For Helen, on her birthday.
To prove that one can never grow too old for love,
although one may be prove to be too young.

The night fell darkly upon the Laconia, despite the swinging lamps about the deck, hanging from prow and stern and the occasional hand; despite the solitary candleflame within the new Captain's quarters. The moon refused to shew herself -- as though she knew the crime the latter had committed against her sister, Aphrodite, and so hid her own face in anger. The sailors moved quietly in that brooding shadow, which was born as much from nature as from their Captain; only the wind, indifferent to the men below, intent solely on its own game, dared to creak the rigging and shove erratically against the sails.

The Captain, Wentworth by name, newly prosperous from a raid upon a French Frigate, where he had been armed with no more than his wits and an old sloop, the Asp, was not a harsh master, like so many of his brethren. He stooped to smile upon occasion - but tonight did not number among them, and the crew, anxious to please, did not require them, leaving Wentworth to his solitary ruminations, and whispering below-decks amongst themselves.

He was young, he was brilliant, he was hearty and headstrong. The Captain was the stuff of legends: an Irishman, a gentleman, a good master and a ruthless privateer. It was on account of that gud fer nuthin they'd a picked hup yestere'en, Dick Musgrove, that'd put the Cap'n in a sour mood. He'd a put any body in rough waters, another chuckled, with a sidelong look. But that Dick were from Somersetshire, has he'd a remind any body what came near him. But the Captain was a seaman through and through - he'd a not long fer land when there was seas to be had! No, said the eldest, laying his finger along his nose, there'd be a woman involved, and no mistake.

So deep within the belly of the Laconia the men crossed themselves for fear, while above them the Captain paced the small length of his room in time to the ship's rocking lullaby.

His quarters were neat, as befit his character, although not poorly kept, as befit his wealth. The candle was tallow, true, but it shone warmly through the room, lighting on the handsome maps and polished small instruments of his trade. Ink and paper lay abandoned in that glow; a newly trimmed quill shivered in his wake.

'Dearest Anne,' he had written - but no more. 'Dearest Anne,' as though the conjoining of those two words encompassed all his heart. He had not got beyond them - no sooner had they been written than his hand had trembled, and he rose to pace anxiously about his cell. 'Dearest Anne' - too intimate too soon, not expressive by half. Had he dared to write more than those two words he should have named her 'sweetest Anne,' 'loveliest Anne,' 'beloved Anne,' 'my Anne.' His dark eye fell upon the paper, his heart leapt; his voice caught, 'Dearest Anne.'

He could hesitate no longer. Taking quill in hand, he added these lines:

How shall I begin? I can keep silent no more. You haunt my dreams; you fill my days. There is not a moment gone by that I do not think of you; that I am not turning, expecting to find you - too good, too excellent creature! - beside me! In agony I have waited, in hope I address you. Say not that two years has altered your situation as it has altered mine! Say not that you are wed or betrothed - I could not bear it. Say but that your heart has remained constant, as mine has. Say but that one thing only has changed, and that your cruel decision those two years ago. Instruct me how I am to win you! I have won my fortune through war - but you have vanquished me. Tell me by what means I may persuade you to accept me - and I shall do it. My dearest, loveliest, Anne, for so you shall always be, I await your answer. You hold within the palm of your hand my poor heart, as you held it two years ago and have held it ever since - I beg you to exchange my heart for yours, and make the happiest of men, your faithful,

F.W.

There. It was done. Short, graceless perhaps, but sincere. He leant back in his chair, his breath sighing from his lips. It was written, yet his heart felt no less full for its outpouring. His love welled constantly - he was incapable of even momentary indifference. But, the thought came unbidden, although he was sure of his affections, how should they be received by her?

Within his eye, Wentworth pictured Kellynch-Hall, saw his Anne walking gaily among the gardens - perhaps fondling a golden ring upon her hand, perhaps smiling at another man! - receiving the letter. She would laugh, if she were kind, and consign his heart to the interminable fire. She would send word by an intermediary - her father, or that Lady Russell - if she were cruel. She would send word herself, and sign it Mistress.

'You haunt my dreams, you fill my days.' She would read that aloud to Miss Elliot, who would sneer. 'Too good, too excellent creature!' That to Sir Walter, who would grimace. 'You have vanquished me,' to Lady Russell, followed by her sweet voice saying, "Thank God I am rid of Wentworth!"

The Laconia turned, shifting with the capricious wind, fluttering the candle, searing a rivulet down its side, running like a seal over the corner of his letter, pooling over 'st Anne.' The Captain's fingers moved restlessly, balling into a fist. She had refused him. Lesser men had been refused and had not stooped to beg. He should not either. His eyes fell once again upon what he had written - 'too good, too excellent!' He laughed. What a fool to believe that the name Wentworth meant anything to her! Another, more worthy man, had doubtless seen her goodness, her excellence - and she, no longer nineteen - and he with more than himself to recommend him....

A swift movement, and the candlelight was snuffed. Now the dim, distant light of the lanthorn alone silhouetted the proud figure against the thick window. The Captain stood there several minutes, he could not say how long, hands clasped behind his back, his back to his outpoured heart. The wax solidified across her name, melted it into the desk, imprinted it as surely as her name was imprinted on his soul, her beauty on his self, her goodness on his mind.

Someone called the hours, the rigging strained, the floor creaked, the ocean swelled, the night swept away, seared from the bruised horizon that glowed as hotly as the flame Wentworth held to the letter - its corner alone spared. And with the red dawn, the sailors who had slept the night stirred to take their brothers' places, to glance significantly at the angry sky, to lay their fingers against their noses. That day it rained - light seabreeze foam that glistened in the hair and froze the ears and fingertips. And all day, the Captain held himself squarely, resolutely, determined to ignore the elements which strew themselves across his fine cheek as though they were tears.

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Copyright © 2000 by Emily C. A. Snyder. All Rights Reserved.

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