Sometimes, in the quiet hours, she wondered – in between the words, the forced silence, the missing smiles – whether it was all worth it. Being with him gave her the experience required to write; but being without him, empty and alone, was the source of her despair. And it was that well of despair from which she continuously drew to fuel her art.

She knew that Jane Austen would never have become the Ms. Jane Austen had it not been for her broken heart. Nothing would have induced her heart to speak so freely, so honestly and ironically had it not been for the cracks through which her words escaped from. But did it really require such an act of brutal, cruel force to break the binds chaining her words?

For before, she wrote with the words accompanying her through her search for love. Yet now, she writes knowing these same words will be her companion as she continues her search for absolution. She had asked Cassandra, darling Cassandra, what her price would be to return Robert to her side. Now she knew the extent of the sacrifice she would lay upon the altar to restore Tom to her.

Now she knew the pain that would prevail to her dying days, this same pain that began its throb all too familiarly in her breast, ending its journey by smiting her soul. Her father once said of poverty being the death knell to the spirit. Now in her independence and somewhat comfortable situation, she understood the prudence in his words.

Without the means to live, she would never have the means to write. And it was her words that brought darling Tom back to her. Mr. Darcy carried his poise, kind Knightley understood his gentle nature, Edward Ferrars knew of Tom's want for a quiet life… yes, it was these words that sprung from her emptiness and loneliness, these words stabbing her repeatedly bringing grief which brought her small relief at the same time.

And as she inched her pen decisively closer to the parchment, she smiled. Yes, of course it was worth it. Of course the beauty in this pain would be worth it. She has seen him and know of him and his circumstance. She has spoken to a man like an equal and had him regard her as his chosen. She has loved and been loved. She gave not affection without reciprocation. And for that, for the pain that was borne, her art flourished.

Now she could meet Tom once more, creating another Tom in another Bath. Another woman and another man. Another love, but with such passion and consistency it could be not be mistaken for anyone else.

Captain Wentworth was born from his constant heart, and she would endeavor to recapture her Tom – hers even, hers still, as he does not remain by her side. In this emptiness and loneliness, she remains ever so faithful, ever so determined to stand by her pen and the phantom it creates. And when she rereads those lines which belong only to him and her, she's not so empty or alone anymore.

I was always intrigued by Persuasion and how Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot seems like the story that could have been for Jane and Lefroy. Hopefully this brings this point across. Also, the idea of passion for art and how one does connect with the other yet they still have a kind of replacing quality. Can you have a happy heart which writes of love as well as an empty and broken heart that sings of love?