Frederick was exceedingly nervous.

He told himself we wasn't. He insisted he had no reason to be. He knew he should not be. He endeavored to convince himself not to be.

And yet.

He was.

When An-Miss Elliot–Frederick corrected himself, for he was still working on correcting her name in his mind, yet the habit of over eight years would not yield without a struggle–when she had missed the Musgroves' previous dinner party to stay at the cottage and nurse her injured nephew, Frederick had not realized how relieved he had been at her absence. He had thought her presence or absence was of no consequence to him, and he had managed to convince himself of that at the time. He had enjoyed that dinner party immensely and had managed to ban thoughts of her from his mind for that evening.

Since he had returned to Kellynch, thoughts of the past haunted Frederick. He felt a fraud, living as he was in her home. Though his sister and brother-in-law now rented the place, Kellynch would always be Anne's home in Frederick's mind. It was an odd sensation for him to return to the place he had not seen in so long. The memories of pleasurable afternoons spent in the lofty halls were now tainted with the still-lingering pain of rejection and separation. Therefore, Frederick had been relieved to escape Kellynch and spend the evening at Uppercross. Once he found that Anne would not attend the dinner, he had been even more relieved. He had been spared her presence at the previous dinner, but he knew he could not escape facing her forever.

And now that he was faced with her nearly certain presence this evening, Frederick was more anxious than he would ever admit.

This diner would not be the first time he had seen her. They had been in the same room that morning, and he had glimpsed her briefly while she breakfasted with her sister. Frederick had thought that once their first meeting was out of the way, he would be free. That first chance meeting should have cleared his spirit of the anxiety attending seeing her once again. They had once more been in the same room again. Should not that be enough to put his haunting thoughts to rest?

Frederick had purposely avoided taking notice of Anne in the breakfast room that morning. He was convinced he had seen a changed Anne, for often the eye sees what the heart wants to see. Frederick had told himself that the quiet, solemn woman in the breakfast room was not the girl he had fallen in love with. He knew the girl he had loved had never truly existed except in his mind and in his heart. Over the years he had decided that Anne had shown him that she was not the girl he had thought her to be, and it was this changed Anne that his heart hoped to find once more. He believed the Anne that now resided at Uppercross Cottage to be the weak-hearted, changeable girl who had given him up to please others, and he wanted to believe he did not love her. He would not love her.

And yet.

As Frederick had left the cottage to go shooting with Charles, her face had constantly been in his mind. A specter of the woman he had seen that morning haunted him throughout the whole hunt. Frederick had tried desperately to see the changes. He wanted to find the ways in which her bloom had faded and to see that she was not the girl whose smile had besieged him for eight long years. He told himself she was no longer worth his attention. He craved the closure of knowing that the girl he had loved no longer existed.

However, Frederick soon found that closure was elusive. Anne's image was the only thing on which his mind could dwell. Frederick had been preoccupied the entire day with convincing himself that he no longer cared for her, but ever since he had first glimpsed her in the breakfast room, he had not succeeded in putting her out of his mind.

And now he was faced with dining in the same room as her. He must pass at least a few hours in her presence this evening. The thought of it nearly made him sick with all the confused and conflicting emotions it brought on. How could he sit across the table from her and act as if he did not know her at all? How could he dine with her and yet say or reveal nothing of the past? How could eight years' worth of bitter disappointment and pain be concealed behind a mask of indifference and civility?

Frederick paced back and forth across his room at Kellynch. He was desperately trying to rid himself of the agitation brought about by the prospect of dining in the same room as Anne. He told himself he was indifferent. He told himself she had changed, that she was no longer the beautiful, bright Anne he had loved. He told himself he was still angry with her, which indeed he was. How could he be indifferent when he was still so resentful? He told himself it did not matter, he must be indifferent. He told himself he would be indifferent, no matter how difficult it may be. He told himself any number of things, but it was all to no avail.

Nothing could quiet the turbulence of his heart.

Throughout the dinner, Frederick did his best to take no notice of Anne. He paid all his attentions to the Miss Musgroves and forced himself to revel in their obvious attentions to him. They were sweet-tempered, happy girls, and Frederick could not help but contrast their ready smiles and laughter with Anne's sad, quiet face. He knew he would do well to fall for either one of the Musgrove girls, so he attempted to focus his attention on pleasing them.

However, consciously or not, Frederick's mind and heart kept returning to the woman across the table. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, his eyes would travel to her face of their own accord. He tried to resist her pull. He had determined to pay her no notice, but his heart had other ideas. He was not strong enough to keep himself from noticing her. Despite his best efforts, each time he looked over, his eyes seemed to linger a few seconds longer than the previous time.

Frederick endeavored to keep thoughts of Anne out of his mind, but he could not. Consequently, without his noticing it, small references to their past bled into his conversation. The first time was a small slip when he mentioned an event of eight years ago. His voice caught when he said it, and though he recovered before anyone else noticed, he chastised himself for his weakness and resolved not to speak of that time again.

But he could not help it. He next mentioned the year six, when he had first set sail on the Asp. From then on, Frederick was left defenseless against the inevitable pull of the past. His conversation dwelt upon that time, and he purposely made much ado about the dangers he had faced in setting sail on the Asp. Though he attempted to revel in the horrors expressed by the Musgrove girls at the thought of poor gallant Captain Wentworth downed in a sloop and pulled to the bottom of the sea, it was not their reaction which interested him.

He stole a quick glance at Anne and saw her shudder. She was clearly trying to conceal it, but he caught her reaction when no one else did. Frederick wanted to believe that he had not told that story to wound her, but he feared he had. Though it was exceedingly ungentlemanly, he could not help but be silently pleased that her shudder was for him. The thought of his death still caused her to shudder. For some reason, which he would not allow himself to dwell on, that thought pleased Frederick. He smiled slightly, but in the very next moment he regretted it. However she may have injured him in the past, it was not fair for him to intentionally wound her now. He must forget her entirely. He must not think of her at all, charitably or otherwise. He should not care how she would react to his tales of danger and doom. He should seek neither to wound nor please her. He should not be referencing the year six at all, and yet he had already referenced it countless times this evening. Why?

What power did Anne have over him such that it prevented him from enjoying the company of two pleasant young ladies, each of whom were each clearly desperate to win his heart? Why, when he was determined to be indifferent, did he still find himself so bitter? Why did he intentionally say something to cause her pain, and then when his blow had landed, why did he instantly regret it so much?

Why could he not think of anyone but Anne?

Frederick had no answers to these questions.

For the rest of the dinner he attempted to distract himself by entertaining the Musgrove girls, but they could never be a complete distraction. The more attention he paid to them, the more his mind unconsciously contrasted them with Anne, and the more they were left found wanting. It angered and frustrated Frederick that he could not fall for them, for what right had Anne to become the measurement by which he viewed all other girls? She had given him up and in so doing had proved herself fickle and unworthy of his attention, let alone his heart. At least, so he attempted to tell himself.

Frederick left the dinner in low spirits. Though he had laughed and talked along with his company, his demeanor at dinner had been a façade. He wanted to move on, to forget Anne, to fall in love with another, to be completely indifferent. He wanted to believe she had changed so much that her power over him was gone. He wanted to be in control of his own heart instead of entrusting it to the care of the girl who had broken it, but he could not. The dinner had proven to him that it was impossible for him to forget her. There was only one explanation for his unconscious references to the year six and his interest in her reaction to his story about the Asp. Only one thing could explain why her face had been in his mind every instant since he had seen her that morning. There was only one way to account for his anxiety and nervousness before the dinner and to explain his decidedly ungentlemanly conduct during it.

To his eternal frustration, Frederick was at last forced to admit the truth to himself. Despite his better judgment and all his attempts to forget her, the girl who had taken his heart all those years ago and dashed it to pieces was, regrettably, the same girl who still held his heart today.