'Love suffereth long and is kind.' And I am! I am doing this! Anne took a deep breath and plunged back into the crowd. All around her the guests were assembled for Mrs. Musgrove's bountiful Wedding Breakfast; once again the Great House was full of smiling, chattering family members. Anne smiled and chatted, too. She smiled at the Musgroves, and the Stickleweeds, and at every one of the Hayters. She made small talk and listened politely, nodding or shaking her head at all the appropriate points in each conversation. 'Love vaunteth not itself; love is not puffed up.' I shall be kind.

And she helped: she wrapped shawls around the shoulders of old ladies who were unable to manage it, she tied shoes and hair ribbons for children, she held babies, she located misplaced toys for toddlers, she gave simple directions to the temporary hired help. 'Love does not behave itself unseemly, love seeketh not its own'. With single-minded determination, forged from many years' practice, she faced each new challenge with firm resolve. I shall be generous, I shall be helpful, I shall be unselfish.

For the most part, this approach had been very successful; she had not felt the overwhelming awkwardness she had expected. The size and exuberance of the crowd helped; she was able to keep herself occupied and separated from all members of the wedding party; never once did she look in their direction. 'Love envieth not.' I will not be jealous. Her heart was numb toward Frederick Wentworth; for Anne, who had felt so much, for so long a time, this alone was a reason for rejoicing.

As the time neared for the customary giving of congratulatory speeches and toasts, she withdrew from the crowd a little in order to consider her options. She could remain hidden at the back of the crowded room; after all, this has not been nearly as bad as she had expected. But she could find no compelling reason to subject herself to hearing more words which would only bring pain. Deciding that it would be best to be ranked with the cowards than to push her courage too far, she joined a group of young mothers in one of the back parlors.

But after thirty minutes of making polite conversation with strangers, Anne knew she was reaching her point of exhaustion, and quietly excused herself. An hour's solitude, to collect and order her thoughts, was what she sought, but she found nowhere to go. Every room at the Great House was occupied by someone: napping children, nursing mothers, old ladies resting, and the like. She knew Uppercross Cottage would be similarly full, even her own room had been spoken for ahead of time as a retreat for an elderly relative.

This left the outdoors, which was not an altogether unwelcome alternative. She found her cloak among the many others in the cloakroom, and wrapped it securely around herself as she headed for the main door. Although sunny, it was rather cold, but not too cold for the brisk walk she had in mind. The heavy oaken door closed behind her and she headed down the stone stairs to the garden. She stepped aside to let a gentlemen pass, and as she did, he stopped and smiled in recognition. "Good morning, Miss Anne! It is a pleasure to see you again after all these years."

There had been no opportunity to greet Miss Elliot the evening before, but he had determined that she should not think ill of him and by his kindness, perhaps any ill-feelings towards Frederick would be softened.

Anne murmured a polite greeting, wondering who this gentleman was, as there was something familiar about him: a tallish, dark man, with graying hair and a beard, and an open, friendly expression. She thought she had seen him the evening before. He noticed her perplexity and grinned. "Have I changed so much? Edward Wentworth." She must not have noticed me at all last night, there is no surprise in that! he thought.

"Why Reverend Wentworth! How very good to see you!" Anne was surprised and delighted to greet her former curate and she impulsively put out her hand; before she could draw it back he had taken it in both of his. She smiled up at him. "Your sister has told us that you are lately married, and have a parish of your own. I wish you happy, with all my heart."

"Thank you. And I you, Miss Anne." Looking into her eyes, the Reverend could see that she was being kindly polite, but noticing her outercloak, he knew that she must be desiring an escape. Edward wished to acknowledge her feelings in some way, but to do so openly would be a mortification he would not wish on such a good woman. "I must say, this has been quite an event, I think it has been a trying time for all involved. Especially to those most closely concerned with the bride and groom."

His dark eyes looked directly into hers; there was a great deal of comprehension in them. Anne's composure faltered and she dropped her gaze. Edward Wentworth remembers! She let go of his hands; her smile was a little wobbly now. "Perhaps you have heard, my family has removed to Bath, permanently, it appears. It has been pleasant to be here, to visit some of my old haunts again. You must enjoy seeing so many of your acquaintance at Uppercross." Anne's courage was quickly deserting her; she must escape from this man's kind eyes. "But I must not detain you, Reverend Wentworth; I am sure you are wanted indoors. Please, give my regards to your family. Good day." She hurried off into the garden, leaving him standing on the steps gazing after her.

He had allowed her to pass with nothing further from him. He had no words of comfort for her, just as he had no words of comfort for his brother.

Edward Wentworth! Why did he look at me so? Her poise had been badly shaken, it was fortunate that she had met him on the way out to the garden. Just beyond the now-barren rose arbor, she left the paving stones for a narrow footpath into the shrubbery. Her destination was some distance from Uppercross Hall, perhaps a half-mile or so. An old bench, which long ago had been deemed too shabby for use in the formal garden, had been placed in a secluded spot in the hedgerow; it was the perfect place for private thinking.

The festive nature of the celebration had kept everyone else indoors, she heard and saw no one, the bench was unoccupied. The long walk had warmed her and had helped her recover her tranquillity. Anne sat quietly for some time, drinking in the simple sounds of the countryside she had so missed in Bath. Spring was still a way off, but the small signs of its approach were here for those who knew what to look for.

And it was cold; small patches of frost lingered in the shaded areas near the bench. Anne smiled at her absentmindedness; in her hurry to leave the Great House she had forgotten to put on her gloves. She did so now, finding them in the pocket of her cloak. She had also brought with her the small Bible, this she laid beside her on the bench, shaking her head a little as she did so. All of my memories of the wedding ceremony center on the leather cover of this book, for I do not believe I ever took my eyes from it, even once! When it came time for the vows to be recited, Anne had closed her eyes and repeated her text: 'Love suffereth long and is kind.' The Wentworths she did not look at, which is why she had been so surprised to see Edward Wentworth. She hadn't known he had been in Uppercross at all. What a kind man! He was sincerely sorry for me.

Ah well, it is all over now, and I have survived it. She smoothed her gloves as she thought. Except that I must accustom myself to calling her 'Mrs. Wentworth'... but that can be learned. She rubbed her hands to warm them. Oh botheration, that button! One of her gloves had lost a button, she had found it and had put it in the pocket of her cloak for safekeeping; she now began to hunt for it. Her hand closed instead on a folded sheet of paper, which she pulled out and began to examine. What is this? Some sort of note ... I can barely read it ... 'To A' Her brows knit in perplexity; her heart began to pound as she opened it and read the words written there. The letter began without salutation or preamble:

I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. What I do today is from duty and honor; I alone will suffer the consequences for my foolish, unguarded behavior. I cannot bear the thought that you shall likewise be so unhappy. If you, for any reason, have held yourself back on my account, please know that I regret and honor your sacrifice so lovingly made for me. When you have opportunity to love another, my sincere wish is that you will give your heart as completely to him as I know you have to me.

There was no signature. There was no need for one.

In another part of the hedgerow, James Benwick stood musing over the very unsatisfying events of the day. He had left the Wedding Breakfast not long after the toasts; there was much to puzzle over and he could not think two thoughts together in such a noisy gathering.

This entire visit to Uppercross had gone so very differently than he had expected. For one thing, he had barely thought of Fanny at all, even during the ceremony in the chapel. Instead his thoughts had been taken up with his friend the Captain, so formal and reserved, gravely taking Louisa's hand as he recited the vows. In his place I would have looked like a smiling fool, barely able to contain my joy! My wedding day, the day Fanny and I had waited so long for, would have been a day of unrestrained delight, but for him ... I do not understand it.

Benwick buried his hands in the pockets of his greatcoat and trudged down the path through the hedgerow. Harville and I have barely spoken to him this entire time! I had so looked forward to spending at least one evening in conversation together, as we used to do. In a few hours we'll be leaving for home ... God only knows when we'll see him again.

He heaved a sigh. I have not spent much time with Harville, for that matter. Hang it, here I am deserting him again, although this time he is in rather good hands. James smiled to himself as he thought about his friend. When he had left the breakfast, Harville had been conversing in quite a friendly way with Admiral George Croft. This was a very good political connection for him to have made as far as his career was concerned (should he be called back into active service), although he would not have pursued the Admiral's company for that reason. No, like most men of the Navy, Croft was most comfortable amongst his own, and had sought Harville by his own initiative.

And I, what have I done with my time here? His smile twisted. I have spent it becoming better acquainted with a very interesting young woman, of all things! I must look like a complete idiot to Harville; I'll probably get a well-deserved earful on the way home!

And when I get home, there is that business concerning Great Aunt Agatha's will and Milton's latest letter. Bah! Benwick shoved this thought aside; this was no place to wrangle about knotty legal problems. The path had brought him through some fine country; he paused where it came out into a clearing in order to take in the view. As was his habit, he spent some time searching for the right words to describe such a beautiful winter day. Captain Benwick was somewhat of a nature lover and at different times had tried his hand at expressing himself through poetry on the subject, although he was never very satisfied with his efforts. He could not come up with anything inspirational today either, although the scene before him surely provided the material for it.

I suppose the last poems I have written were to Fanny. He had likewise felt his words to be inadequate, but since they concerned his tenderest feelings for her (being written and sent to her while away at sea), they quite naturally had been lovingly and enthusiastically received. Fanny. Why have I not thought more, felt more, about her these past days? He winced a little at this; he had avoided thinking much about it. Have I loved her less because I now feel so much less pain? Am I disloyal to her because I am beginning to accept that she is gone? Other thoughts began to follow, all disquieting. Has my grief become so much a habit now? Something to hide in?

He bent down and scooped up a handful of stones, tossing them one by one into the meadow before him as he thought. My future is now so vastly different than I had anticipated. Do I dare to think of ever being happy again? I thought I could not live without her, and yet I am. These past few days I have laughed and joked and have actually forgotten. He worked his way down to the last stone; as he raised his hand to throw it, he checked himself. What was that? His eyes narrowed in concentration; he had heard something other than the chattering birds in the hedgerow. A child.

During the seven-odd months he had lived with the Harvilles, Captain Benwick had become reacquainted with the habits and foibles of young children. He genuinely liked the little Harvilles. He was not inclined to boisterous play, as was their father, yet he had earned for himself the title of Uncle Benwick, their favorite story-reader. And once his soft heart and always-available lap had been found out, his quiet solitude was often interrupted by Ellie or Tommy, wanting to pour out complaints into his ear or needing hurt feelings soothed.

What Benwick now heard, or thought he heard, was a child crying in the hedgerow. He chucked the rock and made his way down the path toward the sound. The cold weather, coupled with the remote location (not being near any house), made it a matter of some urgency. Probably one of the wedding guest's children has wandered off and is now lost. I am glad I happened along this way. He increased his pace, examining the bushes on both sides of the path as he went. The hedgerow was denser here; he drew nearer and nearer to the sound, indeed, it was now quite close by.

As he rounded the bend in the path, he readied himself to call out a friendly greeting. But the words died on his lips; he stopped abruptly in his tracks. He had found the source of the crying, but the 'child' was the very last person he ever expected to see. For here, slumped face down on a bench, was Anne Elliot, sobbing as though her heart were broken.

Dear God, what has happened? Is she injured? "Miss El ..." he began, awkwardly, wondering what to do. I would never have interrupted her privacy, except that I thought ... but it is so cold! I should go away, but ... how can I just leave her here? Gingerly he approached, calling her name softly; there was no response. As her sobs continued, he became more alarmed; all too well he recognized the cries of a heart in anguish.

Carefully he sat down on the end of the bench and reached over to gently put his hand on her shoulder. "Miss Elliot." Anne looked up at that; startled and shamefaced to be discovered by anyone. When she saw who it was, she covered her face with her hands and gave a small moan.

"Miss Elliot, are you hurt? What has happened?" She pulled herself up into a sitting position and turned her face away from him, still shaking with sobs. "May I help you?" He picked up her Bible and slid over on the bench until he was sitting beside her. "What is wrong? Please tell me." He put one of his large, folded handkerchiefs into her hands.

"I ... have ... an awful ... headache ..."

"I see." he said gently. "And, I think," he spoke slowly, "perhaps ... an ache in your heart, as well?"

"Oh Captain Benwick!" Anne turned her tear-streaked face toward his. "He ... he ... loved me ... all those years ... but he ..." She could say no more, overcome once again by her grief. She hung her head and caught sight of the book in Captain Benwick's hand. The words she had repeated over and over during the ceremony came unbidden to her lips. "Love ... suffereth long ... and is kind ..." Her tears began again.

'Love suffereth long ...' that's a scripture text. Has she suffered in love? Poor, dear girl! She is absolutely heartbroken! I ... Benwick sat helplessly beside her, his own eyes filling with tears of sympathy. What can I do? He knew well the cardinal rule among gentlemen for dealing with weeping females: never, ever, allow one of them to cling to your person. He couldn't explain what he did next, except that in his mind's eye he saw not Miss Anne but five-year-old Ellie Harville there on that bench. He slid over even closer to her, put both of his arms around her thin frame, and held her securely in a bear hug. Frederick Wentworth had done the same for him, when he brought the news about Fanny. It had comforted him far more than any words could have done.

Anne resisted a little, struggling to collect the remaining shreds of her dignity and to remove herself from his proximity. But she had not reckoned with the authority that James Benwick's own grief had given him: he would not let her go. "No, no, Miss Anne. You need to cry; go ahead and let the tears come. Trust me. I know about these things." He was silent for a few moments. "You have been holding this inside for a long time, have you not?" She nodded; his words had torn at her very soul. Years of hurt and disappointment found expression in a fresh wave of sobs, he held her as one would a small child, patting her shoulder and rocking her a little.

As he waited for her storm of grief to subside, Captain Benwick discovered he was facing another problem: the cold weather. Her pale pink dress was lovely, but thin, and her cloak was, too. She would not be ready to face the others for a long while; how could he keep her warm until she was? I can only think of one way to accomplish this, but she will hate me for it. Ah well .... Benwick took a deep breath, gathered his resolve, and pulled her now resistless, weeping form onto his lap, closing the front of his heavy wool greatcoat around them both. Anne put her head on his shoulder and heaved a great sigh. Neither spoke for quite some time. At last he broke the silence, speaking in his quiet, unhurried way.

"Do you know, sometimes it helps to talk about these things." Anne buried her face in his collar and said nothing. "You listened to me run on at Lyme and it helped so very much. It was a great relief to say some of the things which had been bottled up inside for so long." He patted her a little, then pulled a fresh handkerchief out of his greatcoat pocket and handed it to her. "Go ahead. Tell your old friend Benwick all about it, if you like."

Anne dabbed at her eyes with his handkerchief and carefully thought this over. He did confide in me, didn't he? And I didn't mind, or think ill of him. 'A great relief' he said. Perhaps ... She took a long, shaking breath. "Well, all right. I have never told anyone this. I ... I will use no names. Indeed, you would have difficulty ... verifying ... this, for almost no one knows of it."

She paused to order her thoughts, and then began her story. "Eight year years ago ... or perhaps a little longer ... I met ... a man whom I ... whom I came to ... deeply love with all my heart ... and he loved me in the same way. As Fanny Harville was to you, I think."

"Then he must have been a very remarkable man, Miss Elliot."

"Oh yes! Truly that! He was, in reality, everything I had ever dreamed of in a man! Handsome, and spirited, and brilliant, and ... and funny! He was someone I could ... this may sound odd to you ... but he was someone I could talk to."

"Ah yes. I comprehend that perfectly, Miss Elliot! It was just the same with Fanny and me." Anne could not see his face but she could hear the smile in his voice. Encouraged to find such an understanding listener, she was emboldened to go on.

"And we did! We talked for hours at a time, about, oh! everything, for so many of our opinions were in agreement! It was early summer, and we rambled all through the countryside around Kellynch and Monksford together, laughing and taking such delight in one another's company! I had never experienced this before ..."

"A kindred spirit."

"Yes!" Anne's words came tumbling out. "That's exactly right! A kindred spirit. My father and elder sister were traveling for a month or more, I cannot remember where, and Mary was away at school, so my, um, my Love and I spent most of our time this way. Now that you have been at Kellynch, Captain, you can see that we are in a rather isolated location with a very small society. There were only a few parties and dances that summer, to which we were both invited, for he was very popular -- he had only come into the neighborhood recently, to visit his brother -- and because he had not had the opportunity to apply to my father, we were careful to conduct ourselves within the bounds of propriety -- no more than two dances together, that sort of thing."

"Ah yes. But to the careful observer, perhaps not so disinterested in one another as you wished to appear?"

"Perhaps. Yes, very probably!" Her smile broke out for a moment. "But you see, no one knew about, or even suspected, our engagement! For engaged we were: very early on he had proposed, and I had accepted him. But ... when my father did come home ..." It now became more difficult to continue. Captain Benwick helped her.

"He did not approve?"

Anne nodded. "My father ... he was, oh, so cold! So offended at the thought of such an alliance! You see, my ... Love ... had no fortune, no connections, nothing to recommend himself but his own abilities, which were considerable, for he is a very capable, resourceful man! But he had every confidence of rising quickly in his career, which he later did, but at that time he had ... a position promised but ... nothing certain."

"And your father refused."

"No, not exactly. But he would not do anything for us, he would not support us in any way." Anne's throat became tight, her voice dropped to a whisper. "My rightful inheritance ... from my own dear mother ... would not be given me; he intimated that upon our marriage I would be ... cut off ... from the family. This I could have borne, but ..." A stray tear ran down her cheek. "I'm sorry, Captain Benwick, I ..."

"No, Miss Elliot, do not talk anymore. You have every reason in the world to cry."

But the relief in finally telling someone was too great. Anne dried her eyes and continued, speaking in a husky voice. "I went to a friend of our family for advice. She was my mother's dearest, closest friend, and had stood in the place of my mother since her death. She had always had my best interests at heart, more than anyone, for she had no child and I had been as a daughter to her! I was certain she would understand! I ... well, her husband had been a Colonel in the army, you see, and I thought that she would be the proper person to advise me."

"Your fiance was in the King's service?"

Anne nodded and wiped her eyes. "But her opinion was no different than my father's! In some ways, it was worse! She did not like him, she thought him headstrong and ... and heedless!" her voice broke in a sob, "she thought his character was flawed, and that at nineteen I was throwing myself away to accept him! She so feared a life of dependence and degradation for me! She felt that the engagement was wrong ... indiscreet and improper ... and her opinion never changed! She was so gentle and ... tender, even, when she spoke to me over those weeks, but ... she ... deprecated ... the connection in every light! The one I had depended upon to support me!" Anne could not continue.

"And so ... did you ... break your engagement?" Captain Benwick asked gently. Anne nodded and dissolved into tears, burying her face in his collar. "Oh Miss Elliot, I am so sorry! What a dreadful choice to be faced with, at only nineteen!"

"Not because I did not love him, Captain Benwick, but because I did!" Anne burst out. "I was afraid that it would seriously hamper him to have a wife to support so early in his career! I gave him up, yes, but for his own good! I did not want to be a weight around his neck, I did not want to be the one to hold him back! But he ... "

"I suspect he did not see it in quite that light."

She shook her head. "No ... indeed, he did not! He ... he was so terribly angry! He thought himself ill-used by me, that I had not truly loved him, that I had deserted him! I know it had that appearance, but he would not hear me! I ... I have always had trouble finding words ... especially when someone is angry with me! My father sometimes rants on at me like that ..."

"And so, along with everything else, you had to suffer his ... disapproval?" Benwick asked, rather grimly.

"Please do not hate him for it! To someone with his decided, confident temperament I could only appear weak and timid! He could not endure that I had given him up to oblige others!" Anne's face was white, her eyes stared unblinkingly before her. "I ... was a ... disappointment to him, my ... character ... was shown to be flawed, feeble!"

She hung her head. "I hurt him deeply, I know that now. In his eyes I had been disloyal and had gone back on my word. He thought it intolerable that I had been persuaded to give him up, that I had yielded to the opinion of others instead of believing ... and trusting ... in him. He left the country immediately afterward and I never saw him again."

"Oh, Miss Elliot, I ..."

Anne continued speaking. "Until this past November." Her face was deathly pale. "He came back. He came back ... and completely ignored me." A tear slid silently down her cheek, then another, and another. She did not bother to check them. "When he had to speak to me, he was coldly formal. And then ..."

For the first time, Anne lifted her face and turned to look directly at him, working herself into something like a passion. "Oh Captain Benwick! You should thank God that Fanny died! She died loving you! You did not have to live to see another take your place as first in her heart! For that is what he did! He courted another! And I had to sit by, silent and polite, listening to him make fine speeches to her! Watching as he walked with her; hearing him flatter her! He, whom I loved with all my heart! And then today ... " She covered her face with her hands.

"Have you have seen him, today?" Captain Benwick demanded. "At the wedding?" His voice sank to whisper. "Is that why you were crying when I found you?"

"Yes. He is married now." Anne raised her head and took a deep breath. "And I have accepted it. Indeed, it is a great relief to me that it is over."

"Is it? Forgive me, but ... have you been completely honest with yourself on this point?"

Anne considered his words, twisting his handkerchief between her fingers. "No, I suppose not," she admitted. " I am so confused! I am so hurt and ... and angry! I feel ... betrayed, for he said nothing of his true feelings for me, all these years! He treated me so coldly in November! How could he do so, if he still loved me?"

Captain Benwick frowned, all at sea. This made no sense. "I do not understand. What 'true feelings' do you mean? He had none."

"Oh dear!" she groaned. "I was not going to show you this, but ... today, as I was sitting on this bench, quite composed of mind, I found this in my pocket." She pulled out the letter and handed it to him without further comment.

He took it and unfolded it very slowly. So great was his sympathy for her that he was a little afraid to see what it said. This letter, apparently, was the cause of her distress. When he finished reading, his face was as pale as hers.

"Dear God in Heaven. Frederick Wentworth."

Anne gasped; her eyes met his in an anguished glance. "Yes. Wentworth." He smiled sadly at her reaction; he could barely speak. "I recognize the writing, you see. I was his First Officer for three years; I know his hand as well as my own." He heaved a great sigh. "Wentworth ... and ... Louisa ... and ... November ... and the accident at Lyme." He closed his eyes and tightened his hold on her; Anne clung to him as a child would cling to a parent. "Dear merciful God" he murmured; " what a tragic ... circumstance. You are ... all ... my friends. And all ... unhappy."

"Surely not all ... not Louisa!"

"Even Louisa. Wentworth does not love her. He says here that he married her out of duty, but I doubt she knows it. What will be her feelings when she finds he does not care for her?"

"Oh." Anne closed her eyes wearily and laid her head back down on his shoulder. "I had not thought of that." Her strength was spent; there were no more tears left. "Yes," she whispered; "poor Louisa. She loves him, too. May God help us all."

Benwick's mind was bursting with unasked questions and observations, for now he saw the reason behind his friend's formal, stoic behavior these past days: all the pieces of the puzzle fit. But there was nothing he could say which would not bring her more pain. She said nothing; he kept silent. After a while, Anne's breathing became more shallow and rhythmic. He turned his head to look at her. She had fallen asleep from grief and exhaustion.

James shifted his position a little, wondering how much time he had spent sitting on this bench, hidden away in the hedgerow. Not that it matters! How many hundreds of hours have I crouched or stood in some awkward or uncomfortable position, waiting for orders? To sit holding this poor, sweet girl is no trouble at all. Harville will just have to wait.

He looked over at Anne again. The hood of her cloak had fallen back; he studied the waves of her hair, so attractively adorned with satin flowers; his eyes followed the path of the pink ribbon woven through her curls. Fanny had never worn a fragrant gardenia in her hair as Miss Elliot did; he wished now that she had.

Poor Miss Elliot. What a gentle, noble little soul! It is no wonder Frederick loves her! If he compared all women to this one, I can well understand why he was never captivated by any other. And she has honored me with her confidence, with a story she has told no one else.

He pulled his greatcoat more tightly around them both. She seemed to be keeping warm enough; there was no need to wake her. He gave her shoulder a little pat. Sleep on, dear girl. Sleep and forget. You will hate me when you wake up, but I am glad I was here for you when you needed a friend.

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