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Chapter 3, Part 1

Posted on Friday, 3 November 2000, at 1 : 04 p.m.

Timothy Harville leaned back in his chair and took in the noise, noise which would annoyed him several fortnights ago: the everyday clamour of his little family at breakfast. At the moment, he was cuddling little Mark on his lap while his wife settled a dispute between the two older children. At last, the pair were excused from the table and Elsa began to clear away the dirty dishes. Her eyes met her husband's in frank apology for the disturbance.

Harville grinned and pressed his cheek to the tiny boy's downy head. Moments such as these were unspeakably precious; he intended to savour each one, quiet or not, as long as he was able. This youngest child, conceived and born during his time ashore, would be a baby no more when he returned. Harville pulled the boy closer and closed his eyes.

"Ah! Dear Captain, do not trouble yourself!" He raised his head to see Elsa's cousin Solveig come bustling in from the kitchen. "Please, allow me to assist!" Solveig swung the boy out of her father's lap, cooing, "Ve finish in the kitchen, young man, and leave Papa in peace, ya?"

"Thank you," murmured Harville. He did not want to let his son go, yet he did want time alone with Elsa. He gave her a long, careful look as he poured himself another cup of coffee. During his extended time ashore, he had come to better understand his wife and to see things he had never before noticed. This morning she looked worn out, even at such an early hour. Harville cocked an eyebrow at Elsa and pointed to her empty cup. "Join me for coffee?"

"But I ..." She glanced to the pile of dirty dishes in her hands and then back at her husband's cheerful face. "Oh, very well, Timothy," she said with a sigh. She returned to the table and pulled out the chair beside him. Her posture as she sat showed how glad she was for this interruption.

Harville leaned forward and covered her hand with one of his. "So, tell me, Mrs Harville." His eyes twinkled into hers. "What is your pleasure, milady? I am yours to command."

"Oh, Timothy, I ..." Elsa dimpled; for a moment her eyes shone the prospect of an entire day with her husband. Then the practical side of her nature took over; she swallowed and studied her coffee. One by one, she dropped three lumps of sugar into the cup.

"I ... hate to ask this of you, especially today, but ..." Elsa glanced at the door for a moment. "We simply must do something about finding him employment -- my cousin, that is. Do you suppose ..."

As if on cue, a strong, pulpit-trained voice sounded in the front parlour, reciting carefully: "What. Where. Which. When. Ah! Elsa!"

The Reverend Elias Tweedt came lumbering into the dining room, a book of English grammar in his hand. "Did you hear, Elsa?" he boomed, grinning broadly. "I did not say 'ven,' I say 'ven'!

Elsa kept a perfectly straight face. "Very good, Cousin Elias. That is progress, indeed."

Reverend Tweedt stood in the doorway, smiling in his friendly way at his cousin and her husband. All at once, he appeared to realise the awkward nature of his interruption. He coloured and hastily took himself off.

"He is a considerate sort of chap, I'll give him that," Harville remarked, after the door had swung shut. "But Elsa, I told you before, there is nothing I can do for him. Parsons are the worst luck imaginable! Even if I wanted him aboard the Laconia, Wentworth'd never stand for it."

"But we cannot have him here, either! How was I to know he was coming with Solveig?" she replied in an urgent whisper. "It isn't as if I ... We simply must find work for him, Timothy!" Elsa broke off speaking, annoyed to be arguing on his one day at home. She began again, careful to keep her tone light.

"He needs to improve his English so that he may take a church in America," she reasoned. "That is not so hard. There must be something he can do on board ship, as a man and not as a minister. Swab decks. Mend sails."

"Aye, but does he know how?"

"Well ... no. I doubt it."

"Look, Elsa. Here are the warrants I need: a second officer, a purser, a personal steward for the Captain. Tweedt's not any of these. He'd be perfect as schoolmaster for the mids. But how could he teach them if he doesn't speak English?"

"His writes it very well, Timothy," Elsa persisted. "And he is improving. You must have work for such a good-hearted, honest man."

"An honest man, aye, but ..." Harville became very quiet as her words flooded his mind. A tiny smile came his lips. Perhaps ...

"Nah, Wentworth'd have my hide! A parson as purser!" he muttered. "But ... an honest man ..." Harville took a sip of his coffee and turned the idea over in his mind. "Aye, and the usual double-dealing bilge blister is what we'll get, and don't I know it! Robbing us blind while we pay him for the pleasure!" Now that he thought about it, this Tweedt fellow couldn't be any worse -- he certainly didn't look like bad luck. And anyway, if he were known as 'Mister' and not as 'Reverend,' would he actually be a parson?

And then Harville remembered the bonus his Captain had offered for the signing of a trustworthy man for the office. Now it was his turn to study the contents of his coffee cup. Unbeknownst to his wife -- or to Wentworth -- he had 'borrowed' some of the money to rent this house from the funds allotted to secure the crew. The bonus would greatly reduce the amount he owed Wentworth and besides ...

In an instant, Harville's mind was made up. "Tweedt!" he called out, in as penetrating a tone as the Reverend's.

"Ya?" The door opened and Elias Tweedt's blonde head poked through.

"Come join us for coffee, Tweedt," Timothy offered, with the friendliest of smiles. At the man's blank expression, he looked to his wife. She translated. "Tell me, Cousin," he continued, as he took hold of the coffee pot and pulled forward a fresh cup, "do you like the sea?"

"That's the last of it, then," James Benwick muttered, as he sat back on his heels. "Every one of these boxes -- every drawer and cupboard in the house, everywhere I can think to look, even in this elevated rat's nest -- nothing." He mopped his brow and looked to Jonathan Yee, who was also stripped to his shirtsleeves for work in the musty attic. "Where else do you suggest, Yee? Unless we begin peeling back the wainscoting to search for hidden passages ..."

"There is nothing, sir. The strong box and the compartment in your great uncle's bedchamber wall you already know about," Yee replied. "And as for that walled-up room in one of the cellars ..."

"Ah, the mysterious secret room," Benwick grinned. "Yea, we searched long and hard for that one! I think we can put that rumour to rest."

"The thing about concealment, sir, is that Madam was bedridden. One of the staff would have had to have hidden that will. And we didn't."

"And the whole point of a making another is that it be found and used, " Benwick agreed. He groaned as he got to his feet; he had been on his knees for quite some time. "I say we leave off here. I'll send my brother Ben to that solicitor's head office in London. He'll wear them down. If its there, they'll find it -- or they'll forge one just to be rid of him!"

The narrow attic door opened with a scrape to admit Old Mr Yee. In his hand he held a small silver tray. "Excuse me, sir," he bowed and addressed Benwick, without a trace of the effort it had cost him to climb so many flights of stairs. "Just now, this is delivered by messenger."

"Thank you, Yee. Let me see if it requires a reply." Benwick took the letter, opened it, and from its folds removed a card the size of a theatre ticket. As he did this, Old Mr Yee directed a speaking look at his son. The younger man hastily pulled on his coat and gloves and stood at rigid attention.

James studied the paper thoughtfully for a moment. "I suppose the messenger has left. Do you think the boy -- Charlie, isn't it? -- could find an address on Laura Place? I will need to send an answer right away."

"There is no need, sir. The man is downstairs, waiting."

"Excellent. I won't be long. Oh, and I will be needing my dress uniform this evening." After retrieving his coat, Benwick headed downstairs for the library.

Old Mr Yee turned to his son. "Always wear the coat," he muttered, as he brushed the dust from its shoulders. "No matter the heat, no matter the dirt, no matter the inconvenience to you or the damage done to it. Never remove the coat. The Captain may do so, not you." He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you knew that."

"But ... yes, sir." The younger man swallowed his answer. How could he tell his father that Captain Benwick had expressly requested it?

"A proper liveried servant is the man downstairs, " Old Mr Yee remarked, as they both left the room and made their way toward the stairs. "From the household of a Vicountess. The Captain is making his way very well, better than I expect."

A tiny smile formed on the old butler's face. "Do you notice? Already he forgets to be self-conscious, he forgets that as a boy we know him. He begins to order us about as he should, as if we are his sailors. Yes. Madam would be pleased."

"If only he could find that will ..."

"What makes you think it is lost?" Old Mr Yee's smile appeared again. "I have the other copy," he said softly. "As a safe-guard. The Captain is right in what he thinks. The lawyer in London has it."

"Then why didn't you say someth ..."

Old Mr Yee silenced his son with a wave of his hand. "It is Madam's expressed wish that I do not," he said severely. "Only if the other is not found am I to produce it. And it will be found."

"But he has been turning this house upside down!" Jonathan whispered back.

"As well he should." Old Mr Yee continued to descend the stairway, unpeterbed. "There is no waste of his time. As the scriptures say, 'Know well the condition of thy flocks ...'."

"But ..."

At the landing, Old Mr Yee turned to face his son.

"No more question," he said severely. "You see to the dress uniform. The Captain has a party tonight, I think. Madam would be pleased. Yes."

"Very good, sir." Jonathan Yee took himself off, but not without a shake or two of his head over his inscrutable father.

When Elizabeth unfolded her napkin at breakfast, she found a letter wedged beneath her plate. It was written in an unknown hand and had been franked at Northampton. With a frown, she broke the seal and spread it out on the table.

Miss Elliot,

Forgive the Intrusion, but I simply can not help myself. The News I have to relate is of such an Excellent Nature!

Mother and I shall be Returning to Bath within the Next Few Days. It would be a Most Extreme Pleasure to be allowed call on the Morning after our Arrival. Please do not think me boorish to desire the Pleasure of your Most Beauteous company.

Very Truly, Most Sincerely Yours,

A. Rushworth

Elizabeth's brows raised in surprise. Rushworth! I had quite forgotten him! she thought. She had no idea that such a ponderous young man could express himself so exuberantly. This letter was written several days ago. That would mean ...

"Good morning, dears!" Mary chirped cheerfully, as she opened the door of the dining room and shut it behind her with a bang. "Here I am!" Her countenance fell when she saw her sister. "Oh. Elizabeth. You're alone?"

Elizabeth looked up but said nothing. Mary was wretchedly early -- and no amount of good-humoured nattering could cover it. She knew she was having a late breakfast, but it was not so late as all that! But Mary's disappointment appeared to be short-lived. She eagerly made her way to the breakfast table.

"I simply must show you what was waiting for me at the inn when I returned yesterday!" Mary rummaged in her reticule and brought out a card. "Look at this!" she said, with a smile of triumph. "Lady is truly the most excellent of persons! She has sent me her ticket for the Concert this evening! Isn't that lovely? So, I shall not be left behind after all!" Mary pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to pour herself a cup of tea.

"And let me tell you, Sister, I have had such difficulty in deciding what to wear! So, I brought several of my gowns with me. We can spend the morning talking it over together. Won't that be fun?"

"Yes, well, perhaps ... later on." Elizabeth suppressed a groan and propped her head in her hands. She loathed conversation at the breakfast table -- everyone knew that -- and here she was, forced to entertain Mary. And to be discussing clothing was even worse! Mary had the most hideous taste imaginable and never took even the most carefully laid hint.

Mr Rushworth's letter caught her eye; she began to think about him as her sister rattled on. His annual income was reputed to be nearly twelve-thousand pounds. Such an amount made Elizabeth's aching head swim. If he had even half that, he would be quite a catch. Unfortunately, he has no title, she mused, and his appearance reminds me ... Elizabeth bit her lip as she pictured Mr Rushworth's face with its protuberant pink cheeks and bulbous nose, ... he reminds me of a plump, elegantly-trussed ... pig! As she buttered a piece of toast, she wondered how much money would be enough to enable her to put up with such obvious flaws in a husband.

"At any rate, I shall look very fine, indeed," said Mary, who had talked on without noticing her sister's abstraction. "Isn't it fortunate that I thought to bring my topaz necklace with me? Can you imagine, Charles thought I was overdressed the last time I wore it to the Pooles! But I should think he would be pleased -- and perhaps a little jealous, too -- to see me so beautifully attired tonight!"

Elizabeth sat up and took a bracing swallow of tea. Mary's idle comment had given her an idea. The blatant enthusiasm of Mr Rushworth might be useful for another purpose -- it might rouse her reluctant cousin to action. Mr Elliot had been quite pointed in his attentions when he had first come to Bath but it seemed that lately he had come to take her company for granted. No, she decided, I will not immediately repress Mr Rushworth, no matter how 'boorish' he might prove to be.

But some time later, after the man and his mother had come to call, Elizabeth was no longer so sure about the wisdom of this plan. He was boorish -- and even uglier than she remembered! And if he were not so wealthy, she would think him to be extremely stupid, as well. With a sparkling enthusiasm she did not feel, she answered each of his stammered questions and laughed at every bumbling witticism, until she was weary of the very sight of him!

Meanwhile, Anne was suffering a dilemma of her own, as she stood before a bootseller's window on New Bond Street. Her attention was claimed by a pair of black kid dancing shoes. She had turned away from the window more than once, each time rebuking herself for such a frivolous desire. But here she was again, gazing at them with rapt attention while she did some rather desperate financial calculations.

If only she was to have a plain gown for the Assembly, then there would be no struggle! But to wear such a wonderous dress with her plain, everyday boots smote her pride with a fierceness she did not expect. For once, she longed to have a pair of beautiful dancing slippers like Elizabeth always had. For although she would not dance, it would require much anxious effort to keep her boots well-hidden beneath her skirts.

But the slippers were a good buy, marked down to clear the way for the new spring merchandise. "And black is a very useful colour," Anne murmured, as she opened her reticule and began to hunt for her money purse. It eluded her grasp, so she secured the crooked handle of the flowered umbrella on her arm and dug deeper. Finally she removed the small bag and carefully poured the coins into her palm. If she was very frugal and did not buy another thing for the remainder of the quarter ...

"No. I cannot." Anne's gloved hand closed on the coins and she turned away from the shop. "It is too extravagant." But she had not taken two steps before she was back at the window, gazing at the lovely shoes.

New Bond Street was all but deserted on this misty morning, but Anne was not alone. From a doorway near the corner, a solitary figure watched her with great interest -- a gentleman whose hat had a band of black crepe wound around its crown.

Chapter 3, Part 2

Posted on Saturday, 11 November 2000, at 8 : 07 p.m.

As he made his way down New Bond Street, a smile drifted across William Elliot's face. For directly in his path stood the young woman who had intruded into his thoughts time and again during his brief absence from Bath: his gentle cousin Anne. True, he had spent time fretting over Penelope Clay's schemes and had chuckled over Elizabeth's sparkling pique, but he had thought the most about Anne. And here she was, alone.

How convenient, he mused, and he came to a halt several doors away in order to study her trim figure.

Anne has such delicate features. He smiled some more, as his eyes traced the profile of her face. Indeed, his little cousin was looking all the more desirable each time he saw her. Anne had not the luscious shapeliness of Elizabeth, but there were other features to admire besides her personality. Her ears were small and dainty, the curve of her neck was deliciously appealing, and her lips were beautifully shaped. William smiled more widely as he wondered, would they ever come to welcome his kiss? Yes, it was most pleasant to think about Anne.

As William continued to watch her, it began to dawn on him that a little drama was playing out before his eyes. His cousin was standing in front of a shop, but the looks of longing cast at the widow told him she was not merely sighing over frippery trifles. No, Anne's expression had a tinge of anxiousness which pulled at his heart. He watched her turn away, and then come back for another look.

Such a scene was painful but he was unable to tear his eyes from her, as she was now counting out a out a handful of coins. Mr Elliot's jaw tightened in annoyance. Her peacocky father was the cause of her straitened circumstances and this was the result! Such a lovely young woman deserved everything she desired, and more! If he had the care of her, he would certainly see to that!

Anne stood for some time looking at the meagre amount in her hand. Then her head bowed and her shoulders sagged; William Elliot could feel as well as see her resignation. The battle was over ... and Anne had lost.

But not for long. Swiftly and silently, William closed the distance between them.

"Buy it," he murmured, over her shoulder. "Go ahead."

Anne nearly jumped out of her skin to hear a voice so close by. She turned to see the smiling face of her cousin and began to stammer a greeting. But he did not regard her, his attention was fixed on the window.

"Which of these has caught your fancy, Cousin?" he asked, in a very friendly way.

"Oh ... er ... a pair of slippers." Anne was too shaken by his sudden appearance to dissemble. "But it is nothing; just a foolish, frivolous desire. For a ... a party."

"These?" Mr Elliot pointed. "Mmmm." He gave her a quick, sidelong glance and murmured, "Black is a very practical colour. I should think you could use these on many occasions. You may call such a thing 'frivolous,' but I do not."

"I have considered that, yes," she murmured. "But ..."

"Forgive me, Cousin ... but I believe you have dropped several of your coins just now." With a tiny smile, he pointed at the cobbled walk.

"Why ... how ..." Anne's brows knit together in consternation. "I was most careful! I do not see how I could have ..." Her voice dwindled away as her cousin knelt and then placed two shining guineas in her hand.

"These are not mine, Mr Elliot," she whispered.

"Nor are they mine." He gestured toward the empty street. "If you did not drop them, who did?" He gave an elaborate shrug. "Whoever he was, he does not seem to be concerned about their loss." Under the brim of his hat, his eyes smiled into hers. "Perhaps this is your lucky day."

"Luck, Mr Elliot? I do not believe in 'luck.' "

"The kind intervention of Providence, then," he amended. "But I am certain you must have dropped these, unawares. Could there be a hole in your money purse?"

"Why, no ... but ... I mean, I am certain I did not have so much ..."

"Then shall we go in together? And while you are being fitted you may tell me all the most recent news of your family. For I have been to the Metropolis and back -- and most sorely did I miss the company of my cousins."

And paying no heed to Anne's stammered protests, Mr Elliot very kindly opened the door to the bootseller's and motioned her inside.

It took much of the man's strength to open the heavy door to his father's large horse barn, but he managed it. Once inside, he slowly pushed it closed to shut out the chill March air. He was panting just a little from the exertion but he soon recovered and began to make his way down the row of boxes. He had not the energy for his customary whistling, nevertheless, there was a slight swing in his step. At the last box he stopped.

"Belle?" he called softly. He was rewarded by a whinny, as a horse put her head out the door to inquire. He patted her neck; she nodded her chestnut head and regarded him with large, soft eyes.

"Such a beautiful lady, you are," he murmured as he stroked her. He could scarcely believe the generosity of his brother-in-law. In exchange for board and care he would be allowed to breed this wonderful animal. Within a few years he would have a colt of his own to gentle and train up, something he had always longed to do. His fingers itched for the currycomb, for he wanted to groom Belle himself, but he knew his strength was not equal to the task today. With a sigh, he looked to the end of the barn where the carriages were kept. His father's travelling vehicle was conspicuously absent; his cousin Hayter had it.

"This curst damp weather," he grumbled, as he rubbed Belle's velvety nose affectionately. Truth to tell, he had dearly wanted to be the one to drive Wentworth to Plymouth. Instead, he was stuck here, tied to the house as if he were some kind of milksop-fed mama's boy! At least he had managed to rid himself of Alice's wretched poultices!

But the Cottage was unbearably silent without his wife and young sons. And above all, Charles Musgrove enjoyed the friendly bustle of a cheerfully crowded household.

"It is only when things are ... well ..." He gave a final pat to Belle's shining neck as he thought about how he often fled the house whenever Mary grew too demanding. But she had been gone for some time and he found he missed her company.

Charles walked to the end of the barn and came to a stop beside the gig. He stood looking at it a long while, thinking. His cousin Hayter was due back late this evening. If he took Coney and Rodgers with him ... and if he stayed shut up the carriage for the entire trip, perhaps ... Charles squared his shoulders.

"I'll do it tomorrow ... or Thursday at the latest," he said decisively. He was better now, completely well, in fact! Did not his own mother say so just yesterday? Then she would have nothing to say about it tomorrow! For it was high time his wife and sons were fetched home!

Anne left the shop on the arm of her cousin, scarcely daring to think about what was inside the wrapped package he held: the most darling dancing shoes imaginable! They were made up in deep blue, not black and were marked down to a price she could barely believe!

The shoes had been ordered by the young daughter of an army officer. But he had been called away and they were never delivered. And it seemed that not many women had such small feet, for they had been in the shop a long while. Both the shopkeeper and Mr Elliot had made it plain that Anne would be doing an enormously kind favor if she would please take them off the shopkeeper's hands. And with such persuasion against her, how could she resist?

With a smile, she looked up at her cousin. Mr Elliot might always have a glib answer ready, but she had to admit, he was very good company.

"I am grateful to you for seeing me home today, Mr Elliot. Elizabeth would have been quite put out to see me arrive alone."

"Oh? How so? Why should she disapprove?"

"She thinks walking alone is ... spinterish," Anne confided. William Elliot gave a crack of laughter.

"Spinsterish? I should never think of you as such, dear Cousin!"

"Elizabeth does have some rather odd notions," Anne admitted, with a smile.

"I should say so! And she is fearful that you will never change your name, is that it? And so reflect poorly on her?" William Elliot's smile deepened; he lowered his voice.

"But my dear Anne, you needn't change your name to be blissfully happy! And you needn't remain a spinster, either."

Anne looked at her cousin in surprise. She hardly knew what to make of his remark, for his words had two meanings! And as she walked beside him wondering how to answer, Providence kindly intervened. It began to rain.

"Good lord!" Mr Elliot caught hold of her arm and pulled her to shelter from the sudden downpour. They stood together beneath the awning of a shop, watching the steady stream of drops.

"I do have an umbrella, Mr Elliot," Anne offered, and she felt along her arm for the crooked handle. "It is right he ... Oh dear! I must have left it behind at that shop! Whatever shall I do?"

Alas for Mr Elliot! For this was his reward for his gallant good deed: a wet and weary tramp alone to New Bond Street to retrieve a sweet ruffled umbrella, an item he thought to be downright ugly! But as pleasing his worried cousin was foremost in his mind, he calmly made the best of a bad situation and then quietly saw her back to Camden Place. And after some reflection, William Elliot began to take heart. For he would be joining his cousins at the concert that night, where he would surely have opportunity to speak with Anne.

The day, which had begun brightly in the morning, was ending dark and grim. In the late
afternoon, the wind had kicked up and a steady rain had begun. The windows now rattled as Edward hung his pants and blew out the candles on his wife's dressing table, on the way to his bed. She sat, pretending to be occupied with a book. But her attention to the printed page belied what he knew to be her true state of mind.

He arranged his nightcap and settled himself under the blankets of the bed. As he lay there, he recounted the day's events and reiterated his position and the rightness of it.

When Joshua Junkins had brought Louisa home from an unannounced ramble about the countryside, he had talked to Edward and told him of finding the girl in the company of Pollard Levant. Perhaps Junkins was oversensitive, but he had used the word danger to describe how he understood the circumstance. The man went on to say that the young Mrs Wentworth had been quiet all the way home, and had bolted into the house as soon as the wagon had come to a full stop. Edward was not certain to which event he could attribute the majority of his anger. Was he angry at her for putting herself in harm's way by associating with Levant, though it had been a chance meeting on a public road? Or, was he more peeved at the snub she had dealt his good friend? Shortly after Junkins' departure, the girl had come downstairs to borrow paper for a letter to Frederick and the Rector had chosen that time to speak with her about her behaviour. When he had spoken to Louisa about her leaving the house, he felt that he had been a model of restraint and reason. By her response, perhaps he should have waited until he had cooled a bit.

As he mused, Catherine did not move to put out the lights on her bed table and lay down beside him. She calmly sat, reading while she rested against her pillows propped against the headboard. They had not discussed the exchange between him and Louisa, but his wife would no doubt side with another of her sex. Not wishing to be the author of a possible argument, he turned to face away from her.

She is counting on the silence unnerving me, he thought. He remained quiet. After what felt to be quite a long time, Edward turned back, sat up and asked, "Are you intending to sleep tonight?"

Looking up from the book, she laid it in her lap. "Eventually," she said, and nothing more.

Sitting up, he pulled and punched his pillows so that he might recline as she. He feared their conversation could possibly last far into the night and he wished to be comfortable.

With great precision, Catherine placed the ribbon bookmark between the pages, closed it and placed it on her table. Folding her hands, she and Edward sat quietly, each waiting for the other to speak.

"This is ridiculous, you know."

"I agree. Quite ridiculous." She cocked her head and looked his way. "Then why are we doing this?" she asked.

Edward glanced at her and answered, "I haven't the slightest idea. I did not think that I was harsh or mean with the girl, but ... "

Catherine rested her hand on the sleeve of his nightshirt. "I don't suppose you were, but with her feelings extra Tender. Raw in fact and right now, anything ... inexact, would bring that sort of outburst."

Edward rubbed his face hoping to clear away the scene of which she spoke, but it was not to be. He could clearly see Louisa, first with a quivering lip and then dissolving into tears with each word he spoke. She had run from the study. That was not so bad, it had been her tripping on the stairs going up which had made him feel the most ogrish.

Crossing his arms in renewed exasperation, he said quietly, "All I can hope is that this child is not a girl. I am obviously no good with girls."

Catherine took his arm and wriggled beneath it. "Did you never reprimand Frederick? Did he never show temper?" Awaiting the answer, she settled herself against him.

"Of course I reprimanded him ... some. And he certainly showed temper -- he has a great one you know, but ... "

"But what."

"Well," Edward said, choosing his words. "He never ran away and cried, even when he was small. He kicked me once, when I first returned and we were still determining who was master of the house, but he never cried!"

Catherine arranged her shawl to cover her back and he took up the covers to do so as well. "Girls are a bit different. Did you explain to her why you were so concerned?"

"I tried, but she began to fall apart before my eyes and then rushed off. Besides, you were the one who went haring off to her room and shut herself in for a good hour. What did she say?"

"We didn't speak about you or the dust up."

He drew back and looked at her. "Nothing? Not one word?"

"A few. Very few." She looked up at him. "Did you think I would smooth over this rough patch for you?"

He leant back into the pillows. "I had my hopes ... which, by your tone are obviously dashed." He rubbed her arm with energy.

"I will do no such thing," she said. "The two of you will have to work out these differences yourselves."

"I suppose you're right. It all seemed so simple when Frederick was here, now ... "

"Now it is no different. It is still the best plan for her." They were quiet.

Edward's curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "If you spoke so little about our exchange, what did the two of you find to talk about for so long?"

"Oh, little, household things. We determined that her room needs new curtains and a coverlet to match. She has snagged a shawl and we will fix it in the morning. Oh!" she exclaimed, rising on her elbow. "Frederick has left money for you -- to replace the bed in the nursery. That will be nice," she said, taking her place once more."

"Yes, it will. And it is only right of him. After all, he is the one who broke it." She giggled and he hushed her. "So what else did you do all day while I was causing young women to weep?"

She giggled again and said, "Beatrice and I were discussing names for the baby. I will be only a few more weeks and they will go more quickly than we know."

"Yes, time has already flown by." Their child would be born soon, it seemed only yesterday that she had come home from a fortnight in town and had told him of their changed circumstances. "So what have you and the good Mrs Junkins decided?"

Catherine spoke quietly, almost reverently. "I am somewhat a traditionalist. I thought it would be nice, and Beatrice agrees, to use our parents names. For example, if it is a girl, we could use some combination of our mother's names."

Edward thought about the combinations possible and immediately saw a problem. "Dear," he kissed her hair, "Rose would be not seem to be a problem, think about your mother's name." He tapped her arm with his finger.

She rose again and looked at him earnestly. "What is wrong with Anne? Anne is simple but elegant. Anne Wentworth would be a beautiful name."

It was clear that Catherine did not see the difficulty. Not a difficulty for them, but for his brother. "While she would be our child and Anne is a lovely name, I think you forget Miss Elliot." He whispered, "Things might be awkward for her uncle."

"Miss Elliot! What has she -- oh Edward! Of course Miss Elliot. I see now. Well, so much for Anne," she said, laying back down. "What of Rose?" she asked.

Now the difficulty was his. "I am not certain that I wish to use her name either."

"Why not? Please do not say that your brother also has a Rose in his past!"

"No," he laughed. Holding her closer, he said seriously, "I loved my mother, truly. She was a beautiful, sweet, gentle woman, but she was -- "

"I know. You needn't say it. We will find another name that we both like. I am sorry. I did not think about the implications of either name. I suppose that our fathers' names -- "

"I will not have the name Peter attached to a son of mine. Never!" His own vehemence surprised him, and he quickly apologized. "I am sorry, I did not mean to snap."

The wind rattled the windows again and they could hear the rain spatter the glass. Catherine rose and blew out the branch of candles on her side. Settling back in his arms, she said hesitantly, "And what of Phillip?"

It hurt the rector that the names of his parents were nothing but pain and anger to him and that to use them would, in his mind, cloud the joy their child would bring the family. Pulling her close, he breathed deeply and said, "Phillip is a perfect name." He was glad for the darkness. "Phillip is a name worthy of a good man such as your father." Wiping the tears with his sleeve, Edward said, " And of his grandson."

Holding the candle high, Louisa made her way downstairs. She had spent most of the evening trying to write a letter to her husband. But, there was no desk in their room and she had ruined all the paper she had borrowed earlier. The household was now abed and quiet, the perfect time to sneak to the Rector's study and write a plaintive missive to Frederick.

As she revived the nearly spent fire left in the hearth, Louisa had thought about her confrontation with Rector Wentworth. He had been unreasonably concerned over her whereabouts the previous afternoon and had scolded her terribly. While he had not said outright, all his words and looks implied a belief that she was foolish, and not to be trusted. Had he not asked that, from this day forward, she stay within the grounds of the Rectory, unless she was escorted? With that thought, she poked a log harder than necessary and it fell, rolling out of the box. Jumping up, she replaced it and set the poker back in it's stand. Sitting back down, she pulled her legs to her chest and watched the fire as she ordered her complaints.

After careful consideration, she rose and went to the desk, took paper and pen and began her letter.

Carefully sealing the flaps, Louisa looked at the thick packet with pride. It was addressed perfectly and contained a thorough catalogue of her grievances with the Rector. Surely the Captain would see that he must either send for her to be with him -- which to Louisa was the most logical choice -- or he would make arrangements for her to return home ... Home. Uppercross. While her living in Shropshire had seemed the most perfect of schemes, with the Rector proving to be unreasonable and outrageous --

"Pardon me, I hope I did not frighten you."

Louisa jumped at the voice and turned to see the Rector peering at her around the door.

"I did knock. I could not sleep," he said, in a low voice. "I thought I might read for a while."

She hurriedly gathered the paper, wax, pen and blotter together, hoping he would not ask what she had been about. Guilt smote her conscience. She had used the man's own materials to accuse him to her husband. "No," she stammered as she turned to face him. "I was finished here and am just going back to my room." She searched for and found the sealed letter and clutched it in her hand, confident that the low firelight would hide it from his view.

Edward stepped into the room and closed the door. "Ah, you built the fire. Good. It is awfully chilly tonight." He studied the hearth for a moment and moved closer to it. "Might I have a word with you ... ?" He seemed to hesitate, as though he did not know what next to say.

Slipping the letter into her pocket, she said, "Certainly." Her tone was deliberately clipped. She wished him to know her displeasure at being treated so shabbily.

"Please, have a seat before the fire and I shall bring us something to drink." He quickly brought them each a glass of sherry. Settling into his chair, he took a drink and made a face. "How do you ladies drink this? It is abominable."

Louisa took a sip and while it was not of the quality that her father would serve, it was passable. Guardedly, she said, "Some ladies drink it very well ... and much of it."

Edward laughed out loud. "That is true! I had an aunt; Aunt Gusta Chestnutt. The woman had a capacity for sherry that was astounding." He finished the glass and set it down on the table between them.

Louisa said nothing.

Leaning back in the chair and folding his hands, Edward stared at the fire and said, "I wish to apologise for our quarrel. I should not have treated you as I did. And I should have explained myself better." He continued to look at the fire.

The admission surprised her. The guilt rose again as she thought about some of the things she had said in her letter to Frederick. Some that now she was beginning to realise were
exaggerations on her part. She took the silence as a chance to study the Rector. The firelight did him no favours. It showed that he certainly did not sleep well. The lines proved that he certainly could profit by a good deal more of it. She noticed again his resemblance to her husband, but that his eyes were more ... more knowing. He suddenly turned and looked at her directly. "I tend to allow my feelings to rule my tongue. I am too headstrong sometimes."

She herself had been described as headstrong, along with many other, some unflattering, descriptions. She suddenly relaxed a little. Louisa could understand this man. Placing the half glass of sherry on the table next to his, she said, "I am sorry too. I may have -- it was wrong of me to be so angry." She took the glass and took a sip of the sherry. "Perhaps you could explain yourself now." Glancing his way, she was surprised that he watched her.

"All right. I think I am better able to make you understand. When we spoke earlier, you said that you were quite used to ranging far and wide around Uppercross. I am sure there was no difficulty in that, as your father's position proceeded you wherever you went. Many owe him their loyalty for various reasons. Be sure that there were many who watched over you, without your even knowing. I can offer you nothing of that sort ... in the way of protection I mean."

Louisa studied his face. She searched her own heart and knew that what he said was true. More than once, she had been the recipient of a pence or two when she lacked or a spare seat in a carriage when she was tired, but far from home. Her father's name afforded her many advantages.

Suddenly a thought came to her. Rector Shirley was more than well liked by his parish and was certainly afforded all the esteem and admiration a man of God could reasonably expect. "But surely you, as a clergyman are not without friends and protection as you called it."

Smiling, the Rector sat quietly for a time. He studied the fire and then began to speak. "I suppose it seems that would be the way of things, And, while a clergyman has a certain social station that affords him some advantages, for the most part, unless men are truly submitted to God, a representative of Him are not thought much of. Certainly not enough to command any sort of consideration."

Louisa understood. "Certainly not men like Pollard Levant." She watched him.

The Rector rubbed the back of his neck as though it suddenly ached. "Yes. Exactly. Men who have no fear of God, have no fear of me." He glanced her way, but never met her eyes. "It is a painful realisation, but I think your husband's rank and station -- though he is miles away -- offer you more safety than I can." He closed his eyes.

Her memories of the afternoon were beginning to change in light of the Rector's explanation. His anger now had a context that she had not grasped before. Louisa could also now understand his attachment to a man such as Mr Junkins. A man who not only respected the Rector's authority, but was his personal intimate. Personally intimate enough, to face down the most powerful man in the district to assure the safety of his friend's sister-in-law.

Her throat ached and her eyes stung. But mostly, the plaintive missive in her pocket mocked and accused her. Crushing it in her hand she said, "Thank you, Rector. Thank you for explaining all this. I took for granted the favour that my maiden name gave me." She leant forward and said softly, "But you should not think so meanly of yourself. I am certain that, like me, there are more around you than you know, who respect and care for you."

Edward gave her a quiet smile. "Yes, I am sure you are correct. None of us is as pathetic as we think, are we? In fact your father was very helpful to me when I was a curate in Monkford. He helped me resolve a dispute with a neighbour's hired man. The fellow broke down a wall and stole some apples from me. It was a trifling matter, but your father intervened with the neighbour -- a good friend of his -- and we came to an amicable settlement." He reached for his glass and finding it empty, set it back down. "No, your father is a good man, never mistake that."

Louisa rose and went to the cabinet and brought the sherry and refilled the Rector's glass. "I had no idea you knew my father, or had ever lived in the area. When was this?" Having poured, she placed the decanter on the table and took her seat.

Without hesitation, the Rector drawled, "Oh, the years '05, '06, and much of '07." He took a drink. "It has always astonished me that when I lived in the area and Frederick came one summer, he was introduced all around the district, though your family doesn't seem to remember, and then, of all things, your brother served on Frederick's ship! The world is small indeed." The Rector took another sip of the sherry.

This bit of news interested Louisa greatly. So much of her husband's life had already involved her family, even before she had known anything of him. Her eyes were bright with curiosity when she asked, "And what summer was this?"

Innocently, he replied, "The year '06. Yes, he was quite a favourite at parties and such. I rode his coattails to more than one social occasion. He was a new commander and newspaper accounts of the battles of San Domingo were still fresh in everyone's minds. I would not be surprised if he had been invited to every house in the district."

"Then he knew the Elliots! That is strange, for Miss Anne never breathed a word about a previous connection. And my sister-in-law, Mary, of all people would have made the most of such a thing! This is strange indeed!"

Edward coughed and slammed the glass down on the table. Louisa jumped up and patted his back as hard as she thought proper. "Are you all right, sir. Should I go and fetch your wife?" She was afraid because of the paleness of his face.

"No!" he cried sharply. "I shall be fine in a moment. Could you bring me some water?"

Louisa obeyed and watched him as he carefully downed the full glass. Handing it to her, he said, "Thank you. I think I will be all right now." He leant back and watched the fire again.

Settling into her seat, Louisa pursued the conversation. "As I said, I am surprised that Mary did not crow at all about knowing Frederick. She certainly made enough of him anywise," she said, thinking about some of her sister-in-law's sillier remarks and longing looks.

"Yes -- well -- as I recall, Miss Mary Elliot was not yet home from school or something such as that -- "

"But there was no hint from Miss Anne," she said. "Though ... "

"Though what?" Edward asked warily.

Louisa did not answer immediately, she was remembering. Then she replied, "I did not think about it at the time, but after he met Miss Anne, we were all walking and he remarked to Etta -- my sister Henrietta -- that Miss Anne was so altered he would not have known her again. I never gave it a thought, until now. Such a remark makes no sense at all if he not previously known her." Louisa looked at the Rector with confusion. "Why would neither of them acknowledge that they were acquainted?"

"Undoubtedly he knew of her from that summer -- knew who she was and was speaking more from the knowledge of rather than acquaintance with her -- as it would be unusual for two people not to acknowledge a past -- friendly -- acquaintance. A-hem. I think -- yes, good heavens, we should be retiring. Look at the time! he exclaimed.

Louisa laughed a little, "Yes, I suppose so. They could not have been hiding their acquaintance, both are too good and honest for that." As she said the words good and honest, the letter came to her mind. She rose and walked to the fire. Kneeling she began to bank it.

"I should do that," Edward said, rising himself.

"No, Rector," she said, taking the letter from her pocket. She waited until he was not looking and tossed it in and poked it deep into the burning coals. "I want to personally make certain that this fire does its work tonight."

There was a small flareup as the wax melted and caught, and then the letter was gone.

It had been the Captain's intention to retire for the night but a sudden burst of energy had caused him to more carefully investigate his new quarters. Poking about the forward cabin he had discovered some things about the previous captain of the Moonshine. The man had been none too tidy about his surroundings or, by the putrid shirt he had found in the wardrobe, his person. The man was prone to reading lurid novels and he liked good whiskey. A bottle of imported double malt whiskey, still under the seal, lay nestled in one of the after cabin lockers. It did not take Frederick long to determine that with the price of the lease of the ship, came the fair use of all materials found aboard. The whiskey included.

Stowing it safely away, he thought about something which Harville had told him the evening before. He was not certain that he should pursue the matter, but had called for Midshipman Martin to be brought to him anywise.

Martin had been with the Laconia since the year '09. He had been brought by his mother that she might receive the five pound bonus and half a year's pay upon his signing on. By chance, Wentworth had been on deck when Martin had been signed. He had watched as the woman had taken the money counted out into her hand. She had held it for a moment, looked at her son, then to another littler one at her feet. Her head had dropped some as she had stowed the money in a dirty purse on her wrist. Touching the bigger boy's cheek for half an instant, she had turned and hurried away. Frederick usually took no notice in such trivial matters as the taking on of a ship's boy, but after such a scene, there had been, and still was, something about Joseph Martin that interested the Captain.

A soft knock at the door let him know that the boy had arrived.

"Come," Frederick said.

A bleary eyed Martin stood before him. The late hour made formality unnecessary and Frederick chose not to say the boy had misbuttoned his jacket. He would be sending the boy back to his hammock after he found out what he needed to know.

"I am sorry to pull you from your bed, Martin."

"Quite -- " the boy's voice cracked. Whether it was due to tiredness or his age, Frederick could not be sure. Embarrassed, the boy began again. "Quite all right, sir. What might you need?" Even as he steadied himself on his tired legs, his devotion to his captain and ship's duty was clear.

The Captain took a seat behind his desk. He hesitated a moment, not certain that he should really pursue the matter before him. "I wanted you to know that I am very pleased with what I find here. Harville has told me that you have been a great help to him in keeping all these bodies and souls together on this hulking block.

Martin looked confused. He was obviously pleased to be commended thus, but to be taken from his bed at such a late hour was strange. "Thank you sir. I have done what I could in assisting Captain Harville. But he is very capable, aside from anything I might have done."

"You are too modest, Martin." Frederick laughed. "If you are to make your way in the Navy, you must take credit when it is due you -- and even at time when it is not." He watched the boy and laughed again. "That is not in you, is it? Good. You may never be First Lord, but you will sleep at night! And how is the good woman who trained you so well?" He had always had an active interest in Martin's family.

Martin brightened at the mentioning of his mother. "She is very well, sir. Married again."

"Yes, you told me. You said he was a good man. Is that still your opinion?"

"Yessir. He keeps working steady. Keeps food on the board so there is no complaining. Mother has said that I might keep some of my pay this time out."

Midshipmen generally had an allowance, entrusted to the ship's captain, while their pay was sent home. Martin's allowance had been meager by any standard and the family had used every groat of his pay to survive. It now looked as if Mr Martin would be coming up in the world, now that his family was being seen to by another.

"Good. Just be certain that you put some aside each quarter. Don't squander it, for that wasteful conduct comes back to haunt you." The Captain chose not to elaborate as to his own wasteful conduct. "Before I send you off, I do need to know something." His decision to pursue the matter was not completely settled in his mind, but a little more information might do so.

"Yessir."

"Harville mentioned that an attempt was made to steal the binnacle box from the Laconia."

"Yessir. He and I caught the two thieves. Just little boys really. They would not say what they intended to do with it, but they were making a might effort to carry it off."

"Again, good work in keeping that from happening." Frederick hesitated. "Uh, might you know where it is now? The box, I mean."

"Certainly, sir. It was struck down in the hold. Very far forward as I recall. It is strange that you should ask about that particular thing, sir."

The Captain scowled. "And why is that, Martin?"

Martin had been absently feeling his buttons and was in the process of correcting them. "Well, sir, uh, the carpenter just said today that he was going to have a chance to take a plane to her and sand her out all nice. There has always been an ugly gouge that he has wanted to get at, but there was never a chance." Martin smoothed his jacket just in time to be dismissed.

Frederick was grateful for the late hour and that he was not likely to meet any stray crew. Harville had determined that watch on watch was not necessary and all but the barest watch was on duty at such a late hour. As he staggered his way through the hulking old ship, he held the lantern high and the bottle close to his chest. Despite being well on the road to drunkenness he observed the good work of her bones, but how time and neglect had taken their toll. As he moved further forward, his thoughts turned to the binnacle he was going to examine.

It had been summer in the year '08. Frederick had just been appointed captain of the Laconia and it was their first time out. A short run after an overhaul of her rudder. It was the second day and excitement had kept him from sleeping. At the beginning of the first watch, he had come above. Other than the master's mate at the wheel, he had been alone on the quarter deck.

The night was warm and quiet. Only the occasional thready patch of clouds floated through the moonlight. After greeting the mate, who had not been surprised to see the new captain at such an odd hour, Frederick had been left to himself.

He had pulled the helm's log to himself. It had snagged on a large splinter. After he shaved off the splinter with his clasp knife, he had set the knife aside and begun to read the log with interest. Notes by the duty officers, master and the boson would give him a good idea of the temperament and capabilities of his new love. The Laconia had a reputation for being a clean sailer and good on the bowline, but after just a few pages, the log revealled that when fully loaded, she had a tendency to heel, thus slowing her greatly. He would meet with the Master and together, they would determine how to stow the hold proper and improve her speed.

He was not certain when it occurred, but he suddenly realised that he was no longer reading the log, but using the clasp knife to carve on the top of the binnacle box! He had glanced over to the mate and seen that he was occupied with the watch's officer. Bending closer, he examined his handiwork and saw what he had done. There on the smooth teak top of the binnacle, he had carved a lovely "A".

Since receiving word of his step up to the Laconia, thoughts of Anne Elliot had returned to him with a vengeance. He had gone so far as to sit down and write to her. Each improper letter had been summarily torn up and burnt for good measure. He had chided himself that a woman such as Anne would, by that time, be married and settled. That even his commanding a frigate would mean nothing to the residents and neighbours of Kellynch Hall, who he knew had supplanted him. Above all this, his words at their parting had been angry and ugly. His imprudent words left no room for reconciliation.

The proof of his state of mind was staring him in the face and now, the only question was, how could he rectify the situation?

The binnacle had been replaced recently when the old one had been damaged in a storm. The previous captain had taken a fancy to a wood widely available in Java, where the ship had been stationed and when the opportunity to use it aboard presented itself, the captain had taken it. And so now, the Laconia sported one of the fanciest binnacles in the fleet. This being the case, Wentworth had not wished to gouge out his unconscious creation, but saw little choice. He had done it and by the time they had returned to port, all thoughts of letters and carvings had been put away.

It had taken some time to find the binnacle. Harville had stripped the ship of every item of possible use and all were crushed into various nooks and crannies below deck. It surprised him that his own cabin had not been used for storage.

He finally located the binnacle underneath some lengths of extra sailcloth. Hanging the lantern and pulling the box out where he could see it, he stood and looked carefully at it.

There was nothing remarkable about this piece of ship's furniture. It was still strong and would serve her again after the overhaul, but on this night, it only served as a reminder of his failure.

Pulling up a small keg, he sat. He ran his hand over the top of the binnacle, stopping at the exact place where he had carved the A. Even after six years worth of sun, storms and wear and tear, there was still a faint scar where he had scraped it away.

The scar was smooth, nearly indistinguishable from any of the other expected scratches and nicks. It would seem that only Frederick's prior knowledge of the gouge and the carpenter's native eye for wood made it noticeable at all.

He took a long pull on the whiskey and coughed. He continued to look at the furrow. He touched it occasionally as he thought about his last close encounter with it's cause.

She was crying, he thought. And I am quite certain she was not upset about my shoes. He had spilled wine on himself and had been in the process of mopping it up when he had seen Anne. She had obviously been watching him -- and crying.

After another swig and coughing fit, he muttered, "You are a pig, Freddy. You hurt that poor woman -- oh G-d! That stupid, tripe-laden letter! Opps," he sniggered. The last had been said louder than he had intended. He giggled. "Quiet, boy. You'll have the whole crew in here with you, and then they'll all know you for the supercilious, dishloyal swine you truly are." Another swig. "My apologies to pigs -- poor muddy little beasties. At least I am tidy."

His head hit the top of the binnacle as the bottle fell to the floor. Neither bothered him as he pulled a little pile of sailcloth under his head. While the whiskey puddled under his left foot, he made himself comfortable and muttered some more.

"She is such a sweet girl. And very pretty -- why did I do such a thing? Perhaps she will forgive me one day ... mmm, do you think you could my girl?"

But the young woman in question had no thought that night about past hurts and regrets. Quite the contrary, she was very much occupied with the present. The early evening found her in her tiny bedchamber, busy with the delicate task of fastening the clasp on a string of agate beads. The necklace was not as striking as the Stevenson diamond set worn by her sister, but it was quite pretty and it perfectly matched her taupe evening gown. She raised her head. Her door was ajar; she had heard her sister call her name.

"Yes, Elizabeth," she answered cheerfully. "I've just finished. I shall join you downstairs right away!"

With great eagerness, Anne gathered up her things. Tonight's concert promised to be a good one; the thought of the wondrous music she was about to hear made her spirits soar. Before leaving the room, she paused at the dressing table and gazed at her reflection one last time. Elise had paid special attention to her hair and it looked very well.

And I feel very well! Anne smiled at the image in the mirror; to feel this way was lovely! Then she recollected the time, gave a happy sigh, and blew out the candles.

Chapter 3, Part 3

Posted on Friday, 24 November 2000, at 11 : 02 a.m.

"You mean to say that all of it is in Italian?" Sir Cameron Greene looked up from the concert bill in disgust. "Really, Paddy," he grumbled. "I mean, when you told me you wanted to see more of Society, I had no idea you meant to drag me to such high-brow nonsense!"

"What's wrong with it?" his companion smiled.

"Because there's nothing but old women here, that's what! A complete waste of my time!"

"But not of mine," came the bemused reply. "Cam, my friend, the pot cannot call the kettle black! We are old!"

"Must you remind me?" Sir Cameron muttered. "But I haven't a taste for withered old crones ... and never will!" He gestured expansively and lowered his voice further. "Look around. Bags, double chins, and crow's feet wherever you look!"

"Which is why I arrived early, my dear. To have a look ... around," 'Paddy' grinned. His eyes roved the interior of the Octagon Room, but the one he was seeking had not yet come. He had gambled that she would; now he could only wait and see if his hunch would pay off.

With more good-natured grumbling, Sir Cameron again applied himself to the concert bill. After a few moments he appeared to have a change of heart, for he gave his friend a meaningful nudge.

"Look here, Paddy! One of the singers for the first act is Miss Eleanora Stile. She's a fetching bit of jolly fun! Met her at Gabberstone's dinner two weeks ago. Good dancer, too. Mmmm-hmmm."

His friend gave him a knowing look. "I'm afraid you're on the outs there, Cam. From what I hear, Farley's already taken her under his, er, wing."

"Farley?" Sir Cameron's voice showed his contempt for the urbane leader of Bath society. "Another? And so close to home? Dashed risky, if you ask me," he grumbled. "Used to cart 'em off to Venice, or wherever that curst villa of his is. Or kept 'em in the City. Never here."

"There's no fool like an old fool, they say."

"There you go, spouting on about age again! What is it with you tonight? Besides," Sir Cameron added with a rueful grin, "Sir Clifton Farley's my idea of an old man! Must be the age of that chit Eleanora's grandpapa! Eh, Paddy?"

But Sir Cameron never got an intelligible answer, for his friend's attention was arrested by a knot of young women who were taking up a position in front of the fire.

"Turkey red," he murmured to no one in particular. "I despise it on an Army man, but she looks very well in Turkey red, as well as the green."

Miss Elliot would have been affronted to hear her gown so called, though 'Turkey red' was all the rage. Turkeys were an ugly bird and the country by that name was a heathen, uncivilized place. Elizabeth preferred the designation 'carnelian.'

And although she kept a smile on her face as she stood beside Mrs Clay, her eyes were bright with anger. For instead of arriving early as planned, her family had been forced to return to the White Hart to search for Mary's ticket, which had unaccountably been left behind. It had eventually been located, but Sir Walter's distress over the lost time had been so complete that Mary was forced to run to her room and back. Now she looked rumpled and windblown -- and her nose and cheeks were an unfortunate shade of pink!

Elizabeth sighed in annoyance and directed her attention to another part of the room. Indeed, she was quite put out with all of the members of her party! Her father was not covering his anxiousness at all well; Anne was pretty and smiling, but had no conversation; and as for Penelope Clay, she had conversation enough, but the neckline of her new evening frock was revealing in the extreme!

Poor Miss Elliot. Of all the times to have a nagging headache, this was the worst! But the evening would not be a complete loss; Mr Elliot and Colonel Wallis were to attend and it was Elizabeth's plan was to manoeuvre a seat for herself between the two. The most perfect situation would to be to find chairs quite near to the Vicountess; this was Elizabeth's second objective for the evening.

But all at once, the evening took a different turn. A voice spoke her name, a wretchedly familiar voice, whose owner had taken up so much of Elizabeth's afternoon. With a sinking heart, she managed to turn and greet him politely. The young man never noticed her reluctance, in fact, he was delighted by her discomposure.

"Surprise! Surprise! Yes, it is ME! Ha-ha! I have surprised you, Miss Elliot! I have made you jump!" Augustus Rushworth's eyes widened in sudden concern and he patted Elizabeth's arm. "Er, I hope you are all right. I didn't frighten you too badly, did I, Miss Elliot?"

"Er, no," she said faintly. "I thought all the tickets were gone, Mr Rushworth."

"I have managed without one!" he crowed. "What luck that your sister mentioned this concert today -- and your fine cousins -- for Mama knew just what to do!" And without any encouragement on the part of his listener, for he needed none, Mr Rushworth proudly detailed the scheme which had won him certain admission this night.

While Elizabeth was thus occupied, Anne stood warming herself before the fire; in her haste she had neglected to bring a proper cloak. The evening had begun disastrously, but now things were looking better; she was greatly relieved to see it. Fortunately for her father, Lady Dalrymple had not yet arrived, so none of his plans were spoiled by the delay. Anne knew it was his object to be first with her, to 'see and be seen' in her company.

Anne had no such ambitions; it was with complete disinterest that she surveyed the gathering crowd. After all, apart from the members of her own party, she knew no one. She would content herself with the music; that would be pleasure enough. But what was this? Here and there among the crowd Anne caught a glimpse of the deep blue and bright gold of a naval uniform. Her heart gave an unaccountable bump.

This is ridiculous, she scolded herself. Frederick is not here, and even if he was, it would be nothing! Nevertheless, she carefully examined every man of the Navy in the room.

Presently the entrance door opened and a general murmur spread among the assembly. Lady Dalrymple, a principal patronesses of the event, had arrived with her daughter. Mr Elliot and Colonel Wallis followed just behind.

This was the moment for which Sir Walter had been waiting so anxiously. With many a charming smile and nod, he pushed his way through the throng of well-wishers and offered his arm to the Vicountess. His happiness was complete when that noble lady laid her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her toward the Concert Room. But they had not progressed far when the Vicountess stopped and called out to a gentleman at the edge of the crowd.

"Mr Rushworth! My dear boy! Please do join us! Right here, sir!" And to Sir Walter's consternation, she generously held out her free hand to him. "I may as easily be escorted by two handsome gentleman as well as one. If you please, my dear."

But there was more. As the threesome moved forward, she gave Mr Rushworth the friendliest of smiles and said, "I was quite overcome this afternoon when Lady Farley told me of your generous gift! So unexpected! Such a delightful surprise! But how very like the son of your dear mama. Has she never told you that we are acquainted these many years?"

Lady Dalrymple continued in this vein until they reached the door; only then did she acknowledge Sir Walter's presence. "It is due to the munificence of our dear Mr Rushworth that this company will be able to continue with the season as planned! You cannot imagine our relief, Sir Walter. For as you know, not all among the gentry are mindful of their noble duty to patronise the arts!"

Poor Sir Walter could do nothing but stammer and flush as he led his noble cousin to her seat.

Directly behind came his eldest daughter, arm-in-arm with the honorable Miss Carteret. Elizabeth could not help but be flattered by this distinction, though it interfered with her plans to direct the seating. Within a short space, she learned more than she ever wished to know about the present condition of poor, dear Mr Turner, now confined to his bed with a fever. Elizabeth's murmured words of sympathy only encouraged her distraught relative, who was sincerely grateful to find such an attentive listener.

Thus the party entered the Concert Room and each found a seat as he pleased, more or less. Lady Dalrymple was flanked by Sir Walter and Mr Rushworth; Elizabeth found herself placed between that generously-sized gentleman and Miss Carteret. Mary was seated beside her and the gallant Colonel Wallis. And Penelope Clay had the felicity to find an excellent position on the other side of Sir Walter. By the time Anne and Mr Elliot arrived, there was no more room; they found chairs in the row ahead, a little apart from the rest of the group.

Anne was not displeased with this arrangement, for Mr Elliot was proving to be an attentive companion. It seemed that he had a keen interest in music, for he asked many questions. But as the orchestra began to assemble, Anne chanced to glance behind and found she was staring at the back of a naval officer's uniform. Again her heart skipped a beat. The gentleman was standing in the center aisle, apparently he had just finished greeting Lady Dalrymple and her father. He straightened, turned, and in a moment Anne found herself looking into the pleasant, familiar face of Captain James Benwick.

Here was a surprise, indeed! Anne returned his bashful smile with one of her own. There was no time to do more, as her cousin reclaimed her attention with another question.

A few moments later, though, a polite cough caught Anne's ear. Captain Benwick was now beside her chair, asking if he might claim the vacant seat.

"Surely, sir. You are most welcome," she answered, as a blush crept onto her cheeks. Anne willed it down and turned again to answer another of Mr Elliot's questions. Why was she suddenly so jumpy and nervous? She forced herself to speak calmly.

"Yes, Cousin, I believe the piece you are speaking of could be called an aria, for it is performed by one vocalist only." Anne leaned over to better see the bill he held. "And that song has a particularly beautiful melody, if I remember aright."

The crowd settled and all conversation ceased as the musicians began to tune their instruments. Anne stole a glance at Captain Benwick. He was looking through his concert bill, though not in the offhand way her cousin had. He was much more attentive; could it be that he was reading the Italian written there?

So far, so good, James thought, as he leaned back in his chair and took in the brilliance of the room. This was what his brother Ben would call a 'slap-up evening with the Swells.' True, there were a few flaws to the occasion -- he would categorise Anne's annoyingly glib cousin as such -- but overall, things had gone quite well. He was actually sitting beside her; she had smiled at him. That was something, at least. Do not despise the small victories, he reminded himself. And above all, keep your foot out of your mouth, Benwick!

And so the first act progressed. Sometime near the end of it, James allowed his concert bill to slide from his lap. As he bent to retrieve it, he cast a quick, appraising glance at William Elliot. The man was impeccably dressed, as always, and had a pleasant expression on his face, but James noticed that his eyes were a trifle glazed as he listened to the music. Could it be that he did not understand the words?

James bit back a chuckle. Very well did he comprehend Italian, though the sort of expressions he had been exposed to in the Mediterranean would certainly have no place here! He directed his attention to the soloist.

"Ti adoro, angelo mio," the slender, dark-haired tenor sang, with dramatic flourish. "Gettero petali di rosa ai tuoi piedi!" James raised an eyebrow at the overstatement, so typical in an Italian love song, and stole a look at the young woman beside him. What would Anne say if he told her such a ridiculous thing? 'I adore you, my angel. I shall toss rose petals at your feet'!

She'd either laugh or recoil in horror, poor girl, he smiled sadly, and more probably the latter than the former! Not that I would blame her! But dearly did James wish to make his love known, all the same. And if he was given an opportunity to tell her, and if such sentiments would be pleasing to her, he knew he would gladly use such grandiose terminology. If ...

As the song ended, James took a deep breath and forced himself to think rationally. Of course, this was not the time or place to say anything of that sort to Anne. In fact, there was no opportunity to converse at all, save during the interval between each song -- and these pauses were invariably monopolised by the loquacious cousin, as was the case now. James silently studied his bill, but listened to every word which was said. Apparently Anne had a working knowledge of Italian, for she was now translating the verses of the final song in the first act, which was to come next.

James turned the page; he thought he'd have a look to see how Anne did. Per Favori, Amore Mio was the title and there followed an explanatory notation: this was a regional love-song of the countryside. James raised his eyebrows as he read the words to the first verse. He blinked and read it again. Then the second and the third verses came under his scrutiny. He stole a look around the room at the polite and smiling faces of the unsuspecting audience. James bit his lip and with monumental effort swallowed down a boisterous burst of laughter. For this was beyond anything!

"This is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words," Anne was now saying to her cousin, "for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of ..."

You certainly have that right, James agreed, as he struggled to keep his shoulders from shaking. Although, I do not call such sentiments 'love,' exactly ...

"... but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not pretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar."

For which I thank God! James interjected.

"Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the matter," Mr Elliot replied, dryly. "You have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English." He lowered his voice and leaned closer to her. "You need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is complete proof."

Anne looked away, obviously embarrassed. "I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient, er ..."

Quite unwillingly, she turned to look at Captain Benwick, suspicion in her eyes. Quite clearly they asked the question, You aren't, are you?

Captain Benwick's attention remained stoically fixed on the concert bill. But for a brief moment, his eyes peeked at her over the top of its pages. Anne gasped; they were sparkling outrageously. Was he laughing? At her translation? Or, if not that, at ... what?

"A very credible translation, Miss Anne," he muttered, with downcast eyes. "A-hem! I could not have done so well, myself."

Anne turned to study her concert bill again, as the first notes of the song filled the room. Why had he looked at her so?

"Is he always this grumpy?" Mr Elliot whispered, in an attempt to regain her attention. "Such a fellow, to be talking during the performance! But, as I was saying, I had not the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long without knowing something of Miss An..."

"Mr Elliot, please. You interrupt Miss Stile," was all the answer he received from Anne.

What a picture these three presented, seated side by side as they were. William Elliot quickly recovered his composure and was all appreciation for the voice and fine figure of the female vocalist. Anne held her eyes closed; she was lost in the beautiful melody and skilled performance of the musicians. And James Benwick? He sat with his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his face set like flint. No one noticed him flinch from time to time as the soloist mispronounced another of the very vulgar, very colloquial expressions with which the song was laced!

Meanwhile, in the row behind, Lady Dalrymple had spent her time most agreeably, conversing with Mr Rushworth during the interval between each piece. Eventually, Miss Carteret decided she wanted a share of it and compelled Elizabeth to exchange seats, which meant that Elizabeth ended up being thrown together with Mary for the second half of the act. Elizabeth liked this conversation even less, for the only thing Mary could think to speak about with a man like Colonel Wallis was guns. She did nothing more than repeat her husband's off-hand comments about this or that one, but Colonel Wallis was delighted and carried the whole of the conversation himself. And so Miss Elliot was trapped, ever smiling, but thoroughly bored.

It was not long before she determined that a change was necessary, and at the close of the first act she politely excused herself. She had caught snatches of Anne's conversation with Mr Elliot and had come up with a plan. It took some doing to execute it, but eventually she made her way over to her cousin and younger sister.

"Anne," said she, "I have just spoken with Father and he would like you to give the meaning of the last song to Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret. They are quite eager to hear it; they had no idea you were conversant in Italian or they would have asked you before, I daresay. And," she added kindly, "should you wish to exchange your seat for mine, I shall be happy to give it up."

As Anne moved off, Elizabeth gracefully lowered herself into the vacant chair beside Mr Elliot. She did not notice James Benwick, now separated from her cousin on the other side by an empty chair.

"Good evening, Mr Elliot." She greeted him with her prettiest smile. "My, there is such a crush of people tonight! I do believe we have not spoken two words to one another this entire time." She lowered her lashes coyly. "I trust I do not intrude?"

Not unnaturally, Mr Elliot hastened to voice his delight at her company, and soon the pair were conversing pleasantly. Elizabeth took great pains to please, though she could not resist the temptation to teaze him now and again.

"Now do be honest, dear Cousin," Elizabeth said, as she toyed with her diamond bracelet. "It was you who set Mr Rushworth onto our trail, as a suitor for Anne! Do confess."

James Benwick scarcely dared to breathe; he sank lower into his chair, hoping to make himself as unobtrusive as possible.

"My dear," Mr Elliot answered smoothly, "as I have said before, now that the man has seen you, he could never be content to court Anne. Indeed, I do believe it is the same with every man you meet!"

More conversation followed and Captain Benwick frowned at his concert bill as he listened to it. As glib and gallant as the man had been toward Anne, he was now similarly so toward her sister. What sort of game was Elliot playing with these two?

Anne soon returned and the three cousins decided to go with the others in search of tea. Reluctantly, Captain Benwick stayed behind. Anne had left her shawl on the seat of her chair, so he knew she would be returning to sit beside him for the second act; that at least was something to hope for. In such a crowd, he knew his chances for talking to her would be nonexistent, anyway. He decided to wait it out.

Presently the interval was completed and Anne and Mr Elliot came back to their seats. The others of their party returned and the room began to fill. Elizabeth was one of the last to file into the Concert Room; she was hoping to find that another seat had become available, as she had no desire to take her place beside Mary.

As she waited for a pair of stout dowagers to move out of her path, Elizabeth chanced to glance down at her feet. She gasped at what she saw. One of the beaded bangles on her red kid shoes was missing! How could that be?

Elizabeth quickly stepped out of the room and made her way to a chair at the end of a deserted corridor. The area was dimly lit, but she could clearly see that the bangle was gone. Elizabeth closed her eyes with a groan. What a truly horrid evening this was turning out to be! Those elegant, exquisite ornaments, which so perfectly matched the beadwork of her gown! So much careful planning had gone into the design of them, and now ...

Well, there is nothing to be done, she decided, and kneeling down, she took a firm hold of the remaining one. She simply could not countenance walking about with unmatched shoes! Summoning her strength, Elizabeth set her teeth and pulled. But this bangle was as stubborn as the other was wayward, and it remained firmly attached. Elizabeth gave a snort of annoyance and pulled harder, but to no avail.

"Pardon me, but perhaps this may be of some help?"

A man's hand held out the handle of a small, silver clasp knife to her. Elizabeth pursed her lips but did not raise her eyes. Mr Elliot would show up at such a humiliating moment! Still, he had noticed her absence and had sought her out. And as they had recently been speaking about suitors, perhaps this was a very good sign.

"Thank you, Cousin, it would," she replied. And with a single swipe, the blade cleanly severed the ornament from her shoe. Elizabeth examined the small knife thoughtfully.

"How very convenient it must be to carry something like this about one's person. For a knife has many uses, does it not? As for me, I must rely on more womanly weapons," she remarked dryly. "When I have need, I must use something else -- such as a hat pin -- to blind an annoying suitor! If I am wearing a hat at the time, which one usually isn't when one has need of a weapon."

Her companion gave a rich chuckle. "Then keep it, I beg you. It would be my pleasure to know that you are armed and ready for battle ... when you have need of a weapon."

Elizabeth's face flamed. This was not her cousin's inane laugh! And this was not his soft and slender hand, either; this man's hand was broad and strong. The sleeve of his coat was deep blue, with gold lace. And whoever this was had dropped to one knee beside her!

Elizabeth's eyes flew to the man's face. In the dim light, she could see the white flash of a brilliant smile beneath a generous brown moustache. His hair was wavy and brown and beneath heavy brows his eyes glittered. Elizabeth was stunned.

"You ... you are not my cous ... my ... cousin!"

The man stood and kindly assisted her to rise. "We've not met formally, I know. Would you permit an introduction? I am Admiral Patr ..."

The sound of an opening door and brisk footsteps caused both to look up.

"Elizabeth! Daughter!" Sir Walter spoke in a penetrating hiss. "The second act has begun! Come at once!" He motioned urgently.

"I ... er ... my father," Elizabeth said lamely, and handed the Admiral his knife. "Thank you," she whispered. And without a backward glance, she followed Sir Walter into the Concert Room.

Patrick McGillvary stood in the deserted corridor, staring at the door the pair had used. "Elizabeth," he repeated, to no one in particular. "Quite a perfect name. And a wit! Who would have guessed?" Then his pleasant smile hardened.

And the father! Such a look from him! "As if I was common dirt, and he, the Queen of Sheba," he muttered angrily. Admiral Patrick McGillvary, who had lately inherited his father's estate and numerous properties, who was now The McGillvary of Bath, was completely unused to such treatment. He had no idea who this unknown popinjay was, but he intended to find out.

Almost at once, his anger disappeared and a look of amusement crept back into his eyes. The Navy had been unable to curb his impusliveness completely, but well had McGillvary learned the value of patience and timing where delicate manoeuvres were concerned. For here was a chase indeed, in the form of the lovely, elusive Elizabeth; but she was not to be pursued and won in a day. He would watch and wait ... and when the time was right, perhaps he would snatch this prize for himself.

Continued In Next Section