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He learned patience, at sea, because he had no control over the wind. And he learned surrender, because he could not determine when he himself would take his last breath, he could only be sure of fulfilling his duties until then.
He learned these virtues, if it were not too vain to call them such, but only in relation to himself.
When the subject is Anne, neither will nor reason seem able to reach him.
The Benwicks arrive for a visit on a mild May day and the group offers their thanks for the bright sun and the cloudless blue sky by walking together through the countryside, though of course it was not easy to direct James out of the living room, after he had already begun reading a slim volume of prose Anne had given him because she thought he might enjoy it.
There are three months until Anne’s birthday, and Frederick finds himself in possession of a plan but uncertain of the means to realize it. “I know you are a great reader of verse but have you ever tried your hand at writing poetry?” he asks his friend.
James frowns. “Certainly, I have tried.”
“Good, good!” Frederick claps him on the shoulder. “Then, perhaps,” he says, voice low, so as not to be overheard, “you might be able to advise me how one should go about- I mean what work must be begun-”
“Yes?”
“To write.”
James pulls up short and stares at him. “You would like to write?”
“I may wish to try.” He clears his throat. “You see, in August, for Anne’s birthday-”
James puts up a hand. “Say no more,” he says. “I must warn you, however, if your aim is to seek my guidance, then perhaps the better question for you to ask me is: have you had any success in writing?”
“Have you?”
“No, I fear not. Despite all the pages I scribbled upon, I have never yet composed so much as a couplet that pleases me.”
“Hmm. But perhaps a single line here or there has met with your approval?”
“For that, I will take credit.”
“So why not say that perhaps it is only a matter of time until a favorable couplet appears?”
“You are a good friend,” James says, “to offer encouragement even as you seek a mentorship for yourself. I thank you for your confidence in me but I still feel as though any advice I could give you might as easily lead to harm as good. Still, I can offer you a suggestion, if you wish.” Frederick beckons with a hand. “You have a talent for memorization.”
“If I put my mind to it.”
“And recitation.”
“I can attempt a rousing speech, if one is required.”
“Well, then, write, by all means, and see how you find it, but consider that perhaps you will discover words already written to be most to your satisfaction. You give them to her, not as your own, you see, but as those that best speak for you.”
“And she would not find that lacking?”
“I should think that no one who loves poetry would.”
They continue their stroll, their attentions shifting from each other to the women before them. Louisa has a pet, now, a large herd dog, and Frederick watches the animal race ahead of her and Anne, to make sure the way before them is clear, before returning to his mistress’ side. Louisa appears to walk swifter and steadier when her hand rests upon the shaggy creature’s head. “You did well, to find her such a companion.”
“Whatever soothes her also brings peace to me.”
When Frederick looks at Louisa it is with gratitude for her recovery but also, always, on his side, with some measure of shame. How could he have ever imagined that he could forget Anne simply by ignoring her, by giving his attention, as much as he could, to someone else? He should have known better.
“You seem troubled,” Anne says, after they bid their guests farewell. She slips her hand into his. “What worries you? Is there a remedy?”
“I am always glad to see our dear friends.” He lifts her hand to his lips so that he may kiss her fingers. “But Louisa is also a reminder of my past mistakes.”
“Do not be so unforgiving to yourself. You are as good a man as I could ever hope to know.”
It would be both a folly and a sin to imagine himself any better than other men. And yet he has no hesitation in calling her the best of women.
He watches Anne from the doorway to the music room. She sways at her piano, her fingers rushing back and forth across the keys. She remains oblivious to his presence, captivated by the music she plays from memory. When the song finishes, he claps, and she turns to him, color rising into her face.
“I didn’t know you were here! How long have you been-”
“Long enough to hear you sing.”
“Oh!” She covers her face with her hand and shakes her head.
“Nonsense,” he says, crossing the room to her side. “I love to hear your voice.”
She drops her hand and raises her face to him, but her eyes are wet. “No, no, no, no, no,” he murmurs, sitting beside her on the narrow bench and putting his arms around her waist. She leans into him, rests against his chest. “What is it? I swear to you, I like nothing better than to hear you play, to hear you sing.” He curves a hand around the back of her head, strokes his thumb over her soft hair, and rocks her in his arms. “Why should that make you sad?
“Not sad,” she says, pulling away from him just enough so that their gazes may meet. “Never that!”
“Then what?”
She holds his face between her hands. “It was all too much, for me, in a moment, too wonderful,” she whispers.
“What do you mean?”
She kisses one corner of his mouth and then the other. “If someone had ever told me, after I was fourteen, and grieving one loss, or, again, after I was nineteen, and suffering through another, that I could be so happy-”
“Yes?”
“To share a home with you, and for you to like to listen when I play-”
Frederick smiles. “These are the requirements for your wellbeing? I feel quite confident, then, that I can keep you to your satisfaction for a long, long time.”
“I hope so.”
“You do not trust me more than that?”
“Of course I trust you, but neither of us knows when you may be called into service.” She takes a deep breath. “I want you to know that I have talked to Sophy and, should you be needed elsewhere, I intend to go with you, as she does with the Admiral.”
“Even though you would not be able to bring your piano on board?”
“I could still sing.” She nuzzles his cheek with the tip of her nose. “Think of the shanties to learn.” He laughs and holds her tighter. She smiles back at him. “Will you sing with me, now?”
“Of course. What shall it be?” She begins to play a tune he recognizes. Ah, “Come, Loose Every Sail to the Breeze”.
Together, they sing words that somehow comfort rather than taunt.
“Hoist every sail to the breeze
Come, shipmates, and join in the song
Let’s drink while the ship cuts the seas
To the gale that may drive her along
Ye sailors, I’m bound to my love
Ye sailors, I’m bound to my love
I’m done with the toils of the sea
Ye sailors, I’m bound to my love.”
“I wanted to surprise you, for your birthday.”
Anne runs a gentle hand across the front of the battered and stained leather bound journal he has placed on the table before them. “And you have.”
“Let me explain,” he says, sitting down in the nearest chair and pulling her into his lap.
“Please do,” she says, arranging herself to her comfort and then motioning that he should proceed.
“First, I tried to write you a poem, but I quickly learned that is not an endeavor to be conquered in even a few months time, at least not for me. And then I thought, as James Benwick advised me, that I might recite for you a poem that would be- something I would’ve wished to have written myself, for you.”
“I see.”
“But, and I read dozens of sonnets and odes, mind you, perhaps a hundred and more, nothing that I read seemed enough.”
Anne rests her hand over his heart. “I kept the letter you wrote to me that led to our reconciliation and I need no other proof. What you wrote to me there is so dear that I shall never require another declaration.”
“But will you allow me to supply another?”
“Since you seem so determined.”
“This book was the log of my travels. I realize, now, that my ability, when you ask me questions about places I once visited, to describe scenes filled by the precise details that delight you, is thanks to its notes. I wrote these entries with a secret vision. They were not only for my own recollection, but also to place these sights and days before your own eyes, should you ever wish to share them.” He bows his head. “All the while, in my heart, we were never apart.”
“Believe me.” Anne intertwines her fingers with his own. “Your oath is also mine.”