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Chapter 9 continued

The Rector could not help the relieved sigh which escaped his lips as they entered the Rectory. The warmth of the kitchen fire warmed his frigid cheeks and banished the unworldly scenes which had preoccupied his thoughts all the way home.

Before he and Abernathy had a chance to remove their outer garments, Graham entered and exclaimed, "Praise be to God, you have returned Rector. Please hurry, Mrs. Wentworth is in an awful way."

The two men looked at one another and moved as one towards the back stairs. "Not up there, sir. She'd not go up and wait for you. We have her tucked in the study."

The woman disappeared before the Rector could ask who "we" might be.

The study's door stood open and he could feel the warmth of what must be a high fire. As they entered, he saw Joshua Junkins standing near the window and the man's wife leaning over one of the chairs before the hearth. Coming more fully into the room, he could see his wife accepting a cup of tea from Mrs. Junkins. Both ladies heard them enter and the cup and saucer clattered to the floor as Catherine rose suddenly.

"Catherine, please remain seat -- " cried Mrs. Junkins, reaching to restrain the lady.

"Edward," Mrs. Wentworth exclaimed, "she is gone ... and ... I --" Her words hung in the air as she took in his appearance. She stood frozen. "Good God! What has happened?"

He looked down at himself and realised he had not washed up; his shirt would still bear traces of the violence on Cider Press Road. Before he could answer, everything seemed to slow and he watched as Catherine crumpled to the floor. He cried out, and everyone began to move, including himself. Despite the activity, an eerie silence took possession of the room.

He found himself next to Doctor Abernathy, who shouted orders to Graham and Mr. Junkins. The Doctor felt her wrist and then her neck. Relief came over his flushed face and he murmured, "She is only fainted, but we must get her to bed."

"I tried to tell her, but she refused to go up. We have been sitting here for hours keeping her warm -- she complained of a chill," explained Mrs. Junkins.

"Why are you and Joshua here?" demanded the Rector.

"Graham sent for us. She fears that something awful has happened to -- "

Her answer was cut off by the arrival of Mr. Junkins with a chair from the dining room.

Taking note of Edward's hesitation, Abernathy encouraged, "She'll not break, Rector -- but gently." With a bit of awkwardness, Catherine was moved on to the chair. Knowing his friend was nearly exhausted, the Doctor looked keenly at him and asked, "Are you up to the stairs?" He glanced towards Joshua, and then back to Wentworth. The Rector nodded as together they lifted.

"I shall go on up -- I sent Mary up a few moments ago to make the bed ready. I was going to try again to persuade her to retire." Mrs. Junkins gathered her skirts and ran ahead up the stairs.

Edward wondered for a moment where Louisa might be in all this, but making their way through the tight hallway to the stairs forced his mind elsewhere.

"It would be best if you go up, with her head, first,"

As they mounted the stairs, the Rector did all that was possible to avert his eyes from his wife. She was as pale as he had ever seen her and with her eyes closed and body lifeless --

Slowly the eyes opened and she looked around. "Edward?" Confused by her position, she tried to rise.

"Catherine," he replied. "You have -- "

"Mrs. Wentworth," the doctor interrupted, "I must ask that you lie still. Everything will be all right and you will be abed in no time."

They entered the bedchamber and found Mary had been prompt in her errand; the bed covers were laid back and Mrs. Junkins was laying out a gown. Just then, Graham entered the room with the Doctor's bag.

After laying Catherine on the bed, Abernathy sent Mary to make tea. Turning to Edward, he took him by the arm and moved him towards the door. "I must ask you to leave, Rector."

"But -- I --" Edward stammered as he tried to disengage himself from the doctor.

Abernathy's expression softened a bit. "I know you are worried, but I need the assistance of these ladies more than I need a worried husband. Go have some tea and I shall be down as soon as I have news."

"Come," Joshua wheezed in his ear.

He stared as the door closed. He listened for any scrap of voices. All he heard was Mrs. Junkins saying something about a little "show." It made no sense and then the voices became muffled in activity.

"Come, friend. Let us go down and wait." Joshua propelled him to the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, Joshua sent the Rector on to the study, saying he would join him in a moment. Upon entering the room, Joshua was shocked to find him stripped to his undershirt, wearing neither waistcoat nor shirt. The Rector was, in fact, burning the garments in the fireplace.

"I have brought you some water with which to wash -- I noticed your hands, and," he brushed a place on his own face. "How did it happen?"

The Rector did not look away from the burning clothes. "Pollard Levant was badly beaten -- on Cider Press Road -- I stayed with him until he died." Satisfied that the offending garments were burning completely, he rose and pulled on his suit coat. After he finished with the buttons, he looked at Joshua with a sardonic smile. "One of the advantages of always wearing black, no tell-tale signs of a murder."

A knock at the door brought Mary with the tea. "The Missus came down and told me to make you some sandwiches, Rector. She knew you would not have eaten. She said the Doctor's stomach is making outrageous noises." The girl smiled from the Rector to Mr. Junkins.

Joshua returned the smile and patted her head. "I am certain it is very amusing, Mary. Thank you for the tea and food. Now see what you might do around the kitchen to help Graham."

The girl curtsied and left the gentlemen.

The Rector ignored the tea and sandwiches and busied himself at the basin of water. He then took up a post by the fire, watching the last of his clothes burn away. "Where is she?" he suddenly asked.

Joshua had taken a cup of tea and took a chair before the fire. He took a drink before he spoke. "Your wife found her missing in the afternoon. As it grew dark, she worked herself into such a state that Graham sent for us. We came as quickly as we could. When we arrived, we told her that we were just passing on our way home. It has been hours. A large young man came a while ago and brought this," he fished a note from his breast pocket. "It is for you, but when he said a pretty young woman had given it to him -- I read it."

He unfolded the note, then asked, "Has Catherine seen this?" After reading it, if she had, he knew precisely why she was in such an agitation.

"She has not. I told them that the gentleman at the door was merely lost, just looking for directions."

Edward stared at the note. Suddenly, he crushed the paper between his hands and threw it at the hearth. Missing the firebox, it hit just below the mantel shelf and skittered back into the room. It came to rest at Junkins's feet.

"She has run off!" the Rector shouted. "She has run off and left my wife in such a state -- " He turned away from his friend, ashamed to be seen in a rage.

Junkins picked up the note. He opened it and smoothed it, folded it again and laid it gently upon the table. "I think this odd, Rector."

It was not common that Junkins would use the title of Rector. When speaking to Edward, he usually called him, "friend," or perhaps, by his Christian name, theirs being a very singular friendship. It was a rare thing if Wentworth's office was even mentioned.

"Why would you say that, Junkins?"

Taking up the letter, he opened it and began to read:

Rector Wentworth,

I have decided to leave Shropshire and return to my family. My stay has been wretched and I am certain you will not miss me in the least. I will write to my husband and inform him of my decision. His forcing me to stay in this prison has been purgatorial, and I want to remember nothing of him. Not even these trifles. My family will deal with the necessary arrangements.

Mrs. L. Wentworth

"This does not sound like a young woman. I do not know her well, but -- "

The Rector spun to face him. "You are correct on that score! I think it is obvious that none of us knows her well!" he exclaimed and turned away.

Joshua looked again at the note. He laid a hand on the Rector's shoulder and held out the note. "Read this without any prejudice. Does this sound like Mrs. Wentworth? And what of these trifles mentioned. Nothing came with the note. There is something wrong in all this."

The Rector read it again. He walked to the fire and leant against the mantel. Looking at Joshua, he said, "I will admit, reading it with Louisa in mind -- it seems odd. Nothing like her at all." He glanced again at the note. "But she has a willful side -- she was not put off by Levant -- you saw her with him ..." The scenes in the house on Cider Press Road came back to him. The cold, ramshackle room laid out for an assignation. Louisa's name murmured by Levant.

"Yes, I saw her with him." Joshua minced back to his chair. "And I saw her again, just days later." Edward looked up, shocked. He was about to speak when Junkins continued. "I was walking amongst the apples, they did not see me. They were just out front. Her manner towards him was polite, but not friendly. When he tried to move closer, she cut him off and ran back to the house. If you spoke to her, she took it to heart."

The Rector turned away. He began to absently pick the crumbling corner of a brick. He turned back and asked, "Then how am I to take this note? Am I to think that someone else wrote it? Why would she go to all that trouble? The only thing that makes sense is that she has run away and wants nothing to do with any of us."

"Who has run away?" The question came from Abernathy, who had just entered the room.

Both Joshua and the Rector were startled by his presence. Joshua stared into the fire and the Rector cleared his throat.

Abernathy went to the desk and opened his bag. He began to set things aright when he noticed the tray with the tea and sandwiches. Taking one, he took a bite. "So, who has run off?" he asked again.

The two men looked at one another. Edward spoke. "It looks as though Louisa has run away."

It took a moment for the words to penetrate. The doctor looked up and glanced from man to man. "Surely not. I wondered that she was not helping Mrs. Wentworth, but ... "

"There was a note."

Abernathy stepped away from the desk. "This is not like Louisa, she is not the kind -- "

"After tonight," began the Rector, "I do not think that any of us knows what kind she is."

The Doctor scowled. "I do not like the tone of that. What do you mean by it?"

Joshua looked intently at the Rector. The Rector pushed himself away from the mantel and said, "At the Cider Press house, you commented on the wine, the care taken in the preparations ... "

"Yes," said Abernathy as he stepped closer. "It was obvious that Levant was anticipating someone -- a woman obviously ... No! How can you think it was Louisa?" His color was high and his breath was coming faster.

Without hesitation, the Rector replied, "Her name was on his dying lips! When he awoke, he looked about as if he expected to see her! Good God, what else am I to think?"

Abernathy stepped back and leant against the desk. He looked away and thought. After a time, he looked back at the Rector and said slowly, "I can vouch that my cousin is not like that. You do not give your brother much credit in his choice of a wife -- "

Junkins murmured, "Rector, do not -- " His warning was ignored.

"My brother," he began with a slow and measure voice, "Did not choose to marry your cousin ... he felt obliged to marry her. He was made to feel that his behaviour had raised her expectations." He ran a hand through his hair. He hesitated, but then rapped out the rest of his accusation. "I now must question whose behaviour actually did oblige him."

Abernathy opened his mouth to speak, but Junkins stood and raised a hand. "Gentlemen. It has been an exhausting day," he looked keenly at the Doctor, "particularly for the Rector."

The Doctor glared from one man to the other, tossed down the sandwich and quickly returned to his bag. "Rector, your wife is fine, but, she will have to stay in bed until the child comes. Things have begun and the birth could be at any time -- tonight or perhaps next week -- I cannot say. I shall return midmorning to check her again. " He snapped the bag shut and turned to face them. "Gentlemen, I know you will understand if I do not stay, please excuse me. Goodnight." He turned and was out the door.

Edward stared at the desk. He thought to go after his friend, but knew he had nothing to say that could erase the past moments. He threw himself into the second chair before the hearth. "Curse this tongue of mine, Junkins. What have I done?"

"Do you believe what you said?"

The Rector closed his eyes. A ragged breath escaped him. "I do not know what I believe, Joshua. God knows what may happen with Catherine and the baby, tonight I attended the most horrible of deaths and the man was calling the name of my sister-in-law," He closed his eyes for a moment. He sighed and looked at Joshua, "I do not know what to believe, or," he rubbed his forehead, "what I am going to tell my brother."

Chapter 10

The drawing room door opened quietly but Anne Elliot did not put down her book or glance up to see who entered. For a moment or two, all was silent.

"Your pardon, Miss," said the man at last. "Her ladyship's carriage has arrived."

"Her ladyship's carriage," she murmured. "Already. Thank you, Burton," she said, without looking up. "I shall be ready presently."

Lady Russell was now returned to Bath. Anne had met her for church and their customary luncheon on Sunday, and on Monday, they had shared a drive about town. Today she was to be taken to visit Mrs. Smith and later would be joined by Lady Russell for an early tea. But for some reason, this prospect was singularly unappealing.

As she left the house and settled herself inside the carriage, Anne took herself to task for having such an ungrateful attitude. Of course it was enjoyable to be driven to see a friend, although today it felt more like an obligation than otherwise. And Lady Russell's company was always welcome, but ...

She gazed listlessly out of the window as the vehicle began to make its way through the crowded streets. Anne could not give proper structure to her jumbled thoughts. Why was she so dissatisfied? Lady Russell is sympathetic and kind and everything a godmother should be, Anne thought, but ...

The truth was, during Lady Russell's absence, Anne had grown accustomed to the company of another; her godmother's companionship fell sadly flat when compared to his. For Lady Russell's eyes held no sparkle to be wondered at; her frank expressions hid no secret smiles. And there was no bringing her to blurt out outrageous statements, ever. Now that her friend was gone away ...

Anne frowned at the direction her thoughts were taking. It was quite ridiculous to put such stock in the presence or absence of one person. He had been gone only four days; there was absolutely no reason to feel downcast! It took some effort, but Anne wrenched her thoughts away from Captain Benwick and determined to have a pleasant visit with her friend.

But even Mrs. Smith's cheerful disposition could not entirely banish Anne's lowness, which was unfortunate, for her friend had not felt so well for a very long time. Dr Minthorne was a regular caller now and Mrs. Smith's improvement seemed to be due to his influence. He had spoken to the landlady about changing her diet and he had given her a strict regimen of exercise.

"As if I am a baby, learning to wiggle and move all over again," Mrs. Smith confided, with a laugh. "Do you see? I am never to sit still; even now I am to move my legs and toes!"

Anne smiled as cheerfully as she could, ashamed with herself for not having more interest in her friend's welfare. But her attention was arrested as soon as Mrs. Smith began speaking of the Assembly. She had heard all about it, courtesy of Colonel Wallis' talkative wife and Nurse Rooke's sharp ears. It was mildly amusing to hear Mrs. Smith chat on and on, relating details Anne herself had missed, until this fatal observation was made:

"And I do believe your cousin is quite put out with you, Miss Elliot, which I say serves him right! Mrs. Wallis says he was positively incensed with you for holding the Captain's hand as you did!"

Anne was absolutely astonished; she went cold, then hot as she realized that her slight lapse of caution not gone unnoticed -- and had made its way onto the gossip circuit of Bath, to be entertainment for such persons as nurses and invalids! Sir Walter Elliot's second daughter was now seen to be 'mad about a sea captain,' having danced with him three times, and weren't the tongues wagging!

"We danced only twice, I ... think," Anne stuttered. "And he isn't a sea captain, he's ... he's a first officer, or a ... a commander, or ... something!"

"Which explains why he is called "Captain," I am sure," Mrs. Smith said with a smile.

Anne was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Lady Russell; she excused herself as quickly could be. But her discomfort regarding the Assembly was far from over, for in front of the Westgate Buildings was Mr. Elliot's carriage ... and the man himself was standing beside it, waiting expectantly.

"Mr. Elliot and I planned a little surprise for you, Anne," Lady Russell then explained. "He has invited us to tea at that new establishment on George Street. Isn't that delightful? And in the meantime, he and I have had a lovely time getting better acquainted."

Anne very naturally said everything that was proper, but she was far from easy as she entered the vehicle. As usual, Mr. Elliot was full of pleasant conversation, but to Anne's dismay it centered around the Assembly, which was the last topic she wanted to discuss. As he talked on about the event, Anne set her teeth and braced herself for the inevitable. Sure enough, soon he was rattling on to Lady Russell about what a graceful dancer his 'lovely cousin' was.

"Yes, Elizabeth is very accomplished," Lady Russell agreed.

"Oh, no," he laughed. "I am certain that she is, but I did not mean Miss Elliot. It is Miss Anne who was so captivating. And do you know, she wore the Elliot sapphires. I am certain they never looked more beautiful on a woman than they did that night."

"Anne? Our Anne ... dancing?"

Anne could feel Lady Russell's interested eyes upon her as Mr. Elliot went on to say, in his charming way:

"My period of mourning will be completed in June, Miss Anne. So, before the end of the spring Season I intend to collect my share of dances with you." He leaned forward. "You may consider yourself so engaged."

Anne could think of nothing to say to this. But as she smiled politely at her cousin, a great vexation boiled up within her toward the person who had forced her into this position -- the one who had made her dance against her will. Surely he was the most provoking man alive!

At that same moment, another was expressing a similar opinion, as he and James made their way through the City in the direction of Bloomsbury.

"You would walk!" Milton Benwick grumbled, his handsome features marred by a scowl.

"You said you were stiff from sitting so long," James replied. "The exercise will do us good. Besides, it is a beautiful spring day."

"I do not mean the physical exertion! It is simply the indignity of it! We, who tomorrow morning will be quite wealthy men, tramping all this way on foot as though we were paupers ..."

"Wealthy? We are to be so only at your word," James interrupted. "And from what I know of the estate, our 'fortune' will make us merely independent. But then, I have not seen the latest will, so I cannot properly say."

"Great heaven, are we back to this? What a spoilsport you are!" Milton sputtered. "It is not necessary for you to preview it, James! Don't you trust me? Everything's in order; though I won't say the allocation is entirely even-handed." He gave his brother a sidelong look before continuing. "It's just that with those Braxton cousins nagging at me to know its contents, the fewer who have seen it, the better!"

"I am not a disinherited Braxton; I am co-executor," James grumbled back.

"Yes, yes, I told them that. And that you are as much in the dark about the contents as they, until tomorrow. That buttoned them up." Milton replied smugly.

"But not for long. Unless I miss my guess, you shall have your hands full tomorrow."

Milton gave a snort. "Yes, we shall, Captain Co-executor!" But his steps slowed as he began to take in the neighbourhood.

"Er, I say, James, this is Holborn! Let's not go this way; we can cut up to Clerkenwell Road, instead."

"Clerkenwell! But that'll take us many blocks out of our way!"

"All the same, it's best we go around. This neighborhood is full of ... insalubrious characters."

"Insal-what-did-you-say?" Even after so many years, James was unused to his brother's educated airs. He smiled wickedly. "Milton, you should avoid using an esoteric vocabulary unless you know the definitions."

Milton glared at him.

"I am sorry, brother," James grinned and resumed walking. "I do not see any insalubrious characters here. Perhaps you could point them out to me."

"Keep your voice down, James, or you will draw a crowd. Of course they don't show themselves openly. Cutthroats and the like never do, until it is too late."

"Cutthroats?" James stopped and stared at his brother in mock astonishment. He looked up and down the busy street. "Here?" he asked, with as straight a face as possible.

"You do not know London as I do, Brother," Milton muttered trenchantly. "Clerkenwell is this way."

"And you know nothing about cutthroats, if you think they reside here!"

"I suppose you do?"

"Of course I do! With whom do you think I've been dealing these past eleven years? Fully half our crew were thoroughgoing barbarians! Second cousins to Attila the Hun! And besides, you know what they say about the Navy."

"Oh, yes," Milton smirked. "The Navy: Pirates in Uniform."

"Seriously, Milton, this is a perfectly civilized part of town. I have no intention of going out of my way to circumvent it. Come along."

Milton held back. "James ...."

James gave an exasperated snort and folded his arms across his chest. "Milton Benwick, you are nothing but a ... weenie!"

"A what?"

"A weenie! A coward and a weakling! You, who are a full head taller than I! Look, I have a letter to post as soon as possible, so I haven't the time to dodge the cutthroats," James explained. "I am armed; the first insalubrious brute who tries anything gets hacked to pieces, understood? Now, let's go!"

The remainder of their tramp was accomplished in silence. The elder Benwick, greatly uncomfortable, peered anxiously at the faces of the passers-by. James, on the other hand, soon forgot the lurking danger and lost himself in thoughts of the letter he had written.

It was three pages of nonsense, really: odd details about his journey and his family -- including his eldest brother's mismanagement of the week's events. The urgent meeting he had set for Monday ended up being cancelled; there had been no need to leave Bath in the wee hours of the morning as he had. But James was past caring about that. The Assembly had been perfectly wonderful; he would not change a single detail, even his early departure. He looked down at his gloved left hand and tenderly closed it into a fist, remembering. Anne had smiled to see him; they had danced together. And she had held his hand for all that time. James had hardly slept for the joy of such things.

Presently the brothers reached Morgan Street and entered their brothers' mercantile. Molly Benwick came from behind the counter; a look of concern clouded her pleasant face.

"Oh, James," she exclaimed. "You didn't get the message in time. Ben wanted to meet you at Bellingham's at three. He's seeing a supplier right across the street and thought it would be just the thing. We sent a note to the solicitor's, but ..."

As James reassured her about his ability to keep the appointment, Milton wandered through the interior of the shop. He did not often venture to do so but curiosity got the better of him today. "It shall be an immense relief to the Family, I am sure," he said at last, after James had gone upstairs to fetch his letter, "... when you are able to sell out of this trade for good."

Little Molly folded her arms across her chest and looked up at her tall brother-in-law with a defiant sparkle in her brown eyes. "Who said anything about selling out?"

"My dear Sister, I meant no offense. But I am certain you will not wish to continue this way once you have the inheritance. In Trade, and all." Milton wrinkled his nose distastefully. "I mean, really."

"And why not?" Molly faced him squarely. "With prices rising the way they are, and banks failing, we have every reason to stay in business! We have worked very hard for what we have, Milton. Certainly we will make some changes ... take on extra help and the like ... for Ben wants to free Daniel to continue his theological studies, but ..."

"Following in Father's footsteps is he?" Milton gave his brother's wife a look of great pity. "What an unfortunate decision."

James re-entered the room on the heels of this comment, a little out of breath from taking the stairs at a run. With a wave to his sister-in-law and a parting admonition to Milton to hail a hack before the afternoon rush set in, he was on his way. In his breast pocket was the letter; he happily rehearsed its contents as he walked.

It was when he pictured Anne's smile as she opened it that he realised his mistake. Anne Elliot was not Fanny Harville, that is, they were not yet engaged. Of course she could not properly receive correspondence from him! It was a most discouraging thought. But the walk was a long one, and as made his way through the crowded streets, James continued to think. And as he did, his melancholy began to lift. Nearly every obstacle had a way around, if one could only find it.

James' steps slowed as he considered which of Anne's friends he could enlist as a delivery agent for his letter. Miss Carteret might oblige him, but a married woman would be better. Mrs. Clay was out of the question, but ... Mrs. Smith? Though he had met her only once, James felt sure of her cooperation -- and he could send the letter through Dr. Minthorne. The hitch was Mrs. Smith's housebound state. James could not risk any delays, for contained in the letter was an invitation for tea on Friday, at a quiet little tearoom where he and Anne could talk. This time, he wanted no interference from Mary, or Charles, or anyone else from Camden Place!

As he drew near to the location for his appointment, James' attention was claimed by the window of a novelty shop. He checked his timepiece and wandered inside, still thinking about his dilemma. It was as he stood before a display of writing paper that the glorious solution presented itself. James nearly laughed at its simplicity. He needn't have a woman deliver his letter; he needed only to make it appear as if a woman was the sender!

At Bellingham's, a quarter-hour later, James chose a table in the corner and ordered his tea. There was no telling how late Ben would be, but this time he didn't mind the delay, for there was work to be done. At a table nearby sat a trio of chattering young women, but he didn't mind that disturbance, either. With great care he unwrapped his purchases: a pen, ink and sealing wax, and the most womanish hot-pressed writing paper he had ever seen. The edges of it were prettily scalloped, the paper itself was embossed with a floral design, and best of all, along the four sides of it were masses of hand-tinted flowers, in varying shades of pink and lavender. What pleased him even more was the purple ink; it was just the sort of thing a very silly woman would use when writing to a friend.

"Elona, honestly now," came a voice from the neighbouring table. "You really should wear your pale green hat with the pheasant plumes and wax grapes tomorrow. Maribella, I've one just like it," the voice explained, "and the last time I wore it, Mr. Raddle and Mr. Masham were completely spellbound! They were absolutely driven to distraction from the moment they set eyes on me!"

"If we are so admired now, Hallie, what shall happen in April when the Season truly begins?" gushed her companion.

"That settles it; I simply must have a hat like that one," declared the third. "For I desire to bring Mr. Quirimit to his knees as soon as may be! Or Mr. Theakston. I cannot decide between them, so I might as well have both."

As the women dissolved into laughter, James Benwick quietly drew a small notebook and a pencil from his pocket. A smile played about his lips as he began to take some rapid notes. He had wondered what sort of girlish message to write on that stationery, a message which would likely be read by Anne's father and sisters. Now he knew.

After a shaky beginning, Anne's outing with Lady Russell and her cousin became quite enjoyable. The tearoom was an elegant establishment, with striped paper on the walls in pale green and gold, tall potted palms, canaries in gold cages, and a harpist to entertain the guests. Best of all, Mr. Elliot did not quiz her any more about the Assembly, but instead talked pleasantly on a variety of subjects. However, it seemed to Anne that he showed a great deal more emotion than usual. His smiles were brighter, his frowns, more sympathetic, and his laughter, merry. From time to time, Anne caught him looking at her with quite an odd expression on his face. But when Lady Russell left them alone for a few moments, she had the greatest surprise of all, for he made a curious request: to speak about matters of the heart. Without waiting for her answer, he boldly plunged ahead.

"What you said the other evening about poetry touching the depths of the human soul intrigued me very much. And I ..." Mr. Elliot smiled self-consciously and began to toy with a silver teaspoon. At last, he laid it down and said, "I scarcely know how to tell you this. I know you think me an irreverent, uncultured dog, Miss Anne ...

"That is not true, Mr. Elliot."

"Mmmm. You're right; Faust was an educated man. Let us say, then, that I have not as elegant and cultivated a mind as yours," he replied. "Nevertheless, your company has not been without its influence. I am undergoing somewhat of a personal ... metamorphosis, dear Cousin. That is, after so many years, I am coming to discover that I do have a heart of flesh, after all!"

A flush began to rise to his cheeks, as he said, with a catch in his voice, "I beg your pardon. I find myself quite overcome by a ... a burst of ... feeling." He gave her a quick look, then drew a slim book from his pocket. "You see, your comments about poetry provoked me to open this volume last night. I was astonished by the sentiments I found there. My very soul was laid bare!"

"Poetry also expresses the joys of the human heart, Mr. Elliot," Anne offered.

"But the sorrows, Miss Anne, the sorrows!" he cried passionately. "You see, at one time, when I was very young, I had a secret which I shared with no one. I ... loved a girl. I had nearly forgotten the heartbreak of it ... I had so deeply buried the pain ..." He fumbled to open the book. "May I read the piece which in so few lines tells my sad story?"

Never seek to tell thy love,
Love that never told can be;
For the gentle wind does move
Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,
I told her all my heart,
Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears,
Ah! she doth depart.

Soon as she was gone from me,
A traveller came by,
Silently, invisibly:
He took her with a sigh.

William Elliot closed the book and sat staring at it for a time. "She did not ... want me," he said in a low voice. "And she met and married another soon after. Cousin Anne, I am ashamed to admit it, but then and there I resolved to find a woman who would love me, first and foremost. And, as you know, I did. We were miserable together."

"I am very sorry, Mr. Elliot," Anne said quietly. "Perhaps Mr. Blake is right. Perhaps it is best not to share the secret of one's love until one is certain the sentiments are reciprocated."

"Oh." He looked up at her and attempted a wobbly smile. A moment later he was fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief.

Out of politeness, Anne looked away, but her heart went out to him. Could it be that Mr. Elliot was actually blinking back tears?

Above the store on Morgan Street and behind locked doors, the four Benwick brothers faced one another around the bare, oval dining table. With them was Mr. Beckington, their great aunt's solicitor.

"Before we commence with our business, may I once again offer my most sincere apologies for the delay in settling this estate," said he, in his formal way. "Our client was extremely concerned with the security of this document, which is why it was stored in our vault here in London and not with her other papers in Bath." Mr. Beckington looked over the top of his spectacles; his lips twitched into something like a smile. "We accomplished her objective, though perhaps more thoroughly than she intended. You are to be commended for your patience, gentlemen.

"Now then," he continued, "what we are about to do tonight is a little unorthodox, that is, to divide Mrs. Wrenwyth's jewelry before the will has been properly read. However, as the four Benwick brothers are specifically stated as the sole inheritors of said property, I do not see that this presents a problem. In fact, it may be prudent to accomplish this now, before the, er, 'spectacle' commences. I understand you are expecting some squabbling tomorrow with a disinherited branch of the family. You may rest easy on this point, gentlemen. Mrs. Wrenwyth was aware of this possibility and took every legal precaution to prevent the will from being overset."

Mr. Beckington then nodded at four jewelry cases which occupied the center of the table. "You have your military brother to thank for the condition of these pieces; they have been catalogued, cleaned, and professionally appraised. Attached to each is a card bearing its valuation. I submit that we keep a numeric tally, each brother ending with a comparable total. Some of these jewels you quite possibly have never seen; other pieces may appear to be missing. The latter are items specifically bequeathed as gifts; those shall be dealt with tomorrow. There is one I shall distribute now, however." He passed a sealed envelope to James.

"You have probably been wondering about the whereabouts of this ring, Captain. It was given to me at the time the will was signed, with the accompanying message. Now then, shall we begin?"

A smile of anticipation had just begun to spread across Milton's face when Daniel Benwick spoke up.

"May I suggest that we begin with prayer," he said. "And, considering our great aunt's reverence for the Scriptures, mightn't we proceed in a more Bibline manner than is commonly done? That is, shall we give application to the text, 'So, the last shall be first and the first, last ...'?"

"What does that mean?" Milton asked suspiciously.

"That means you are last, Brother," James grinned, "and I, next to last. I second the motion, Dan. An excellent idea."

"By all means," Ben piped up. "Down with primogeniture!"

"But I ..." Milton's handsome face began to redden. "This is outside of enough!" he muttered. "First, the three of you refuse to allow the wives to be present, and now, this!"

"A most prudent decision, Mr. Benwick, I must say," Mr. Beckington put in. "When it comes to women selecting family jewels for themselves, the most common result is unmannerly haggling and lacerated sensibilities, not to mention hours of wasted time. I salute you, gentlemen, for your wisdom."

After a brief prayer (led by the reluctant Milton), the jewelry cases were opened and passed from brother to brother for inspection. Ben and Daniel soon left the table to hunt through the sideboard for as many extra candles as they could find. These took up much of the available table space, but they also shed a great deal more light on the gems.

"Very well, very well," Milton grumbled impatiently, as soon as all of the jewelry sets had made their way around the table. "Let's get on with it, Benjamin."

Without a moment's hesitation, Ben took hold of a square, flat case. He removed the card and handed it to Mr. Beckington to record on his sheet.

"Good G-d!" Milton cried. "You're a bachelor! Whatever will you do with that?"

"The diamond set? The same as you," Ben replied, as he deftly closed the lid and latched it. "I'll give it to a lady to wear. But this is not for a lady of mine; it is a gift, from Dan and me." He pushed the case to James. "For the daughter of the baronet, Jamie," he said softly. "And in repayment for your gift to us."

"Harrumph!" Milton appeared to be most uneasy at the mention of a 'repayment.' He interrupted James' protest to Ben and motioned to his next youngest brother. "Get along, Dan! You're next. Let's get this over with."

But the more Daniel examined the jewels, the more uncomfortable he became. "Molly doesn't wear such things," he finally confessed. "Perhaps I was wrong in asking her not to come, for she would know which to choose ..."

"What about the pearls," James suggested.

"The pearls?!" Milton cried. "But Estella told me be sure to ..." He clamped his mouth shut and glared.

"Molly will like those," Ben put in. "A string of pearls is simple, yet elegant."

"I thought of that," Daniel agreed. "But I wanted to give her rubies ... though she probably wouldn't wear the necklace ... or the earrings ... or any of the rest. But a ruby ring would be nice. You know," he stammered, as a blush rose to his cheeks. "As in the text a-about the good wife? 'A virtuous woman who can find? for her price is far above rubies.' " Daniel lowered his gaze and ran his fingers over the shiny surface of the table. He had been married nearly a year, but he was shy of expressing his tender feelings before his brothers.

"We shouldn't break up the sets," Milton ordered. "Choose one or the other." Daniel chose the pearls.

James' turn came next, and he immediately selected the balas rubies. He was surprised at how simple the decision was, once he pictured Anne wearing a claret-coloured gown. The case held a necklace, earrings, two bracelets, and two rings. He held out both of the latter to his younger brother. "Which of these would Molly like?" he asked.

"We shouldn't break up the sets," Milton repeated.

"I'm not. I'm giving Daniel a gift," James replied. "Besides, what does it matter? He wants a ruby ring and I have two."

"Estella said not to break up the ..."

"Estella will have the emerald ensemble, which will look very well with her light hair," Ben put in, "so I doubt you'll have any trouble with her."

"But she specifically wanted ... oh, never mind!" Milton grumbled, as he took hold of the case which held the emeralds.

The remaining pieces were then brought out. These incidental items were more easily divided, although Milton made a fuss about a missing necklace.

"Yes, that would be the string of seed pearls," Mr. Beckington said, as he consulted a document in his stack. "That item was bequeathed to ... a Miss W. Owen as you'll recall, Mr. Benwick."

"Oh, yes, the mysterious Miss Owen." Milton's voice was laced with sarcasm. "One hundred pounds as dowry and the seed pearl necklace. Quite a wind-fall for her, whoever she is."

"She's a neighbour who has been very kind and helpful, as an occasional companion and nurse," James said. "But Estella won't eat you; I see you have the chrysoberyl bracelet and the baroque pearl brooch in your pile."

"I was hoping to find the pearl ring," Milton replied. "But I suppose that's been given to some other lowly person."

"An apt description of the four of us, now that you mention it," James murmured, as he pushed back his chair and stretched his limbs.

At last, the totals were tallied and the meeting was concluded. James was quite glad to retire early that night; it had been an eventful, exhausting day. As he readied himself for bed, he could feel every one of the miles he had tramped; it was good to slide beneath the blankets and rest his aching feet. He smiled maliciously as he wondered whether Milton was as sore. James rather hoped he was.

He lay back and studied the ceiling as he thought some more about his brother. What a tyrant the man has become, he grumbled to himself. Milton had wasted no opportunity to exert his supposed authority wherever possible. His peremptory manner was certainly nothing new, though it seemed to be worsening with time. An inheritance must evoke either the best or the worst qualities in people, James decided with a sigh.

He turned onto his side, yawned, and took a final look around the bedchamber. No doubt the rooms he now occupied were those Ben had offered with the partnership. His brother had been right, they were snug and comfortable, at least, they were so from a bachelor's point of view. James lips twisted into a smile as he thought about Anne living here with him. Would she? Would she be happy in London? He slid over to the far edge of the narrow bed, as if making room for her to lie beside him. Diamonds and rubies were all very well, but what he wouldn't give to have Anne here as his wife, tonight. He closed his eyes and once again held her tightly in his arms, as he had on that bench at Uppercross. Only this time, she was wearing a flimsy nightdress, with her brown hair flowing over her shoulders. And when he looked down at her, her large brown eyes held a welcoming smile ...

James opened his eyes. It never did any good to continue thinking this way; he would likely keep himself awake most of the night. When he leaned to blow out the candle, he remembered the envelope Beckington had given to him. To aid in focusing his thoughts elsewhere, James heaved himself out of the bed and hunted in the pockets of his frock coat.

The envelope contained a slip of paper bearing his name and a woman's ring. James held the ring in the palm of his hand and gazed at it in wonder. It was the pearl and diamond ring his brother had been hunting for; Aunt Agatha had worn it for as long as he could remember. She had given it to him, with a note which simply said: To begin again.

James slid the ring onto his little finger (it came only to his first knuckle) and blew out the candle. He smiled into the darkness. He had been given a beautiful ring to put onto the precious hand which had so trustingly held his ... and tomorrow he would become a man of independent means, able to protect and provide for her.

And together we'll find a comfortable house in the country, once Chauntecleer is sold, he mused. It would pain him to see the old house go, but he set those thoughts aside as his dream began to grow. Anne was quite taken with Lyme. Perhaps an idyllic country house ... on a rise of land overlooking the sea ... with a garden ... James lay back on his pillow as visions of a pretty brick house in the midst of an orchard filled his mind. With roses on an arched trellis, he added, ... pink roses for Anne ... and a garden choked with flowers. Let's see, we'll have larkspur, delphinium, honeysuckle, and ... He searched his mind for the name of the pink border flower with fringed petals and the spicy scent.

James' grin widened as the name came to mind. No, he would definitely not be including any 'Sweet William' in the dear little cottage garden of his dreams!

"Good night, my dear. Sleep well."

William Elliot straightened from bowing over his cousin's hand and gave her a winsome smile. Though it was only ten o'clock, Anne was tired and was retiring early. He watched as she moved away from him and made her way to the door.

Have I overdone it? he wondered uneasily. Is she running away ... from me? He had given her hand a tender squeeze after he kissed it. It was a little much, but he was powerless to stop himself from expressing his preference for her. In such a short time, Anne's approval had come to mean so much! A word from her, a smile, a simple meeting of the eyes was all it took to cause his heart to race in a new and alarming way.

As the drawing room door closed behind her, William strolled over to the fire and stood looking into the flames. He simply must win Anne's heart, and soon, before the sailor returned. However, he had had a private conversation with Anne's godmother that afternoon which had been most instructive. The woman was very guarded in speaking about Anne; it had taken him some time to penetrate her defenses. He at last decided to abandon all pretense and plainly confess his preference for her. Even then, she told him very little.

"Anne is a romantic, though in other ways she is very practical," Lady Russell had said. "She has told me that you are somewhat of a puzzle to her, Mr. Elliot. She cannot comprehend your character."

This was nothing new; Anne had told him as much in her own words. But he had been absurdly pleased to hear that Anne had thought about him, had talked with others about wanting to understand him. It was a most encouraging sign. Lady Russell's next comment was even more helpful.

"Above all, Anne values an open, expressive temperament, Mr. Elliot. She has mentioned that you are too generally agreeable. She has said that you show no burst of feeling, either of indignation or delight. I think she would prefer that you did."

Since that time, William had been endeavouring to show such 'bursts' whenever possible. That he should become an enthusiast for poetry was obvious; he had spent many hours poring through Colonel Wallis' collection of books to find just the right verses for Anne. He had been amazed at how that poem by Blake, which he read to Anne that afternoon, had worked to open her heart. And his confession of boyhood passion for Cilla Holland, which needed only a slight exaggeration of the ages to fit the poem, had functioned nicely, as well.

But deep down he knew that to win Anne's affections by trick or artifice would be a hollow victory. William wanted more; he wanted her whole heart to be his very own, given (and received) in sincere adoration.

"Well, Ben," James said, as he set down his bag and faced his brother. "It has been a most eventful day. I won't keep you waiting for the coach." He held out a hand and forced a smile. "Good-bye."

Ben's response was to take hold of James' bag and lug it to a deserted bench. "I'll wait," he grunted.

James sighed. Now he would need to be cheerful and conversant until the coach arrived, two things he did not want to do just now. He felt his brother's eyes on him, watching his every move. This reminded him of the catlike way Harville had watched him during his early days in Lyme. Is it so obvious? he thought wearily.

"It certainly has been an eventful day," James repeated heartily, as he lowered himself onto the bench beside his brother. "Not a peep from the Braxtons, which was quite a surprise. No noise from Estella, either, though I would call that a surprise and a relief, wouldn't you?" James knew he was rambling, but he could not help himself. "And so, it is over. We now go our separate ways, move on, adjust to the changes ... "

Ben scuffed the sole of his shoe against the cobbled pavement. "It did not turn out so very badly, did it? I'm sorry about Sir Robin, and all. None of us expected that."

James sighed. Over the years Ben had grown better at not putting his foot immediately into a sore spot; apparently today was an exception. "It was an afterthought of Aunt Agatha's, obviously," he mumbled. "He needed to be cared for. She saw to it."

"Yes. But you will be adequately compensated ..." Ben's tone was hopeful.

James' was not. "Eventually," he said.

Ben opened his mouth and then shut it. Neither brother said anything for a long while. The silence hung between them, though the coaching yard was noisy and active. James checked his timepiece, and both men looked on as a vehicle was brought forward and readied. Ben shifted a basket on his lap, with a glance to his brother. He pulled out his own watch, gave James a long, speculative look, and at last said:

"This is all my fault, James. If you must blame someone, blame me."

James gave his brother a weary smile. "I fail to see how you ..."

"I told her," Ben burst out. "I told Aunt Agatha! G-d, James, you know how she was! She weaseled it out of me, when I visited her the last time! About your gifts to the three of us! How was I to know that two weeks later she would change the will like this? I'm ... sorry."

"Benjamin," James groaned. " You swore up and down you would say noth ..."

"I know! I know." Ben hung his head in remorse. "Raise all the dust you like!" he muttered. "Though you'll not say anything I haven't told myself already! I feel like ... Judas."

James was silent a long while before he said, "You are nothing at all like Judas. Your tongue may run on wheels but you're no traitor; your heart is in the right place. It can't be helped; what's done is done. Now I understand why Milton didn't want me previewing the will."

"I think Estella was jealous," Ben offered. "Milton, too."

"They wanted the house, that is all," James replied flatly. "And to think I was so adamant about the estate not selling it to them! Well, there's no fear of that now. I suppose I've no choice but to become a fixture in Bath," he mumbled, " until I am fortunate enough to be called back to sea."

"Speaking of Bath, here." Ben thrust the basket he had been holding into his brother's hands. "It's your dinner. And handle it carefully," he added. "The gift from last night's in the bottom, under the sausages."

"Keep it, Ben."

"It's not for you," Ben smiled. "It's for the daughter of the baronet, remember?"

James looked at the basket and sighed. "There isn't going to be any 'daughter of the baronet' in my future, Ben," he said softly.

"What do you mean? Of course there will."

"Things have shaken out rather differently than I expected, money-wise. I thought ... But I was too precipitate! Which is a laugh, isn't it, for that's just what I accused Milton of doing! I counted the chickens before they hatched, even before I had the basket of eggs in my hand! What a fool I've been!"

"But what about the girl?" Ben faltered. "She cares for you, Jamie; I saw it! You can't just walk away from her ..."

"What you saw was friendship, Ben, not love," James replied. "Anne has a sweet disposition and very lovely manners, but I must remind myself that love, genuine love, rejoiceth in the truth. And so, I must be honest with myself. She has never once expressed a preference for me, other than as her friend."

"But you love her ..." Ben objected.

"Yes. But love vaunteth not itself, it seeketh not its own," James' voice was husky with emotion. "I love Anne with all my heart, but I cannot be selfish. I want that which is best for her; I want her to be ... happy," he whispered. "Anne does not love me, not in the way she has loved another. And she loathes Bath. Aside from my heart and a very modest income, I have nothing to offer. It is best that I fade quietly from her life."

The coach had now begun to load. James stood, put the basket into Ben's unwilling hands and in silence joined the other passengers at the vehicle's door. He had a wearisome journey before him, yes, and an appointment to keep at a tearoom on Friday. That appointment, which had been arranged with such joy, now looked to be the worst ordeal of all.

Quotation: Never Seek to Tell Thy Love, by William Blake

Chapter 11

"Anne, dear. What have you there?"

Anne jumped to hear her godmother's voice so close at hand. Apparently, Lady Russell had heard the altercation at the main door and had come out of the drawing room to inquire. She now peered over Anne's shoulder to better see what she held.

"It is a letter for Father," Anne replied. She frowned as she read the direction. "From ... 'Madderly, Kinclaven, and Planque.' What do you suppose that business is?"

There was a slight pause before Lady Russell answered. "It is a financial institution here in Bath." She took the letter out of Anne's hands and looked at it more narrowly. "Why was this not sent through the post? Is Mr. Shepherd no longer handling your father's affairs?"

"He is. But the gentleman at the door wished to give it directly to Father ... and Burton refused. So I took it."

Lady Russell's lips compressed into a line. "It was most improper to allow the man to give it to you, Anne. Your butler is well able to deal with this sort of thing."

"I understand that, Lady Russell, Anne replied quietly, "but this is not Kellynch Hall. Father should realise that he cannot dodge his obligations here. It will only get worse ..." Anne's eyes clouded with the memory of something she had pushed out of her mind. "He should accustom himself to such ... unpleasantness, for by summer's end ..." Anne broke off speaking, took back the letter, and headed for the small bookroom her father used as an office. Lady Russell followed hard at her heels.

"Unpleasantness? What do you mean, 'unpleasantness'?"

Anne did not turn to face her godmother until she reached the bookroom door. "I might as well tell you," she said quietly. "The Crofts are leaving Kellynch in September. They will not be renewing the lease." Anne then entered the room and placed her father's letter on the desk.

"You cannot be serious!" Lady Russell came fully into the room and shut the door. "The leasing of the Hall has everything to do with your father's financial recovery!" she exclaimed. "Without it, you cannot continue ..."

"We cannot continue here, yes, I know. We shall return to Kellynch," Anne replied, as calmly as she could. "Elizabeth plans to have a husband by then, so it will be just the two of us. Perhaps I shall finally convince Father to live in a more restrained manner."

"I see." Lady Russell fell silent for a moment, thinking. "If your sister is cherishing hopes of a proposal from Mr. Elliot," she said carefully, "she would do well to banish them. However, if she has this Mr. Rushworth in mind ... why, a marriage to him would be most prudent, under the circumstances." She laid her head to one side and added, "You wouldn't be similarly inclined, would you, Anne?"

"To marry someone like that? For security?" Anne cried. "I should say not!"

"It is a bit extreme, yes, but then so are your sister's financial requirements. Well, as I have said before, my home is ever open to you, my dear, should you decide not to include matrimony in your future. I think we should get on splendidly together."

"You are very good ..." Anne murmured. She was feeling increasingly uncomfortable and wanted nothing more than to escape. It was as though the pleasant events of the past three weeks were all forgotten, for the worry and burden of the retrenchment were back to dominate her mind with a vengeance.

"But to lose the lease ..." Lady Russell bit her lip and again regarded the letter on the desk. "That is a terrible blow to your poor father! His manly honour will be so offended and compromised! And how shall another situation be found? For he shall never consent to advertise! You do realise that it was the mercy of Providence that the Crofts were found at all! If only he could find another tenant to provide the income he requires ..."

"Income?!" Anne sputtered. "I am sick to death of hearing about income! Since everything hinges upon money, why doesn't Father marry for it, himself? Indeed, I am surprised he has not done so long before this! Though it appears he is likely to marry for flattery, instead!"

"Why, Anne ..."

"He is handsome enough! And Elizabeth is beautiful enough! Let them do as they wish! But spare me the agonies of such a cold-blooded alliance, if you please!"

Lady Russell was silent for a moment. Then she said softly, "My dear, there is another gentleman who I believe has a sincere interest ..."

"I am sick to death of hearing about him, too!" Anne cried. To her great annoyance, she found that tears were welling up in her eyes. "Pray excuse me, Lady Russell," she stammered hoarsely. "I ... I have the headache!" And without another word, Anne whisked herself out of the room.

Once free of her godmother, Anne headed for the stairway and climbed to the upper floor. "He would make me to dance in front of all those people," she complained, as she brushed her tears aside. "And then, what does he do but go away! He is the most aggravating man alive! And when he gets back, I'll ... I'll ..."

Anne could not think of anything horrible enough to do to him, and this only added to her ire. "If I never see him again, it will be too soon!" She pulled open the door to her bedchamber with great force.

With all her heart Anne longed to slam that door as she had seen her sisters do, but she could not. It was closed with a restrained and quiet click. Anne then dropped onto her bed and buried her head in her hands. There was no telling when James Benwick would return so that she could give him a piece of her mind.

But I have certainly given it to everyone else, haven't I? she thought miserably. I was rude to my godmother, I said unkind things about my father and Elizabeth ... Anne squeezed her eyes shut and slumped over to lay fully on the bed as another sob rose in her throat. It had been only a week and she was so painfully alone, with such a burden.

Why won't he come? she whispered into her pillow.

With a weary sigh, James Benwick retraced his steps. The hack had turned the corner and was gone from Chaucer Court -- and he was left to stand on the walk by himself. Now came the moment he dreaded; all day he had steeled himself against the emotions he knew would come with his arrival. But he could not put off the inevitable, so he took up his bags and walked slowly to the main entrance. He paused and ran his gloved fingers over the shining nameplate beside the door.

"Chauntecleer," he whispered, and at last he gazed up at the house. It did not look so much like the prison the will had made it out to be. James pulled his hand away and sighed. Never had he been so torn between pride and disappointment.

Yee had the door open before he could knock and soon Benwick's bags, coat, and hat were relinquished into the man's care. He murmured a greeting and then informed Yee of his plans for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. Though he was fatigued from the journey, there was much to be done. He must meet with the Yees to discuss the settlement for their family, as well as to learn of their future plans. And then, of course, he must have a talk with Sir Robin.

Benwick slowly climbed the stairs to his bedchamber, thankful that Yee would be arranging a hot bath. But he had not been in his bedchamber long before he came back out with a perplexed expression on his face. None of his things were in the room. When he could not locate any of the servants upstairs, James went back in and took hold of the bell pull. And as he did, the truth of the situation dawned on him.

Again he left the room, but this time he gravely made his way to his great uncle's quarters. At the door he hesitated, for he had not been inside for many years. At last, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was warm and well-lit; a fire burned cheerfully on the grate. James tiptoed inside and looked around in wonder. In the rosy candlelight, the mahogany wainscoting shone with new polish, a thick carpet cushioned his footfalls. He blinked in surprise; somehow, somewhere, Yee had managed to find a nautical painting to hang above the mantel. Dominating the room was his great uncle's massive bed -- and upon it, his own nightshirt and robe were neatly laid out.

Of course, James sighed. I'll be the one occupying these rooms now.

As he looked about, he could see more evidence of the Yees' work. Everything was prepared for his bath; only the hot water was lacking. The rest of dressing room was empty, save for his few uniforms and the clothes which had lately arrived from the tailor's. He had had his final fitting for these suits before he left for London, and here they were, perhaps the finest clothing he had ever owned. They had been ordered in hope and anticipation, but now ...

Benwick fingered the soft wool of the sleeve of one of the frock coats and wondered at the timing of the delivery. It must be the charcoal gray for his meeting with Anne tomorrow, he decided. No longer would he wear the uniform when he was with her. If she had a tender spot in her heart for naval fellows, he did not want to encourage it.

However, these were wondrous quarters and James could not help but be pleased that they were to be his very own. An oversized leather chair beckoned to him from its place before the fire; James wandered over to it, sat, and took in the silence. Only the hiss and snap of the fire bore him company. Presently he bent, pulled off his boots, and tossed them nosily to the floor. It was too quiet. This house needed the lively bustle of a family, his time with the Harvilles had taught him that. This house needed a mistress, a wife. It needed ...

James set his teeth and pushed the thought of Anne from his mind. It was impossible; there was no sense dwelling on what could not be. And here am I, the Master of all I survey ... almost ... and I am alone, he thought, with a grimace. What a way to spend my first evening at home.

Benwick had always found the library to be less lonely, and so after his bath, his meeting with the Yees, and an early dinner, he took himself there to do a little bookwork. He pulled out his copy of the will and spread it on the desk.

Presently Old Mr. Yee brought in the coffee. He took his time in placing the cup and saucer on the desk, all the while keeping Benwick under close observation.

"You are not happy, sir," the old man remarked at last, as he poured the steaming liquid into the cup. "Perhaps you regret that we stay on?"

"Great heaven, no!" Benwick exclaimed. "I am immensely grateful that you are! It is simply that ... things have not turned out as I expected. It will take some time to ... accustom myself ... to the arrangements, that is all."

"Ah. Not as you expect," Old Mr. Yee repeated softly. "But of course. How thankful am I not to be a young man. Many are the disappointments of the young."

He continued to study Benwick as he returned the coffeepot to the tray. "You do not care for the house, Captain? Or is it that you do not wish to share it with Sir Robin?" His face remained impassive, though his words betrayed a more thorough knowledge of the will than he had previously let on. "I cannot believe this to be true," he added.

"I had planned on receiving a monetary settlement," Benwick murmured. "It was not my intention to live in Bath."

Very slowly, Old Mr. Yee added the cream and sugar to the cup. "You think she will not like this house?"

James squirmed at the uncanny accuracy of this remark. "I think I will not be able to afford to live in this house," he shot back.

"Ah. Then you have not examined the will thoroughly." Old Mr. Yee nodded at the pages on the desk. "Read again, sir. Read carefully. Madam was most particular about the wording of your portion; many hours she worked on it. Mister Beckington was quite, shall I say, ex-asper-ated with such metic-u-lous-ness." Old Mr. Yee rolled the words off his tongue with a tiny smile of pleasure.

"I have read it, many times," James replied wearily, and he took the cup and saucer the butler held out. "The contents of the house are mine to dispose of at will. So, when I can no longer afford to heat the place, I may sell off the furniture, and the artwork, and the Chinese porcelain ... and sit on the floor whilst I stare at the empty walls! I do not call that helpful, Yee." Benwick took a sip of the coffee, and added, "Aunt Agatha had a predilection for ... drastically rearranging my life, that is all."

"So. You have not forgiven her, even after all these years." Old Mr. Yee placed a silver fork and a napkin on the desk beside the cup. "She feared you would not," he said softly.

"What are you talking about?"

Old Mr. Yee looked up. "Your ... induction into Navy, sir. That is the right English word, is it not?"

"That was many years ago," Benwick murmured.

"But have you forgiven?"

"Of course I have!"

"Ah. I see." Old Mr. Yee replaced the containers of cream and sugar on his silver tray with precision. "A man who has forgiven fully does not say, 'of course' in just that way," he said quietly. "You do not yet understand the severe kindness of her love."

"Kindness?" James grumbled. He did not wish to discuss this old wound with anyone, much less with this man, but he could not help himself. "Was it kindness that sent me to sea, while my indifferent and lazy brother was packed off to University? I worked for years to that end, and yet Milton ..." He could not finish the sentence.

Old Mr. Yee spoke very deliberately. "Your brother is the sort of man who needs a goad and a whip to be taught, whereas you ..."

"Whereas I, who desired it with all my heart, was denied!" James interrupted. "She sent me into the Navy, though God only knows why! I was never suited for that life! It was such a waste!" He then realised what he had said, and lowered his eyes to stare at the cup of coffee.

"Do not forget, Madam sent books while you were at sea, Master Yames. Many, many books. I remember well. What a trouble it was to pack them in canvas, and wrap with oilcloth, and have them crated and brought to shipping office. She knew you would hunger to learn, always. And yet, you must to learn to command, to stand before men as a leader, without fear. Thus, the Navy was chosen for you."

James raised an eyebrow. "I seldom led without fear, Yee," he muttered.

"But you did not run from duty, did you?" Old Mr. Yee said more gently. "And now, look who you have become. You may stand before any man, with dignity and rank of 'Captain.' A great risk Madam took to give you such opportunity. Perhaps one day you will better understand this kind of love."

"I hope so," James murmured. The conversation had unaccountably gone beyond his depth and he suddenly felt very tired.

"Here is your cake, sir." The old butler placed the plate beside the fork and napkin. "Do not despair. You alone she could trust with the care of Sir Robin. Read the will again, after you have rest. It is not so bad as it seem. Remember, it is written, 'In the house of the righteous is much treasure ...' "

"Well? What's wrong?" Elizabeth was dressed for the evening and was about to descend the stairway, when she chanced to meet her sister in the upstairs hall. "Spare me the innocent look, Anne. My choice of gown does not please you?"

Anne was caught off guard by the directness of this remark. Incurably truthful, she murmured, "I am surprised that you are not wearing the emerald necklace with that dress, that is all."

"Do you take me for a fool, Anne, to wear that monstrosity to Sir Clifton's card party?" Elizabeth retorted. "Paste it may now be, but I do not intend to give the gossips an opportunity to examine it first-hand! Mother's pearls are genuine; the old ladies will find no fault with them."

"Paste?" Anne frowned. "None of our gemstones are paste, Elizabeth."

"Good gracious, Anne! Has that sailor caused you to be blind to everything? Elizabeth exclaimed. "Bye-the-bye, I notice that Mother's rose-cut citrine brooch is no longer in its case. You don't happen to have it, do you?

"No ..." Anne breathed. "I keep all of the jewelry locked in the vault. You know that."

"Then it has certainly gone the way of the garnets! For 'cleaning' by that horrid little man! And your amethyst cross pendant is missing too, I'm sorry to say." Elizabeth bent to brush a speck of lint from the skirt of her gown. "I hope it brought a good price. It was a lovely piece."

"But ... that was a gift to me! How can it have been ..."

"... sold? Such was the fate of my diamonds, which Father gave to me himself!" Elizabeth interrupted, in a hard voice. "Do not think you are the only sufferer in this!"

"Your ... birthday gift?"

Elizabeth tossed her head. "He began by selling the odd items first, pieces we would not easily miss, but that was not enough. He has sold more and more, and I believe he is now delving into Mother's better jewelry." A spasm crossed her face, which she quickly brought under control. "The more important pieces are returned to us with paste substitutes, such as the emeralds and my diamonds. The others have simply disappeared."

Anne put out a hand to steady herself against the wall. "How long has this been going on?" she asked quietly.

"Who's to say?" Elizabeth shrugged elaborately. "It began shortly after we came to Bath, I imagine. I did not notice until after you were called back to Mary's." Elizabeth's eyes were bright with angry tears. "At this rate, you and I will be reduced to wearing the estate jewels with our evening attire. Father wouldn't dare to tamper with those, no matter how badly he needs the funds."

Anne swallowed painfully. "Speaking of which, he received a letter today ... from a bank. It was brought to the door by special messenger. I do not suppose it brings good news."

Elizabeth lifted her chin and fixed her eyes on Anne. "Then you and I are very great fools if we do nothing to secure our future provision," she said deliberately. "We have been fairly warned ... by your precious Providence, if you like!" Elizabeth's chin then quivered; she turned abruptly and stalked down the hall.

With a sinking heart, Anne descended alone to the drawing room to endure the remainder of the evening.

William Elliot regarded his reflection one last time and turned away, satisfied. He would be spending the entire evening with his cousins, both for dinner and later, at Sir Clifton's card party. The only blot on the occasion was the person of Penelope Clay. Mr. Elliot's carriage seated only four and he was determined that this time Anne would not be left behind. It had taken considerable effort (and an invitation for all to join him at the theatre the following week) before Sir Walter could be convinced to change his mind. Anne was to go and Mrs. Clay would remain at Camden Place.

Next, William flipped through the pages of his book of poetry in search of a selection to share with Anne. Since Blake had proven so successful, and his poems were (mercifully) short and easy to comprehend, William began with those. Very quickly he found exactly what he was looking for, a poem about love. He read the words aloud for practice, as he knew excellence in elocution would no doubt impress his fair cousin.

"Love seeketh not itself to please, he intoned to the empty room,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet.

William smiled. His darling Anne (for so he called her now) was such a one: sweet, and selfless, and altogether good. The word picture Blake used reminded him of another; something about love being the fragrance a flower gives although it is stepped on. With great eagerness he continued reading.

But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

William Elliot blinked at the page. There was something about that last stanza he did not like, although he could not identify what it was.

"Ah, well," he muttered, and slipped the volume into his pocket. A look at the clock told him that his carriage would soon be arriving to take him to Camden Place. Anne will understand it, he decided, and his smile became foolish as he thought of her lovely face and large, expressive eyes. And besides, he thought, it is a well-known fact that two people can never agree fully about poetry. Ours will be a very interesting discussion, then, about ... love.

Quotation: The Clod and the Pebble by William Blake

Authors' Note: Our reader, Joy, very kindly sent this wonderful poem our way, with the comment that she thought that it was the very picture of Anne. We agree! Although the latter half of the poem perfectly depicts someone else, doesn't it? Dear Joy. Did she ever think that we would place the words of the poem into his mouth? Ah, we love it! Thanks again, Joy!

Chapter 12

Elizabeth fingered the strand of pearls about her neck, as she wandered among the card tables in Lady Farley's salon. But although she nodded and smiled at this or that one, her actions were mere politeness. Her depression had not lifted, indeed, it had worsened as the evening wore on. For not only had Penelope Clay been compelled to remain behind, leaving her without a female companion, but this party was proving to be a complete waste of time. There were admirers enough, but as all were above the age of fifty, their smiles and gallant bows were of no consequence. What was worse, Elizabeth's prime object, William Elliot, had chosen to remain fixed by her sister's side all evening long.

She looked across the room and found him seated apart from the rest of the party, deep in conversation with Anne. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. He seemed quite enchanted with Anne's company tonight, though Anne was probably too stupid to notice.

Elizabeth drifted away from the card tables and drew closer to the pair, but carefully, for she did not wish to be seen. She soon came near enough to hear snatches of their conversation. Apparently, they were discussing poetry, for Mr. Elliot had a small book and kept pointing to its pages as he spoke. Elizabeth shook her head in wonder as she listened. Wasn't it just like Anne to be interested in a poem about a rock and a clump of dirt?

"But the 'clod' falls apart at the least provocation, dear Cousin," Mr. Elliot was now saying, with a great deal of earnestness. "Now, the 'pebble,' on the other hand -- does not the 'pebble' denote strength? It weathers life's storms, firm and resolute!" He leaned forward and smiled at Anne. "Is not love to be strong, my dear?"

"But that is not what is meant here, Mr. Elliot!" Anne's gentle voice might not be easily heard by most at that distance, but it was discernible to Elizabeth. It seemed that Anne was just as seriously intent as Mr. Elliot. "A rock is strong," she continued gravely, "but it is also unyielding. It is hard, and cold, and self-absorbed, giving nothing to the beloved!"

"And the 'clod' is so much better?" he retorted. "In the end, it is ground to dust by the hooves of that ridiculous cow! What good is that? Er, to the beloved, that is. What has the 'clod' given?"

"It has given itself," was Anne's answer. "Love is self-less, Mr. Elliot. It gives without expecting something in return, simply for the joy of giving.

"Ah! You are too philosophical for me, my dear. For to give all, simply for the sake of giving it, is nothing to be proud of, at least not in my eyes! And as you know," he added, with his most charming smile, "I am said to be a very proud man."

Anne shook her head; clearly she was exasperated with him. "But love is not proud, Mr. Elliot," she pointed out. "It is not arrogant, or jealous, or rude ..."

"Aha! But love should be jealous, don't you think? I would be jealous, very jealous, of any other man, if you were my love."

At this point, Anne began to be truly annoyed, which caused Elizabeth's brows to arch higher. "The love between a man and a woman is ... loyal, yes," she replied. "But I misspoke. It would be better to have said that love is not envious."

"Of course love is envious!" he laughed. "If I were your love, I would be extremely envious! Of the teacup which touched your lips tonight, of the pillow upon which you will rest your head ..."

"Mr. Elliot!" Anne cried, much vexed. "That is not at all an appropriate comparison! For you are not my love!"

"Yes, I am well aware of that."

He looked rather hurt, and shortly thereafter excused himself to procure a glass of punch for Anne. Elizabeth's lips twisted into a smile. As usual, her sister had bungled it. What was the matter with her? It would be so simple to attach him, to bind him to herself, for he had thrown out several ill-disguised lures. Was Anne truly so dense? Or did her preference for a uniform so completely blind her to Mr. Elliot's every advantage?

However, Elizabeth's amusement was short-lived, for tonight she was forced to face an unhappy truth: Mr. Elliot had a definite preference for Anne. She could no longer dismiss his actions as being anything other than those of a suitor. Elizabeth's lips compressed into a line. She had lost her power with him, and this realisation did nothing to improve her temper. Why anyone would prefer Anne to herself was inconceivable, but so it was.

Well! That is fine by me, she fumed, and tossed her head. I always did hate the man! I shall simply find ... someone else! Elizabeth surveyed the gentlemen in the room appraisingly. But aside from a nod from Sir Clifton Farley (who was older than her father, besides being married), no opportunity presented itself. Elizabeth groaned and resumed her perambulations. The remainder of the evening would be endured, somehow. But what of the remainder of her life? She glanced back at Anne, who was now sitting alone. If her sister was to be so stupid, perhaps the situation with Mr. Elliot could be salvaged, after all ...

In the early hours of Friday morning, Anne rolled over in her bed -- and winced. Something had awakened her, but what? Presently she was able to open her eyes. The card party had ended very late; even now her eyes stung and her limbs felt like lead. But the sound came again, and Anne listened more carefully. Could it be the song of ... birds? After a cold, silent, truly dreary winter, had spring come at last to Bath? Anne summoned her strength and sat up. It was the singing of birds.

She found her robe at the foot of the bed, wrapped herself in it, and padded over to the window. The heavy drapery was then drawn back to let in the faint light of dawn. Anne wiped the glass with her sleeve and looked out. The sky was a pale blue, flecked with clouds. She fought with the latch and pushed against the window with all her might. It swung noisily outward and the fresh morning air, sweet and mild, rushed in. Anne rested her elbows on the sill. Besides the birds, she could hear the chirping of frogs down in the courtyard. Even in Bath, all things are made new, she thought. I would like a new beginning, too.

After a long while and with a great deal of reluctance, Anne pulled the window closed and returned to the dimness of her little room. She sat on the bed and looked about her. Here, nothing was changed; the glorious transformation to newness of life did not penetrate the walls of this house. Anne's eyes came to rest on the book on her bedside table.

Owe no man any thing, but to love one another ... Anne recited the text from memory; she had come across it yesterday during her private devotions. Although she knew its context did not refer to financial obligations, the phrase had haunted her all night long. Bath was to have brought about a new beginning for her family, a way to clear away the claims of creditors, and to remove the disgrace of debt.

"Owe no man any thing ..." Anne repeated dully. Her father owed a great deal, and apparently, the measures of economisation he had undertaken were not effective.

Elizabeth was dealing with the situation by seeking to remove herself from it, through marriage. Should I do the same? For I am powerless to do anything else ... That question had no easy answer; it had bothered Anne for so long that at last she had pushed it from her mind. Now it was back to torment her: the reproach of debt, versus duty, and honesty, and a good character. Disgrace, versus honour.

The word 'honour' brought to mind Frederick Wentworth, and his name caused Anne to sigh. She spent some time thinking about him, and the lengths he had gone to in order to do what was right. Frederick married for honour, she thought. Perhaps I should do likewise ...

The minutes ticked away as Anne sat there, considering. Eventually, shadows appeared on the wall, as the first rays of sunlight penetrated the room. Still, Anne did not move. Her heart felt like a dead thing within her breast, as hard as the pebble Mr. Elliot had so rigorously defended last evening. Was this what Frederick had faced? The cold reality of duty? For the first time, Anne began to have a clear understanding of his predicament and her heart was wrung with pity.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, the birds became more riotous in their singing. Anne wrenched her mind away from Frederick and took herself back to the window. The sky was even more blue; the clouds were now pink, now golden, growing brighter as the sun gained in strength ...

At last, Anne could bear it no longer. This was to be a glorious day and she must be a part of it. Mr. Elliot, the retrenchment, honour, and Frederick Wentworth -- all were cast aside as Anne hunted in her wardrobe for a suitable dress. The housemaid would soon be in to tend the fire; she could assist with the few buttons Anne could not manage herself. For she was going to do exactly as her heart pleased this morning, she was going for a tramp, a good long one. Lady Farley had mentioned a park last night, a corner of a large estate which had lately been opened for public use. It had pathways which wound through a grove of ancient trees and rhododendrons, and a small lake, and beds of flowering bulbs. Belsom, Lady Farley had called it. Anne's fingers could not unfasten the buttons of her night dress fast enough.

Her tramp across Bath took some time, but it was not unpleasant to traverse the deserted streets. The weather had been warming throughout the week, so Anne could dispense with her heavy cloak. She followed the directions Burton had obligingly given her, and at last she found herself on a lane lined by trees. Presently she reached a thick hedge and followed it until she gained a narrow iron gate, which had a nameplate to indicate the entrance to Belsom Park. Anne pushed it open and followed the gravel path into the shrubbery.

At length Anne rounded a corner and halted in surprise. For before her was the small lake, bordered with several willow trees; their branches were bent nearly to the water and were arrayed in the pale new green of spring. And dotted here and there in the surrounding lawn were beds of yellow daffodils; the morning sun made their petals glow. The cry of ducks and geese, the sparkling of the sun on the water, the very stillness of the place, caused Anne's heart to swell with longing. What she wouldn't give to have the pleasure of seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch again. What she wouldn't give to be ... home.

As Lady Elliot, you would be mistress of Kellynch. The thought came wafting softly through the sunlight and caught at Anne's heart. She winced and cast it aside and continued walking in the direction of the lake.

Presently she found a bench and gratefully lowered herself onto it, not caring if it was wet with dew. She was wearing her oldest dress; what would it matter? After some time, she began to feel herself unbend. Was it due to the warmth of the sun on her skin and gown? Or the delicious solitude?

A stray mallard came near with such a hopeful look that Anne had to laugh. She had brought nothing to give him, but he must have been hungry, for he did not quickly desert her. He eyed her for so long that at last she began to feel badly. To be rid of him, she tossed a stone into the water. With a great flapping, the duck left to investigate.

Are men always so ... dense, Anne wondered. Misunderstanding even the simplest things? For last night, William Elliot had been exactly the same. He had brought a poem to share with her -- about a stone, like the one she had thrown to the duck -- and he had completely misconstrued everything about it. Or, he was baiting her with it. Anne bit her lip as she thought. Which it was, she could not tell. Mr. Elliot had had a sparkle in his eye which made her suspicious. But that was nothing new; everything about him made her suspicious. Mr. Elliot was just what a gentleman should be: rational, discreet, polished ... and she distrusted him entirely, for his tongue never slipped. Or, it had not until just lately, when he had taken up poetry. Anne looked down at her gloved hands as a blush rose to her cheeks. His behaviour had become so odd, so pointedly attentive. She could not think of him as a suitor, but his words last night had shown that it was so.

Anne plaited the fabric of her gown and thought some more. Someone else had said something to her about suitors; what was it?

'Hasn't your father approved of any of your suitors?'

Anne smiled at the memory. It was James Benwick, of course. That was just the sort of thing he would say. She looked back at the sparkling lake with a sigh. And he is right, too, she admitted reluctantly. Although, William Elliot would be the one man who would certainly earn Father's approval. Unfortunately.

She thought some more about her cousin, and threw many stones into the water as she did. The ducks kept their distance. At length she knew it was time to depart, for it would not do to be late to breakfast.

Anne slipped into the dining room as quietly as she could; the tramp home had taken longer than she thought. Unfortunately, she had not thought to bring along a few coins to hire a carriage for the trip, though she doubted she had the courage to hail one on her own. As it was, her feet and legs ached. She gratefully made her way around the table to her chair.

After her walk in the sunshine, the room could not seem anything but dark. Once her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Anne could see that her father, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Clay were already at table, occupied with their breakfast. Mrs. Clay looked up inquiringly and murmured a greeting.

"Good morning," Anne replied, with a fairly cheerful smile. "It is a glorious day. I have been for a walk. Er, no one else was out this morning, Elizabeth. Only the birds were there to see me."

As Elizabeth rarely spoke at the breakfast table, Anne did not expect an answer. But after she slid into her chair and took up her napkin, she found a surprise beside her plate. It was a letter, an uncommonly heavy one. Anne took it up and stared at it. At last, she broke the seal. The sound of the page unfolding attracted her father's attention.

"What have you there, Anne?" he asked pleasantly.

"A letter, I ... think," Anne replied with a frown, as she spread it out. To her surprise, the floral paper held another letter within its folds. It was sealed, and addressed to herself. This Anne carefully removed, under cover of the flowered page. She brought it to her lap and lay her napkin over it.

Sir Walter raised his eyebrows at the riotous stationery. "My, my!" he exclaimed. "And is this Mary's taste in writing paper which I spy?" He held out his hand expectantly.

"Er, no, Father." Anne answered slowly, for she was occupied with reading it. "It is from Miss ... Jemima ... Calvine."

"Cal-vine, did you say? Is this someone we know? Or is this another acquaintance from the Westgate Buildings?" He looked quizzingly at Mrs. Clay, in order to share the joke.

"She is someone I met at the Pump Room, perhaps. Or, I suppose she could be one of Mary's friends ..." Anne searched her memory for someone named 'Jemima,' but to no avail. And 'Calvine' was an unusual enough name; surely she should recall its owner. In the meantime, Miss Calvine's flowery missive was re-folded and passed to Sir Walter for examination.

As he opened it, Anne suddenly remembered the letter on her lap. She hesitated, stole a glance at her father, and then very carefully lowered her eyes and pulled back the napkin. The direction on the face of it was beautifully legible. There was something terribly familiar about that handwriting, though Anne could not say what.

Meanwhile, Sir Walter studied Miss Calvine's letter with an expression of growing disgust. "I cannot read this well at all, Anne, but I must say, this young woman does not seem at all the proper sort! She is in London for the Season, she says, to 'entrap' a man! And then, what does she do but list the several she has in mind! How very vulgar!

Elizabeth raised her head and gave her father a measured look. She then lowered her eyes and took a sip of tea.

Now, Mrs. Clay came to stand behind him, to assist in reading the letter. She choked back a laugh. "Dear me, Sir Walter," she gurgled, as she pointed to the page. "I do believe this young woman thinks the correct style of hat will carry the day! Did you ever hear of anything so silly, sir?"

"It is all in the cut of the evening gown," Elizabeth muttered, to no one in particular. "And in one's parentage. And, most especially, in the size of one's marriage settlement." This last was said with a look in Sir Walter's direction.

No one noticed Anne, as she stared at the letter hidden on her lap. Her face went white, then red, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to cover her astonishment. Her heart felt as if it were about to burst. Of course, she recognized this writing! She had seen it on scraps of paper, and on a written schedule for the Poetry Group! And was it not on the flyleaf of the book he had loaned to her? For 'Jemima' was none other than the feminine version of ... James! This letter -- and the other one -- had been written by none other than Captain Benwick!

Continued in next section

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