Beginning, Previous Section, Section XXV, Next Section

Chapter 8, Part 1 (cont.)

Dear me, of course, it has been Anne, she scolded herself, as she reached over to tuck the lap robe more securely about the girl. Even in her sleep, Anne continued to clutch the handkerchief Captain Benwick had given to her, as she had done for the entire journey. It was a childish behaviour; Lady Russell fought her impulse to remove it. My darling has had a dreadful time, she told herself, but things are going to be just fine now.

Amanda Russell leaned back against the squabs and thought about the part she had played in this little drama. Against all her better judgment, she had agreed to call at Camden Place. And though every fibre of her being rebelled against such conduct, what she saw in Anne's eyes propelled her to follow Captain Benwick's suggestion: she had "weaseled an invitation" to dinner and had found an opportunity to speak apart with Anne.

She did it mostly to disprove the monstrous accusation which Captain Benwick had brought against Mr. Elliot. But the pieces of the puzzle fit too exactly. Had not the man himself freely confessed his preference for Anne several weeks ago? And when that fact was coupled with Captain Benwick's account, and the girl's changed countenance, and the mark under her chin ...

Still, putting her handkerchief in Anne's unlocked window had been the hardest thing Amanda Russell had done in a long, long time. For by that act, she had allowed a man not Anne's husband to enter her bedchamber. What a mercy it was that Captain Benwick had proven himself trustworthy!

Lady Russell closed her eyes with a sigh. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight which met her eyes before dawn today, as she was confronted by Anne upon her doorstep. Anne, so ill-clad in her nightdress and cloak, clutching at an ugly hat. Anne, who collapsed into her arms and poured out a such a tale of heartless coercion!

"Dear Walter must be appraised of Mr. Elliot's poor character, somehow," she murmured, as she opened her eyes to take in the passing scenery. But what could be said, and when? Of course, she could never condemn the baronet, for he had simply been following the generous impulses of his heart. After all, he had so freely forgiven the young man's social solecisims of years ago! And surely no one could be blamed for trusting his own heir, could he? But, it was a thorny situation all the same, and long did Amanda Russell wonder how she might protect her friend and neighbour.

"And then, there is that Mrs. Clay," she murmured, as she smoothed her gloves. Amanda Russell's lips pursed together in disgust. Her disapproval of the woman had never been a secret; the divorced daughter of a tradesman was altogether unfit to be the hired companion to anyone, let alone the Elliot sisters. Elizabeth was to blame for turning her father's head on that score!

And last night! The good lady's jaw tightened as she recalled Penelope Clay's daring gown and smiling, forward behaviour. She begins to see herself as the next Lady Elliot, that much is clear, Lady Russell sniffed. Far better women had longed to step into her dear Elizabeth's shoes, and been denied it! But she knew something would have to be done about this situation, and soon. Not for nothing had she kept watch over the baronet for so many years! She did not intend to lose him to such an one as Mrs. Clay!

Perhaps, Amanda Russell thought, with a gleam in her eye, perhaps I should 'weasel an invitation' to dine in that house more often!

"So," he said, "she threw the dog a bone."

"Yes, she did. But the dog would not be satisfied." He took a breath and continued. "Normally information of this nature would be for my personal benefit, but I think that you should hear it. I took it upon myself to have her examined ... " The Captain's countenance stiffened. "I can assure you that Mrs. Partridge is very knowledgeable on these sorts of matters. When I took her on it was not necessary to tell you, considering the crew, that she is a skilled mid-wife and understands female function very well."

He nearly choked saying, "And she found ... "

"There was no violence to your wife. None intimately that is."

Frederick wished for a chair. The relief nearly took him down. He locked his knees and set his face. "What of her other injuries? Her face?"

"Her account of her escape includes two falls. One from a high wall surrounding the house where she was held. She fell into a stack of crates and barrels, she thinks she might have bruised her ribs at that time. The other fall was down a few stairs in the stairwell of Mrs. Harville's church. She had hidden for two men following her -- they assumed her to be a prostitute, as did the church's rector. She said -- "

"This is becoming very confused, Doctor," he held up his hand to interrupt. "I will hear of this later, from her own lips hopefully. I am assuming that you do not believe that she was injured in the falls. How then?"

"When I first cleaned and examined the wound, I was not in the least suspicious of her explanation, but upon further scrutinisation I found that the bruising pattern is consistent with that of a a human hand."

The Captain frowned. "Certainly not an open hand. Not with so much damage."

"No, certainly not." He held up his closed fist. "No, closed. The knuckles here were perfectly visible. The definition has since faded." He dropped his hands. "I naturally believe it to be a man, not a terribly big man, but one wearing a ring. That accounts for the wounding of the flesh of her cheek."

The Captain said nothing. That his wife had been taken from her home was outrage enough. For her to be brutalized at the hands of a man such a Daniel Randwick turned him cold with rage. He walked away from the doctor and stood rooted before the window.

Hemmings watched his captain for a time. The silence was more than he could bear. "Captain Wentworth. Again I remind you that I am your wife's physician. You and I both know that an evil against the body is not always violent; that the mind can be used first to circumvent a struggle. I do not know that to be the case here, but I do know that when Captain Harville arrived, and not you, your wife was grossly disappointed. No one had thought to tell her you had been summoned to Shropshire. As I say, she was severely disappointed, she was looking very much forward to seeing you. So much so that when I advised bed-rest for a few days, she was ... " He chose his words carefully. "Let me just say that she threw a tantrum, the likes of which I have never seen. The point is, she would brooke nothing which kept her from being reunited with you, her husband. The only way to pacify her was arrange for a carriage and to leave that day. But even as we were being waved off her mood changed dramatically. She became depressed and fractious. As I said when we arrived, she would not eat, nor sleep. She became a very trying patient. To a small extent Partridge was able to introduce the small end of the wedge into her gloom, but not very often." As an aside he added, "Which is a surprise as she was a master of it when we were children."

"And so you think what? The idea of returning to me suddenly became repugnant to her?"

"No, sir. I believe that she genuinely wanted to see you, be with you, but there may be ... things." His words failed for the first time. "The idea of seeing you was vital to her. She fought for it, but then when the time came, as coming home to you became a reality, perhaps fear of what has transpired ... and your reaction -- " he paused. "You know that my wife is also young. Not as young as Mrs. Wentworth, but I do understand some things. The desire to protect, not just because she is your wife, but because she is young, and vulnerable. I advise you go slowly down this path with her, Captain. Very slowly. For both your sakes."

"Good G-d!! Kellynch Lodge?!" William Elliot nearly choked on a swallow of wine. He set down his glass with a snap. "Anne went with Lady Russell to Kellynch Lodge??" he demanded.

Sir Walter blinked at his cousin, who was seated at the left side of the long dining table. "Oh, yes, I suppose so," he replied vaguely. "What did Lady Russell's note say?" He frowned in an effort to remember. "Something to do with the wedding, I know it was ..."

"The wedding?" sputtered William. "For your information, sir, the wedding is --"

"Lady Russell wishes Miss Anne to wear a necklace which belonged to a relation of hers," Mrs. Clay interrupted helpfully, speaking to Mr. Elliot around the large spay of flowers which decorated the dining table. "And as Mrs. Charles has given her a blue gown, her ladyship wants to be certain that it will look exactly right." Penelope's face reddened as she noticed the darkening expression on Mr. Elliot's face. "Or, so she said," Penelope faltered. "Er, in her letter, that is."

"What letter? Why was I not told of this before?" demanded William. "Could not the woman have sent a servant to fetch the da-, er, necklace?" Instead of dragging Anne on a fifty-mile goose-chase?"

Sir Walter brightened. "To send a man after it, instead? What an excellent notion, Mr. Elliot! Though, perhaps we'd best not mention it to Lady Russell." The baronet lowered his voice conspiratorially. "She is not the most intelligent of women, you know," he whispered loudly, with a wink. "Which is a pity, for in most other respects, she shows excellent sense."

"The whole thing sounds perfectly beastly to me," declared Elizabeth, from her place at the foot of the table. "And I say it serves them right. Lady Russell's carriage is dreadfully ill-sprung. If Anne chooses to go gadding about in it, bumping over every rill and dip in those horrid country roads, she is most welcome!"

William ground his teeth and addressed the baronet. "Anne's absence does not distress you, sir?"

"Not when you are here to make a fourth at dinner," replied Sir Walter genially. "Do have some more wine, Mr. Elliot."

The Captain finished stoking the fire. The firebox was packed tight and the flames burned high and hot. He pulled off his neckcloth, having earlier divested himself of his coat and waistcoat. Not long after he had taken up his post, Louisa had begun to shiver. From that time on he had kept the fire roaring like a furnace. He unbuttoned his collar and fanned himself. Looking over to the bed, she was still nestled under the blankets. As long as she was snug, he would keep to his post as fire tender. Stretching his back and shoulders, he returned to his seat by the bed. From under the blankets she moaned again and began to struggle. He leant forward and watched. There was nothing for him to do. He had no weapons with which to fight the demons invading her sleep. She threw a hand in the air, then settled into peace. He leant back and began to wait.

"Captain." A voice whispered his name.

His eyes opened to see Abernathy leaning over him. "Ah, Michael," he said, rubbing his face. A glance out the window told him it was after dark. Rather than take out his watch, he asked the time.

"It's going on seven. Graham has laid the table. I have come for the roast." he asked.

"What? What roast?" His neck ached and the Doctor's question confused him.

Michael straightened. "Well surely you have been roasting meat up here. It is certainly hot enough." He poked the Captain's shoulder. "I would judge you fully cooked."

Frederick scowled at the joke and rubbed his neck. "For your information, she has been cold, I purposely banked the fire high to keep her warm."

"It would seem you have succeeded." He nodded towards Louisa.

Looking at his wife he was gratified to see her finally warm. She had emerged from under the covering, they were pushed to her waist, and one arm was casually flung above her head.

"How is she?" Michael asked. "Has she wakened?"

He stood. "No. She's not awakened, but she does moan, deeply at times. And she seems to wrestle with herself. But she does not wake."

Abernathy bent and began to unbutton her nightdress.

He took the doctor's arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

He stopped and said, "I am going to check the binding on her ribs. If it has come loose that might explain the moaning. They must remain tightly wrapped,or she will be in a great deal more pain." He continued with the buttons, then laid open the gown.

Knowing the Doctor's feelings he wondered how detached the man could remain. He murmured an embarrassed apology. The light was low, nonetheless he studied a bedraggled ribbon decorating the shift she wore. The bones around her chest and shoulders were more pronounced than normal. He felt somehow that he should look away, but he could not. He stared at the ribbon. All her shifts were embroidered with simple blue flowers. This is a garment Mrs. Harville has loaned her, there would have been no time to launder her own.

Abernathy tested various places, trying to find any loose spots. "Quite all right. No, the binding is fine," he declared. "Mrs. Partridge certainly knows how to bind the ribs." He refastened the lower buttons but having felt of her face, and finding it warm, left the upper open. "Well, I think she is fine for now. You should go down and have supper."

"I think I shall stay," the Captain said. He took his seat again.

"I insist Frederick." He did not look as he spoke. "It will do her no good to let yourself get worn down. I shall stay with her."

"I think not -- "

"Captain," he said sharply. He turned. "She needs you to be strong for her. Go and eat. She is asleep. I hardly think she will notice me." His voice was suddenly tired, thoughtful.

"All right, Michael. Thank you."

Abernathy lit another candle and took the seat left by the Captain. He thought about the diagrams of his cousin's injuries. He also thought about the conversation with Hemmings. It was impossible not to wonder at the private conversation in which Hemmings and the Captain had engaged. As the time passed, he could not help but draw his own conclusions. After ruminating for longer than was healthy he decided there was nothing for him to do, but to sit, to watch, and to pray.

"Mm. Uh. Mm," Louisa moaned. They were soft and, he thought, not related to pain, but a natural response to her dreams. Occasionally her head moved from side to side, but there was no other movement. He eased to the edge of the chair and slowly, gently took her hand. The bandages covered most of her hands, up to the middle knuckle. Hemmings had said they were infected, but not so badly that he thought she would lose either hand, or even any fingers for that matter. He caressed the little bit of the tips.

"Oh, Loua. Victoria always said I had a genius for bad timing. She was right, I never could be taught to dance." He heaved a sigh. "Why have I done this to myself? The Captain is my friend." Suddenly, her hand pulled violently out of his and she vainly tried to push something away from her face.

"What do you see? What was done to you, Loua?" She settled back into the pillow and lay perfectly still. He leant closer and stroked her forehead lightly. "No matter what," he said, "he will care for you. Don't ever be afraid on that score." Slowly he bent his head to hers and kissed her cheek. "I love you, Loua." With one last stroke of her face, he leant back in the chair and settled in to wait for the Captain to return.

Chapter 8, Part Two

A Clouded Joy

Captain Frederick Wentworth was a man of many talents, not the least of which was the ability to sleep, quite comfortably, in a straight-backed chair. As a midshipman, once he had mastered the "standing doze," sleeping while seated was not so difficult a task. Legs planted precisely apart, arms crossed just so and chin resting upon the breast, a man could rest comfortably for hours. This particular night he had been asleep for well over two. When he awoke his shoulders were stiff and his neck ached. These minor inconveniences were a small price to pay for the peace of mind afforded him by sitting with his wife.

Prior to the Doctor and Mrs. Partridge retiring for a much needed rest, each of the doctors had taken a last look at Mrs. Wentworth. While both medicos had poked and prodded, excessively in the Captain's opinion, Louisa had not stirred.

Hemmings had offered to stay. When the offer was refused, he offered Mrs. Partridge as a nurse. Again he was refused. Wentworth had the good of the Laconia and her crew to think about. While it was true that she was under the watchful eye of the royal hospital sitting just a few miles from the docks, and he suspected nothing worse than an outbreak of the gleet might occur while they were anchored, he felt his men needed to have their surgeon and his mate back on board.

"I think it would be prudent to leave Mrs. Abigail here, to sit with with your wife, just in the event anything unforeseen should occur."

To occupy the hours the Captain had sat watch, his mind had spared no expense in contemplating every evil that might have befallen his wife. While some were perfectly reasonable, most others were unimaginable except to the mind of an exhausted man in love. Therefore, to his way of thinking, it was not unreasonable to suspect Hemmings of knowing more than he had told earlier. "You are concerned that she may not recover?"

Hemmings scowled. "No, nothing so dire, sir. Her injuries are shocking, but nothing fatal. I merely wish to cover every contingency." Mrs. Partridge pulled at his sleeve and they conferred. His look softened only a little and he said, "I understand your worry, sir, but she is not in mortal danger. I was only thinking of your comfort in this." He glanced at his sister and she nodded.

"If that is merely a case of my comfort, Hemmings," said Wentworth, "a nurse will not be necessary."

Abernathy, having ended his examination, closed his bag and added, "If you wish, I could sent my own Mrs. Dalton over to sit. Tomorrow I can find another woman."

Wentworth raised his hands for silence. "Gentlemen, please. I can not ask that my brother stuff one more person into this house. It is at the bursting now. Abernathy, you are coming daily as it stands, if she needs care you will provide it." As he spoke, he coolly herded all concerned towards the open door. "Hemmings, there is an inn just a quarter mile down the road. Tell the keep, a friendly sort called Pultney, I believe, that I shall personally cover the cost of your lodgings, stabling, whatever might be required." Barring their re-entry into the room, he added, "While all your concerns are understandable, I have spent a goodly portion of my time at sea standing a watch. If the navy can trust me with the lives of hundreds of men, valuable cargo and weapons galore, I think I am well-able to keep watch over one ill, bed-ridden young woman." With this he nodded his farewell, re-entered the room and closed the door.

A satisfied smile came over him as he listened to the mumble of their voices fade down the hallway. The Captain chided himself for feeling even a dram's worth of delight. One might have thought he had exercised omnipotent authority over a first-rate ship of the line rather than an over-small, country bedchamber. After a short time he heard the carriage rumble away and moments later the jingle of Abernathy's curricle. After a dealing with a short query on Louisa's condition from his brother, the house grew wonderfully quiet. Now, he alone stood watch; hearing only the occasional bumps and thumps of the nurse tending her charges in the next room.

Settling back into his chair, he hunched his shoulders in a stretch, Frederick's eyes fell on his wife's form. A glimpse of her hands resting on the bedclothes arrested his attention. Only the tips of her fingers were visible, the palms and all the thumb were hidden. Hemmings had said, in trying to escape, she had used an ancient knife to dig at the frame of a window. The crude wooden handle had eventually disintegrated. This had left her hands a mass of cuts and slivers. Leaning closer he could not help notice her jagged and torn nails. More evidence of struggle.

It took some time, and grunts of effort, but she turned on to her side. He was surprised she did not awaken. For this he was glad. Her appearance, her exhaustion and injuries had unsettled him enough. Were she to awaken just then, he would be dumbstruck.

From her hands his eyes journeyed to the worn ribbon on the borrowed shift. He thought about the first night he had helped her prepare for bed. The thought of tiny blue flowers moved naturally to pink silk and on to the broken nursery bed. Memories of their last night together, the sweet, passionate tangle, provoked feelings equal to the night itself. Just then, Louisa's hand wriggled its way from under the sheet. He took the wrapped hand in his and held it. Even as she lay injured and bone-weary he could not help thinking how her soft touch could both soothe and delight him. There was no denying her hold on him. Even so, the demon Randwick had ruined the peace of Crown Hill village and Wentworth was dreading to know how much ruin the scoundrel had brought to his own domestic peace.

As an act of his will, Frederick took command of his thoughts. He refused to give over to such lowness of spirit. As he watched his wife sleep, the words of his brother came back to him. Her return was a gift and propriety required him to thank the Giver. Hours earlier, out of deep fear and frustration, he had been mutilating an innocent and helpless tree; completely overmastered by the fact that he, the heroic, dashing, blue-coated Captain Wentworth was incapable of affecting the return of his wife. Now, she lay sleeping as peacefully as a child in their bed. It was not lost on him that the bearer of the gift was his ship's surgeon. A man with whom he had a barely passable relationship. Providence showed a sense of humour in choosing such a one for the distinction of delivering Louisa back into the Wentworth fold.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Thinking back a few short months, he realised his last appearing before the Throne of Grace had also been to make an offering of thanks for Louisa's safety. The occasion had been the announcement by the surgeon in Lyme that the girl would live. The whole group from Uppercross had been fervent in their gratitude, but he in particular had been most deeply touched. While his thankfulness had been quite genuine, there had been an underlying double-mindedness. In Louisa being allowed to live, the Captain's personal liability had been somewhat mitigated. But now, he bore the whole responsibility of her, and of the bitter cup she had been forced to drink.

He covered his face. Dear God, will I always bring her to such misery? He leant forward and rested his forehead in his hands. "You tidy my messes and I continue in my sloth. I ruin and you repair," he murmured. "Yours is either the greatest of loves or foolishness beyond comprehension." The hero was subdued and lay prostrate before his Conqueror.

Elizabeth's brows knit together in a frown, as she paced the length of the drawing room. She cast a fulminating look at the closed door. "Dinner is over, where are they?" she grumbled. This sort of rudeness was not to be borne! Had everyone in her family gone mad?

But what could she expect, after such a disgraceful dinner? The food had been tolerable enough, but the company! Elizabeth tossed her head. She was out of patience with everyone, and most especially with William Elliot, who hadn't bothered to exert himself to converse at table, once he discovered Anne was gone into the country.

"Hateful man!" she muttered, as she continued to pace. How could she have ever thought his company desirable? Her gaze fell on one of the elegantly upholstered chairs. She paused, remembering a tender scene from not so long ago.

"Call him 'William?' " sniffed Elizabeth. "As if I would ever want to! Odious creature!"

The door remained closed and Miss Elliot remained alone. Her cousin had gone to the courtyard to have a cigar, she recalled, but where could her father be? Surely he had not taken up smoking! And where was Penelope?

"Probably off on another errand for him," she decided. Her father had come to rely upon Penelope very much of late, and this too was irksome. Was she not supposed to be Elizabeth's own companion? The gentlemen might be as rude as they pleased, but Penelope Clay's duty was to her!

Elizabeth sighed in vexation and continued to wander about the room. She came to a stop before the pianoforte in the corner. Anne's music lay open upon it.

"Stupid, careless girl!" grumbled Elizabeth, as she folded the sheets. What a hoyden Anne had become, and inconsiderate, too! To go tripping off on a pleasure outing to the country, leaving herself to arrange the details for that horrid Wedding Tea! It was beyond all bearing!

"And such a man I must have for my brother!" Elizabeth's thoughts now veered toward Benwick, who was surely the most cloddish officer in all of the Royal Navy. "But he has the uniform, so Anne must be pleased," she said lightly, though no one was in the room to hear. "Though, it doesn't make him look any more slender, now does it?" she added waspishly.

Elizabeth continued to pace. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the quarter-hour, then the half-hour, but still Miss Elliot remained alone.

How long he prayed he could not tell. Eventually he sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked about. The candles had burned quite low. He was exhausted and made no move to replace them. His eyes rested on Louisa's face. Particularly her wounded cheek. After some time, he realised her eyes were open and she watched him.

"There you are." He cringed at his inanity, but he could think of nothing more brilliant.

She moistened her lips. "Here I am." Her voice was stronger than he had expected.

He felt himself break into a smile.

"I missed you while I was -- " she said, looking about, as if to find the proper word floating in the air. She chose, "away."

He thought it an odd description. "Yes, well, we all missed you. I in particular missed you." An image of Abernathy flitted through his mind.

"You are really here." Her eyes watched him carefully.

"Yes I am. You keep saying that, as if I should be elsewhere. Surely Harville told you I had been sent for."

She nodded. "But -- might I have some water?"

"Yes, of course." He reached for the glass. He had filled it earlier in anticipation of her waking. And for something to do. "Here you go."

Louisa held up her bandaged hands. "They hurt dreadfully."

He looked at the hands and then the glass. "Here," he said, helping her to sit upright. "I shall hold the glass and you guide my hand when you want a drink."

"All right," she smiled. "It seems silly." She took a long drink and lowered the glass. "I seem to be quite a trial to you. I am always needing your special care."

"I seem to recall something about in sickness and in health in the vows we shared. Besides, I will count on you to reciprocate when I am old and decrepit. Which considering I am so much older ... "

"You are not so much older and you will never be old, nor decrepit," she declared.

"Is that so?" he said, refilling the glass. "I will take that as a promise. Is your word good?"

She bit her lip. "I can not believe that you are really here."

He raised the glass and she drank deeply again. "You keep saying that. Where else would I be expected to be?"

After lowering the glass she touched her lips with the back of her bandaged hand. She did not look him in the eye. "I missed you dreadfully and, when Captain Harville told me you had come here, I was so anxious to be home -- "

"So anxious that, Hemmings said you threw a magnificent fit. Finest tantrum he's ever seen."

Scowling, she again bit her lip. She said slowly, "I am sorry. I repaid all your friends kindnesses with bad temper. But worse I have embarrassed you -- and myself."

He smiled, then noticed that she still held his hand. Stroked it in fact. "No, no embarrassment for my part," he said, "I am vain enough to be quite flattered by such a thing. To my knowledge, no one has ever pitched a fit just to be in my presence."

She looked up quickly and asked, "Are you sure?" She lifted the glass to drink.

"Yes, I am quite sure. Go on, tell me more about how you longed to see me." He looked perfectly serious.

She released his hand and traced the creases in her bandages. "Once my wishes were known," she glanced up, "the Doctor volunteered himself and Mrs. Partridge to escort me and Captain Harville arranged for the carriage. We were all ready to leave when the Captain brought a packet and gave it to the Doctor. He said it was urgent. That it was personal correspondence -- from Bath. Did you get it?"

"Get what?" The mention of Bath made him suspect she had someone definite in mind, but rather than rush, he would wait for her to reveal who that might or might not be.

"The packet. The letters from Bath."

Her face was pinched, her mouth grim. "He said they were important. That you had been corresponding since your arrival."

"Yes," he said, "I got the letters. Though I have no idea how important they are, I've not read them." He refilled the glass.

She looked confused. "You've not read them? Why?" She looked away and picked at the knot on her right hand.

She waved the glass away. "To be honest, I have had other things on my mind." He leant close. "There is no one in Bath who is more important than you. Letters can wait."

Louisa glanced at him and a shadow crossed her lips, but she said nothing. She began to lay back. He rose to help ease her down onto the pillow.

As calmly as he could, William drew a cigarillo from its case, but he was too preoccupied with his thoughts to light it. Anne had gone to Kellynch Lodge! And with her ladyship! William set his teeth. How he hated unexpected developments like this! His carefully-constructed plan had gone awry, but how?

He began to pace about the courtyard, as he applied himself to the situation. What did Anne's absence mean? It had every appearance of an escape, but was that right? William moved into the shadows at the rear of the garden and thought some more. Presently his musings took an unexpected turn.

Could it be that nothing was amiss? Anne's countenance last night had betrayed no secret hope. And her father knew absolutely nothing. Thank God she has not blurted out some untruthful, exaggerated tale to Sir Walter, he thought wryly.

William took a deep breath and went on with his pacing. Above all, he knew he must not over-react, for all could be spoiled by an emotional, ill-drawn conclusion. At length he decided to pursue the less hasty line of reasoning.

What if Anne told Lady Russell of her change in plans last night? he wondered. Perhaps that good woman had suggested an holiday, a respite before Sir Walter was appraised of the new situation? The more he thought on it, the more reasonable this course of action became. In fact, Lady Russell had done him a great favour, for she had removed Anne from that Benwick's reach!

William's heart began to beat more normally. Surely that was it! After all, Anne was willing enough to marry him; hadn't she broken her engagement? She simply needed time to herself. And had she not asked for such just yesterday? William bit his lip as he considered this, then crossed the courtyard to light his cigarillo from a lantern beside the door.

Yes, her ladyship obviously thought it wise that Anne be away from Bath until the wedding day is past, he mused, as he blew out a puff of smoke. It was not the most satisfactory of explanations, but he was content with it. He would bide his time and watch.

The nighttime air was delightfully cool and refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of the dining room; William was reluctant to go in. He decided to take another turn about the courtyard. But as he entered the more shadowy part of the garden, he brushed against some shurbbery and his boot most unfortunately struck against something. William frowned and went down on one knee to investigate, for he had heard the curious clank of metal against metal.

William's eyes narrowed as he groped beneath the shrub. From that leafy hiding place, he pulled a businesslike iron hook, attached to a hefty coil of rope, and a small canvas sack filled with metal tools. Obviously, his boot had struck the sack. There was something written on it; William held it up to see better.

"H-ll and d-mnation!" he sputtered, as the words Lt J Benwick met his unbelieving eyes. William's face paled as he realised the meaning of the rope and grappling hook. His eyes were drawn to the rear of the house. Anne had not traipsed off on an impromptu holiday, she had been taken! By Benwick!

"That d-mmed, interfering bast --" Rage and newborn impotence now collided disastrously; William Elliot could do nothing but curse under his breath. So preoccupied was he with this, that he did not hear the opening of the house door.

At length, with his profane vocabulary spent, William began to consider his predicament. There was no telling what sort of gothic tale Anne had poured out to Benwick. And he, being a fool, would believe every word! William then became aware that he still held Benwick's bag of tools; he hurled it angrily against the wall of the courtyard.

"My dear sir, did you hear something?" Penelope Clay's musical voice carried clearly in the night air.

William Elliot froze. Obviously, he was no longer alone.

"Perchance we have surprised a cat, my dear," came the reply. It was the baronet.

"Oh!" The woman gave a trilling laugh. "Of course, you are right, sir, as always. I am a goose to be so frightened! Dear me, how tightly I am holding to your arm! Do you mind?"

"Not at all, my dear, for this is not my satin coat. I shall protect you from the cat. Shall we continue with our little stroll?"

William Elliot remained kneeling in the shadows, and quickly extinguished the cigarillo. Why did I ever embroil myself with this d-mned family in the first place? he fumed. How many months had he wasted in Bath, dancing attendance on the pompous baronet? He had even planned to marry one of the man's undowered daughters, for G-d's sake!

The couple continued with their perambulation about the courtyard, walking very close together now. William's jaw tightened. Here was the heart of the problem: Penelope Clay. Had he not seen it from the very beginning? The Kellynch estate and his title stood in peril because of this scheming woman! He had not come this far to be cheated out of it at the very end!

So, it must be Elizabeth after all, he decided grimly. This was not a happy thought. How he was to ingratiate himself with her he knew not, for she now held him in complete contempt. He had once thought this to be vastly amusing, but it was not so amusing any more.

Presently the baronet and Mrs. Clay made their way to the door of the house. William decided to risk standing up, for he had been kneeling in the dirt. As quietly as he could, he brushed at his snowy breeches, listening and watching.

The couple now stood near the lantern at the door; he could clearly see their silhouettes. And then, perhaps because of the stillness of the night air, or the echo of the courtyard walls, William heard Mrs. Clay give a delicious little giggle. The gap of light between them closed.

Gad! He is kissing her! William Elliot thought he had experienced every emotion possible this night, but he found he was wrong. Incredulity, horror, and a wave of nausea were now added to the rest.

Their kiss completed, the pair went indoors and William was left outside to fume and fret. Things had become far more serious than he supposed! Time was of the essence; he now knew that he could no longer afford the weeks needed to repair his suit with Elizabeth.

In that instant, William Elliot's heartbreak and dreams of marital happiness were all forgotten. Anne, be d-mned! he raged. I'll not lose my title because of a blasted woman! No matter who she is!

The fire had been refreshed. The water pitcher refilled. Pillows had been plumped and bedclothes straightened. She remained quiet as he had gone about his housekeeping duties. His offer to bring her something from the pantry had been quietly refused. He finally took his seat.

"You could," she said, "go and read your letters."

It was obvious she had not forgotten them as her silence had made him hope. He took her hand. "Do you mind if I not? I would rather stay with you."

She grasped his hand as tight as she was able. "But, perhaps they are important." Her voice did not betray any emotion, but her eyes blinked long and often.

"Louisa, I know you are concerned about my past engagement -- " Her hand tightened and she looked at him then away. "Edward told me he suspected you had overheard -- "

"I was not snooping, I swear it."

"No, of course you were not. It was an accident. I did not think it important, especially -- "

"It is none of my business. It was so long ago. You needn't say more."

"You are correct," he said, "that it is none of you concern. But it obviously worries you -- "

She pulled herself up a bit. "Why? Neither of you acted as if you lov -- cared a wit for the other. Why were the two of you so indifferent? Why keep it secret?"

Laying her back, he sat on the bed and took both her hands. "It began and ended so quickly -- and badly. That summer, in the year '06, I was ashore, we met and I asked her to marry me. I applied to the Baronet and he was ... difficult. He made it clear that he would do nothing for us. He never refused me outright, but his contempt was clear enough. I took this very badly. Who was he to be looking down at me? He had no right to demean me and my aspirations. I am afraid she was caught between us. She is an obedient daughter. When she would not come away with me, I was angry. I was hurt and made my opinions known and she had to endure them. Our parting was not pleasant. I hurt her deeply. I left soon after and was given the Asp."

"So," Louisa said, "It was your all your doing."

"Yeah. The fault was mine and any awkwardness should be laid at my door. When I returned to Somerset, seeing her was a cruel blow. I was shocked to see her so reduced. She was as polite and kind as I deserved."

"I do not know what to say. I am sorry for you both."

"Do not be sorry on my account. I was stupid and every bit as proud as the Baronet."

Touching his face, she said, "But you are not the same man."

It was not clear to him whether she was stating her belief in him or posing him a question. "If I am, I thank God. My younger self was too arrogant to bear." He let go her hand and leant over her, close to her face. "I care about her. As I do many in my acquaintance. Including my particular friend in Bath --Admiral Patrick McGillvary -- with whom I correspond regularly. I care about her, but I don't care for her. I put that aside in marrying you. Do you trust me?"

She nodded.

"Good."

"I had much time to think on this. I had decided that no matter what, I would not give you up."

"Really."

"Yes," she sighed, "I was determined that I make you the best wife possible. My resolve was shaken when I heard about the letters. My mind ran wild with possibilities. All of them ridiculous."

"And when you saw me, you were surprised. Had you thought that I would be in Bath?"

"To my shame, yes. I even worried that once you saw this," she waved over her cheek, "I was certain you would be put off."

"You think me awfully shallow."

"No. I think me shallow compared to her."

He ignored her comment. "Your looks are not what makes me like you. Someday, will you tell me what happened?"

She studied his face and asked for another drink. After she finished and he settled back into his chair, she said, "You have told me a great -- and difficult confidence. I think I must requite."

Frederick cleared his throat. He was reminded what Hemmings had said about this road. "I will not force you. This can wait."

Pushing aside a stray strand of hair, she cleared her throat and began.

"Most of the days were the same. I saw no one. No one but a little man came. He brought me meals. Two a day. There was no one to talk with, the old man was foreign and said nothing that was not gibberish. But the last day was different. An old woman, I think the old man's wife. brought a basin with water and a towel. She made gestures that I was to bathe. Of that I was glad. I had no idea how long I had been in that room, but I felt so unclean. She left for a few moments and than returned with a dress and some fresh linens. They were old and plain. Probably left from a maid long gone. I was so glad to be clean. And she brought a brush and though I had no mirror, I was able to brush out and somewhat dress my hair for the first time in days. After I had finished, she took me up the stairs and we made our way through some narrow passages. In the closeness, I could smell wonderful smells of food. I had not eaten for several days."

"Why is that?"

"It took some time, but I realise that every time they gave me food, I fell directly to sleep. I suspect that they were putting something in the food or drink. They had given me laudanum to keep me quiet during our journey. I recognised the taste. Anywise, I stopped eating, save the bread and butter that accompanied most of the meals. And I did not drink the wine or water."

"One can survive for quite some time without food, but water is vital."

"I was thirsty very quickly, I was tempted with each meal, but I did not wish to take the risk. There was a small window in the room. It looked out into a window-well covered with bushes. It let in practically no light. But, one day I was trying to see out, through the bushes and all when I noticed a small bird drinking from a pot that had found its way there. I had no choice so I broke out a pane and pulled it in. The water in it was horrible. And there were things floating in it. But I remembered you telling me about having to drink the fetid water aboard ship. I was determined that if you could drink something so despicable, then so could I." She shivered. "I can still feel the things sliding down my throat." Her face was contorted in disgust.

"You were well and truly a prisoner then -- nothing but bread and water to keep you alive." His tone was matter-of-fact, in hopes of lightening the desperately heavy story, but she was not moved.

"Anyway, my stomach had been empty for days, and the smell of food caused it to nearly be sick. It seemed as if I could taste everything all at once." She paused, looked away and smiled. "For an instant I had the silly notion that perhaps everything had been an atrocious joke and that all my family and friends would be gathered at a feast." Looking back she asked, "No human being could be so cruel, could they?" He said he thought not. "The old woman opened a small door. She took my arm and guided me to the table. I was shocked to see Mr. Randwick and the woman from the carriage all ready at the table. They were dressed as if for a party and conversing about a dinner they had attended the evening before. They did not even take notice of me as I was seated. The woman loaded my plate with every good thing within reach. I was so tempted, you don't know how hard it was not to eat it all."

"Why not eat?"

"What if it had been poisoned as the other? I could not take that chance. But my stomach roiled so. To distract my thoughts I listened to their conversation. They began to talk about leaving that place, that his brother had gotten them a ship for Madeira. A very fast ship he said. The conversation then shifted and began to include me. I suddenly realised that they meant to take me with them. "

"They told you this?"

"No, they talked about me as though I weren't there. But he said that I would like the sun after such a depressing winter. It was so strange, only to be referred to when you are present. Just as suddenly Mr. Randwick stood and came to my chair. He greeted me as though I were an invited guest. He then asked why I did not eat, and then said I was very rude for not doing so. That all the food had been 'specially prepared for company." Her words were coming faster and her gaze was far away.

"I did not know what to say and he became angry. The woman said his name, rather sharply, and he smiled. He seemed calmer after that. He put his hand on my shoulder and began to talk about how much I would like Madeira and how he had many friends there and that they would all come to like me." She stopped and took a breath. His hand had been laying nearby and she shifted away from it. "He spoke about things that I did not understand. And things I did." she closed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly closed. He thought to stop her from telling him any more --

"He bent down and kissed my neck. And his hands were ... "

"Shhh ... you needn't say any more about this. I understand -- "

" ... he would not let me go. I pushed him but he kept at me -- "

"Louisa, stop -- "

"... he began to stroke my cheek as he kissed the other. I -- I did not know what to do. I -- I was so frightened and the woman just watched. I -- I could feel his hand -- "

"Please stop this, Louisa. There is no reason to torture us both -- "

"His hand so close to my mouth and I knew nothing more to do ... " she sobbed. "I pushed his hand in my mouth and bit him as hard as I could."

When she said this, he nearly laughed. The picture that came to Frederick's mind, the picture of her biting her seducer was ludicrous. But as she continued, he knew there was nothing the least bit funny in the act.

"... I bit him so hard. I could taste ... "

He moved from the chair to the edge of the bed. He took her hand. There was no stopping the monologue. The best he could hope to do was make her know she was no longer in that dining room; no longer fighting Randwick.

" ... I could not turn lose. I tried, even when he pulled my hair and screamed at me." Her voice trembled. She was not in hysterics, but deep in the memory. "I held his arm and bit harder. I was sick to my stomach and thought I would faint. And then he hit me."

Every bit of life and movement in the room stopped. Louisa stared away towards the ceiling. Her hands lay quietly upon her breast as though she awaited burial. There was a hideous peace that settled over the room. After a long silence he could again hear the clock ticking again and the fire crackling. Louisa's chest began to rise and fall again. He waited.

"I fell to the floor," she began quietly, "and he was on me. He touched me again and said I must be taught to -- " she would not finish. "I was dazed by the blow, I could barely understand what he was talking about. He pulled at the dress. I was so afraid of him. When I thought he would do the unspeakable, the woman said there would be time -- later. He stopped. He got up and as though nothing unusual had transpired, offered her his arm. They began to chat and laugh, and they left me there."

Her hands reached out for him and he took her gently in his arms. She cried in great heaving sobs and moaned with pain as he sat her up. At intervals she tried to speak but the words were never able to take form and were lost in her tears.

As he held her, Frederick could not help but picture her lying on the floor of that Plymouth dining room, frightened for her life, dazed from her injury, and once the beasts had departed, alone.

Had the account been read to him from a newspaper or a novel there would have had no difficulty proclaiming his contempt. His critical nature would have pointed out that the impassioned, emotional tone of the piece, though understandable under such trying circumstances, was bordering on the ludicrous. As were the circumstances themselves: mysterious abduction, hostage taking and near starvation. All these dramatics taking place in the midst of the bustling civility of Plymouth Proper were circumstances too implausible to be given any credence at all. Certainly he would think this and more, were this fiction. But this was not fiction, as her body was testament. This was not his reaction as he held his wife.

Holding her as gently as possible, but firmly enough to assure her, his own body absorbed the shaking of her battered one. Her bandaged hands groped in their darkness, trying desperately to hold onto him. His hands felt the ridges of the binding that kept her ribs in place, but the worst was the feeling her tears wet the shoulder of his shirt. All this exertion on her part made it tangible that this was no overblown drama. The account had all the markings of such, yet in truth, it was the result of pure evil visited on an innocent young woman.

"I want to lie down, please." Her voice was strangled and so low, he barely heard her. "Please," she said again.

Without a word he laid her down. He saw that her plait was laid to the side so as not to pull. He straightened the sheets and the coverlet. He placed her hands under the blankets so the tips of her fingers would stay warm in the now cool room. She lay quietly as he put more wood on the fire and saw it catch. Leaning on the dresser, he reached down and pulled off his boots, opened the blanket chest and pulled out another coverlet. Laying beside her, he eased his arm under her and rested her on his shoulder. Pulling the coverlet over them he kissed her forehead and settled down to rest.

Her breathing settled into a steady cadence along with his own. A hand eventually crept up and touched his chin. A low murmur let him know that she found his ministrations agreeable. Just as he thought her asleep and he on the verge, she said, "There were times I thought I would never have this again."

He kissed her forehead again. "Well, you do. And always will." There were still a multitude of questions, but they would wait. Everything could wait as this was a moment he would sacrifice for nothing.

"I came to love you so much in that little room."

What did one say to such a statement?

"I had not loved you very well before that."

"Shh." He whispered. "Go to sleep. You need rest." He would hear no more. Both had endured more than enough for one day.

Chapter 9

Crosswinds

Her first sensation that morning was the knot in her stomach. From her first moments of consciousness it had been with her. And to open her eyes would bring about the same cruel disappointment that had greeted her every morning since the ordeal had begun. Lying still she awaited the sound of the church bells. They were her only unfailing hope; the only thing which did not carry a taint of evil. While the dull ache behind her eyes was usual, there were new sensations of pain with which to contend. Fear gripped her. What had happened to bring on these new tribulations? And what would happen today? Randwick. She squeezed her eyes tighter, trying to think of anything but him. She waited for the bells, but there was nothing.

She shifted and realised there was a difference in her circumstances. She had not had to catch herself from falling off the narrow couch which normally made her bed. This morning there was not the unyielding metal spring which ordinarily dug into her side. And there was not the familiar dank smell assailing. But there was the homey smell of soap, and was that sausage? -- to tantalize her senses. Suddenly, there was movement close by her. She lay still, dreading who she would find were she to look.

Finally, she opened her eyes. She found herself indeed in a small room, but this one was most familiar and wonderfully welcome to her. It was bright with sun light. There was fresh air and not the still fug of her cave-like cellar. The only similarity was that her previous abode and this one were uncomfortably cool. But this room could be warmed with a good fire, the other had not even a place for such a luxury. And the movement she felt brought her the most joy. It was her husband by her side.

Louisa began to face him, but her ribs protested and she remained on her back. She studied him as best she could. He was very much how she had remembered him while she was "away." It was also shocking to realise that, in tiny, almost insignificant ways, her memory had failed.

"You-will-tell-me-where ... ' he muttered. His voice was slow and deliberate. His hands flexed open and shut as he continued his growling threat. She wondered against whom he fought.

"Frederick," she whispered. His hearing, even close up, was not acute; years of cannon fire he had said; but with the quiet of the room she thought he would hear her. He did not.

"I-will-flay-you-where-you-stand ... " The muttering had gone deeper and lower in his throat. The shocking statement frightened her and she shook his shoulder as she spoke.

"Frederick, you must wake up." She gave his arm a last shove and he quieted. He lay silent for a moment and then turned towards her. In one fluid motion, he rested his head upon her breast, brought his arm accrost waist and threw a leg gently over hers. Louisa waited for the pain in her ribs to bite. There was none. It would seem that even in his sleep, the gentleman in Frederick had been mindful of her injuries.

In his somnific shift, he had trapped her arm beneath him. Slowly, gently, she freed it, then cradled his head and lay her cheek against his hair. The scent of him was strongly masculine, more than was anticipated, but it did not matter. Anything of him was most welcome to her. She had missed him dreadfully and would now gladly lay with him no matter the besetment.

She could not clearly see his face, but the rest of him was available to her. Beginning with his not-quite elegant fingers, she caressed his arm through the thin cambric of his shirt. The neck stood open and invited her to handle rather than see the scar nearest his neck. The tips of her fingers took pleasure in his bristly, unshaven cheek. How long she studied him, freely touching his person and enjoying the warmth of of his sleeping self, she did not know. All too quickly he began to awaken.

A "mmm," and a yawn drew his hand from around her so that he might rub his face. He came up on his elbow the instant he realised how he lay. Grimacing, as he had lain for sometime on the poor arm, he said, "I am sorry. You should have pulled my hair and told me move my lumpish self off." He yawned again, then looked at her. She smiled at the raffish, wayward hair, his sleepy brown eyes and the rumpled shirt hanging wide open.

"You were bothered in your sleep. I thought only to awaken you by calling out, but was surprised that you came to me instead. I liked it. It made me feel of use to you."

He thought about the words. She took joy in feeling useful to him. He would set that notion to right immediately. "To be used as a pillow?"

"If that is what you like."

"That sort of thing is not really of much use to me, you know."

The smile disappeared and her eyes, bright in the morning sun, dropped away from his. "Oh," she said. The cheerfulness was gone. "I thought ... "

"Ah, ah, ah," Frederick's hand moved from her waist; where it had returned; and he reacquainted himself with her sweet frame. A finger stroked her neck and his thumb on her chin lifted her face and brought her eyes back to his. "What I meant was," he raised himself and now lay face-to-face with her on the pillow, "You are my wife, not a convenient piece of furniture. Allowing me to drape this indolent frame about you -- considering your condition -- is not useful. But very kind." He kissed her now smiling lips. "And most loving on your part." He studied her with the same intensity with which she studied him. Just as her memory had failed her in small ways, his vision conspired with his mind to see neither blackened eye nor blighted cheek. All he saw was the face of the wife he had come to love.

From the moment of her return, one or the other of them had been harassed with anxieties, doubts, fears and personal demons bent on separating them. Now, in the bright light of a new morning, a proper welcome home could be savoured.

Finally, remembering what he was about, Frederick said, "Thank you for coming back to me Louisa." He leant in to kiss her and was gratified to feel her pulling him closer. Her fingertips had searched out and caught the folds of his shirt.

"I am glad to be home, Husband." she said softly into his lips.

Their passion progressed as far as was possible. He was mindful of Louisa's injured ribs. While he took care, he also cursed the infirmity which would, for some time, keep them from consummating her homecoming.

When each acknowledged that there was nothing more to be gained by their affection, they parted and he examined her again. Unlike earlier, with her eyes bright and eager to see him, her head now rested upon her pillow. Her eyes were closed and a dozy smile touched her lips. "Heavens," he exclaimed, "I had no idea of my own seductive prowess. She is enraptured, totally gone in a swoon." He stroked her cheek and smirked.

The smile broadened. "Very nearly," she said simply. Her eyes opened and she examined him. A serious look came over her. Serious, but not at all clouded. Her fingertips explored his face. She finally said, "When everything is all at once taken from you, there is nothing to describe the pain. The fear. When it is just as unexpectedly returned, again, there are no words. There were times I despaired of ever seeing this face again. Of ever lying with you again. But here we are ... "

"Yes, here we are." Another deeply frustrating kiss. "Ahem, something you said last night puzzles me."

"What was that?" Her tone and look grew cautious.

"You said something to the affect that you learnt to love me better while you were ... away. What did you mean by that?"

Her face opened. "While I was in that little room, I had so much time to think. I thought about what I had learnt." She glanced at him, then away. "I was angry, then hurt, then quite ashamed."

"Why ashamed? It was noting to do with you."

"No," she said, "but I was angry with you for having been in love with someone other than me. Which was ridiculous when I suddenly realised that I too had loved before." She grimaced, grasped his arm and turned slightly towards him.

He watched her settle back and suspected that she would now tell him everything about her cousin. "Abernathy?"

Louisa's eyes widened and a startled look came over her. "I suppose so," she said. "I had not thought of him. I certainly was smitten." Her fingers sought to straighten his hair. "No, I meant the Captain."

Captain? He vainly tried to remember any conversations in which there had been mention of a captain, any captain, but could think of none.

Enjoying his confusion, she tugged gently at the placket of his shirt and whispered, "You, silly. Captain Wentworth."

Tapping her forehead, he said, "Everything you have said has made perfect sense, up to this point. You have a fever perhaps?" He touched his lips to her cheek.

"No. No fever. I meant that when I saw you the first time," she paused and nestled close. He could no longer see her face. "The first time I saw you, you fairly -- glowed. Your uniform in the candlelight. I was hopelessly in love." She raised her face. "He was so charming and full of wonderful adventuresome stories." She kissed his neck and continued, "He was most kind to a woman grieving her unworthy son. I heard a little of what you said to Mama. You were very generous to Dick. And, you were a true gentleman and saw to the comfort of a young woman grown too weary to make her way home."

"Shh -- " He wiped a tear that spilled down her cheek.

"Captain Wentworth is a wonderful man I suppose, but it is Frederick that I love now."

"The two are not the same man?"

"Somewhat. Frederick brought me to his people and made me a part of them. The man who worships his brother and looks forward to being an uncle -- "

"I am an uncle. And you are an aunt."

She smiled and bit her lip. "You see? I am a part of this wonderful family. You could have left me in Uppercross and I would never know how much you love your family and friends -- and how much they love you. I came to see that the Captain is pretty, but you are a man worth loving."

He pulled her close. Wishing her closer, he regretted not getting under the coverlet rather than laying upon it. "We have both travelled a long distance in a short period of time." For a moment he held his breath. His words had been too careless.

She rested her forehead upon his chin. "We have each taken much the same path?" she asked.

He would tell her the truth and of his hope. "I think so. And now these paths are blended into one. From now on, we travel together."

"But not really so. When must you leave?" She did not look at him, but gazed past him and out the window.

"I have no plans for the day. I will of course change and shave, but I'm not planning on leaving the house."

A smile came and went quickly. "I did not mean today. I meant, when will you go back to ... "

He knew where. "Say it. It can not hurt you."

"Plymouth."

"Soon." He moved closer yet and held her tighter. "Very soon. But I shall not stay long."

"I suppose not. The ship will be sailing for the Indies soon."

"Yes, as soon as her repairs are complete. But I shall not be sailing with her."

She frowned. "Then where will you be? What will you do?"

"I intend to resign this commission and take another posting that I have been offered. In Portsmouth."

"Portsmouth. Where will you go from there? Not France."

"No, I could not be so lucky. From what I have read this war will be to the Army. No I will be posted to the Academy there. A sailing Master. And I want you to come and live with me."

She opened her mouth but no words came.

"You do not wish to come?"

As best she could she threw her arms around his neck and cried, "Of course I will come live with you." She drew back. "We will have a real home -- of our own." She settled into the pillow. "I shall learn all your favourite foods and see them served regularly. And you shall have a comfortable chair -- Papa says there is nothing so delightful as a comfortable chair after dinner. And we shall have -- "

Her enthusiasm again touched him. His lips brushed hers and he said, "We shall have one another. That is enough. Though, after a day of schooling block-headed boys, the comfortable chair does sound quite inviting." He drew her close and just as he was about to engage in a most frustrating delight --

A knock at the door and a quiet voice called. "Captain Wentworth, sir." It was Graham.

Breakfast at Sir Walter's house should have been a quiet affair, for both Mr. Elliot and the baronet had chosen to sleep late. But when Elizabeth entered the dining room, uncharacteristically early, she found quite an interesting scene. Penelope Clay sat alone at table, with the most enormous bouquet of roses before her. In her hand was a single sheet of paper. She looked up with a blushing face, at once uncomfortable, yet obviously very pleased.

Elizabeth raised her brows in surprise. "What is this?" said she, as she came fully into the room

"A gentleman has sent them," stammered Penelope, very ill at ease. "For me."

Miss Elliot's brows arched higher. "Indeed? Is there a card?"

"No," she replied slowly. "I mean, yes! Not a card, but a letter. But it is ... unsigned." She reluctantly put the paper into Elizabeth's outstretched hand. "I don't think I've ever seen such a lovely bouquet of roses." Penelope hesitated, but as Elizabeth appeared to be in a pleasant frame of mind, she inquired shyly, "They are hothouse roses, are they not?"

"Indeed, they are," replied Elizabeth smilingly. "So. You have a Secret Admirer. And what does he say to you?" She unfolded the sheet and began to read:

"Isn't it wonderful?" Penelope sighed.

Miss Elliot smiled archly. "I know these words. Mr. Rushworth attempted to recite this piece one afternoon, do you remember? Captain Benwick helped him. He told us it was a line from one of Mr. Shakespeare's sonnets. The complete poem is in a book of Father's; I marked the page. Shall I fetch it for you?"

"Oh, goodness!" Penelope's blushes increased. "In one of your father's books?"

Elizabeth was back in a thrice. Breakfast was all but forgotten, as she flipped through the pages of the book. "There," she announced triumphantly. "Do you see? I marked the page with a slip of paper."

Penelope hung eagerly over the open volume with many a fluttering sigh. Presently she read aloud:

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed, with a nervous giggle. "Such words he has chosen! Can he mean that mine is an unfading beauty?"

"That is a very generous sentiment," agreed Elizabeth, as she poured out a cup of tea for each of them. "How kind, to apply it to you."

Penelope continued to study her letter between sips of tea, with numerous shy glances at her fair companion. "Miss Elliot," she ventured at last, "I hesitate to ask this, but do you happen to recognize the handwriting? I cannot help thinking it looks familiar, somehow."

Elizabeth gave the page a quick glance. "No, that I do not," she replied decidedly. "I cannot recall ever seeing this hand before. Would you care for a piece of toast?"

As Penelope looked quite crestfallen, Elizabeth examined the plate more closely. The toast looked well enough to her; why should Penelope be so cast down by it? With a shrug of her shoulders, Miss Elliot helped herself to some.

His lips poised, he sighed deeply and asked, "Yes, what is it?"

"Sir, there is a man in a red uniform downstairs. He has a letter that he'll not give to anyone but you."

He frowned. "Harville most likely," he said to Louisa. To Graham he called, "Put him in the sitting room and I shall meet him directly." He smiled at his wife and added to the housekeeper, "If he causes you any trouble, toss him some food, that will quieten him." He pecked her lips and rose, endeavoured to make himself somewhat presentable. "I shall be back in just a moment. I promise," he said as he pulled on the second boot.

He entered the sitting room to find that he recognised the Marine. "Sergeant Dillow."

"Aye, sir," the man said along with a smart salute. "Captain Harville ordered this was to be brought double quick, sir." He handed the Captain the letter.

Opening it and scanning the contents, Wentworth swore under his breath. Glancing at the Marine, he said, "Take yourself off to the kitchen and have the lady give you something to eat. I will compose a response for you to take." He went into his brother's study. Taking out paper and pen, he murmured, "Why am I not surprised? But, with a bit of manoeuvring I shall make this work to my advantage." He began to write with energy.

Summoning the Marine, he handed him two letters. The man looked at each and awaited instructions. "Both are to go to the addressees post haste. Both are official, so waste not a moment." The Marine nodded and was off.

The Captain sought out Graham and left instructions concerning breakfast for his wife and a message to be given her. He then took his hat and overcoat and left the house.

Meanwhile, at Kellynch Lodge, Lady Russell sat alone at the dining table. She was not at all surprised that Anne had slept through breakfast. In fact, her darling deserved to sleep the day away, if she was so inclined.

Her ladyship had longed to do the same, but found she could not stay in bed one moment past sun-up. There were so many plans to be made; so many potential problems to be worried over! Fortunately, Longwell and the rest of the staff had arrived from Bath late the night before, so the household was running smoothly. And Charles Musgrove had come by that morning, to assure her that a man would be guarding the Lodge at all times.

Still, Lady Russell could not be at peace. Before she had finished her tea, she was on her feet again, roaming through the house. "So little time and so much to think about," she muttered. "Our safety, the wedding, and gracious! Anne must have a suitable gown! And then, of course, there is the matter of Mrs Clay ..."

At length she climbed the stairs, tiptoed past the chamber where Anne lay sleeping, and opened the door to her own rooms. The dressing room was her object; she had a sudden, inexplicable longing to examine its contents.

"This is ridiculous," she fretted, as her fingers fluttered restlessly over the gowns which hung there. "Anne is able wear none of my things, nor would she wish to. Then why am I ..."

Her hands stilled, then moved to pull away the covering from the dresses which hung at the very rear. These she never wore, but for some reason could not bear to part with. Amanda's heart beat more rapidly as she drew one particular gown from the rest. It was a rich wine red; even now, its heavy silken skirts rustled pleasantly. She gave a tiny sigh and held it up before the tall looking glass.

A pang of sadness accompanied this gown, for it had been made up twelve years before for a specific purpose. "A very foolish purpose," amended her ladyship, as she surveyed her reflection, "for a very foolish woman."

Amanda held the garment more closely against her breast and gazed into the mirror with misty eyes. The neckline of this beautiful dress was every bit as daring as the one worn by Mrs Clay. But if he had ever noticed it, he had said nothing.

"Of course he did not notice, why should he?" she whispered, as she allowed the dress to hang limply in her arms. She had never been beautiful, it was useless to pretend otherwise. But the years had been kind. Her complexion was yet soft and creamy; her thick, brown hair showed only the tiniest bit of frost. Indeed, when her maid brushed it out at night, it was easy to forget that she would soon celebrate her fiftieth birthday.

Amanda Russell looked into the mirror with a thoughtful expression in her gray eyes. "If I should wear another such as this," she wondered aloud, "would he take notice now?"

Sir Walter came in to breakfast and stopped abruptly in the doorway. Astonishment was writ large on his handsome face.

"They are Penelope's, sir," supplied Elizabeth, in response to his unasked question. "A gentleman sent them to her just this morning."

"Penelope?" he said blankly, and turned to face the blushing, smiling Mrs Clay. "Why would a gentleman send flowers to Penelope?"

"Why," smiled Elizabeth, "because he thinks she is lovely, Father! What other reason is there?"

Sir Walter puffed out his cheeks as he considered this. "I admit, they are a magnificent display. But I don't see what one has to do with the other." He very kindly made a bow to each lady and took his seat at table.

"Penelope has a Secret Admirer, Father," explained Elizabeth, as she passed him the tea things. "I think that's adorable. I cannot help wondering who he may be."

"Oh, surely no one we know," he replied pleasantly. "Would you ring for a fresh pot of tea, daughter?"

Fortunately for Mrs Clay, the baronet's attention was diverted by the morning's post, which lay on a silver tray beside his plate. He sorted the letters absently, until a large one caught his attention. "Great heaven, what have we here?" he exclaimed. He quickly tore open the seal. "Kindersley!"

Both ladies looked up in interest as Sir Walter's smile grew wider.

"Daughter!" he crowed, "You and I have been invited to a house party at Lord Kindersley's estate in Richmond!"

Elizabeth was on her feet instantly, and hung over his shoulder to examine the elegant, hot-pressed invitation. "What amazing good fortune," she declared.

"It is a Triumph, that is what it is!" beamed Sir Walter, "and I know whom we have to thank for it!" His smile became more sly. "Our noble cousin's hand is in this, I'll wager my life on it!"

"When is the party to be held?" Elizabeth inquired. But just as she began to discuss the particulars of the journey with her father, Mrs Clay spoke up.

"I have never been to Richmond," she observed pleasantly. "Shall I like it, sir?"

"Shall you, what?" Sir Walter's smile fell a little at the corners. "Er, of course. I believe everyone likes Richmond." he said, as the footman served his breakfast. Sir Walter frowned at the plate.

"But, I must say," he continued, after a moment's abstraction, "perhaps this would be the proper time for you to visit your family in Crewkherne, Mrs Clay."

"To visit Crewkherne?" she faltered. "Oh, sir, do you think so?"

"I do."

"Surely you must miss seeing your children, Penelope, dear?" added Elizabeth, properly interpreting her father's lead. "And after your holiday, you must return to Bath so that we may enjoy the remainder of the Season together."

"Oh. Yes. That would be well, I suppose," said Penelope slowly. She then lapsed into silence, as the baronet and his daughter continued with their plans.

Mr. Elliot came in to breakfast soon after this, and in a very good humour. He was certain that his rooms must be ready by now, he declared, so he would no longer importune his cousins. The invitation and flowers were displayed and duly praised, and then he very deliberately chose a chair beside Mrs. Clay.

"Sir Walter, for shame," he said laughingly, in response to a remark about the roses. "Of course it is not unusual for Mrs. Clay to have an admirer! In fact, I am surprised that there is only one of them!

Graham wiped her hands after giving the caudle a stir. It was easily curdled and an inconvenience to her. But, both the misses would be drinking it regularly for some time. Taking a look under a cloth, she glanced at the door and gave a wonder when the Captain might be returning. His breakfast was still to be made. All the ingredients for the collops were ready and waiting. Now to bring down the young Mrs. Wentworth's breakfast tray.

"Madam?" Graham entered the room and was met with the sight of the young woman struggling to step into her corset. "The Captain said you was to be fed your breakfast, but nothing about dressin' you." She hurried to the woman's side. Louisa's face was flushed and her breathing heavy.

"He said nothing?" She stopped a moment, bit her lip and continued, "I am surprised at that."

"No Ma'am. Nothing about you getting' dressed." Out of habit, Graham saw the garment well-placed and began tying.

Louisa's ribs rejoiced in the help. "More tightly, please." The bindings had loosened during the night and the pressure the corset afforded her was wonderful. "And I will need help with my stockings too. I can not bend very well."

"No, Ma'am, I expect not," the housekeeper replied as she bustled about the room. The tray had been forgotten.

After completing the task of dressing and tying shoes, Graham made for the door. Before she left Mrs Wentworth, she asked, "Might I do anything else, Ma'am?"

"No, Graham. Thank you. Oh, where is the Rector?"

"He is at the Junkins', Ma'am. Had breakfast early and was off long ago."

Before she pulled the door closed, Louisa called out, "Graham, might you take the tray down?"

The woman harumphed. "One thing, then another," she muttered as she left the room.

"Now then, I shall make a morning call on my sister-in-law," she said. As Louisa raised her arms to drape her shawl over her shoulders, she gasped. Catching her breath, she said softly, "I hope the babe is not too heavy." She went to the door and looked up and down the hallway.

Catherine leant back on the pillow and closed her Bible. "Oh Lord, please forgive me, but if I am not able to leave this bed very soon, I shall become a full-blown, raging lunatic." A soft knock at the door made her glance at the clock. It was not time for the babies nor Graham bearing a meal. "Come," she called.

"I hope I am not disturbing you, Sister." Louisa came in and closed the door quietly. Her movements had the feel of a clandestine mission.

"Oh, come here," Catherine cried, her arms wide. "I was told you were too ill to be seen yet. No, no chair. Sit next to me on the bed."

Louisa sat, keeping her hands out of sight. She watched the woman's face.

Catherine said nothing, but reached up and touched her cheek. "Edward said you were hurt." She pulled the girl close.

"I fell," Louisa lied. The truth would stay a secret between she and her husband. "I am afraid I injured my ribs. They hurt dreadfully."

She drew back. "And here I am, holding you so tightly." Catherine blinked. "We were so worried." She took the girl's hands. She said nothing as she looked at the bandages. A few specks of red caught her eye. "You must have the doctor change these when he comes. He comes every day, you know."

"I will, I promise." Louisa brightened. "I have come to see the baby."

"Baby." Catherine said.

"Yes," she smiled, "Frederick said I was an aunt. Is it a boy or a girl. He forgot to tell."

"Yes, well there is quit a lot he did not tell. There is a bit of a problem though." She motioned for Louisa to stand and explained her Tartar of a nurse and how hiding seemed to be a requisite to seeing the newest Wentworth. "Perhaps if you were to crouch on the other side of the bed."

Louisa looked over the space and considered the contortions necessary to accomplish such a feat. She looked a Catherine and said, "You call the Tartar, I have an idea."

The nurse entered with a black look and lips tightened to white. She handed Rose to her mother.

"I understand the Rector's sister-in-law has come home." The woman surveyed the room.

"Yes," said Catherine, "and we are very grateful indeed. But she is resting." The nurse sighed heavily, her disapproval evident as always. She did not believe in unswaddled babies and had told her mistress so.

"You may go down and have tea with your sister. I can more than manage." The nurse's displeasure was annoying and Catherine knew confrontation with the woman to be unpleasant. No, best to send her away completely. "No more than half an hour though, please." Mrs Wentworth put on her most artless face.

The Nurse nodded and laid Phillip close to his sister. At the same time she shuffled her foot under the edge of the bed. Determining there was no one lurking, she left the children to their mother.

Patting a fussy Phillip, Catherine hissed, "She has gone."

The door to the wardrobe opened and Louisa disengaged herself from the Rector's black suit coats. "I think it might have been simpler to hide under the bed after all."

"Oh no," Catherine said, holding Rose up to her aunt. "She checked."

Louisa did not hear. She was was too taken with her niece. "What a beauty you are." A cooing from the bed drew her attention. "Another one? Oh, Catherine." With ease born of joy she tucked Rose close and rounded the bed to examine Phillip.

After proper introductions were made she lay down next to the twins. With Catherine on one side and she on the other the babies were as safe as could be and she and her sister and her niece and her nephew settled down to talk.

Later that morning, Penelope Clay sat in a chair in Miss Elliot's bedchamber and watched as she and Elise discussed ball gowns. But Penelope was occupied with her thoughts and heard very little of the exchange. There was to be another Assembly this week, for the Season was beginning in earnest, but she could not muster up any enthusiasm for it.

Pinned to the front of her own dress was one of the roses from the bouquet; Penelope stroked its petals thoughtfully. It was all so curious, and so disappointing. If Sir Walter did not send the flowers, she wondered, who did?

Penelope clasped her hands tightly together and sighed. He is probably no one of any consequence, she told herself firmly. Whenever the subject of an eligible suitor came up, Miss Elliot invariably suggested men who were quite lowly, and not at all to Penelope Clay's taste.

There was a pause in the conversation; Penelope glanced up to see both women looking directly at her. Obviously, some sort of a remark was called for. She thought quickly and forced a smile. "I think each is very lovely," she said pleasantly. "But haven't you a new silver gown, Miss Elliot? I recall you showing it to me when it was delivered."

"Penelope, dear, you are brilliant!"

Elizabeth snatched the idea willingly, and Penelope gave a sigh of relief. Ordinarily, she would have basked in such a compliment, but not today. Disappointment and frustration had driven happy thoughts far from her. Even this evening's party at the Willingdons had no appeal.

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