Beginning, Section II

Part One

Posted on 2013-02-13

"Extraordinary! A 20-gun sloop, and an old one at that, hardly able to survive a mild drizzle, taking a new-built 40-gun frigate. Out-gunned two to one, and out-manned almost two to one, and yet you took her with minimal loss of life on either side."

"My crew and I took her, Admiral. I was not alone. Every member of my crew, from the youngest powder monkey to my first lieutenant, Mr. Harville, behaved in this action with a gallantry that makes me proud to serve with them."

"Quite so, quite so," replied the admiral. "And it speaks well of you, Wentworth, that you make such a point of giving your men the proper credit." Turning to the crew, assembled on the foredeck in their best uniforms, he said, more loudly, "All of you men have made me as proud as you've made your captain. It is an honour for a captain to serve with men such as you, and an honour for an admiral to have crews like you sailing under his flag."

The men heartily cheered their gratitude at the admiral's compliments. Turning back to their Captain, he said, "Wentworth, the greatest pleasure a commanding officer can have is to reward excellent performance. The last two years you've done fine work, and with a ship that could barely stay above water. I remember what you said when I gave you the command. 'If I can just keep the Asp afloat, sir, I'm sure she'll be the making of me.' And so she has. Now that you're back in port, I'm ordering you not to set one single foot on shore." He paused for effect, and then went on. "Not until you've shifted that epaulette from the left shoulder to the right, for it's my great honour to inform you that you've been made post. And with this promotion from your former rank of Master and Commander, you're entitled to be addressed as 'Captain,' not merely as a courtesy, but as a right."

Frederick Wentworth's chest swelled with pride at reaching the goal he'd set for himself when he first entered the Royal Navy as a 13-year-old midshipmen a dozen years earlier. This was everything he had hoped for when he first donned a Naval uniform.

Everything but someone with whom to share his joy.

Dougal MacMiann, the Earl of Eucoir, resplendent the regimental uniform of a Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Highlanders, popularly known as the Black Watch, was staring lasciviously at the petite, lovely, but somewhat woebegone-looking girl seated to the side of the assembly room. In his 50's, the Earl was a very large man, well over six feet, and stout, but in a way that suggested great power and strength rather than obesity. His face was called homely, but only by people making some effort to be polite, for, in point of fact, his face was horrifyingly ugly, the features somehow both porcine and reptilian. His smile, on the comparatively rare occasions he did smile, gave the impression of the enjoyment of some secret evil rather than happiness or good humour.

In a strict sense, he was no longer entitled to wear the uniform of the Black Watch, having resigned his commission a year or so earlier over some unspecified offense about which few knew the real details. On the other hand, no one, not even the full colonel commanding the local militia, was likely to object to a Peer of the Realm, the holder of one of the oldest noble titles in Scotland, wearing anything he wanted.

"Elliot," he said to his companion, in a Scottish burr so thick it could barely be deciphered, "who's that temptin' armful a-sittin' there? That wee, dark-haired lassie with the beautiful, sad eyes? A-wearin' that white muslin gown with the blue embroidery on the sleeves. Isn't she shinin' every other woman in the place down, though?"

"Ah, yes," replied William Elliot, the heir to the baronetcy currently held by his uncle. "That, M'Lord, is Miss Anne Elliot. The middle daughter of my uncle, Sir Walter."

"Yer cousin then," replied MacMiann. "So you c'n introduce us?"

"I'm afraid not, M'Lord, for I've never met the lady myself. I know of her only by reputation. She is said to be the sweetest, gentlest, and most intelligent of Sir Walter's three daughters. Musically talented, fluent in several languages, prodigiously well-read. And based on my own observation, she is, as you say, by far the best-looking, though some seem to prefer the elegant, patrician looks of her older sister, Elizabeth, to Miss Anne's more delicate prettiness. Certainly, she puts her younger sister, Mrs. Charles Musgrove, quite in the shade. Mrs. Musgrove's the rather flighty one by the punch bowl with her husband."

"And why have y'never met?"

"Since my marriage, the Baronet and I have not been on speaking terms. When I first met him and Miss Elizabeth Elliot in London some years ago, she set her cap for me. Since I was destined to inherit Kellynch Hall, she was quite determined that she would be similarly destined to become its mistress. And Sir Walter was no less determined. It was all simpering, and invitations to visit, and one thing after another. Quite an effort to be polite in the face of such unwelcome attention. They cut me off when I married someone they regarded as too low-born, however wealthy she may have been, for a future baronet. Which quite suited me. In fairness to myself, what I needed at the time was money, not the promise of some insignificant title. Frankly, had the legal business you engaged me to undertake not brought me to the area, I'd have never set eyes on Kellynch until such time as it would be within my power to hire an auctioneer to bring the alienable portions to the hammer."

He looked away from the Earl to his fetching cousin and added, "I must say, though, that if I'd met Miss Anne before I met my wife, and if she'd been part of the bargain instead of her older sister, I'd have probably valued the title and property more than I did at the time."

"How d'you know so much about her if you've never met?"

"An old schoolfellow of Miss Anne's is married to a close friend of mine. When I mentioned to her how intolerable her father and sister were, she made a point of telling me that at least one Elliot was very different from the rest of her family."

"Ach, I know precisely the kind y'mean. Them as places value on nothin' but rank and prestige. But, I imagine an earl, and a war hero, would be just grand enough for 'em. I'll have to make the Baronet's acquaintance when he and his eldest return from London at the end of the Season. Take a good look at Miss Anne, lad, for she won't be 'Miss' Anne much longer. I mean to make that chit the next Countess of Eucoir. She'll take m'name, m'title, m'bed, and soon'll bearin' me wee bairns."

"You're a decisive man, M'Lord," said his young companion.

"In matters of the heart, Elliot," replied the burly Scot, "to say nothin' of other parts of the body, it pays to be decisive. Particularly at my time o' life, with no heir to whom I can pass on m'title."

With that he walked over to the Colonel of the Second Somersetshire Militia, and demanded the introduction that William Elliot had not been able to provide. Outranking the Earl, at least in a military sense (supposing the Earl had still actually been in the Army), the colonel was nevertheless intimidated by noble titles, and even more intimidated by the Earl's imposing size and build. He acquiesced immediately.

The introduction made, the Earl requested a dance.

"I thank you for the offer, M'Lord, but I have no thought of dancing tonight," replied Anne.

"Odd thing, that," growled MacMiann, obviously displeased. "Why come to a ball, then, if you've no' any intention o' dancin'?"

"I came to keep my friend, Lady Russell, company," said Anne, nodding toward the rather handsome, middle-aged woman seated next to her.

MacMiann was unused to not getting his way, but, in true military fashion, decided it was best not to press his attack so early in the battle.

"Just as y'say, then. Just as y'say. But, I hope, now that we've met, that I might be permitted to call on ye durin' m'stay here in the vicinity."

"That, too, must be up to Lady Russell, since I'm staying with her while my father and sister are on holiday in London."

Appealed to by the Earl, Lady Russell said, "Any friends of Anne are always welcome in my home, M'Lord."

MacMiann smiled pleasantly, or as pleasantly as was possible for a man with such decidedly unpleasant features, and walked away. The older woman had, on the whole, not been particularly inviting, granting something less than full-throated permission, and had, moreover, neglected to inform him of where exactly she lived. Easy enough to find out, of course.

But she shouldn't have put him to the trouble.

As MacMiann walked away, not quite stomping, but clearly not happy, Anne could not help recalling meeting another military officer at a similar event in this very assembly hall, a bit more than two years earlier. An officer of decidedly more pleasant manners and decidedly more pleasant appearance. No noble titles. No wealth. No exalted connections. But everything Anne could ever want in a man.

"Odious person, even if he is an earl," said Lady Russell, her general regard for high rank and noble titles overcome, in this case, by the personal qualities of the title-holder.

"Still," she went on, "he does make a good point. Why come to an assembly such as this, Anne, if you've no intention of dancing? You've turned down any number of offers from other eligible men, men far more pleasing the His Lordship."

"I no longer seem to have the taste for it," Anne replied.

No taste for it, that is, without the proper partner.

"Congratulations, Captain," said Lieutenant Harville. "I'm told that the Admiralty has posted you to the Laconia. Allow me to be the first to wish you joy at your new command."

"Thank you, Harville. I can hardly believe it. A frigate! She's undergoing refitting that will probably take months, but when she's fit for duty, I'll be commanding all 32 guns. Fifth rate, which means I'll be entitled to three lieutenants. The first order of business is finding well-qualified officers to serve as the First and Second Lieutenants. Can you recommend anyone?"

"If that is a roundabout way of asking if Benwick and I want the positions, sir, you know that answer already. Every crewman on the Asp is hoping to continue to serve under you on the Laconia. Imagine, making post at 25. At this rate, you'll get your flag by the time you're 40. If the war lasts a few more years, you might make it by 35."

Up to the rank of post captain, promotions could be made on merit or by competitive examinations. But, having reached that level, Wentworth's promotions, presuming he stayed in the service, would, from this point, be determined strictly by seniority. Once he was at the top of the Captain's List, he would be promoted to rear admiral automatically as soon as someone of flag rank died, or retired. All Wentworth had to do, in theory, was stay alive and stay in the Navy. Wars, of course, had a way of making one's trip to the top of the list a comparatively swift one.

"I must write to Harriet. First lieutenant of a frigate! Soon I'll be a commander and on my way to my own flag!"

"Steady on, Harville. I haven't a flag, yet. I am at the very bottom of the Captain's List. But I am sure your own promotion to commander, and then to captain, will come quickly."

Harville's mention of his wife caused Wentworth to feel a sudden melancholy stab. He turned to look out the scuttle of his cabin toward the shore, so Harville wouldn't see his face.

"How is Mrs. Harville?" he asked.

"As pretty as ever, and as worried about having a husband in the Navy as ever. She asked after you in her last letter. I am sorry, sir. I wouldn't have mentioned her if I'd known it would cause you pain. But you know she thinks the world of you."

"Not pain, Harville. Envy. You are the most fortunate of men to have a partner with whom to share your life. Someone to come home to at the end of a cruise. Someone who'll remember you with tender feelings if the worst happens."

"Half the people in the world are ladies, sir. Finding a good wife is not as hard as you seem to think. Unless you're still nursing pain over a lost love."

He paused for a moment, deciding whether this was an appropriate subject to broach with a superior, then said, "Is that it? Is it Miss Anne you're really thinking about?"

Wentworth turned and stared at his second-in-command. Robert Harville and James Benwick were not only Wentworth's best officers, they were his closest friends. But even the closest friends keep some things secret. Commanding officers, in particular. Until this moment, Wentworth had thought his past with Anne Elliot was one of those intensely private things he kept secret from everyone.

"How do you know about Anne? How can you know about Anne? I told no one but my brother."

"You consciously told no one but your brother. But recall the fever you suffered some months ago, after sustaining that musket wound. You took to your bed, and, in your sleep, said some things. You kept on talking about 'losing Anne,' how she'd been persuaded to 'turn against you.' It was no business of mine, so I have never brought it up. But I see how much pain it gives. It sometimes helps to bring such things out in the open. You know I would be more than happy to listen."

As Harville knew the broad strokes, Wentworth decided, he might as well know the details as well. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it would help to talk about it. Lord knows, it still seemed to haunt him two years later.

"She was a girl I knew in Somersetshire," he said. "The daughter of a baronet, Sir Walter Elliot. She was everything a man could want in a woman. Lovely, gentle, kind, intelligent, modest, virtuous. Such a shy thing when we first met, but it was so wonderful to watch her blossom as we came to know each other better. We both fell deeply in love. At least I did. I proposed, was accepted, and got grudging permission from the father. He thought it a terrible match, and made it clear that he would provide no pecuniary support of any kind, but did not absolutely withhold his approval, which was all that concerned me. What cared I for a dowry? I wanted the girl, not her money. As long as he didn't absolutely forbid it, her fortune, or lack of it, was immaterial. I was the happiest of men."

"If you had his approval, however grudging, what was the impediment?"

"Her godmother, one Lady Russell. Anne's mother died when she was 14. Lady Russell was her mother's dearest friend, and I suppose Anne came to depend on her in the absence of a maternal influence. It was Lady Russell who persuaded Anne to break our engagement."

"Was Miss Anne the same age as you?"

"Several years younger. She was 19 when we formed our attachment."

"Not yet 20, raised in a sheltered, privileged environment, quite different from the rough and tumble way in which you were brought up. And you joined the Navy at 12 or 13. Every year on board a ship in the navy of a nation at war is like five on land in a time of peace. And for all that we and the Army are fighting a world war against Bony, our homeland does not truly feel it, thanks largely to our efforts. As a practical matter, Britain is at peace. Believe me, Captain, though only four years separated you in actual time, you were many years older than the young lady in experience."

"What is your point, Harville?"

"My point is that I can quite imagine what this Lady Russell's advice to Miss Anne was. 'He's an officer in the King's service, and it's a time of war. You could be left a widow at 20, with no means of making your way in the world. He's at an age where men spend freely what comes easily, so even if he makes prize money, which is by no means certain, he might not hang on to it. And even if he does truly love you, and even if he does support you properly, marriage to an officer in a time of war means months, perhaps years of separation. He'll pursue his profession, while you're left at home worrying. Are you sure, at only 19 years of age, and knowing so little of the world, that you're capable of that kind of sacrifice?' Finally, and I'm willing to wager all the prize money I have been so fortunate as to make under your command that this was the argument that carried the most weight, 'You would be a drag on him at this point in his career. Worried about you at home, he could make a fatal mistake at sea. If you truly love him, you must break it off for his sake.'"

"Your point still escapes me."

"Sir, in justice you must see that those are all quite reasonable arguments. All but, perhaps, the last. I have a daughter less than a year old waiting for me at home. My wife has been raising her without me, but at least she has the help and support of her family and mine while I'm away. Who could your Anne turn to if the worst happened, if she was left alone, perhaps with a child, and her own father having already made it clear she could expect no help from him?"

"I'd see that any wife of mine was cared for, Harville."

"I'm sure you would, sir, if you could. But two years ago, your success was all in your future. You had nothing to offer but yourself. Even when you were given a command, it was of a ship that you yourself described as hardly fit for service. You could have been killed just going through a patch of rough weather, leaving aside the possibility of death in battle. And what of your Anne then?"

"Can you honestly tell me, Harville, as a King's officer, taking pride in his profession, that you would refuse permission to marry if your daughter loved a man in the service?"

"I will be frank, sir. If ever a sailor or a soldier asks for the hand of my little girl, however worthy he may be of that hand, I'll take her aside and give her much the same advice Lady Russell probably gave Miss Anne. I would approve the match, if he was a truly good, trustworthy fellow and I knew they loved each other, but I'd make certain she was aware of the risks. Any father would who cared for his child as he should. Which brings up another point. From what you say, the Baronet does not seem to care for his daughter as he should, so Lady Russell had to stand in as both mother and father to a shy young lady who'd probably never been more than 20 miles from her home since the day she was born. Can you really blame her for taking the advice given by a person she had loved and respected her whole life?"

"Well, I must admit, now that I consider it, that my pride was so wounded, I never looked at it from her side of things. To me it looked like weakness. A lack of purposefulness."

"Captain, you have been a professional warrior for more than half the years you've spent on this earth, making life or death decisions all along the way. She is a gently bred young lady who had probably never had to make such a momentous decision before. Was it fair to hold her to that standard? Was her deciding to take a cautious path really such a betrayal?"

"Perhaps not," replied Wentworth, almost to himself. "Perhaps there may be something in what you say, Harville. But, even if I accepted your argument, the thing is done. It's two years too late to do anything now."

"How do you know? Have you heard that she married?"

"She must have. Mustn't she? A girl like Anne wouldn't stay on the shelf for two years."

"If she's as lovely a lady as you've described, I have no doubt she's been asked. But you've also had your opportunities these last two years. Many a pretty young thing's been thrown in your way at every port we've been to from Gibraltar to the West Indies. Yet you've never taken the bait. Without even realizing it, you've remained faithful to her. If her love for you has been as strong as yours obviously has been for her, perhaps she has been as true to you."

"I didn't have family members encouraging me to plight my troth with any eligible young lady who came along. Her fop of a father will throw her at any one with a title or a fortune, and Lady Russell will persuade her of the fitness of the match."

"It's far easier to persuade someone to give up the one she truly loves, particularly if she has believes that it is for his own good, than it is to persuade her to make a match with another when her heart is already engaged. Write to her, Frederick. If she's married, then at least you'll know. If she's not, you can try to renew the attachment. You're no longer a wild, spendthrift newly made commander with no ship and no connections to help you in your career. You're a post captain, whose talent and hard work have put him at the pinnacle of an honourable and heroic profession. You've already a few thousand pounds, not spent but prudentially invested in the Funds. And the command of a frigate that gives you every prospect of making you still more. And she's two years older. She's now of age, able to make her own decisions, and she's probably regretted what she did as much as you've resented it."

Wentworth drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"I will give you credit, Harville, it did, indeed, help to talk about it. Leave me now, to think about all you've said."

When his friend left, Wentworth went to his desk, withdrew some paper and a pen, and began writing. The moment he started, the words seemed to pour from his quill.

Dearest Miss Anne, he wrote, Still "dearest" though it is more than two years since our separation. I may be the last person in the world from whom you wish to hear, and if that is the case I cannot blame you, particularly when I recall the angry, cutting things I said to you when last we saw each other.

Within a day, an express addressed to Anne reached her at Kellynch Hall. Her father and sister had arrived home from London a day or two before the letter.

Anne received few letters, even from her own family when they were traveling, let alone expresses. She could not imagine who might be writing to her now. Father and Elizabeth were home. Mary was still at Uppercross. Lady Russell was but a short walk away at Kellynch Lodge. The mystery, and the anticipation of having all revealed when she opened the envelope was delicious. She delayed opening the letter for a few moments to prolong the pleasant sense. There was, of course, one person she would like to be hearing from, but the bitter and acrimonious note on which they parted made that every day less likely. Still, one could always hope.

Finally she opened the letter and began to read.

Still "dearest" though it is more than two years since our separation. I may be the last person in the world from whom you wish to hear, and if that is the case I cannot blame you, particularly when I recall the angry, cutting things I said to you when last we saw each other. But I can be silent no longer. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. Despite my best efforts to forget you, I have found it impossible. I have loved none but you. I now know I can love none but you. From the moment of our first meeting, you pierced my soul, and I now know that the wound will never heal. And further that I have no wish for it to heal. We parted in anger, at least on my side, though you were, as always, the epitome of gentleness. We parted so, solely because of me, solely because I could not do you justice. Now the hot anger has cooled. The icy resentment has melted. All that is left in my heart of the feelings I had when we parted that awful day is the love that has ever been there. Unjust I may have been. Weak and resentful I have been. But never inconstant. Almost without thought or will, I have, these last two years, even as I struggled to forget you, kept faith. I can only hope you have done the same, though if you have not, the fault is all mine for my stupid pride. I am half agony, half hope. I offer myself to you again with a heart that is even more your own than when you were forced to break it two years ago. Please write. Please tell me I am not too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I have been more successful in my profession than I could have dared hope, and can now afford to support you in tolerable comfort, if not in luxury. Whether your father chooses to do anything for us or not, you will want for nothing. And I have, only yesterday, been made post and placed in command of a frigate. Your renewal of our engagement would be what alone could crown all my success. Please believe that the love I felt for you when first we met has been, and continues to be, unswerving in

F.W.

If you are unwilling, or unable because of another attachment, to resume our engagement, if this letter causes you pain, I promise you, on the love that I bear for you, that you need never hear from me again. I close now, uncertain of my fate. I beg that you do not leave me in suspense any longer than necessary.

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Fortunately, here in her own room, she was certain to have half an hour's solitude to reflect and tranquilize herself. She was weak with overwhelming happiness.

She read the letter a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. It was all she could have hoped for. And she knew that what Frederick said about his success was true, for she had been faithfully following his career in the Navy List and the London Gazette. All his predictions had come to pass. Almost every objection Lady Russell had made had been overruled by Frederick's success. And, if he was truly still heart-broken over their estrangement, it followed that reuniting would do him far more good than their separation ever had. And doing good for Frederick had really been the only argument that could have persuaded her to give him up.

When she was fully composed, she went to her writing table, took pen and paper and began to write.

O Captain of My Heart, she began, Your letter was the answer to all my prayers and the fulfillment of all my hopes.

Wentworth read the letter through again.

Your letter was the answer to all my prayers and the fulfillment of all my hopes. The first time I read it (and I read it many times) I was so overcome with joy I could not compose myself for many minutes. If it is possible for you to steal away from your duties, please come to Kellynch as soon as possible. If the exigencies of war keep you from my side, please write immediately so we may renew the understanding that was the source of so much happiness when first formed two years ago, and so much suffering when ended. And this time, my dearest one, I promise you I will not be persuaded against following the dictates of my own heart. No one else ever has, or ever could have, taken your place in the heart of

Anne Elliot

This was everything he could have hoped for. And, since the refitting of the Laconia would not be completed for some time, there was nothing to keep him in Portsmouth. He was perfectly free to make his way to Kellynch as quickly as he could.

The day after Wentworth began his journey to Somersetshire, the butler at Kellynch Hall was presenting the card of the Earl of Eucoir to Sir Walter Elliot, Baronet.

Sir Walter instructed his butler to invite the Earl in. The Earl was a Scot, and Sir Walter did not particularly like Scots, but rank was rank, and an earl was an earl, for all that he came from the untamed wildernesses of the North. And if an earl was not so high as a marquis or a duke, still, Sir Walter was forced to ruefully admit, he was higher than a baronet.

When the Earl, wearing civilian garb but still carrying himself with the bearing of a professional soldier, was shown in, Sir Walter said, "Welcome, Your Lordship, welcome. Please come in. I am Sir Walter Elliot."

"I am Dougal MacMiann, Sixteenth Earl of Eucoir, late lieutenant colonel in His Majesty's Black Watch Regiment, which commission I resigned when the title came to me upon the death of m'older brother, him bein' without legitimate issue at the time of his passin'," replied his guest in his low, rumbling, growly burr. "'Tis a family matter I've come to see ye about, Sir Walter."

"A family matter?"

"I've a need for an heir, and a yen for yer middle nic, Anne. I mean t'take her to wife. I'm here for your approval to address her on the matter."

"Anne?" said Sir Walter. "You wish to marry Anne. Whatever for?"

"The answer t'that question should be obvious to any man as has ever looked fondly on a fetchin' lassie and decided to take her as his own. That I want to marry her is the issue before you, not why. And make no mistake, Sir Walter, I mean to marry her with or without yer approval. I come today as a matter of tradition and courtesy. No' as a matter of necessity."

Taken aback by the earl's insistent manner, Sir Walter managed to say, "Well, naturally you have my approval to pay your addresses. I gather you have already met. Or, if not, would you like me to make a formal introduction?"

"I've had the honour of a formal introduction already. And I've called on her at that Lady Russell's house while she was a-stayin' there in yer absence. If she's about, I'll put the question to her."

"She's out walking, as she usually is this time of morning. Spends entirely too much time outdoors. Does terrible things to one's complexion, you know, but she won't be talked out of it. You're welcome to wait, of course, or to come back at a more convenient time. If you choose to wait, can I provide you with some refreshment?"

As Sir Walter was making this offer, the butler entered the parlour with another card, this one from Capt. F. Wentworth, R.N.

Wentworth? A familiar name, but Sir Walter couldn't quite recall in what connection. A naval officer? Sir Walter disapproved of the Navy. He disapproved of the military profession in general, but was particularly vociferous in his deprecation of the Navy. At least in the Army a man could buy higher rank, as befitted a gentleman, but in the Navy higher rank had to be earned by merit rather than birth. And it provided far too many opportunities for men to be elevated to honours high above the station into which they had been born. Why that Nelson fellow was nothing more than the son of a country rector, and not even the oldest son, at that. And, over the course of less than two years, he had been made a baron, a viscount, and ultimately a duke! Imagine, if they had ever met, Sir Walter Elliot would have had to give way to the second son of a clergyman! This MacMiann was one of the most frightful-looking men he'd ever met, but at least he held one the oldest titles in the Realm. Not some jumped-up "new creation." Lord Nelson, indeed!

The next gentleman was shown in. A far more well-looking man than MacMiann, to be sure. In his middle 20's, by Sir Walter's estimate. Tall, almost as tall as MacMiann, but slender and athletic looking, dark-haired, with rugged, chiseled features and dark, piercing eyes. And, despite his disapproval of the Navy, one had to admit that the fellow looked rather dashing in his uniform, for all that it was dusty, the apparent result of a long ride on horseback. There was something familiar about him. Could it be?

"You're that sailor fellow who tried to attach himself to Anne some years back, aren't you?"

"No, Sir Walter. I am the sailor fellow who succeeded in attaching himself to Miss Anne some years back. Until she was persuaded against me. I am come to inform you that, in exchanging letters, your daughter and I have renewed our engagement, and I respectfully request your approval for the setting of a date."

"Setting of a date? You mean Anne has been writing to you without my knowledge? And if I should refuse?"

"Well, Sir Walter, Anne is now of age, and able to make her own decisions. Asking for your approval is really just a mark of respect, not an indispensable requirement. If Anne feels she can't marry without your approval, she will not. But if she chooses to marry despite your disapproval, that is what she will do. In either case, the final decision will be hers."

These martial fellows were uncommonly determined! His approval a mere formality that they'd both ignore if he chose to withhold it? And what was it about Anne, anyway? Sir Walter had always regarded his eldest, Elizabeth, as the most comely of his daughters, but it was Anne who seemed to have potential husbands sprouting out of the ground like wildflowers after a rainstorm. This sailor. That son of Musgrove's who eventually wed Mary. This Scot. And this sailor fellow back again. And during the single, truncated Season in London he had treated her to some years ago, she had seemed to attract far more suitors than her older sister.

Of course, Anne did favour her mother more than either Elizabeth or Mary. And her mother had been an uncommonly beautiful woman, indeed. Fellows buzzing all around her, 'til she settled on Sir Walter. Still, Anne seemed such a quiet, mousey creature. Why did so many men prefer her to Elizabeth? Were there still more suitors he didn't even know about? Perhaps if he'd introduced Mr. William Elliot to Anne, instead of Elizabeth, he wouldn't have married that tradesman's daughter. Though Anne, lacking the proper regard for rank and family connections, would, in all likelihood, have not been interested.

In any event, she seemed to hold all the cards. As both the Earl and the Captain had pointed out, Sir Walter seemed to have no say in it. If Anne chose to be willful and marry against his wishes, there was little he could do other than to withhold her dowry. That wouldn't mean much to His Lordship, whose ancestral estate was reputed one of the wealthiest in Scotland. And, in any event, he'd already given his approval. Ill-looking though this burly Scot was, he was a peer, and having a daughter married to a peer would be a fine thing. Anne MacMiann, Countess of Eucoir. Had a ring to it, that.

But perhaps the lack of a dowry might scare off this sailor.

"I believe I made it clear two years ago that no money would come with my daughter."

"You did indeed, sir. But you seem to have forgotten that it made no difference to me two years ago, and makes even less on this occasion. I am myself a man of some means now. As the commander of a sloop I made a small fortune in prize money, and as the captain of a frigate, I mean to turn that small fortune into a large one. I'm more than able to support Anne, and any children we might have, whether or not you choose to withhold what's rightfully hers."

The front entrance was heard to open and close, and footsteps approached the parlour. Anne was back from her walk. The first thing she saw was an officer in a dusty uniform.

Anne felt a thrill of delight when her eyes filled with the sight of the man she loved. And the look on his face indicated that he felt exactly the same way.

"Frederick! You never wrote to tell me you were coming."

"When I got your letter, Dearest, I was off within the hour. I felt there was no point in writing, since I was determined to get here more quickly than even an express could."

"Anne," asked Sir Walter, "am I to understand that you've been exchanging letters with this man without my approval?"

"Not just exchanging letters, Father. Renewing old understandings. Frederick and I are engaged once more, and, this time, I'll not be persuaded to change my mind."

Sir Walter was almost speechless at this sudden display of unyielding decisiveness in the usually docile Anne. Her mother had been similarly mild-mannered, but she could display an iron will on matters of what she considered principle. Anne seemed to have inherited that trait.

Sir Walter spluttered for a few moments, than managed to stammer out that he had already given Lord Eucoir permission to pay his addresses.

"Have you?" asked Anne. She the turned to the huge Scottish lord whose presence, until that moment, she had not really noticed, which, given MacMiann's size, was rather remarkable.

"Your Lordship," she said, curtseying. "I am truly sorry to cause you any pain. And I am fully sensible of the honour you do me by making this offer, particularly since it would bestow upon me not merely your name and all your worldly goods, but an ancient and respected title. But my heart is otherwise engaged."

MacMiann had managed to stay quiet since the entrance of Wentworth only by an extreme effort of will, but his temper finally overcame his control, when he answered Anne's refusal.

"'Otherwise engaged,' is it?" growled MacMiann. "'Otherwise engaged!' I warn ye all, ye hae no' heard the end o' this. I'm no' a man to be trifled with, nor a man used to no' gettin' his own way. Mark me, all of ye, ye especially, ye sea-farin' popinjay," this last to Wentworth. "I'll have m'way here, as well."

He turned his eyes to Anne, grinned his evil grin, and actually licked his lips as he slowly looked her up and down as though selecting a broodmare to mate with a prize stallion, or a heifer to mate with a prize bull. Only, in this instance, he was the prize stallion, he the bull. Anne shivered and her skin crawled as she felt the blood leave her face.

"I'll hae ye in the end, lassie," he said, his growl now lowered to a licentious purr that froze the marrow of Anne's bones. "Make up yer mind t'that. One way or t'other, ye'll be Countess of Eucoir. And ye forgot the most important part of the vow. 'With m'body I thee worship.' Once ye're mine, lassie, I mean to worship ye with m'body quite a bit."

As MacMiann spoke, Wentworth inserted himself between the Earl and Anne.

"Out of respect for Miss Anne and her family," he said, "I shall, for the moment, refrain from planting the facer you so richly deserve for such an obscene, sacrilegious display. But, get out of this house now, Eucoir, before my resolve weakens."

"Ye could no' land a blow in on yer best day, ye overdressed rosewater pilot."

Almost as soon as MacMiann completed his sentence, he found himself on his back, felled by a right cross expertly delivered by the young naval officer.

"And I assure you, this is far from my best day, Eucoir," said Wentworth standing over the downed Earl. "I'm thoroughly exhausted from spending the better part of two days and a night on horseback with only a few hours sleep. The only thing keeping me animated is the sight of the woman I've loved and dreamed about these past two years. You wouldn't want to try me on my best day. Now leave here, or, by God, I swear to you it won't be pugilism. It will be your choice of pistols or swords at dawn."

MacMiann slowly got up. "Yer time'll come, boy. Hae no fear o' that." He said as he slowly wiped the blood from his mouth. "But a good soldier knows when to pick his battles." Turning to Anne, he said, "And as for you, m'pet, remember what I told ye. I'll hae ye in the end. Ye're too bonnie t'waste on a water-logged dandy like this. It's yer fate is to receive the caresses of a real man. And there's none can escape their fate."

With that he stormed out of the house.

Part Two

Posted on 2013-02-17

The Baronet was speechless. Never had he seen, or even imagined the like. Two men, not merely professing to love mousey little Anne, but fighting over her?

A gentleman, indeed the holder of a noble title, acting like a barbarian.

A jumped-up peasant acting like a gentleman.

The world had slipped in its courses. All expectations were to be regarded as overturned. And now the peasant was addressing him as though they were equals.

"Sir Walter, is there someone who can assist Anne to her room until she can compose herself?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Can you summon a maid or a housekeeper who can help Anne?"

He rang for someone while Wentworth assisted Anne to a chair.

"Oh, Frederick! That awful man has been annoying me for days. But I never imagined it would come to this. When I think of what might have happened had you not been here."

"But I was here, my own dear Anne. Perhaps we might consider it to be the arrangement of Providence, and one more sign that our love is truly blessed."

She looked at him, her lovely eyes shining.

"Blessed, indeed," she said.

The morning of the following day found the young couple walking together from Kellynch Hall to Kellynch Lodge, the residence of Lady Russell.

"Are you ready to face this particular foe, Captain?" asked Anne.

"In truth, my love, I have indeed faced enemy vessels with less trepidation. But I know that you love Lady Russell, and that you respect her even more than you do your own family. I don't doubt that you will marry me without her approval now, though you felt you could not two years ago. But I also know that you will be happier if she is happy for us."

"I could not blame you if you still felt some bitterness. I thank you for being willing to extend an olive branch."

Upon arriving at the Lodge, they were shown into Lady Russell's parlour.

"I hadn't expected to see you this early, Anne," said Lady Russell, "but you are always welcome here." Turning to her young friend's companion, she was about to offer words of welcome, when recognition dawned.

"Captain Wentworth?"

"Indeed, Madam," replied Wentworth, "and truly 'Captain' now, for I was made post only a few days ago."

"I . . . I wish you the joy of your promotion, Captain."

"Lady Russell," said Anne, "Frederick and I have news that we hope will make you as happy as it has made us. On the day following Frederick's promotion, he wrote to me, and once more did me the honour of asking me to be his wife. And I accepted. My father has approved, with some hesitation. We are both hoping that you will partake in our renewed happiness."

Lady Russell all but collapsed into a nearby chair. She was flustered for a few moments, unable to form complete sentences, fragments about "your happiness" and "the fitness of the match" all she could conjure in her agitation.

When she had composed herself to a degree, Wentworth stepped over to her side.

"Lady Russell, if Anne will excuse us for a few minutes, may I ask that you do me the favour of joining me for a walk in your garden for a private conversation? I know the news we bring is a surprise to you, but I think the time has come for frank talk between the two people Anne holds highest in her heart."

Lady Russell was surprised to find that she could not deny the young officer's earnest request.

When they were in the garden, and out of earshot, Wentworth said, "I thought you might speak more freely away from Anne. And I believe the time has come to put misunderstandings behind us."

"And what is it that you think has been misunderstood, Captain?"

"On your part, my very real devotion to Anne, that she was not just the passing fancy of a passing sailor. On my part, that your persuading her against me was done out of a love for her no less deep than mine, and not out of personal spite."

He paused to see if his words had any effect.

"Please go on," she said.

"Lady Russell, up until a few days ago, I believe I regarded you as much my implacable enemy as I did Bonaparte himself. I resented Anne for being turned against me. But far more, I resented you for having turned Anne against me."

"And are you telling me you have changed your opinion?"

"Not entirely, but, when I was finally persuaded to tell the story of my lost love to a brother officer, he suggested what arguments you likely used to convince her. The risk in marrying an officer in time of war. My comparative poverty. My lack of a command. Her fate if she was suddenly widowed without the dowry her father would have denied. More to the point, he noted that these were all quite reasonable arguments, and that he would use them himself on his own daughter in the same situation. Just as I can now do justice to Anne's decision, I can do justice to your efforts to persuade her to reach that decision. I now realize that it was done out of love, and concern for her welfare, however much I may disagree with it."

"But you still disagree?"

"Let us say that, in tolerably similar circumstances, I would not advise a young person to so absolutely resist her own inclinations. I would, like my first lieutenant, make sure that she was aware of all the uncertainty that such a union entailed, but I would never attempt to convince her to violate the dictates of her heart. Certainly, I would never try to convince her that, if she truly loved, she should give up the man for his own good, as I suspect you did."

"Has Anne told you this?"

"Not in so many words. But I am reasonably certain that this would be the only argument that could have moved her. And I believe, that, in your genuine concern for Anne's welfare, you would not scruple to draw that particular arrow from your quiver of arguments when all others failed to hit their mark with absolute accuracy."

She looked at him for a few moments before answering.

"Well, you are a perceptive young man, Captain," she finally said. "When I knew nothing else would persuade her, that is exactly what I did. I will admit, though, that during these last two years, I have had almost as much cause to regret my interference as Anne. Her spirits sank when you walked out of her life. I thought she would revive in time, but she never has. Since you have been divided from each other, I have not seen her looking truly happy until this morning. I find it quite humbling to realize that I have you to thank for that."

"As I say, madam, all your other arguments were well-taken, and if I had been willing to do them, and Anne's acceptance of them, justice, some compromise could have been arranged. We could have agreed to be true to each other, though apart, while time and events proved whether or not my confidence in my success was justified. A temporary separation, perhaps, could not have been avoided. The bitterness and rancour could have. For that, I have no one to blame but myself for my own stiff-necked pride."

"That you can admit this, Captain, and that your attachment to Anne has remained so steadfast over the last two years, is evidence that, in many ways, I was no less unjust. It was, in truth, not just the risks attendant in your profession that led me to try to separate you from Anne. I truly felt that a junior officer of obscure birth was not good enough for the daughter of the dear friend who left her in my care when she died. In not being able to discern your true worth, and the depth of your feelings for Anne, and hers for you, I must now admit to being pretty completely wrong. But I assure you, Captain, that if it is always my object to be sensible and well-judging, it is only my second object. My first is to see Anne happy. "

"In that we are agreed, Lady Russell."

"I am become convinced, despite my earlier misgivings, that you are the one who can secure her happiness. And I regret my incorrect judgment of your character. Captain Wentworth, I know it is Anne's wish that we should become friends, despite our past differences. I wonder if I might tell you about three sisters I knew quite well when I was young, so you can understand on what that misjudgment was based."

"The Ward sisters were three very pretty girls from a family of landed gentry who held a medium-sized estate in Huntingdon. The eldest, Maria, had the good fortune to marry a man of wealth and substance, Sir Thomas Bertram, a baronet like Sir Walter, though, it pains me to say, one of greater sense. Maria became the mistress of Mansfield Park, a great estate in Northampton."

"The sort of marriage you wished for Anne," said Wentworth.

"Yes, though I would have been satisfied to see her in a safe and secure marriage, like the one Maria's sister entered into. It was a less brilliant, but still prudent union with a clergyman, Mr. Norris, a close friend of Sir Thomas. Upon Mr. Norris's marriage to Sir Thomas's sister-in-law, Sir Thomas bestowed on him the living of the Mansfield parsonage. Not wealth and position like Maria, but freedom from penury and want."

"My brother, Edward, who you recall had the curacy here when I first visited, would agree that a clergyman's income is not large, but is, at least, steady and dependable."

"Exactly. Frances, the third sister, was thought by many to be the most beautiful, and the most likely to make a brilliant match, though her dowry, like those of her sisters, was only 7000 pounds. But, she, like Anne, chose to marry for love rather than money or position, and her choice, like Anne's, was a young officer in the King's service, a lieutenant in the Royal Marines."

"And it was not a happy marriage?"

"I cannot believe it was a happy marriage. Certainly, it was not a prosperous one. Early in the marriage, Lieutenant Price was injured in battle, and, found to be unfit for active duty, was invalided out on half-pay. She had borne several children in the meanwhile. Over time, Mrs. Price lost most of her looks. Lieutenant Price took to drink. And the family sank more and more deeply into poverty. In their case, love, however sincere and deeply felt, was not enough."

"I believe I know this family," said Wentworth. "Is not the Price son in the Navy?"

"I think I may have heard it so."

"He was senior midshipman on the Asp when first I assumed command. Had been on the Antwerp before that. Thankfully, I did not have him for long."

"Why 'thankfully?'" asked Lady Russell.

"He was too promising a lad to be a middie on a mere sloop, even a senior middie. He had already passed the examination for lieutenant. Since I had no lieutenants' vacancies on my ship, I assigned him to the position of Master's Mate, a recognized stepping stone for a midshipman making his uncertain way to a commission. Regretfully, that was the best I could do for him. Fortunately, there was someone at the Admiralty who decided to take an interest in him. A position as second lieutenant of the Thrush was made available to him, and I was happy to approve the transfer. I recall his telling me that he had a sister whom his uncle and aunt, a wealthy couple, had raised as a sort of adopted daughter. I now presume that the uncle and aunt must have been the Bertrams."

"That is indeed the same family. The Prices' daughter, Fanny, was taken in by the Bertrams when she was but 10. She is, I have heard, lately married to the Bertrams' second son, who has taken orders and assumed the living at Mansfield that was once his uncle's."

"Years in the Navy have taught me that the world is a small place, Lady Russell."

"True enough. But though her son and daughter have had fortunate outcomes, the hand-to-mouth existence that Frances Price has had to live these many years, a husband who is a cripple and a drunkard, more children than she can adequately care for, has been horrific. When Anne gave her heart to another officer in the King's service, I was fearful of the same thing happening to her. I could not but do everything in my power to save Anne from that fate."

"I am not Lieutenant Price, Lady Russell, but I suppose I can understand how similar the circumstances must have seemed. Since we now know that we are united in our wish to do only what is best for Anne, let us put the past behind us. Let us start to become friends, and to learn to love each other as Anne so dearly loves both of us."

"Well said, Captain. Shall we rejoin her and inform her of our rapprochement?"

Anne's felicity at knowing that Lady Russell intended to be happy for her was great. Her father had been grudging, her older sister, Elizabeth, almost hostile, her younger sister, Mary, indifferent. To have at least one person she loved feel joy for her and Frederick was a relief.

Frederick walked her home, kissed her hand at the entrance to Kellynch Hall, and promised that he would see her for dinner that evening. For now, he needed to return to his room at the local inn and endeavour to recover some of the sleep of that he had denied himself during his trip from Portsmouth to Somersetshire.

Anne went to her room and attempted to read a book of poetry, but found she could not concentrate. The crush of events over the last few days had, with the exception of Lord Eucoir's unwanted proposal, been sheer delight, but, for all that, severely agitating to one of Anne's gentle nature. Sleep had come with difficulty the past few nights. Attempts to tranquilize herself with a book or with needlepoint or some other activity had been unsuccessful.

It was a fine day, and the afternoon heat was dissipating. Perhaps a long walk would burn away the excess of energy and excitement that recent events had generated.

It was now July, and warm enough that no shawl or cape was necessary. A walk along the paths in the woods would be just the thing to compose her and she would be back in time for Frederick's arrival at dinnertime.

Enjoying the sights and smells the beautiful summer day offered, Anne disregarded the sounds of the steps behind her. Many of Sir Walter's tenants used the paths for healthful recreation, particularly the children of the village. She had no intimation of danger.

Until it was too late.

She suddenly sensed the presence coming closer than expected, but before she could turn and see who it was, a huge, gnarled hand clapped over her mouth, cutting off the scream that the assault had generated.

"Did I no' I tell ye I'd hae ye in the end, m'bonny lass?" growled a voice that froze her blood. "'Twas yer da told me y'liked to walk these paths when I came t'yer home for t'seek his approval. Since then, I've been waitin' for ye here, knowin' ye'd pass by in time. I'm no' a patient man, but ye're a lassie worth the waitin' for."

She fought as best she could, but was no match for the huge Scot. In struggling, the sleeve of her dress was torn, and the pins holding her hair up came undone so that her long dark tresses fell free around her shoulders. The anger and fire she displayed only served to increase MacMiann's desire all the more. He began to kiss the back of her neck as she twisted and squirmed to escape his grasp. Her piteous moan of revulsion and fear aroused him still more.

"God, yes," he said, the angry growl now replaced by a low tone of almost worshipful awe that Anne found even more frightening. "Ye're a lassie well worth the waitin' for!"

Minutes later, Anne was seated in a coach that had been kept hidden behind the trees, MacMiann's cravat knotted between her lips to muffle her cries for help, silken cords pinioning her hands and arms behind her so that she was unable to defend herself, more cords tied around her knees and ankles to prevent any attempts to escape.

As soon as she was secured, the coach took off, the six-horse team starting off at a gallop, before settling into a fast trot.

MacMiann sat across from her, smiling his evil smile, staring at her, enormously pleased to have her finally in his power.

"The trip to Scotland will take some time, but we'll be stoppin' for nothin'." Said MacMiann. "Not for food nor sleep. We'll eat and sleep in this coach, stoppin' fer nothin' but to change teams and drivers. I've already arranged fer replacements. Set 'em up along the road ahead. MacTusan's the man at the reins now."

MacTusan was apparently the man who had assisted MacMiann in tying up Anne and placing her in the coach.

"He'll take the first and last leg, and two in between. He'll be ridin' in here with us while others take the seat above. MacTusan's a clergyman. Spent years goin' from curacy to curacy, sometimes barely keepin' body and soul together, even workin' two or more curacies at different parishes at th'same time. Never able to get himself a proper livin'. Finally gave it up and eventually became m'coachman. Not as respectable as a clergyman, but the pay's better. Still, he's taken orders, so he'll be able to read the words over us once we're in Scotland. No blacksmith for us, lassie. A proper service we'll have."

He moved over to her side of the coach. She tried to slide away from him, knowing it was hopeless, but still needing to make the attempt. He pulled her back to him effortlessly.

"Once we've arrived in Gretna Green, we'll go to a small cottage I've rented just north of the border, right on the road. M'cook and a footman are waiting there now. They'll be our witnesses."

While his left arm held her fast against his body, he said, in his lascivious purr, "I mean t' refrain from th' final intimacy until the words've been read. But, when MacTusan's not in here with us, when we've got the place to ourselves, surely ye'll not be begrudgin' me a few liberties, will ye? When we're just a few days from bein' man 'n' wife? Don't be shy, though. If ye've any objections, speak right up."

Still holding her with his left hand, he began to take the liberties he had just threatened with his right.

He paused in his assault long enough to hear another frightened, anguished moan.

"Oh, I forgot," he said, his evil grin growing wider. "Ye can't."

As late afternoon gave way to early evening, Captain Wentworth knocked on the door of Kellynch Hall, and was immediately shown into Sir Walter's study. He was still in uniform, though it was now brushed and pressed. Indeed, except for some spare small clothes he had hurriedly packed, the uniform he'd been wearing when he received Anne's letter were the only clothes he had.

Sir Walter, who had been perusing the The Baronetege of England, his favorite book, when Wentworth arrived, turned to greet his guest. Wentworth bowed. Sir Walter stiffly returned the courtesy.

"Captain," said Sir Walter, "you are most welcome."

Wentworth doubted the truth of that statement, but Sir Walter was certainly making an effort to be much more civil than had been the case two years earlier.

"I thank you, Sir Walter," he replied.

"Elizabeth is visiting her sister, Mary, in Uppercross this evening, so it will be you, Anne, and I, at dinner tonight. A shame not to have a fourth for dinner, but it can't be helped. Perhaps, while we wait for Anne, we can discuss, in general terms, the articles."

"If you wish. My only concern is that any articles we sign clearly provide for Anne and any children we may have. I am, as you know, in a profession that carries a high element of risk, and the support of my family must be my main concern. I can provide for myself."

"So should I agree to a dowry . . . ," began Sir Walter.

"That dowry would be wholly and exclusively Anne's," finished Wentworth. "As it stands, with what I have made in prize money, I will be easily able to support Anne on a day to day basis. And I fully expect the prize money to grow. But should the worst happen, I would want Anne and our children to be cushioned from the financial blow. Perhaps, invested in the Funds or in some sort of trust, her dowry would provide an income that could be used for the small luxuries to which she is accustomed, while my prize money and pay secures for her a home and daily necessities. Then, should something happen, the combined fortunes would protect Anne and the children we hope to have from material difficulties."

Sir Walter, in spite of himself, was finding much about this young man to impress him. His irritating independence was bothersome, but even a man of Sir Walter's mean understanding could sense that there was something admirable about it.

"That is well said, Captain," said Sir Walter. "I must say your putting Anne foremost in any financial arrangement agreed to speaks well of you."

Wentworth bowed.

"I'm sure you're aware, Captain, that neither of Anne's sisters have valued her the way she deserves to be valued. Neither have I, for the matter of that."

"Sir Walter, . . . "

"Don't interrupt, lad. Let me, once in my life, feel how much I have neglected my own child. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough."

He reached for a framed object on desk. At first, given the number of mirrors in the study, Wentworth thought it might be a hand-held looking glass, but it turned out to be a miniature portrait. Sir Walter passed it to the young sailor, and asked, "Do you know who this is?"

"It looks like Anne," answered Wentworth.

"It is her mother, when she was about Anne's age. I was a better man when she was alive. Undoubtedly, you find that hard to believe, but it's true. I know you think me vain and silly. And such I undoubtedly have been all my life. But Anne's mother managed to soften my more obvious faults. I loved her very much. When she died, there was nothing to govern my vanity. As Anne grew up, and became more and more like the wife I had lost, she became a reminder of my grief. Perhaps that's why I've valued her so little, because, through no fault of her own, she was a source of pain. Or perhaps I am just looking for a means of excusing my own parental failure."

He poured himself a brandy from a decanter on the desk, took a sip, then went on. "In any event, Captain, I find myself happy that Anne will be married to someone who sensed her value more than her own family ever did."

Sir Walter and Wentworth were both starting to wonder what was keeping Anne, when, a servant entered with a roughly dressed man, and a small boy. It was one of Sir Walter's tenants. Before the servant could announce them, the farmer spoke.

"Beggin' your pardon, yer worship, but it's a matter of great urgency or I'd never dream of comin' in such a way."

"Well, speak up, then, man. What could be so urgent?"

"My boy here saw somethin' in the wooded paths involvin' Miss Anne. Kept it to himself, for he knows he shouldn't be in there, and hours have gone by."

"Kept what to himself?" asked Wentworth.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the boy. "Miss Anne never minds when us'n's plays there. She always waves an' is nice as ever can be. And no one else from the Hall ever goes there, so we never saw no harm."

"We care nothing for that right now, son," said Wentworth. "But you father said something about Miss Anne. What is it? Is she hurt?"

"No. Least I don't think so. But she's gone."

"Gone? What do you mean?"

"Gone with this big man what carried her off in a coach with lots of horses. More horses'n I've ever seen on a coach."

Wentworth turned to Sir Walter and said, "Eucoir."

"Eucoir? But, the man's an earl."

"He's a blackguard, a scoundrel, a vicious, unrepentant sinner, and a disgrace to both the uniform he once wore and the title he presently holds. He said he'd have her, and now he has." Turning back to the boy, he asked, "How long ago was this?"

"Past noon, I s'pose," said the lad. "Sun was higher'n now."

"He come home about a hour ago," said the tenant farmer. "And he'd been out about two hours."

Wentworth turned back to the boy. "Did this happen just after you started playing, or just before you went home, or sometime in between."

"Well, I was that scared," said the boy, clearly still distressed. "I just sat for awhile, 'cause I was a-shakin' so that I couldn't move. But I went home right afterwards. Wasn't so scared about bein' caught in the woods, but that man what carried off Miss Anne was a true fright. Couldn't bring myself to talk about it 'til I was safe inside for awhile."

"That means he's been off perhaps two hours."

"Where can he be taking her?" asked Sir Walter.

"You heard what he said. He means to make Anne marry him. He's for Scotland. He'll force her to go through some sham of a ceremony in front of witnesses, then it'll be off to his highland estate where she'll be locked away as securely as if she was in the Tower of London, and conveniently available whenever he wants to have his way with her. Excuse me, Sir Walter. I must away as soon as can be."

"But with such a head start how can you hope to catch him, Captain? By the time you can get to Scotland, Eucoir will have already forced Anne to marry him."

"That, I assure you, Sir Walter, is a problem easily solved. If he's made her his wife, I'll make her his widow."

Part Three

Posted on 2013-02-20

Naval officers were expected to be proficient at mathematics, so it was no major accomplishment to for Wentworth, even while driving his horse to full gallop, to determine that it would take the Earl of Eucoir a bit less than three days to reach Scotland, presuming that he made no stops other than to change teams.

The distance from Somersetshire to Scotland was roughly three hundred miles. Figuring that a team of horses could go about forty miles in about eight hours, and figuring some time lost in getting one team of horses out of harness, and another in, that would amount to a bit more than a hundred miles in a day. This presumed that MacMiann already had teams and drivers placed along his chosen route for quick changes, but Wentworth took that as a given.

This meant, quite simply, that, with the head start MacMiann already had, and the fresh teams and drivers almost certainly awaiting him at strategic locations, there was no way for Wentworth to catch up on horseback.

Which is why he pointed his horse, not toward Scotland, but toward Bristol.

Bristol, one of the largest port cities in England, harboured comparatively few military vessels, unlike other port towns, such as Plymouth or Portsmouth. Its importance was in enterprise and the production of wealth, rather than in the defence the realm. Often in enterprise of an unsavoury nature. It had once, for example, been an important center of the slave trade, until that trade was abolished by Parliament a year earlier. Under the table, it likely still was. The slave trade would not be stopped by laws, but by force. Most likely by the force of the Royal Navy, once the Tyrant had finally been vanquished.

Wentworth was seeking a particular man. His name was Liam Cleary, and, years earlier, he had been the sailing master on H.M.S. Defiant, the first ship Wentworth had ever served on. This was, arguably, the most important period in Wentworth's Naval career. Given determination, talent, courage, and good training, an officer could advance far in the Royal Navy based on nothing but his own merit. But it depended on that all-important first assignment as a midshipman. It was the foundation of a sailor's future, and just as a strong foundation boded well for a strong future, a weak foundation could wreck future hopes. Wentworth was aware of midshipmen who had passed the examination for lieutenant, but who, years later, well into their 20's, and even their 30's, had been passed over for promotion in favor of candidates with influential connections. Such stories, in Wentworth's experience, could usually be traced back to an unhappy experience during one's first assignment onboard ship.

Wentworth had been most fortunate in his first assignment. And while a lot of that good fortune could be traced to Captain Benjamin Croft, his commanding officer (and the man who would eventually become his brother by marriage), Wentworth could truthfully say that he had learned more about seamanship at Cleary's hands than any other officer he had ever served under.

Though sailing masters were officers by warrant rather than by commission, they were widely regarded as the most important crew member on board, saving only the captain himself. Expert navigators, it was typically the sailing masters, to an even greater degree than the captains, who kept the Royal Navy's Men o' War on course. And Liam Cleary had been among the best. He had also taken a scared 13-year-old named Frederick Wentworth, far away from home and from the older brother and sister who had lovingly raised him after their parents' death, under his wing, and taught him everything a good sailor ought to know.

Born in County Cork, Ireland, Cleary was a devout, practicing Catholic, who had occasionally experienced some trouble over being a member of a service that, at least officially, followed a strict policy of keeping followers of the Church of Rome from rising to high levels of responsibility. Captain Croft, however, was not one to let a "bit of popery" stand between him and putting the best available man in the position best suited to his talents, and together, Cleary and Croft had made a formidable team.

Like many men in the Navy, Cleary had suffered crippling injuries during his term of service, losing an eye and his left hand in battle. When pronounced recovered, he stayed on in the service for several more years, long enough to see Frederick Wentworth promoted to lieutenant and Captain Croft happily married to Frederick's older sister. But after a short time, he decided to retire on half-pay. He knew that, unlike Nelson, who had sustained similar injuries, he would never reach flag rank, or any higher rank at all, for the matter of that, and decided it was time to strike out on his own.

Using his prize money to buy an American-built Baltimore clipper, he obtained a Letter of Marque, and continued to serve the nation as a privateer for several years after his retirement. More recently, he had gone into the freight business, carrying perishable items to various ports in the British Isles, since the fast-moving ship was ideal for getting such items to their destination before spoilage. No longer obliged to be circumspect about his faith (not that he ever was particularly circumspect about it), Cleary had named his vessel the Queen of Heaven, after the Saviour's virgin mother.

Though Wentworth hadn't seen Cleary since his retirement from the Navy, he was aware of his success as a privateer, and later as a merchant seaman. He hoped to find him in port, between voyages. Cleary was a man he knew he could depend upon, but if he was unavailable, some other master of a similarly fast-moving ship would have to be found.

Wentworth's legendary luck held, and, within only a few hours of arriving in Bristol, he had tracked Cleary down at a dockside pub, where he was enjoying a pint with a group of friends. Cleary looked up from his table when the tall captain entered, squinted his single eye, and broke out in a wide, charming grin.

"Faith, and is that who I think 'tis?" cried the merchant captain. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, is it that the Admiralty's so hard up they're after promotin' a mere child t'post-captain?"

Wentworth, in spite of the fear for Anne that was torturing his soul, found himself laughing at the good-humoured Irishman, flattered that he had been recognized after so many years. The patch Cleary now wore over his left eye, and the hook he wore in place of a left hand, gave him a piratical appearance that had undoubtedly served him well during his privateering days.

Cleary rose from his chair and warmly gripped the hand of his former protégé.

"Sit ye down, lad, sit ye down," he said. "Sure, since ye're still wearin' just the one epaulette, I gather your ascension's of comparatively recent vintage"

"Quite correct, Mr. Cleary. Only a few days, in fact."

"Ah, that's grand, that's grand," said Cleary, who seemed to be almost as pleased as Frederick had been. "And tell me about your family, now. I've heard the captain's hoisted his flag. Is that true?"

"Yes, he's a Rear Admiral of the Blue, now. He and Sophia are in the East Indies."

"Ah, Sophie! Sure she was a darlin' girl. Brave as any man on board, but still, nothin' less than a lady. I've sorely missed her since I retired. Have they any babbies?"

"No children yet. Though they haven't given up hope."

"And your brother, the heretic parson? Fine man, even if he doesn't serve the True Faith. Tell me now, has he got a parish of his own yet?"

"Still a curate, but he's got his eye on a living in Shropshire."

"Hope he gets it. Sure and I'll say a Rosary for him on that account. Though I'm not sure how the Almighty'll take my prayin' for a man's success in the protestant church."

"Well, Edward's always been a little High Church in his leanings. Maybe the Lord will take that into consideration."

"Now tell me, was this just a happy coincidence, or were ye lookin' for me?"

"The latter, Mr. Cleary. I need to hire you and the Queen of Heaven."

With that he told Cleary the story of Anne's abduction by the Earl of Eucoir and of the Earl's probable race to Scotland to force her into marriage.

"Never did like the Scots," said Cleary. "For all that they used to be Irish, that highland strain has ruined 'em, so it has. No sense of humour, for one thing. Did ye know, Captain darlin', that it was the Irish who created the kilt and the bagpipes."

"Was it?"

"Sure and it was. We created the kilts and the bagpipes, gave 'em to the Scots, and they still haven't gotten the joke."

Again, Wentworth chuckled in spite of himself.

"Faith, though, in seriousness, the dour Scots aren't so a terrible as all that. Sure and their form of protestantism makes the Church of England seem almost Catholic by comparison, but at least they're serious about goin' to church, on the whole, which is more than ye can say for the English. That Eucoir, though, he's a bad un, and even the Scots'll admit to it. You know the story of how he was drummed out o' the Black Watch, don't ye?"

"Just rumours and gossip. But none of it's been good."

"Sure, none of it is good. Tell me, lad, what's yer colleen look like? Small, dark-haired, delicate, pretty features, beautiful eyes but sad-lookin'? Kinda like one of 'em paintin's of the Blessed Mother them Eye-talian fellas are so good at. What is it they call 'em?"

"Madonnas," replied Wentworth, half to himself. The comparison had never struck him before. But Anne, with her gentle loveliness, and sad, beautifully expressive eyes, did resemble a Madonna. "How did you know what Anne looked like?"

"I've got the right of it, then, have I? I thought so, I thought so. That's the kind Eucoir's attracted to. Yer Anne's not the first. He was notorious in the Army for the mistreatment o' women. And, sure they all fit that description."

"What happened?"

"One of 'em died, so she did. One, at least, that they knew about and that one bein' one they couldn't ignore. Niece of a cardinal, or granddaughter of a count, or somethin' like that. Don't know all the details, but they say she died of injuries she received at the hands of one Colonel Dougal MacMiann. They were set to court-martial him, when the colonel's older brother died."

"What did that have to do with anything?"

"Sure, didn't he succeed to the title, then? And once he did, he claimed that, since he was now an earl, as a matter of law, the Army couldn't try him. Said he was entitled to a trial before the House o' Lords, so he did."

"Was he truly entitled to that? I wouldn't have thought the privilege applied to serving officers, particularly if they were serving in a foreign land."

"Perhaps it doesn't. But no one was certain. And no one wanted to take the chance. Sure and he was allowed to resign his commission and go home, and the Army washed its hands of the business. The older brother had been buyin' Dougal MacMiann out of trouble his whole life, and, in the end, his death finally got his baby brother out of one last bit o' trouble."

Wentworth felt the blood drain from his face. It was far worse than he had feared. And what he had feared was bad enough.

"Finish up yer pint and let's be off, lad. We need to be underway soon if we're to make it to Scotland in time to save yer dear maigdean."

"How much will you charge, Mr. Cleary? I've done pretty well in prize money, and saving Anne is the best use I'll ever put it to."

Cleary held up the hook at the end of his arm.

"D'ye see that, Captain darlin'?" he said. "It's where m'left hand used to be. Ye know the reason all I lost was a hand and an eye, and not m'life? It was because, right there, standin' beside me, was a scared lad of 13, frightened out of his wits to be in battle for the first time in his life, fightin' down the fear with all his might and main, determined to do his duty. He was the one as pulled me to safety. He was the one who got me to the surgeon while there was still a chance to save me. He was the one that went back to the deck to take up the fight once again. He was the one who came in to visit every day after that, and read to me, and encouraged me, and prayed for me, and did as much as the surgeon, if not more, to see I recovered as fully as 'twas possible to recover. Sure that's an account I've never squared. I mean to square it now."

The Queen of Heaven was underway within hours.

"All I can do is m'best, Captain," said Cleary. "If luck, and the wind, and the tide're all with us, then we should make it to Scotland, or at least to Cumbria, in about a day and a half, well ahead of Eucoir. But the sea's a harsh mistress, so it is, and never more so than when it's the Irish Sea. And then, sure, there's still the little problem of findin' him, or findin' where he'll be so we can intercept him."

"I'm eternally grateful for everything you've done, Mr. Cleary," said Wentworth. "And I assure you I'll not hold you responsible for the vagaries of the weather and the tides. Now I think I shall retire. Precisely because we'll have no time to waste once we arrive, I want to be well-rested."

"If ye don't mind sharin', ye can use my quarters." He led Wentworth to his cabin and showed him where he could stow his belongings.

Wentworth took a bedroll from under his arm, and spread it out on the table. Inside were two sheathed weapons. He took the smaller, a twelve-inch dirk, unsheathed it, inspected it, resheathed it, and placed it back on the mat. Then he unsheathed the longer weapon. It was a sabre-like sword, with a slightly curved, single-edged blade about thirty inches in length, known in the Navy as a "hanger," though some preferred French-derived term "cutlass."

"Captain darlin'," said Cleary, "that's a grand-lookin' sword, so it is. What do you call it?"

"You were in the Navy nearly thirty years, Mr. Cleary. You know very well it's called a hanger."

"I mean what name have you given it?"

"Name? It's a weapon, man, not a pet."

"Ah, but sure, don't ye know, Captain darlin', all the legendary warriors give their swords names. Like them High Kings of Ireland. One of the greatest of the Irish High Kings, for example, ye call him King Arthur on your side of the Irish Sea, named his sword Excaliber."

"King Arthur was a legendary king of England, Mr. Cleary, not of Ireland."

"Sure, a well-read man of yer great learnin' should know better than that. King Art mac Cuinn was Ireland's High King back in the second or third century. His son Cormac mac Airt, succeeded him on the throne, so he did, and continued to carry Excaliber. 'Twas Cormac who became the first Christian High King, and 'twas Cormac, not that Galahad fella, who found the Holy Grail. Sure 'twas given to'm by a demon o' hell who'd fooled the old pagans into thinkin' he was a sea god. Tried to tempt Cormac, so he did, with treasure beyond the dreams of avarice, in exchange for the souls of his wife and children. But Cormac'd have none of it. After being put through a series of tests, and passin' 'em all with flyin' colours, the demon restored his family, and rewarded him with the miraculous Golden Cup that Christ used for the wine that became his blood at the Last Supper. Years later, when Cormac died, the cup vanished, and has never been seen to this very day."

"Tell me, Mr. Cleary, did you merely kiss the Blarney Stone, or do you carry it around in your coat pocket?"

"But sure ye're part Irish yerself. Yer sister told me so. And sure an Irishman should know his country's history."

"And have other Irish warriors named their swords?"

"That they have. Another of the great High Kings, Brian Boru. Called his sword Bua no Bas, which means 'Victory or Death.' And the greatest Irish warrior of 'em all, Cuchulainn, called his sword Cruadin, which simply means 'hard.'"

"Maybe he was just describing it," said Wentworth.

"Ah, ye've no speck o' romance in ye, Captain darlin'. But it's not just the Irish as names their swords. That fella Hercules, for example. Had himself a sword he called Anaklusmos, 'Riptide' in English."

"Actually, I think that was Perseus."

"Ah, well, 'twas certainly one of 'em Greek fellas, anyway. And sure neither one of 'em fit t'be so much as a boil on Cuchulainn's hind end."

"Nevertheless, I'm of a mind to think of a sword as a tool, not as an object of romantic myth. It doesn't rate a name."

"Ye name ships, don't ye?"

"Not the same thing."

"Don't be so sure. Doesn't a ship keep ye alive at sea? And doesn't a sword keep ye alive in battle? Maybe it's not just romance. Ye trust yer life to a tool, and not just to the tool but to all who had a hand in the craftin' of it. And then it proves worthy of that trust. Maybe givin' it a name is just a token of the trust it's earned. The trust those who had the fashionin' of it earned."

Anne awoke with a start.

Her sleep, so far on this trip, had been so close to waking it was barely worthy of being called sleep. With her arms pinioned behind her, and her legs and ankles lashed together, it was impossible to achieve even the tiniest semblance of comfort. And the constant fear of what the Earl might do to her when she was asleep kept her from relaxing.

MacMiann had no such problems. He was sound asleep on the opposite seat, snoring loudly. MacTusan was above taking his eight hours at the reins. She thanked God that the Earl was asleep. Had MacTusan's turn on the seat above come during waking hours, she would have been forced to bear the mortification of the Earl's dreadful attentions. He had not actually violated her, though what he had done had been degrading enough. The rest, he assured her, would come later.

"After th' words've been read."

There was, she was told, a bedchamber in the cottage he had rented just over the border, the cottage where the ceremony was to take place. And that bedchamber had been specially prepared just for this event. Once he'd forced her to go through the shameful counterfeit of a wedding, he'd carry her upstairs where he would force her to consummate the foul union.

And yet, even now, she knew she was forever lost, as ruined as if she had actually been violated already. Locked up inside a coach with a man. Traveling overnight. Eloping to Scotland. Forced to submit to his humiliating liberties. Even if she was to escape this very second, her reputation would never survive the wreckage that had already been done to it.

And there seemed no escape. The Earl did not feed her, though he gorged himself on the food that had been stored in the coach for the trip. Two or three times a day, he would remove her gag long enough to give her few gulps of water, just barely enough to moisten her dry mouth, and to slow, if not ultimately prevent, dehydration. Once those few precious sips were swallowed (always preceded, and always followed, by the Earl's forcing her to submit to a long, slow invasive kiss), the gag was reapplied. Why she could not imagine, since it served no useful purpose. Even if she could shout at the top of her lungs, how was she to be heard from a moving coach, closed and locked, going at a fast trot? But it seemed to give the Earl some sinful pleasure to keep her as near to totally helpless as he could. With little sleep, little water, no food, and her limbs stiff and sore from being tied, she would be too weak to move even if she were suddenly free of her bonds.

Irrationally, she felt, at some level, that she must be to blame for her current circumstances.

Perhaps if she had been more forceful in refusing the Earl's attentions. But, of course, though she had been courteous and considerate, she had made her rejection most clear.

Perhaps if she had been more alert while walking. But the path had never been unsafe, and even had she been more alert, there were two of them, both bigger and stronger than she was. And, in any case, if there had been any intimation of danger, she would not have taken the walk in the first place.

Perhaps if she'd been less pretty. But after years of being compared to Elizabeth and found wanting, how was Anne even to know she was pretty? Frederick told her she was, of course. And Lady Russell. And young Charles Musgrove had certainly made it clear that he was attracted to her. Her dear mother, when she still lived, had always tried to assure her of her beauty. And there had been other men who'd shown an interest in the years since she'd emerged from adolescence to womanhood. In Bath. In the local assemblies. And during the one Season her father had allowed her in London four years earlier.

(Anne did not know it, but Elizabeth had been so incensed at the success Anne had attracting suitors during that Season, that she'd convinced her father to send her younger sister home after only a few weeks, and then never to bring her to Town again.)

Nonetheless, no matter how many people made it clear that she was really quite lovely, it was hard to pay them heed in the face of the comparisons to Elizabeth she'd heard from childhood. But even granting her own beauty, how would that make her in any way responsible for being abducted by a brute?

But, though Anne's rational mind gave rational answers to all the self-doubting questions that seemed to arise unbidden, one-and-twenty years of being taught what was proper behaviour for a lady had conditioned her to believe, at some deep level, that no decent woman could ever find herself in such a situation as she now faced.

Worst of all, was the thought that Frederick was now lost to her, just after she had found him again. He was the best of men, and his love had been steadfast, even in the face of her breaking off their first engagement. But not even Frederick would be willing to involve himself with a woman so thoroughly and completely ruined as she now was.

A part of her could not help hoping that Frederick was, at this moment, riding to her rescue, like the hero of a novel. Certainly he was brave and true, heroic in actuality not in some fiction conceived by a storyteller. And certainly, if he would make a profession out of fighting to protect millions of people he would never even know, he would fight to protect those he loved. But allowing the remote possibility that he was able to find her, and was able to separate her from the Earl, could even someone as good and faithful and true as Frederick possibly want to share his life with her after this? Rescuing a ruined woman from a criminal was one thing. But marrying a ruined woman, even if the ruination was through no fault of her own? That was something else.

Best to accept her lot and plan for the future. That she would be forced to go through a marriage ceremony that was as bogus as it was blasphemous was inevitable. That she would then ultimately be forced to consummate the thing, no matter how hard she fought to avoid it, was also inevitable. And that, for a time, she would be forced to live with the Earl as man and wife was, once more, inevitable. She would be a prisoner, and there would be no apparent escape.

But, over the long term, prisoners have very little to do but look for ways to escape.

She would accept that which she could not change. But she would change that which she could, and she would always be on the alert for the opportunity to effect that change. She would not spend the rest of her life as the Countess of Eucoir. She would not spend the rest of her life as the wife of Dougal MacMiann.

If true happiness was lost to her, she would settle for recapturing some measure of contentment. Some measure of dignity.

Though it might take years, she would escape the Earl!

Or die in the attempt.