, if only because her bonnet never can keep the sun from her face. Those freckles on her nose!”

Father and daughter shuddered in unison.

“And did you see Miss Rochford, standing closest to the main doors of the church?” asked Miss Elliot. “Her basket had very few coins in it, when last I saw it.”

“You can hardly expect miracles, even here!” said Sir Walter—and lo and behold, Frederick was right: when they worked together, the two Elliots managed a half-decent laugh between them.

“I am certain,” said Edward, frowning, “that all the young ladies present are doing their very best to aid the people of this parish.”

If Sir Walter heard the hint of disapproval in Edward’s voice, he did not seem bothered by it. “Yes, indeed. And you, my dear Elizabeth, are leading the way in this effort.”

Miss Elliot sniffed and threw another flower, this time at an elderly woman who had placed two shillings into the basket.

“Allow me,” said Frederick, crouching down to retrieve the flower before the woman could attempt the effort. He handed her the rose—two petals had already fallen off—with what he hoped was a smile.

His expression must have sufficed, for the woman patted him on the arm before shuffling down the walkway toward the next young lady.

“You must excuse us,” said Frederick coldly to Sir Walter. “We are surely keeping the parishioners from attending you.”

“And I should see that all is in order,” added Edward, with a conciliatory smile.

“Yes, you must go about your duties, Wentworth,” said Sir Walter, with a dainty wave to Edward. “But you, Captain”—he pinned Frederick with that chilly gaze once again—“must call at Kellynch next week. If my steward is not occupied with business, he will show you the collection of ship models my father was given by some admiral or another. I cannot tell you how many navy men, not to mention a viscount and the son of a baron, have offered to purchase them from me.”

“Well,” said Edward, as soon as he and Frederick were out of earshot, “how will you survive until you are able to see Sir Walter’s model ship collection?”

Frederick stopped and glared at his brother. “I sincerely hope you are jesting.”

Edward’s laugh suggested that yes, he was jesting—for the most part. “We cannot all be as independent as you, Captain Wentworth.”

Frederick sighed. “Forgive me, Edward. I know this man’s patronage means a great deal to your work. I ought to have been more civil, and yet—”

“And yet, you are who you are,” said his brother mildly, “for which I thank God daily.”

Frederick threw an arm about his brother’s shoulder. “You are a model of charity and goodness.”

His brother snorted. “Coming from you, that sounds almost like an insult. But you did not answer my question.” Edward glanced up at him with that irrepressible grin of his. “When will you call on Sir Walter to see his precious model ships?”

“There is nothing that could possibly persuade me to step foot in Kellynch Hall.”

“Nothing, eh?” Edward laughed. “I am not a believer in nothing. Ah, Mrs. Wells! How are you, Ma’am?”

Edward the bantering brother had transformed, once again, into Mr. Wentworth the courteous curate, and so Frederick found himself at leisure to wander the churchyard alone.

Rounding a hedge, he threw himself upon a bench so that he might enjoy a more peaceful, if also more somber, exhibition of flowers: the neatly tied bouquets placed against gravestones by recent visitors; the decaying remnants of garlands left long ago; and his favorite, the small, bright daisies, springing from the dirt quite without anyone’s help or permission.

Into this serene landscape stumbled the boy he had seen earlier. His flower was gone. Rather, the petals of the flower were gone. Now he held only the stem of a rose, long and thorny. Even from a distance, Frederick could see the tears coursing down the boy’s grubby cheeks.

Frederick jumped to his feet—but before he could call out, someone hurried after the boy. She appeared, at first glance, just a slip of a girl—slight of figure and barely taller than the child. But she wore the white gown and well-trimmed bonnet of a young lady just out. Besides, there was something about her stride—measured, purposeful steps—that made him think she might never have been a slip of a girl, even when she had been young enough to be called such.

“Billy? Is something amiss?”

The boy glanced up and then immediately turned away, scrubbing his face with his shirt sleeve. “I’m fine, Miss Anne, truly I am.”

Setting her basket of flowers aside, she knelt beside the boy and reached out a hand, but stopped short of touching his shoulder. Frederick narrowed his eyes. Was she afraid of the grime that her pristine white gloves might encounter if she touched him?

“I am very glad to hear you are well.”

Frederick felt a swoop of relief at her simple words of civility. Of course she was not like them. Because of her genteel appearance, he had put her in the same category as those abominable Elliots. But no, she was someone else entirely. Had she not proven this the moment she had come after the boy, her countenance alive with concern?

Why it mattered to him so much that she was different—well, this he chose not to question. Nor did he wish to examine the thrill that shot through him at the sound of her voice: a rich alto, husky and sweet. (No, this was no slip of a girl.)

“Billy, might I ask for your assistance?” Before the boy could respond to her inquiry, she went to retrieve her basket. Out of it, she lifted a single rose bud, torn from its stem. “I found this on the path, just where you were standing a moment ago, and I wondered if it might belong to you.”

The boy stared at the flower perched in her palm, and then held up his headless stem. “This was all my brother’s doing. He’s such a squalling little brat!”

Miss Anne raised her brows, and the boy’s face reddened.

“Pardon me, Miss. But he tore the flower in two! And I gave up one of my dad’s coins for it!”

“That was very unkind of your brother.”

“He ought to have known better. He knew it was for…for mum!”

“Ah.”

The boy bit his bottom lip, and then turned to stare out at the sea of graves. “It was for my mum,” he said again.

Frederick’s heart stuttered; he thought of his own mother, buried halfway around the world. He had never been to her grave, of course, but he had long promised himself that, one day, he would place flowers there. Not daisies; he doubted they grew where she now rested.

“In that case,” said Miss Anne, “there is only one thing to do: we must put the rose back together.”

Billy shook his head. “What’s that?”

“I said, we must put the rose back together.”

“But…how?”

“Here, you must hold this for me.” She handed him the rose bud before rifling through her basket of flowers. What she was searching for, Frederick could not tell, but he marveled at the assortment of blossoms she had collected: bog stars and honeysuckle, foxgloves and, yes, daisies. The other ladies’ baskets had been fuller—but full of what? A single type of flower, neatly cut, devoid of all greenery except the stems that had once anchored the flowers to the dirt. Miss Anne’s basket was a tangle of green, white, yellow, and purple.

Carefully, she tugged a long strand of grass free from a bunch of Queen Anne’s lace. “This should be sufficient,” she said, just before placing the piece of grass between her lips.

Billy stared up at her. “What are you—”

“Shhh. It is very important,” she said, the words slightly muffled by the grass, “that I perform this part of the magic precisely.”

“Magic!”

“Are you ready?”

She must have taken Billy’s gawping as confirmation, for she inhaled deeply—and then blew as hard as she could. The piece of grass wavered and dangled from her lips, but it did not fall to the ground.

“Good! It is fairy grass for sure, or it would have blown away,” she said, slipping it from her mouth. “Now I can tie the flower back together. The stem and the bud, please?”

The boy laughed—as did Frederick.

They turned and stared at him. Frederick told himself to bow and apologize for intruding—but discovered he could only stare back. Not at Billy, though.

She met his gaze, and for a second time in minutes, his heart stuttered. It must have been the heat, or the previous day’s travel, or the disorientation of being on land after so many months at sea. Yes, one of these, for his heart was merely an organ in his body, and her eyes were just eyes. Dark and luminous, curious and bright, yes—but just a pair of eyes.

When he did not look away, she blushed, and he caught himself thinking of rose-like complexions. (Damn Sir Walter and his inane comments!) Then he realized that she was not looking away either, and he wondered what she would do if he continued to stare. Turn away in embarrassment? That seemed most likely, though he allowed himself a moment to imagine her smiling at him.

The odd thing was, she did smile at him—and it was nothing like he had imagined. Admittedly, he was not one to daydream about this sort of thing; women either smiled at him (usually when he was in uniform), or they did not. That was that.

But her smile was a story—a quirk of surprise, followed by hesitant wobble, ending in a self-deprecating twist. Three smiles in one, though each version was warm and welcoming, as if she understood that sometimes people found themselves standing in unexpected places.

Turning back to Billy, she held out her hands for the stem and bud. The child, with one anxious glance at Frederick, complied with her wordless request.

Frederick refused to meditate on the nimbleness of her fingers as she tied the flower together. He forced himself to focus instead on the boy, who started blubbering the moment Miss Anne presented him with the mended flower.

How could this child smile with such gratitude for Miss Elliot yet give no thanks at all to Miss Anne?

“It is quite droopy, is it not?” she said to Billy.

He sniffled. “Do you think my mum will mind that it’s not quite right, Miss?”

“Mothers prefer things to be not quite right,” said Frederick, surprising even himself by joining their conversation, and without an invitation, too.

Once again they turned to stare at him. Anne—he could think of her only as Anne when she gazed at him with such curiosity—looked as if she might say something, so he turned quickly to Billy, hoping to stave off the dismissal he felt certain she would issue, and soon.

“Your mother,” he said, looking Billy squarely in the eyes, “would surely be proud to have such a flower, purchased and then mended with love and concern.”

The words had seemed right in his head, but felt ridiculous when spoken aloud. He half expected Billy to retort, “Who are you to know what my mum would feel?” It was, after all, what he would have demanded of an interloper.

But Billy only looked back at Miss Anne. “Do you think your mum would mind if you put a broken flower on her grave?”

For a long moment, she said nothing, instead turning to gaze upon the burial ground. She rubbed her arms briskly, as if she were cold, though the summer sun beat down upon them.

“No, Billy,” she said at last, “I do not think she would mind at all. In fact, my mother always chose the mangled flowers from our gardens, for she said they needed, much more than the perfect ones, to have admirers.”

Billy stared down at his mended rose. “It’s just that, well, my mum didn’t have a garden—at least, not with flowers in it.”

“Well then,” she said, her brisk tone at odds with her gentle smile, “there is only one solution to this problem: you must place one of the unbroken flowers”—she nodded toward her basket—“alongside the mended rose. This way, she will have her choice of flowers to admire from above.”

Billy gave an adamant shake of his head. “I haven’t any more coins, Miss, and I’m not to take charity, my dad says.”

“It would not be charity”—Frederick strode toward them, noting how the boy started, while Anne stilled at his approach—“not if you allowed me to give the coins in your stead.”

“How’s that?” Billy asked, his voice wavering between hope and resentment. “And who are you?”

This made Frederick laugh, for he much preferred Billy’s blunt question to Sir Walter’s snide civility. “Captain Frederick Wentworth,” he replied, sweeping off his hat as he bowed, “at your service. Though,” he added, as he straightened to his full height, “it would be you doing me the service, if you would make use of the flowers I am about to purchase. For you see, I feel it is my duty to aid the church, but I cannot be seen walking about the neighborhood, holding flowers like some delicate young lady, can I?”

He thought he heard Anne snort quietly at this, but he kept his eyes on Billy. “My brother would never cease to tease me,” he added.

“You have a brother too?” Billy asked, as if having brothers was a rarity in the world. “I’ll bet he’s younger than you, if he laughs at you like that.”

“In fact, he is older by two years.”

“He’s not a very good older brother then!”

Frederick smiled. “Ah, but I teased and nettled him so much when we were younger that it is his turn, now that we are grown men, to laugh at me on occasion.”

Billy’s eyes brightened. “Is that how it works?”

“If one is lucky. Now, will you promise to take the flowers for me?”

“I don’t know.” Billy shuffled from foot to foot. “Can’t you give them to someone else? What about a lady? I saw some of the other gentlemen giving flowers to their sweethearts.”

“Ah, well, I do not have a sweetheart.” He refused to glance at Anne then, though he saw her, in his mind’s eye, holding a bunch of daisies, and his heart missed yet another beat. Damnation, what was the matter with him?

When Billy continued to hesitate, Frederick dug into his pocket and pulled out several coins. “Take these, please. You would be doing me the greatest of favors, sir.”

He suspected it was the “sir” that did it. As much as he liked to think otherwise, Frederick Wentworth understood the thrill of becoming a “sir” after so many years of being seen as a child, a subordinate, a nobody to the people around him.

Billy squeezed the coins against his palm, as if this might make them truly his, before turning to Miss Anne and presenting them with a bow.

“Your generosity is much appreciated,” she said, offering a curtsy in return. Then she held out the basket. “Your contribution gives you the right to one of each color.”

Frederick wondered if Billy would protest, for the coins had only been enough to purchase three flowers at most. But the boy was past protest now; he picked through the flowers carefully, choosing the best specimens of each type. Then, after nodding his thanks, he walked along the haphazard row of graves, his gait too slow and solemn for one so young.

Anne turned away, her eyes closing briefly.

“Shall we give him his privacy?” Frederick murmured.

She met his gaze and nodded—but neither of them moved. What was the protocol for such a moment? Did he offer his arm, or did he stride ahead on his own? It had been many months since he had spent much time around women, and they had not been the kind of women who seemed to care about etiquette. (Then again, perhaps they did care, but their line of work made other concerns a great deal more pressing.)

Once, when visiting Sophia and Croft at some gathering for naval officers and their families, Frederick had offered his arm to the daughter of an admiral, and she—well, she had been too well-bred to refuse, but he had seen her shudder, nonetheless. He never knew when it would come, this revulsion to his color—not as often as he sometimes expected, yet too often to suit him.

So he hesitated to offer his arm to Anne—but only for a moment. Long ago he had learned that it was better to face pain today than to put it off until tomorrow. If Anne grimaced or turned away, so be it. She was, after all, just a woman. A lovely, captivating woman—but just a woman.

“May I escort you to your family?” he asked, holding out his arm without looking at her. He did not want to see dislike in those dark eyes of hers, even if they were just eyes.

The moment her fingers wrapped around his forearm, however, he knew he had been a coward to look away. What had she done but prove herself to be compassionate? Why did he—who hated the assumptions others made about him—keep assuming she would behave like the very worst examples of her class?

They walked in awkward silence for a few steps before he said, “You were very good with the boy”—at the same moment she said, “You were so kind to Billy.”

They glanced at each other and laughed. Yes, yes, just a laugh—but what a laugh! Soft yet spirited, like the current on a calm day.

“How do you know Billy?” he asked her, before he could say something desperate, such as “How and when may I see you again?”

He could hear the other parishioners now, just on the other side of the hedge. A few more steps, and they would turn the corner into that other world, the ordinary one, where proper young ladies did not speak of magic, and where men hoping to rise above their station knew better than to pay heed to a stuttering heart.

“Billy’s father,” she said, “is a tenant on my father’s estate.”

“Ah.” He wondered how far her family’s estate was from Monkford.

Yet before he could ask, she said, “And you said your name was Wentworth? Would that make Mr. Wentworth, the curate, the older brother you claimed would tease you for—how did you put it again?—holding flowers like some delicate young lady?”

He laughed. “Yes, Edward Wentworth is my brother—and before you accuse me of maligning a man of God, he would indeed have teased me.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling up at him, “I have suspected he has a mischievous streak in him.”

“Do you know my brother well, then?” he asked, a sudden fear striking him. Could Edward be courting her? He wracked his memory for any mention of a young lady in a letter, or in their long talk last night.

“Not very well, no,” she said, and he felt his shoulders sag with relief. “I have met him only a few times, but I recall seeing him at the cottage of an ill tenant’s wife, and to keep the spirits of the children up, he stood behind their very strict grandfather and made faces while the old man scolded them about—well, I really ought not be telling you this.”

“Of course you ought to tell me. As a younger brother, I am always on the search for a story that will embarrass him.”

“No, no! I will not be the cause of his discomfort. He is too kind a man.”

“If you have any brothers or sisters, you must be the oldest of them.”

She laughed that laugh of hers, and he let it wash over him, drowning out the sounds of the exposition around them.

“No, I am the middle of three,” she replied. Then she sighed, glancing toward the church. “I see one of my sisters with my father. I suppose I really ought to—”

He put his hand over hers, and she fell silent.

“Will you not tell me your name?” He met her upturned gaze, and all thoughts of eyes being just eyes fled. “Your last name,” he added quickly. “I know you are Anne.”

He felt his face warm. What an ass he was making of himself!

But her smile took the sting from his embarrassment. “I am—”

“Anne!” shrieked a nearby voice.

He turned to see a young lady approaching. She was fanning herself with an empty basket.

“Where have you been? You said you would help me, and I have been perishing in this heat, waiting for you!”

“Oh, Mary, forgive me, but I—”

“And you have not even given away all of your flowers! Well, who besides you would think such scrawny little blooms worth—” The young lady stopped suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she noticed him. “And just who are you?”

Her question was not that much different from Billy’s—and certainly better than Sir Walter’s; his had not even been a true question—but Frederick found himself bristling all the same.

“Mary, this is Captain Wentworth,” said Anne, as if he was a longstanding acquaintance, rather than a man of uncertain origin who had only just stumbled into her life. “Captain Wentworth, this is my sister, Miss Mary Elliot.”

“Elliot,” he said, glancing between Anne and Mary, whose fair hair and blue eyes matched another Miss Elliot’s. Only then did he remember the baronet’s comment about his three daughters. “You are Sir Walter’s daughter,” he said, looking at Anne.

“Yes, I am the baronet’s daughter,” replied Mary, lifting her chin. Then, to Anne, “Oh, do come along! Father and Elizabeth are likely already in the carriage, and I believe Lady Russell is joining us. It will be such a crush, and you know how ill I become if I do not sit by the window!”

Anne glanced up at him, her expression strangely muted as she withdrew her hand from his arm. “I am afraid I must—”

“Ah, there you are, Anne, Mary.” Sir Walter ambled over, a handsome woman of about forty on one arm, Miss Elliot on the other. “I have called for the carriage. Come along.” He did not even glance at Frederick, but the handsome woman gave him a long, piercing look.

“Oh, but sir,” said Anne, in a voice too meek to be the voice of the woman he had met in the churchyard. “Could I not just—”

“No, no, child, come along.”

“Do you not see,” said Miss Elliot, “how we are all waiting for you?”

“Perhaps,” said the older lady, smiling kindly, “Anne is worried about leaving before she has dispersed her flowers.”

“Is it any wonder she has not?” Miss Elliot pursed her lips. “Did you not understand Father’s instructions, Anne? He said to choose a bloom—one bloom—that represented our beauty. It is why I chose these.” She held up her empty basket. “Oh! I suppose I have given them all away.”

“I told her,” said Mary, “that no one would want such paltry little flowers.” Then she huffed. “And I still believe I should have had the roses, Elizabeth.”

“You are nothing like a rose, Mary.”

“Well, I am certainly not a peony!”

“And which of these flowers,” said the older lady, again smiling at Anne, “did you decide best represents you, my dear?”

Throughout the exchange, Frederick had watched her, waiting for the moment she would do something: laugh at her sisters in that rich, alto voice of hers; tell her father, in a firm but gentle manner, that she was not ready to leave; or best of all, pull a blade of grass from her basket and blow it at them in a magical attempt to make them all disappear.

Anything would have done, really—even a simple glance in his direction. Instead, she seemed to wilt before him: head bent, shoulders slumped, gaze on the ground.

“Well?” asked her father, sneering. “Will you not answer Lady Russell, Anne? Which among that mishmash of flowers were you today?”

Frederick knew he ought to stay silent, but he could not help himself. It was Edward, hovering nearby, anxious and agitated at the attention the Elliots were attracting; it was this woman, Lady Russell, who seemed to like Anne, yet who said nothing in her defense; and it was, most of all, Anne herself, now as still and inanimate as the flowers in her basket.

“She is a person, not a flower!” he burst out.

It was a day for drawing attention to himself—not his ordinary approach to life, to be sure, but then, nothing about this day had been ordinary. Usually, he preferred to remain on the edge of others’ awareness, a stalwart when he could prove his worth, a shadow when speaking would only do him harm.

In this moment, however, none of his philosophies on life seemed to matter. When she met his gaze, her dark eyes full of gratitude, he glimpsed a new way of being in the world, or at least a version of himself he liked better than the striving young man the world had forced him to become.

None of the other Elliots responded to his outburst—except in moving quickly to their carriage. Lady Russell did grace him with a frown as she took Anne by the arm, leading her away. He was left to wonder, as he watched them depart, when—if—he would see Anne Elliot again. It was probably best if he did not, for it would never work, the two of them together. Any feelings they had—and for God’s sake, it had been but an hour—would be crushed beneath the weight of her family’s cruelty and stupidity.

Yes, best if he just turned away—

“I will be just a moment, I promise!” he heard her call, as her family climbed into a large coach and she hurried back across the front lawn of the church. She came to a breathless halt before Edward, a few feet away.

“Forgive me, Mr. Wentworth, but would you ensure any parishioner who has not yet received a flower is given the chance to take one of these?” She pressed the basket into his arms before he could protest, and then added, “I know that not all the parishioners have coins to spare, but I will send along an offering of my own to make up for the loss.”

“Do you not wish to keep these flowers, Miss Anne?” Edward asked solicitously. “They are very beautiful! And you need not worry about the collection plate; we have done well enough for the parish children today.”

“No, no,” she said distractedly, glancing not at the flowers or Edward—but at him. “I…I may pick as many of these flowers as I like, in the meadow between Kellynch and Monkford.” She held his gaze. “I walk through that meadow every day, when the weather is fine enough.”

Frederick could not be certain, for he refused to look away from Anne, but he guessed Edward was smiling. “Ah yes, well then! Excuse me while I see about distributing these flowers. Frederick, I will return momentarily.”

Then they were alone—or as alone as they could be, given all the people still milling about the church grounds—and he had no notion of what to say except, “You walk often there, in the meadow, I mean?”

“Yes, very often, whenever I can.” Then she glanced back at the carriage. “I really must—”

“Anne, listen,” he said, forgetting in his haste to address her properly. “What I said earlier, about you being a person…you must think I am a fool, but what I meant was—”

“I know what you meant. Or, at least, I hope I do,” she added, looking down at her hands.

He willed her to look up at him then—and she did.

“Besides,” she said, her laugh shaky but true, “I much prefer being seen as a person.”

Chest aching, he said, “So do I.”

“Yes.”

He knew she would leave if he did not say anything else, so he cast about for some parting comment, something that would make him seem less maudlin, more like himself. “You do realize that Shakespeare often compared women to flowers.”

This provoked a smile. “He also compared them to shrews.”

He would have laughed, if he had not seen a liveried footman making a direct line for them. “The meadow,” he said quickly.

“It comes within a half mile of Monkford. You will recognize it by the—Ah, Bidwell,” she said, as the footman reached her. “Thank you for your patience. Good day, Captain Wentworth.”

Later, as they walked home, Edward said, “Nothing, eh?”

“What?” Frederick was only half attending; he was too busy glancing about, wondering where this meadow was. He saw only cottages and patches of farmland.

“You said nothing could persuade you to step foot in Kellynch Hall.”

Frederick stopped, gazing out past the last cottage on the lane. “There,” he said, pointing at the flower-dotted grass, waving in the distance. “That is a meadow.”

“And so it is,” said Edward. “I am glad to discover that a life at sea has not robbed you of a basic grasp of geography. Now, as to Kellynch—”

Frederick put an arm around his brother. “Have you never been wrong, Edward?”

“Too many times to count. But Freddy, the Elliots…”

He met his brother’s worried gaze and knew immediately what he was thinking.

“You think this is a damnable idea,” said Frederick, grinning. And it was a damnable idea, but God help him, it felt like the best idea he had ever had.

©2021 Christina Morland