"Good bye, dear! I wish you a pleasant journey!" Mary smiled and waved to her sister. Anne waved back, rather mechanically. Fifteen minutes ago she had been sound asleep in the old armchair in front of the fire in the parlor; now she found herself in the Musgrove's traveling carriage, bumping and jolting along toward the main road to Crewkerne, and then on to Bath. She was exhausted, bewildered, and utterly miserable to be leaving Uppercross in such a fashion, without having had a chance to say good-bye to anyone.

As the coach rumbled along, she could hear the voices of Mr. Musgrove's two men outside, complaining about 'another cursed trip to Bath.' I am so sorry! Anne wanted to put down the window and shout up to them. I did not mean to cause you so much inconvenience! I did not choose to make this trip! Having worked for Mary as a seamstress and nurserymaid, her sympathy for the laboring class was greatly heightened. Why do I seem to be a hindrance and a bother to everyone? I try so hard to be helpful! I do not mean to be a nuisance!

Her throat tightened, she reached into the pocket of her cloak for her handkerchief. She found instead the crumpled letter, Frederick's letter. Tremblingly, she drew it out. Her anger toward him had not survived long; in its place came an overwhelming sense of sorrow and remorse. Would she ever be able to forget what he had written? I have loved none but you ...

Oh Frederick! Anne pressed her face against the glass window of the carriage to see if she could catch a final glimpse of Uppercross; she could not. Oh Frederick, my darling one, farewell! I have loved none but you, too! Why did you not tell me of your love?

She removed her gloves and smoothed the letter on her lap, paper which his own hands had touched. It had suddenly become very precious to her. Tears filled her eyes as she read once again the searingly painful words, the cry of his anguished heart.

Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.

She pressed the letter to her heart. Oh Frederick ... weak and prideful I have been! Weak ... and prideful ... and silent! For I did never tell you of my love, either! I was so frightened and afraid of being wounded by you ... were you so, too, of me? She lowered the page, stroking it lovingly. His own pen had written these lines, his hand had folded the creases in the paper.

Frederick, I would have forgiven you. I do forgive you ... anything ... if you had only ... if I had only ... A tear fell onto the letter, causing the ink to run a little. Anne found her handkerchief and hastily blotted it. There was now time, and privacy, to carefully consider what he had written.

What I do today is from duty and honor; I alone will suffer the consequences for my foolish, unguarded behavior.

Anne winced at these words. Your behavior! What of mine? I had not one happy smile for you, not one cheerful word, beyond what was absolutely required of me! The smiles were all Henrietta's and Louisa's! I gave you no indication of what my true feelings were. You may have been foolish, but I, too, am to blame! Wretchedly to blame! For you were unguarded, I was much too guarded! Anne bowed her head in shame.

I cannot bear the thought that you will 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.

She covered her face with her hands. I did! Oh, Frederick! I have held myself back! I have waited! For there is no one else like you ... no one! I suppose I thought there would be another, but there never was. There never could be. Truly I have loved none but you!

Anne leaned back against the squabs of the seat, wiping away her tears. Already she was very weary, and she was beginning to realise she would have a new battle to fight, for heart and conscience were wrestling together over the impropriety of her grief. In a few minutes' time ... as long as it had taken him to exchange the marriage vows with Louisa ... everything had changed completely. There was now a great gulf fixed between them, and there was no way to cross it.

'Love suffereth long and is kind' ... But not our love, Frederick. I can no longer patiently wait for you, or cherish hope of any kind. It would be very, very wrong. You must go on with Louisa and I must go on ... alone ... to Bath. Anne looked at the paper in her hands. She must fold up her love for him, together with the letter, and put them both away forever. She could never love a married man. I am so sorry, Frederick.

She mopped her eyes with the handkerchief, and as it was damp with her tears, she unfolded it to find a dry spot. To her surprise, it was quite large, much larger than those she usually carried. She held it up. Embroidered in one corner were three small initials: JCB. Anne groaned. James Benwick. I have stolen his handkerchief. Her eyes traveled back to the letter, and to the cut at the bottom of the page. That poor fellow. Why did I show this to him? Now he is angry with Frederick; I have ruined their friendship, perhaps forever! Oh, Captain Benwick, please forgive me! Anne felt her face grow hot with self-condemnation. Yet in her mind she could hear Benwick speaking in his quiet way.

"But the letter was kindly meant ... and as you begin to forgive him, the anger and the pain will fade away, and you will be left with his kindness."

Anne thought about those words as she watched the passing scenery through the carriage window. He did not sound as if he bore Frederick too much ill will. He was certainly very kind to me. He could understand what I was thinking and feeling ... and he did not leave me to suffer alone. No, at least I was not alone today, thank God. She tucked the thick lap robe more securely around her. As the afternoon shadows lengthened it was growing colder. And here I am, on my way back to Bath ... and to all my troubles at home ... the very last place I want to go! Whatever shall I do?

She looked down at Benwick's handkerchief in her hands; it was full of wrinkles made when she had twisted it earlier that day. What does the future hold for me? Is there nothing left to hope for? Or do I dare to dream of finding love again, as Captain Benwick suggested? Or ... she smoothed the handkerchief on her lap as she thought, is love truly necessary? After all, Frederick married out of duty and honor. Perhaps I should consider ... She began to fold Benwick's handkerchief into a neat, but rumpled, square. But who? No, there is no one. No one else for me.

Anne had been scrupulously avoiding the last sentence in Frederick's letter, the sentence in which he wished her well and renounced all of his claims upon her heart and future. She picked up the letter, forcing herself to read the bittersweet words.

When you have opportunity to love another, my sincere wish is that you shall give your heart as completely to him as I know you have to me.

Her hands shook as she held the paper. He was abandoning her once again, this time leaving her without even a shred of hope. Captain Benwick thought that the letter had been kindly meant, but Frederick's kindness hurt as much as his anger had eight years and a half ago. He wants me to love another ... to give my heart completely ... to someone else. But I have no heart left to give, Frederick. I gave it to you. She stared out of the window once again. And I am not at all certain I want to love again. I am not at all certain I can.

Anne put Benwick's handkerchief carefully into her pocket. If I ever do marry, I must not expect to be able to love. She re-folded the letter; it also went into the pocket. But it may be that I have been wrong about the importance of love. Perhaps it is possible to maintain a marriage on the strength of a husband's love and admiration; I need only be kind, and pleasant, and personable, without needing to give my heart. She picked up her gloves from the seat beside her and began fingering them absently as she thought about this. It is not altogether inconceivable that I could marry a man whom I admire, without love.

Admiration. Anne turned the word over in her mind, reflecting on what it meant, and wondering how much of her heart would be involved in the act of admiring another. To esteem, to approve, to be pleased with. Admira .. A gentleman's face floated across her mind just then: a rather handsome, well-dressed man with the easy conversation and gracious manners of the well born. One whose glance of earnest admiration had been noticed at Lyme, even by Frederick. My cousin. "William Elliot," she said aloud, stroking the beautiful fur lap robe with her bare hand. He has been rather pointed in his attentions. I wonder ... She again directed her attention the scenery outside. No, surely not he.

All at once, Anne realised that she was very hungry. She eagerly retrieved Mary's basket from its resting place on the floor of the carriage and rummaged through its contents to find something to eat. But the questions about her future persisted; during her meal she pondered again and again her options. To live with Lady Russell? To live with Charles and Mary? To wait until her father had outstripped his income so thoroughly that there would be no alternative but to live as Mrs. Smith? Or ... perhaps ... to marry?

William Elliot would have been quite gratified had he known how much time his fair cousin spent in musing over him.

Anne's arrival late that night was quiet and uneventful. Fortunately, the family was engaged elsewhere for the evening and Sir Lucas was gone. The butler, Burton, was on hand to supervise the unloading and conveying of her trunk to her room.

Burton sniffed a little at the sudden, unexpected appearance of the younger Miss Elliot. While the new tenant was undoubtedly a gentleman and conducted himself with meticulous propriety in the care of his elder daughter, his indulgence toward this one was outrageous in the extreme! She came and went without proper escort, she was allowed to racket about the countryside at all hours, without any female companion. And tonight! Her hair was disheveled and falling down around her face, for her hood could not hide her appearance from him, oh no! She was actually wearing rumpled party dress at this late hour! Miss Anne Elliot was quite well behaved and gently spoken while at home, but this was so often the case with hoydenish women! Nothing but trouble could come of such wanton conduct; Burton was thankful he did not have to answer for it.

Anne entered her bedchamber as the men who had brought up the trunk left it. She sat down heavily on her bed, still holding Mary's basket, a little bewildered to be home again. The room was empty; all of her personal articles were still in the large bureau drawer where they had been placed nearly two weeks ago. She felt as if she had been ushered into an hotel room, such as that inn at Lyme. Then she had been excited and expectant, and looking forward to a short, but very pleasant stay. Now she felt only resignation and hopelessness. And my stay will be of an unknown duration. She stripped off her gloves and began to massage her aching temples.

Well, Father and Elizabeth, I am here! Please do not offer my room to a guest tonight or you will have a surprise! She moved over to the bureau, pulled open the drawer, and began to replace her few trinkets around the room. The Bible was taken out of the basket. "Well, my friend," she said as she held it, "you and I have seen a few things since we last were in this room. 'Love suffereth long and is kind.' I certainly have suffered ... and it does not look as if Frederick's marriage will be the end of my troubles."

She reached over to pull the bell for the maid. A bath, a little supper, and then to bed, she decided. And tomorrow will be another day. She gave her Bible a pat as she put it back in its place on her bedside table. "'Yet man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward,'" she said aloud. "Woman, too. What a day this has been."

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